Then he scratches some corrections into the sheet of paper, and the creaking of his chair gets more frequent, more pronounced. After a while, a faint voice comes on. The first time I heard it—it was late December, I think—I found myself strangely moved. It compelled me to risk revealing myself.
So without taking a second to think, I clung to a drain pipe going up the next building, fumbled about, climbed onto a crack, or a nick, or maybe it was some missing brick in the wall. I nearly faltered, and then—in one leap—flung myself up into a balcony, the one opposite his, which was, as luck would have it, empty.
From here I glanced back at him, afraid he might have detected the rattle of the railing, which was, unfortunately, still going on, vibrating in the air, even though I tried to make it stop already, by gripping the metal bars, bringing them to a freeze in my hands—but no: there he was, crossing something out, then crumpling his papers furiously and starting over, as if nothing else in the whole world mattered.
Next to me, in the corner of the balcony, I spotted a large clay pot, where dry geranium had withered, scenting the air. So I perched on its lip, expecting the neighbor to come out any minute and raise hell—but no: they must have fallen asleep, or something. And so, I was feeling unusually bold, as if I dared steal someone’s seat in a theater.
This, I thought, was the best place to watch the scene, and to gain some clarity. At this height, I would enjoy an uninterrupted view of him. At this distance, I would examine my father’s actions in a cold, analytical manner, free, so I thought, of emotion. I would be able to pay closer attention to what I thought I heard, so I might remove from my mind any doubt about it.
You must be careful, said a voice.
There was a raspy quality to it, which startled me, because it sounded so close, so vivid. It came not from inside his apartment—but rather from the top of his desk, from the tape recorder. It was a voice to which the old man seemed to be listening obsessively.
Rewind, Play, Rewind, Play, he slapped one key, then another, alternating between them numerous times, leaning over them closely, as if to register in his mind every nuance of the way Anita talks.
You must be careful, Ben, said her voice. And then again, a thousand times over, The words you leave behind you, they ain’t yours no more.
What surprised me was not merely the fact that my father had the nerve to listen in, to study her most intimate, secret moments. Simple curiosity would have explained that, and could, perhaps, have been forgiven. No! This was something completely different, something I could not put in words right away.
So I slipped off my perch, over the railing, down the pipe, around the bushes, and back into the alley, chased by confusion, before it hit me, all of a sudden, with sharp clarity: her voice is his. So is mine. In the process of writing, he has crossed a line, crossed it into an altogether different reality, which is all made up. He has come to consider us his characters, characters with no claim to privacy. In his mind, our thoughts are his for the taking.
That, I believe, is the only explanation to his tape collection, the voices he owns. As an author, he wishes to capture us—as genuinely as language can—in the most touching, most vulnerable of moments. He cannot help but invade our mind, our heart, our guts, because he needs to feel us inside, refine our voices, perhaps even guide us from one scene to the next. He aims to determine how our story would end. In his madness, he puts faith only in himself. He is God.
From time to time, in spite of himself, he welcomes our rebellious nature, because it offers him a new, unforeseen twist in his tale. Which is not to say he enjoys his power. Quite the opposite. I come there often to watch him, and I can tell you that as this long winter bores on, he seems to plunge deeper and deeper into despair—especially when hearing me, I mean, my voice ranting on tape.
Lately, his wrist seems to be painfully tired, because of the incessant typing. But somehow he presses on. Play. He listens to me—breath fluttering in his throat, as if to hold himself back from a fit of crying—then he takes a short pause, and Rewind, he listens again.
Meanwhile, immobile in the shadows, I cannot ask him to stop. I feel exhausted slouching here, motionless, against the bars. I cannot even bring myself to clap my hands over my ears. A thousand times over, here it comes, here it is, trembling with a rising inflection. I try not to hear it, but carried over to me by a light breeze is my voice, betraying my secret. It says:
And through the wall, the space, the wall, can Anita hear the pounding, the loud pounding of my heart? Can she feel me, breathing her name? Does she whisper back to me, Stop it, stop it right now?
