“Why the devil did you do it?” he said. “Lying to me, everything—every little thing you said, from Puccini to Gershwin. You know nothing about all that, do you. Not a thing. You and your Ukrainian lullaby!”
After that, he found himself unable to sleep, and was forced to listen for hours on end to the singsong of crickets filling the night air, and to the faraway noise of traffic. At sunrise, just as he started to dose off, an ambulance could be heard speeding across the street, its alarm rising sharply to a pitch, then falling away into the distance. Here and there someone banged the lid of a garbage can. Bang-bang. Then bang.
One thing missing from all of this was the regular rhythm of her breathing. In twelve months of living together, that rhythm for him was softer, sweeter, and more necessary than any lullaby. He turned over to find out that which he already knew: Lana was not in bed.
Her folded note had been left for him on the breakfast table. Now it waited there, crisp and white. He could see it even from afar, even as he sank deeper into the back cushion of the sofa. Oh, he would read that note, Leonard promised himself, he would, as soon as Summertime died down. No, maybe later, at noon—or even later still. Perhaps when darkness came and the crickets picked up where the music left off.
“For the love of music,” he said to himself as loudly as he could, for there was no one else there with whom he could talk. “What does she know. Nothing, I swear, not a thing.”
For some reason, his voice sounded hollow and unconvincing to his ears. Don’t you cry, cried someone inside him. He wanted to close his eyes and drift away, anywhere but here—but his curiosity would not let him do it.
He found the sight of that note so peculiar, so distracting that he could no longer concentrate on the lyrics. Maybe it was not her fault. Not entirely, at least. Maybe it was him. It was the music, too. Listening demanded his full attention. It carried him away, to a different place.
Yes, his eyes were closed for too long. Maybe he never really looked at Lana. Leonard uttered her name once or twice and suddenly remembered that to this day, if someone would ask him about the color of her eyes, he would not know what to say.
In spite of himself, Leonard knew he missed the rhythm of her breathing. He missed it terribly. He needed to hear the swish of her hair, the soft whoosh of her footfalls, and above all, the way she talked.
He wondered what Lana knew about him, having studied him so diligently from the beginning. Then he wondered if he, in turn, knew anything about her. Who she was, the inner language of her thoughts. For the first time in twelve months, he wondered if her dreams played out in heavy Russian accent.
It was then that Leonard got up to his feet. Perhaps that note was nothing more than a to-do list. It could happen that way, could it not? Maybe she simply scribbled something for him, a doodle or a heart, inside that paper. A great urge swelled in his heart.
He went over to the table, picked up the note and very carefully, unfolded it—
Chapter 18 The Entertainer
As Told by Ben
I know this melody, know it quite well, and in spite of myself, it is pulling me in. I should have turned away when I had the chance, and run down the stairs. I should have left the door locked. I should have resisted the urge to cross the threshold—but now it is already too late.
I am startled to hear it, thrumming faintly inside, because for years I have imagined the piano crouching there, in heavy slumber, with no one there to touch it, no one to awaken its sound. In awe I take off my shoes, and now I can feel the hum, not only in my ears—but in my entire body, reverberating full and deep.
The notes are soft, hesitant, and the interval between one press of the key and another is too long here, too short there, a bit confused and inconsistent, as of someone whose mind is drifting away—or else, a beginner.
I have never seen a player sit by the instrument the way she does. Instead of sitting upright—like my mother—Anita is slouched. Her head is tilted to the left, close to the keys, as if she is longing to lay there, over the ivory surface, which is so cool, so calming. She lets her hair cascade, and flow down as it may, like a stream of molten lava spreading over ice. For all I know, she lets her mind be carried away, far away in a dream, to a place way down, way beyond.
Her eyes are closed, as if she is in a trance. The right arm drifts to the far right, and the fingers, they stroke the keys right there, in that position, in a playful sequence, one that is distinctly familiar to my ears. Her fingers fly closer, and repeat it, an octave lower this time. And again, they fly even closer, an octave even lower—and with a gentle stroke, repeat the same sequence, now for the third time.
Now the sound is slow, to the point of being utterly sluggish. Even so, it brings back a good vibe.
This is the intro, the opening for a piece of music I played a long time ago, in my very first concert, when I was seven years old: it was The Entertainer.
I think that somehow—without even knowing that I am standing there, looking at her—Anita can sense the draft, the rush of air from the open door. Her eyes flutter and at once, I can feel the beat of her heart, pounding there under the hum of the piano. I can see the sudden awakening, the scare, even; which is how I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that she has never practiced in this place.
To her, it must feel hostile. In spite of having taken some lessons—who knows where—she has never played our white piano. She cannot do it here, in my presence, or in the presence of my father. I suppose I know why.
With one step I close in on her, and hang over her shoulders; which brings a shudder over her. In an instant, Anita pulls her hand away from the keys, as if she has been caught—by a bad stroke of luck—in something worse than theft.
“Don’t,” I say. “Please, don’t stop.”
