Apart From Love

by Uvi Poznansky

  And taken aback, he asks, “Why, you find that funny?”

  “Bullshit!” I cry. “This is nothing but crap! Mental masturbation, is what this is! A more secretive man than you is hard for me to imagine!”

  So he corrects himself. “What I wish to open up is not me, but my characters—all of whom are parts of who I am—giving her the opportunity to know them, to come live in their skin, to see, hear, touch everything they do. Just, be there, inside my head for a while, which I admit, may be rather uneasy at times. If—if she cared to listen, which I doubt, she would allow me to pull her inside—so deep, so close to the core, that it would be hard to escape, hard to wake up.”

  “And what if she wouldn’t?”

  “Then, who cares? She might as well drift off, which is what she does, lately. If the story were written about her—which maybe it is!—she would not even be present to realize it! But you—you, I hope, would be interested in it. You would not close the book on me. My writing, you see, is no longer an attempt at fiction. It has changed. It has become more akin to collecting.”

  “Collecting what?”

  “That which is here, in front of us. That which will not remain. You. Me. That which is said between us. Our voices. This moment.”

  He pauses for a minute. “Other things, too,” he adds. “Things other people may think mundane. The crash of waves. The shells of those mussels, out there. To me, son, they have a meaning, just as if they were some precious, historical artifacts.”

  He waits for me to ask, What kind of meaning; but I keep silent. Finally he says, “Your mother, she used to string them together, to make a long necklace. She would stare at the inner layer of each shell, and tip it over this way and that to capture the light, saying it reminded her, somehow, of a rainbow. Remember?”

  I cannot help but look away, as a sudden shiver goes through my spine. My father draws closer to me, and without taking no for an answer, he tightens my jacket around me and zips it up, to ward off the cold.

  “There,” he says. “The sun is gone. Time to go home.”

  On the way back he is quiet; reflecting, perhaps, on one more thing he wants to say. Then, opening the door, he comes up with, “Remember, Ben, how I taught you to use the tape recorder? I mean, to record your voice?”

  And I say, “When was that?”

  And he says, “Why, when you broke your foot.”

  And I cry, “What? When did I ever break my foot?”

  “You forgot,” he says, glancing at me, now with a hint of worry in his eyes. “Memory is such a fragile thing. I learned that when your mother—”

  His voice trails off; then he finds it again. “You had just turned twelve,” he says, “which is when you broke your foot, climbing that branch; the one that used to lean there,” he points, “right over the balcony. It was a bit flimsy—remember?”

  The image in my mind is a bit hazy at first; but then it starts clearing, and I can see, I can just see three eggs in a nest, just a little bit out of my reach.

  “I had to saw the thing off,” he says, “so it would not be so tempting to climb it again.”

  “Oh,” I say then. “I think I remember. Yes, I do.”

  “You used to stand by the railing, looking bored, sad even, staring out there at the tree, gauging the distance to that nest over there; a distance which could no longer be bridged, with the branch cut off. My heart ached for you. So I had to do something, to take your mind off the sight of that broken limb.”

  “Yes,” I say. “I remember. This was when you taught me to record my voice.”

  He points at the tape recorder, which is wrapped in plastic on top of his desk. “You know,” says the old man, “the thing still works. If you ever get the urge, I mean, if you need to talk—”

  “No,” I say hastily. “I do not think so, dad.”

  “You used to think it was fun, Ben.”

  “What I think, what I say to myself is private, you know—”

  “I know, son: it is just like a diary. So do it for yourself, then; not for me. Keep the tape in your room; lock it in your suitcase, or something. One never knows,” he says. “You may want to listen to yourself one day, years later—”

  “You still have my old tapes, dad?”

  “I do,” he confirms. “A whole collection of them, in fact. Old ones, with your voice, and recent ones—with Anita’s.”

  The mere mention of her name alarms me. From that woman, from what she might say on tape, he might get the wrong impression, I mean, about her and me. And then, I am afraid, then he may want to kill me.

  I feel bound hand and foot by the intensity of the look in his eyes—but then I figure, it is something else that burns in them; something completely different from temper. Of all things, compassion?

  “And what about mom?” I ask. “What about her voice? Did you tape it, did you? Maybe, if—if you had her tell her own story, I mean, in her own words, you could use it, then, to reach her, to remind her of things; which could, perhaps, slow down the disease—”

  “Sorry, Ben,” he says, and I detect the choked tone. “I wish I thought about it years ago. At this point all I have is her music, the last performance, Beethoven’s fifth—but unfortunately, not her voice.”

  “You,” I say, with contempt. “You should be so angry with yourself. How, how could you lose the one chance—”

  “By now,” he cuts in, “it is already too late.”

  “No,” I say, “it cannot be.”