For the author in him, this, I figure, should be considered pure gold. He must be terribly pleased at the opportunity to take what I said and mold it anew, reducing here, embellishing there, channeling every turn, every twist in the flow of my passion. But then, for the lover in him, trying to place his trust in the hands of those he holds dear—his wife, his son—every word must be driving a dagger into his heart.
And yet, despite the pain, I see him pressing on, forcing himself to listen, then to write. His new character—a paper version of me—starts taking shape. It is given a voice, which is drawn out of my throat. Every word makes me a touch weaker. Soon I will be completely drained of breath.
I look at my father across the divide, and for the first time in my life, I wish for uncertainty. I wish I would have a doubt left in me. If I did, I could still wonder if he might, one day, want me back.
I could still hope.
It does not even matter that he cannot see me at this moment, because now, after so many Play, Play, Play repetitions, we both know—we cannot avoid knowing—that we are on opposite sides. We are rivals, regarding each other with deep suspicion, because we can no longer look into each other’s eyes. I am waiting here, longing for my dad. He is waiting over there, writing my voice.
No Second Look
Chapter 17
Here is my latest revelation: I have been in hiding for so long that at this point, by some strange twist, my mind starts rebelling against me. I know it, because—in spite of my efforts to disguise myself, to alter my looks and behavior—I find myself wishing to be found out.
To this day I do not exactly know why, why I attempted this transformation in the first place, except to say it was something I felt compelled to try. It was the only way to stay in town, and to remain close, physically at least, to my father, he who had cast me away.
So I put a black rinse on my hair, which at first—until I got used to it—looked somewhat artificial to me: not just the color, but the shine, too. I let it grow longer, so that in a matter of a few weeks it hung just short of my shoulders. And unless I swept my bangs sideways, there would be no way for you to spot my eyes.
Next I bought a suit, a secondhand suit made of charcoal blue pinstripe wool, the kind I would never be caught dead wearing, I mean, in my previous, normal life. It made me look a lot wider, I thought, because of its double breasted cut, and the heavy shoulder pads. An overcoat, a pair of new dress shoes and my old, black scarf put the finishing touches on my costume.
I glanced down at myself thinking, what sort of a man was I trying to turn into? A yesterday’s hippie, who had evolved, somehow, into a white-collar character? Would I not be drawing more attention than I usually do, and becoming easier to recognize, dressed in way which to me, was peculiar?
The answer, to my surprise, was No. People—even those who used to be my neighbors—would not give me a second look when I passed them on the street.
I suppose they mistook me for someone who spent most of his time counting money, such as a clerk in a bank or something. I looked formal, which helped me land a job, my first job, not only since my return to Santa Monica, but ever. It happened quite by chance.
Back at the beginning of January I was walking aimlessly up and down Wilshire Boulevard, and happened to spot a Teacher Wanted sign in the front window of this place, which turned out to be a local music academy. On a
whim, I went in, and gave my real name—Benjamin Kaminsky—because it is quite common, and because I had no time to think, and because I wanted, in my heart of hearts, to leave some trace of myself, so if someone went looking, they could, eventually, find me.
I presented myself as a pianist, whose academic credentials had been lost back in Bulgaria, or some such place. I said I was eager to start working immediately, and for low wages, and completed this introduction by dashing over to one of the pianos and playing my old version of The Entertainer, which—to my astonishment—got me the job on the spot.
The very next day, as I approached the entrance to the music academy to start my afternoon schedule, my heart took a leap: I thought I caught sight of a familiar outline coming around the opposite street corner. A broad-shouldered man could be spotted advancing toward me with long, steady strides. Turning there—no longer with a limp—and walking down the other side of the street, was my father.
Gazing at the pavement, the old man seemed lonely and withdrawn. Over a month had passed since our quarrel. The memory of it swung there, in the space between us, like a double-edged sword: ready to cut in both directions.
