The Music of Us (Still Life with Memories Book 3)

by Uvi Poznansky

  “I do, tonight.”

  “How about one drink? It’ll be on me. No? You’re going to regret it! The bartender here is second to none. You’re always able to catch his eye right when you need a refill. And he knows exactly when you want a glass of water without you ever asking.”

  Afraid that his sadness might rub on me if I stayed there any longer I said, “Thank you for the offer, but no. I can’t be late. My girl is waiting.”

  Still, he pressed on. “This saloon, it’s a magical place,” he said. “Truly! Singer Johnny Mercer, you’ve heard about him, right? He sat right here a couple of months ago and penned a new song, just like that, on a napkin. It’s going to be in the movies, I’m sure of it. It inspired me to write my own little version. No one but you will know about it, because who am I to be remembered?”

  I shrugged, and he asked, bleakly, “Want to hear?”

  “Perhaps another time,” I said, walking away.

  And from the corner of my eye I saw him going over to the jukebox, putting a coin in it and then, in a gesture of a salute, raising his empty beer mug to say goodbye to me and hello again to loneliness.

  Midnight came and went

  The place is empty, I’m so lonely and so spent

  So fill my cup

  And let me tell you, before my time’s up

  It’s too late to give, she won’t take

  Nothing more to talk of

  So make it one for the heartbreak

  And one more for love

  ❋

  There was chill in the air, and a balmy breeze blew through 55th street as if to hurry me along. Not that I needed any urging. Before long I arrived at the Wellington Hotel. With a spring in my step I entered the reception area, then paced around the space, waiting for Natasha.

  I wondered, what if her Ma would forbid her from going on a date with me? Even worse, what if she would insist on joining us, in the role of a chaperone?

  So as soon as I saw both of them stepping out of the elevator I knew that my fears were not ungrounded.

  I dashed forward, and feeling a bit embarrassed to kiss the girl while her Ma was there I did the next best thing. I took the old woman’s hand and kissed it.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Horowitz.”

  Pulling back her hand, “Not so good,” she muttered. “Not with you drooling all over me.”

  But I could see that in spite of what she said, her face softened a bit.

  “I made reservations for two, for a lovely restaurant, not too far from here,” I said. “I wish I knew you were coming, because then I would have made reservations for you, too.”

  “Next time I’ll be sure to let you know.”

  “Mrs. Horowitz, you’ve made me a happy man! I didn’t dare to hope there would be a ‘next time’ but now that you mention it I know there would be! Let me kiss your hand again.”

  The old woman refused, but somehow she could not help smiling. Then she said, “I expect you’ll bring my daughter back here, right after dinner.”

  “I will.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  The girl kissed her wrinkled cheek and moved over to my side.

  I glanced at Natasha. She wore a cashmere sweater blouse, which was part of a dress ensemble, the lining of the sweater matching the dress. It was crew-necked, wide at the shoulders and fitted around her thin waist, which emphasized her soft, rounded chest.

  I tried not to gawk, because it made her look innocent and at the same time sexy, as if she were saying, “I’m a good girl,” while at the same time, pointing out, “Look! I have breasts!”

  I gave her a compliment for the lovely pattern of beads and sequins around the neckline, and her Mama was quick to step in-between us to mention that she herself had sawn these, with her own hands, which she started waving about for extra emphasis, and that the pattern was inspired by the work of a designer named Claire Potter, who included decorated evening sweaters in her collection, which you could see for yourself in every fashion magazine, and that no one could tell, no one could guess that what her daughter was wearing was not part of it, and by a part of it she meant the collection, not the magazine.

  “How lovely,” I said.

  And the girl said, “Thank you, Mamushka.”

  Then we rushed out together, leaving the old woman behind us.

  “Couldn’t wait to see you,” I told Natasha. From her blush I knew that she couldn’t wait, either.

  I extended my arm to her, and she put her hand in mine. Her touch was all I could feel, all I could think about. The heat between the palms of of our hands made the chill in the air melt away. At long last, we were joined.

  When It’s Her You Embrace

  Chapter 18

  The bar was crowded when we arrived, and so was the dining area. Our table was smack in the middle of it. Light bounced playfully over the ringlets of her auburn hair as she sat down. Far behind her, a red brick wall served as a backdrop, upon which a rustic, slotted wooden box—marked Suggestions, Complaints, and Compliments—was fixed. Left and right of it hung scores of framed, signed photographs. Looking at them you would discover the faces of some of the more famous among the regulars, such as Frank Sinatra.

  “Wow,” said Natasha. “What an exciting place!”

  And I said, “I wish I had a camera to take your picture. One day it’ll hang on the wall up there, and everyone will know what a great pianist you are, and how the audience adores you!”

  Meanwhile, a familiar voice behind me asked for the bill. I cast a look over my shoulder and saw a crumpled suit. There was Mr. Bliss, sitting alone back there, in the corner. The last thing I needed was for him to distract me by starting a conversation or giving me unasked for lawyerly advice. I slumped in my chair, hoping he would not spot me. My only relief was knowing that he was just about to leave.