“No,” she denies. “I didn’t even start.”
“Please, let me hear you,” I plead, taking a step back, to give her some space.
Anita takes a deep breath. For the first time I realize how afraid she is, afraid of anyone listening to her music, especially my father. I suppose he expects her to be perfect; which must be an impossible burden. I understand it, because I have been there: growing up with a mother who had no tolerance for errors, and no forgiveness either, I have carried that burden before.
Even so, I have no idea what to say, how to calm her down, and make it clear to Anita that I get it, I do. To me, this is a moment of revelation: I can imagine not only how she feels—but also, how my father looks at her, how he thinks of the forgotten woman then, and something shifts in his mind, so that all of a sudden he sees in her that which, for a long time, he must have been yearning for: mom coming back—back from that place, a place called Sunrise—perhaps to forgive him, at long last. Let bygones be bygones.
In Anita, he may catch a glimpse of mom, reborn.
Mirrored in the open wing of the piano, her face is so young, so alive with the red glow of her hair. Her green eyes shine back from the polished surface. This, I suppose, is why my father is so drawn to Anita. Apparently, he wants her to learn to play the piano, but then—even though she is just a beginner—he expects her to reach a level which no one can sustain. Not even mom.
In our family, forgiveness is something you pray for, something you yearn to receive—but so seldom do you give it to others.
And so, Anita may never stumble, never make any mistakes, because he wants her to be exactly, just exactly like mom, who in her good years—before losing her balance—could produce such a heavenly sound, and vary it over an incredible range, from a murmur to a powerful burst, until her music would swell in you, and bring tears to your eyes.
“Go away, Ben,” says Anita, without even turning around. “I don’t want to play. And you, you can’t make me! Hell,” she says sharply, “I’ll do as I please.”
She pauses, waiting for an answer, and when I hesitate to give it, she glances back at me, over her shoulder. “What,” she says, this time in a low, seductive voice, “you thi
nk I don’t feel the way you’re looking at me?”
I can find no words, and no way to come back at her. So before she can stir, and get up from the bench, I raise my right hand. Then I stroke the keys, using the same fingering, playing the same sequence I have heard her play, just a minute ago, with the same sort of dreamy sluggishness, so that the same phrase springs up from the deep, from the belly of the piano, and winds up trembling softly, quivering in the air, just like an echo, delayed.
I must have caught her at a weak moment, because now I detect a sparkle of tears. A shadow has just passed over her eyes, darkening them. Perhaps a memory of that moment—that ugly, embarrassing moment that happened between us, back there in her bedroom—has just crossed her mind.
I cringe every time I think about it: I found myself in her presence, burning with desire. There was no way I could hope to arouse her—but oh, how miserably I failed!
The demon in me struggled to break free, and I, in turn, strove to hold it back—but somehow, my efforts came to nothing, even worse than nothing, because now I have no doubt, no doubt whatsoever: she must hate me.
Watching me raise my hand, Anita may think it is meant to subdue her, rather than simply to reach for the keys. She may wonder why I am parroting her phrases, mimicking her flowed way of playing, because after all, on my mother’s side I come from a long line of musicians, whose performance was legendary for being nothing less than perfect. She may believe I am doing it for no better reason than to mock her mistakes.
Now she darts a glance at me as if to ask, What, you laughing at me?
No, I wish to say. What I want is... Well, I am not really sure: perhaps, just to lay my head here, on your shoulder. Perhaps, to lean my brow against your lips. Perhaps, to touch the tiny freckles on your cheek. Above all else, I want—but cannot bring myself to tell you—I really want to hear you laugh.
Just like here, this note. Listen, can you hear it? This soft sound, rolling, rising, ringing up here?
Anita shakes her head, as if she could detect the whisper, the quiet whisper of my thoughts. To me, her pose is so alluring when she bends down to the floor, in the shadow of the piano, to pick up some crumpled piece of paper. Then she starts twisting away under me. For all I know, she is aiming to get up, to leave me here, alone.
Is this a game she is playing with me? I do not have the faintest idea. But if it is, perhaps I can beat her in it.
So then, bang! I pound the keys, this time fortissimo—with full strength!—as if to cry, Stop! No more darkness, no more gloom! There’s a thud, there’s a boom! Hear this, right here? Hear my voice? Tell me, Yes—you have no choice!
And before this phrase fades out Anita straightens her back, and places her hand on the keys. Then, to my astonishment, she plays the next phrase of music, this time with raw, intense force, which I never knew existed in her, bringing it to the verge of destruction, making it explode all around me. And I, in turn, explode with the following one, because how can I let her outdo me? I am, after all, The Entertainer...
Here I come! Here I drum! No more woes. Let me close! Let me in, hold me tight! Don’t resist me, do not fight—
At this point Anita kicks the bench back, and I tip it over behind us. She sways her hips to the beat, and I tap the floor. And we find ourselves bouncing there, almost dancing in place, playing the piano side by side: she on the high notes, I—on the low.