I needed to believe dad was thinking about me, imagining me someplace else, perhaps traveling abroad, this time on my own dime, having refused his offer of support. Was he worried about me? Did he go back to regarding me as a son, instead of a rival? I wanted to be on his mind, now that I was out of his way.
Cloaked in my black scarf I felt close to invisible, secure in my new identity—but at the same time an urge came upon me, a strong, undeniable urge to be discovered. There was no fighting it.
I hurried over, and—quite abruptly—stepped into his path, and crossed him.
Coming against me he raised his face, and was looking far out there, perhaps at the stormy sky over my shoulder. For just an instant I dared look directly into his eyes. In my heart, anger clashed with something I had trouble naming: maybe love, maybe not. If he were to touch me right then, I had no idea if I would break his arms or fall into them, sobbing.
The moment came and went. Not once did he show any sign of recognition. Absent-minded, my father passed me by as if going around some thing, some inanimate object. An empty suit, for all he cared. An obstacle.
Even so, I was hopeful. With every step my father had taken along the way, I could not wait for him to take a second look at me—but then remembered he had neglected to take even the first one.
I stood there, hidden from him in plain view. Being unnoticed should not have shocked me so—but somehow, it did. As if planted in the pavement I froze, looking at his back, which was growing smaller and smaller, obscured by one passerby, then another, until at last it faded out into the distance.
His gait never slowed down, nor did he turn around.
Since that day I followed in his footsteps—I mean, literally—even in broad daylight. I trailed him, usually at a safe distance, about half a block behind him, and could feel the sweat welling up in my armpits, and running down my spine, even in cold weather. When necessary I took cover behind parked cars. If it became evident that he was distracted I moved a little closer, and so, learned everything there was to know about him, every habit that had escaped me before:
What time my father would leave for work. How he would raise his head to see Anita up there, leaning her elbows on the windowsill or combing her red hair. Where he would spend his lunch hour. How he would run his finger across the laminated menu, straining his eyes under his ill-fitting bifocals. His manner of nodding to the waitress to ask for his bill. Her manner of flirting with him. The slant of his pen, the way it rested on his fingers as he scribbled something, hastily, on his napkin.
Perhaps it was some expression that came upon him, some words that were just right, and could be put on the lips of this or that character in his book—or else, it was her name and phone number.
I was envious of him, and had no doubt he could get any woman he wanted, because my father was a strikingly handsome man, still, and the pomade in his sleeked-back hair could detract nothing from that, nor could the gray. Besides having Anita, he could get any other woman, which from time to time, he did—except, of course, for one woman. The one I had blamed him for losing.
Which brings me to what I see, having followed him just now into Sunrise home. He has just entered the dining hall through the heavy double doors.
I am holding them slightly apart, as if they were two parts of a fractured shield, and with one open eye I am trying to watch, as best I can, through the chink.
Seated at the head of the long Formica table, there he is, gazing at her. I mean, at my mother. Here is my family, the way it used to be, almost.
If I were to focus strictly on my parents, ignore the entire background of this place, and let the clutter and the smell of it just fall away, this could take me back to a different time, a time in my childhood, when our kitchen table was set for the Passover meal. What comes back to me first is the tinkle, as my father finished blessing the wine, and clinked his glass against hers, against mine.
I remember: the table was draped, all the way down to the floor, with mom’s best, rarely used tablecloth, made of the smoothest ivory satin you ever touched. Dad sat at the head of the table, mom to his right, I opposite her.
All day long she had been cooking, which infused the air with a wonderful aroma. In it you could detect a sharp whiff of horseradish and of gefilte fish and sweet brisket and red cabbage and roasted potatoes, all of which made my stomach growl. It went on growling until he finished reading the long, archaic text in the Hagadda, which meant little to me, except a vague notion of the utter futility of patience.