  All the while, the enticing smell of bread wafted in the air. It reminded me that I had not eaten all day, had not even thought of food. At first Natasha said she didn’t want anything except for a small appetizer, perhaps because she had noticed the prices on the menu.

  But when my order of creamy tomato soup arrived, along with a farmstead cheddar toast, the fragrance was so pleasant that both of us leaned over to take it in. We ended up sharing it, our tablespoons sliding playfully over each other down there, at the bottom of the bowl. If not for table manners I would have stuck my face in it and licked it clean.

  “Boy,” I said. “Am I hungry for more!”

  And she said, “So am I.”

  Having passed next to us on his way out Mr. Bliss gave me a wink behind her back. “One day a blond,” he said in a gruff voice, to no one in particular, “the next—a redhead! How lucky can a guy be?”

  Natasha must have sensed something going on between him and me, because she raised an eyebrow.

  After a while she asked, “You know that fellow?”

  “Barely,” I said, “but I think I remember him. He sat in the second row behind me, at your performance last night at Carnegie Hall.”

  “Why, then, is he talking to you?”

  “Is he, really? I haven't been paying attention. What was it he said?”

  She gave no answer, except for lowering her eyes over a glint of distrust.

  I wondered then if she had recognized me yesterday in the audience, even though it was unlikely. After all, I had been in the dark and she—in the spotlight. Had she noticed Lana sitting next to me? Did she suspect that I had taken her to the show?

  Natasha started tapping her fingers on the checkered red-and-white tablecloth, to the sound of a melody that seeped in, somewhat faintly, from the direction of the bar.

  I am trying so hard to hold back my tears

  I’ve hoped you’d be mine for all future years

  How can I believe you, how can I trust

  When you’re with her, ignore it I must

  Over the reverberation of the song I asked her, “D’you know who accompanied me to the theatre?”

&nb
sp; She shook her head, No, with a tired expression that suggested, “Spare me your lies.”

  I said, “Truly, Natasha, I was there with my father.”

  And she said, “Ha! The only one by your side was that woman.”

  “No,” I countered. “She was nobody I knew. Just a stranger.”

  She looked up at the ceiling, rejecting me, listening.

  All that you give me are those empty vows

  Only hurt and suspicion is what you arouse

  My heart is breaking when it’s her you embrace

  She’s in your arms, it should be my place

  “Let me explain,” I said. “My father, he bought the tickets for himself and for me, just before he passed away, a little over a month ago.”

  “Oh my God, Lenny, I didn’t know. So sorry to hear it.”

  “That’s why I came back to the States, hoping to see him, hoping to say goodbye.”

  “Oh,” she said, with a sudden sense of insight. “Now I understand! His was the empty seat by your side.”

  “Yes,” I said. “It was.”

  Natasha placed her hand over mine, and for a while we stayed silent. I hoped that words would not cut into the moment, into the warmth of us.

  Our waiter was happy to suggest dishes that were a staple of the saloon, which was all about comfort food, such as burgers and mashed potatoes. Natasha asked him about onion strings, as she had never heard of these before, and he went into a detailed explanation.

  “First,” he said, “you must slice the onions quite thinly, which requires a sharp knife and a steady hand. Second, you must soak the slices in buttermilk—with a bit of flour, a dash of salt, and a bit of pepper—for at least an hour before frying. Third, you must ensure the oil is at the right temperature before throwing in the strings.”

  “Sounds great,” said Natasha.

  A little while later he came back, carrying our plates. The burgers were perfectly seasoned, the onion strings were crispy, and the side dish of melt-in-your-mouth mashed potatoes was simply delicious.

  We ate. We talked. We laughed.

  Then, waiting for our chocolate fudge brownie sundae to arrive, I thought I was too stuffed to handle even one more bite. Natasha suggested we ask for the bill and forget about dessert, only to change her mind upon seeing it: a warm brownie topped with cool, creamy vanilla ice cream, drenched with drizzle upon drizzle of chocolate syrup. It was so tempting that in a snap, both of us became hungry all over again.

  When we finally got out of the saloon, the night was cold. I noticed that she was trembling, so I took the leather jacket off my back and wrapped it, ever so tenderly, around her shoulders. And at once, something came over me. I could not help but brush my fingers along the delicate line of her neck, plunging them into the thick of her hair. I breathed her flesh, pulling her closer.

  Natasha clung to me and I gathered her, this time fiercely, into my arms, feeling her nipples harden through the knit blouse, losing myself in the taste of her lips, in the shiver, which was not hers anymore but ours, hoping the moment would never end. And as it was happening I already knew I would never forget it.

  Here it was, the essence of sweet.

  Then she separated from me. I looked at her eyes, begging her—without saying a single word—to come back into my arms, but we both knew that alas, it was time to go. We started walking back to the hotel. Along the way passers-by turned to look at us.

  “Look at that handsome couple!” said one.

  “She’s so beautiful,” said another.

  And a third one said, “Look at him, how serious he is.”

  Once the crowd thinned out Natasha said, “So just like me, you too are going through a change.”

  “I am.”

  “For me, it feels as if I’ve been expelled not only from a physical building but also from my past, from my childhood.”