Her intervals are somewhat uneven, her melody is off, here and there. But these things do not matter—not to me, anyway—because just like Anita, or even more than her, I happen to be out of control, maybe because it has been a long while since the last time I practiced. I have not touched the keys for so many years, out of nothing else but rebellion, a silent rebellion against my mother. So my fingers feel a bit rusty—and yet I respond, quite swiftly, to the way Anita plays. I do it in an instant, harmonizing the sound, filling in some of the awkward intervals with a flurry of chords.
Sometimes I find myself having to take my hand away, so she can play the same key immediately after me. On some notes, my right hand crosses her left hand, in an exchange that is wild and fiery—like no duet I have ever seen, or listened to! One way or another it blends, it mixes into a sound, which you might call a crude, unruly, unrestrained racket. But to the ears of a madman, it can be called music.
If my mother could see me now... If, out of nowhere, she would appear—which would make me jump to attention—I can only imagine how she would draw back, how she would wince at having to listen to this thing, this terrific uproar, which for some reason, makes it all the more delightful to my ears.
My mother is elsewhere, and I must admit: at this moment I find myself thankful that she cannot be here—but then, listen! In her place, someone else knocks, quite loudly, on the open door.
And without bothering to wait for an answer, our guest marches right in.
At the thump of her footsteps, my hand draws, abruptly, to a halt. Anita, too, stops playing, and she turns around, speechless for a moment. Meanwhile, the echoes of our cacophony can be heard throughout the small space.
You can imagine them bouncing off the walls, flipping over backwards, coming down again—until, at long last, they land flat, barely stirring, down there on the floor.
“My, my,” says the old woman. “Am I late for something?”
“Aunt Hadassa!” I cry in surprise, and hurry to pull the cover over the keys.
If not for the rosy blush over her cheek, Anita appears to be cool and collected, much more so than me. The smile on her face is irresistible, and there is no way for me to tell if she is friendly, or just pretending to be so.
“Oh, come right in!” she says. “You’re just in time!”
At this point I cannot help but ask, “In time for what?”
My question hangs there, unheeded. Anita leaps over the fallen bench and rushes into the hall, where she glances at the old alarm clock. “Gimme just a minute,” she tells aunt Hadassa. “Lemme get my shoes on—”
“What—what is this?” I ask. “What’s the sudden rush? Where—”
“Hello, Ben,” says my aunt.
She pushes her glasses up her long, bulbous nose. The yellowing lenses are quite thick. They look like a pair of magnifying glasses, through which round, enormous eyes are looking at me, inspecting me carefully up and down. At last she concludes, “How you have changed!”
“Indeed I have,” I must admit. “I am ten years older.”
“Are you?” she asks. “And was it you just now, playing like a lunatic?”
I shrug, and my aunt goes on to say, “Why, you used to play better at the age of five! In those days, you were under a good influence, which is something I cannot say about present company.”
“Sorry, aunt Hadassa,” I mumble. “I am too rusty. I can no longer to be The Entertainer.”
“You sure it was you—not her?” she whispers, hinting at Anita. “To judge by the level of that noise, I was sure a stray cat must have slipped in, pussyfooting around, scratching its nails back and forth and all the way across, before starting to chew the furniture, or something.”
So I lower my voice, imitating hers.
“Who knows?” I say, as if in strict confidence. “You may be right. The door was open.”
For a minute, aunt Hadassa frowns. “Next time, dear, just be sure to bolt it shut,” she says finally. “You do not want to deal with strange creatures, making their way in.”
And looking straight at her I say, “Most definitely, I do not.”
My aunt checks her watch, and rocks herself impatiently to and fro. Then she takes a step closer to me, and at once I step back, thinking that in a second, she would spring forth and pinch my cheek, the way she used to do in the old days, when I was a child—but as luck would have it, I have grown too tall for her reach. Or else, she has shrunk a little.
“My, my, how time flies!” she complains.
I have no idea if she is talking about the years that have passed—or the s
econds ticking away, which you can hear from the direction of the alarm clock.
Then, with a deep sigh, aunt Hadassa turns away from me, brushing a gnarled finger across the cover of the keys, to check for dust. And when her finger comes out clean, she seems deeply disappointed.
“Anita!” she calls, checking her watch again. “Nu? The appointment is in half an hour!” And with acid sweetness, she asks, “You ready, dear?”
To which Anita answers, “Sure! Lets go!”
My aunt purses her lips with a firm pout, and before I can cut in, or ask anything, she plods heavily out the door. Her shoes are what you would call sensible. The wedge-like soles give a hard clonk and clunk, left and right, against the floor.
Meanwhile, Anita wraps herself with her winter coat, and buckles a pink belt around it. She gives me an alluring look, then scurries to get out, turning back only once, to close the door behind both of them. Now you can hear the light touch of her footfalls, following at the heels of the old woman. They are going down one flight of stairs, then another.
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