I remember: my mother ladled the clear, golden chicken soup and set it here, steaming before my eyes, with three matzo balls floating inside, which was her way of giving. “It’s hot,” she said. “Make sure to blow on it first.” Yes, the smell of her cooking was good, but then, the taste! Just wait till you took the first bite—
At this point I must snap out of my thoughts, because I can sense—even from this distance, through the interval I hold open between the doors—a subtle movement inside. I put my eye to the crack: yes, it is him. My father dips a tablespoon in a bowl, which is set directly in front of her, and raises it. Some kind of thick soup can be seen rolling in it, dripping over its rim. From here, I can see his lips moving, and guess at the words.
“Here, Natasha,” he leans over to her. “You must be hungry.”
She stares at it, not saying a thing.
Then he brings the tablespoon ever so carefully under her nose, so she may first smell the food, while he is keeping a napkin ready right there, under her chin.
I have not seen them together for ten years, so what he does in these circumstances surprises me. Even more so, what he says.
“Here,” says the old man, holding out the tablespoon. “Open up, dear.”
And he touches it gently to her lips. Which is when she parts them, and you can see her licking, tasting, head coming forward, hungrily now, for more.
“Now, now! Wasn’t that yummy,” he says, as if to cheer up a child.
And he smiles at her, a painful smile that tells me one thing: he knows that—unlike a child—she is bound to forget this moment, and unlearn the little that is left in her, I mean, the little that is left of her skills.
He knows—how can he not?—the futility of his efforts, of his care. Still he goes on, wiping the dribble from the corner of her mouth. Which suddenly brings back to me a memory of how she would do this for me, once upon a time.
“Wait,” he tells her. “Not so fast.”
One spoonful after another he feeds her, with boundless patience. I cannot imagine where he finds the strength in himself to go on.
Every time she swallows, he tilts a bit closer, looking up at her face as if, hoping against hope, he is still trying to find a glint, maybe of some recognition, some awareness—finding none.
“There, there,” he says wh
en at last, the bowl has been scraped clean.
It becomes clear to me that in spite of their divorce, in spite of his remarriage, things here stay the same. In sickness and in health, my mother is—and will remain—his responsibility. Here is my family, the way it is.
And yet, where she is going, he cannot allow himself to follow. Nobody can.
My father pushes the bowl away and gets up, looking tense, and older than usual. His expression makes me forget, in one instant, all his flaws, and the reasons for the quarrel between us. It must be incredibly hard for him. Is there any point in him being here? How would he know if she can still receive what he gives? Has the last line been crossed?
I recall what I learned in medical school about Alzheimer’s. By a strange twist, it makes me imagine the disease spreading, over time, from the neocortex part of her brain all the way down to the reptilian one, which inevitably forces her to go back, way back in time from who she used to be. Her mind is receding, step by step, on its rocky journey, a journey to a different place, where she is no longer a middle aged woman, no longer a girl, or even a toddler, and who knows at this point if she is a baby, still.
Then, on a sudden impulse, my dad bends over her, so his cheek is suddenly right there, next to her face, only a breath away from her lips, and I know, I just know what he wants, what it is he is waiting for.
And this, this is the moment when the truth comes to me, clear and naked in its full ugliness, and I cannot deny it, cannot ignore the horrific meaning of what she who used to be my mother does next:
Sensing a presence next to her, she stirs back, as if by instinct, and for a split second smacks her lips. He may think this is a sign, perhaps of gratitude. I can see the sudden relief, the surprise in his smile. His eyes start closing, as if in anticipation of a kiss.
And then, then she opens her mouth, like some animal—a lizard comes to mind—hungry for its prey. She stays there, seemingly lazy, utterly motionless, jaws dropped, chin hanging, waiting for her feed. Waiting, waiting, waiting for more. Waiting without a word. Waiting with a need that can no longer find its satisfaction, the need of a body, an empty shell of a body whose mind has finally left it. Waiting, because mom will never be able to give.
The White Piano (Still Life with Memories Book 2) Page 15