  “Don’t I know it! It’s hard to think that someone else is taking your place.”

  “I miss home. I miss every little thing, every object in it, because it reminds me of what happened, of little tokens of affection that come back to me, like the crystal vase, which Pa brought for Ma nearly ten years ago to mark their anniversary.”

  “When I came to Summit for our first date I saw it, set there on the dining room table.”

  “It used to capture the light so brilliantly, Lenny! I used to put fresh flowers in it every Friday. D’you know the secret of a perfect arrangement?”

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s the spiral, where each new stem is slanted against the previous one. I would choose the best and biggest bloom for the center and arrange the other flowers at an angle around it, mixing the shades of white, pink, and purple and creating a wonderful dome of flowers.”

  “Oh, Natasha, I can just imagine it.”

  “Then I would stand back and enjoy looking at it, thinking what a beautiful painting it would make, with the lovely shapes of orchids, spray roses and Asiatic lilies brushed upon the canvas.”

  “What would you call it?”

  “Still life, with memories.”

  “I know how you must feel,” I said, thinking that the vase, which used to be a solid object in which to hold stems, was now given to the fluidity of the mind.

  “Yes,” said Natasha, as if she could hear my thoughts. “Soon that vase will be forgotten. It’ll cease to exist.”

  “But then, new memories will be formed.”

  “A lot has happened to me during these last months, and a lot had happened to you too, Lenny. I have so much to tell you, and so little time.”

  I smiled at her, thinking that the most important thing—our love—was still a story waiting to happen.

  As the Wellington hotel came into view, she stopped in place all of a sudden and said to me, “I don’t know where I’ll be a week from now. Ma said we can’t afford staying here anymore.”

  “You can’t disappear from my life again,” I said. “I won’t let you.”

  “I have no power over it, Lenny This is a tough time.”

  “Then, let me make it easier for you.”

  “You can’t.”

  “Perhaps I can.”

  She raised her eyes to me as if to ask, how?

  And I said, “My father’s apartment is ready for a move-in. By now I’ve emptied it of all his stuff. The rent is paid for the next six months, my father made sure of that, so it would be a pity to let it go to waste.”

  The last sentence was somewhat of an exaggeration. Rent was paid for only through the end of this month, but I figured that a little white lie would make it easier for her to accept what I had to offer, so I went on with it.

  I asked, “How about you and your Ma moving into the place, at least for a while, until you come up with better plans?”

  She was speechless for a moment.

  Then she said, “Wow,” followed a minute later by, “And where would you live?”

  To which I replied, “In a month from now I’ll have to go back to England, anyhow. Until then, I’ll figure something out. Perhaps I’ll ask Uncle Shmeel if he’ll let me sleep on his sofa.”

  For a while she considered the offer.

  At last she said, “Ma would never agree. I know her. She’s too proud to accept a handout, especially from you.”

  “Why don’t you ask her,” I suggested. “No need to refuse me in her name, right? And who knows, maybe she’ll surprise you!”

  “I doubt it,” said the girl, “even though necessity has a way of humbling us. We do need a place, somewhere to call home.”

  She ran into the reception area, and just before the doors closed behind her I called out, “Natasha! When will I see you again?”

  And through the glass, her lips formed the most marvelous word in the world.

  “Tomorrow.”

  The Wind that Wrapped Us in a Chill

  Chapter 19

  The next morning I woke up to the sound of a song, playing from the radio on the other side of the wall, in th
e neighbor’s apartment:

  That night in the city we heard the big heartbeat

  We felt it go through us every step, every street

  The glitz that spelled a thrill

  The stars that rolled and spun

  The winter wind that wrapped us in a chill

  And forged us into one

  The song was perfect for evoking the feel of last night’s date with Natasha. It filled me with joy, but also with worry: I cared deeply about her and could not bear the thought of her moving from one place to another, like a gypsy.

  With all my heart I hoped that she would agree to move into my father’s apartment and make it her home. But what if she would refuse? Then, in all probability, I would lose contact with her upon my return to London. I feared this outcome. I dreaded the moment when our story would be cut off.

  To move things along in the right direction I spent the entire morning preparing the place for the possibility of handing over the keys to her. First I used a large sponge and a solution of water mixed with a few drops of dishwashing liquid to remove dust and grease. Then I taped the trim with masking tape and used the roller, which was an ingenious painting device, invented only last year.

  And a strange thing happened while I was rolling paint over the walls: with every stroke I felt as if I were whitewashing the traces of my family, of guests and neighbors who had visited us during holidays, birthdays, parties, even wakes. The fingerprints all of them had left behind were now lost to sight. I felt as if it were my own shadow that I was blotting out, my own existence.

  No longer did I belong here.

  And I asked myself: moving on, how would I preserve the past? Clearly I could not rely on physical mementos, on objects and houses, to remain in place so they could hint at history. What would help me recall events in my life and in the lives of others?

  Perhaps I could put pen to paper and capture some of the stories I had heard. Then, these stories would live forever. The characters would leap from my mind onto the paper, and from there—into the mind of readers everywhere.