  With great exhaustion, the old man takes off his glasses, and rubs his eyes with both hands. “Natasha, she no longer seems to recognize me,” he says. “I think that by now, she has forgotten who I am, what we used to be to each other. She has forgotten that she threw her ring at me. She has forgotten all the reasons why, why this anger in her, why the fury, which seems so, so futile in the end... And soon, when your mom loses the last trace of rage, when finally it goes away... I am afraid she would stop being herself, then.”

  “You,” I charge, “you failed to keep her here, at home. Even worse, you lost who she was. You lost her voice!”

  He slumps in his chair. “Back then,” he says, “it never occurred to me how much I would miss it. I thought she was invincible. I thought things would always remain as they are. Time was something I had. Time did not matter.”

  “What is the point, then,” I glare at him. “What the hell is the point in that precious tape collection of yours.”

  “Memory, son, is a fragile thing,” he says, shrinking back from me. “One never knows.”

  “Oh, forget it,” I turn away, looking blankly into the dark outline of the balcony right there, opposite ours, trying not to think, not to taste the salt of my tears.

  And then, out of nowhere, the shoreline comes to mind.

  Perhaps out there, somewhere along the beach—buried under some decay, under the Dead Man’s Fingers, deep down under layers and layers of sand—are those long lost traces: the footprints of a father and a son, pressing on together, side by side in a zigzag fashion, left left, right right, as far as you can imagine.

  If you could somehow uncover them, and dig them—ever so carefully—out of the dirt, and dust them off, and preserve them, as if they were some cherished, calcified relics of an ancient tribe, then... Who knows. Perhaps then, you could bring back that which has passed, and name these two strangers; name them as We, once more.

  Until then, there is only this moment. I can tell he wants to write, so nothing, nothing is being said right now between the two of us.

  Chapter 23 A Wall. A Space. A Wall

  As Told by Ben

  That night I lay there, wide awake, annoyed by my misfortune, having to listen to the creaking of their bed. I cannot help thinking, Oh no, not again; not like last night!

  Well, what do you expect? The walls are so thin here, in this apartment building, that you can easily hear snores and sighs—not only of the old man, but also of the next door neighbors. The pipes are gurgling inside the wa
lls. And if not for the wind outside my window, which is sucking the blinds in, sucking them out, you could probably hear what some kid—out there, in the next building down the street—mumbles in his dream.

  Unable to fall asleep I clap my hands over my ears, trying to ignore these sounds; trying to stop thinking. Stop, I say. Stop thinking about that woman, Anita, separated from you by a wall, a space, a wall.

  She is lying there, next to my father, in that large, creaking four poster bed, which used to belong to my mom. Maybe—like me—Anita is tossing off her blankets right this minute, and shivering there, in the dark. I rise up. I lie down. I imagine stepping in, looking into her eyes. Does she close them, so as not to take in the faint, colorless moonlight, which is thrown back from the walls? I imagine touching her curls. In what shade are they glinting there, on the blue pillow?

  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?

  Does Anita, then, turn away from me, to his side of the bed? Is she staring at the dark outline, the outline of his heavy back, his shoulder, set against the crushed sheets?

  Does she move over, and try to cuddle him? And then—having done so—does she feel lost, even more than before, in that place? If not for the roof overhead, for which only he can provide, would she, perhaps, prefer me to him?

  I wonder if at this point, Anita is removing her arms and legs from around the old man, thinking, perhaps, that to cling to him is like clinging to a fish, because really, he is much too slick for her. Now that they are married, he may take his affairs elsewhere; which is exactly what he did when mom was here.

  My father may never give up his secrets; never be fully open with a girl like her. Perhaps he thinks her too vivacious, too young, or too simple. Perhaps there is no woman to whom he can truly connect. Here is one thing I hope she knows: she deserves better.

  There it is, that sound again. It starts by squeaking and ends by creaking. My father must have rolled over, out of her reach. Is she closing her eyes, so as not to see, not to take in the light?

  At last I can no longer take it, and get the hell up. I walk in the middle of the shadows, step out of the corridor, into the hall, the living room, around the white piano, heading in the direction of the balcony. I slide open the glass door, cross the threshold. I lean over the railing, breathing, breathing the night air, and no: not really thinking about her. Not at all.

  His desk, taking nearly the entire space of the balcony, is a massive old piece of furniture, which has been beaten by use, and by the weather. My father refuses to bring it in—not only because of the lack of room, but because here, only here in the open, his mind is at peace. It can roam free, he claims, without interruptions, and without clutter.

  A thick glass has been floated on top of his desk, to protect it from the elements. In the center of the surface is a small desk lamp, turned off. The tape recorder is here, on the left side. It is shrouded with a plastic cover, which is reflected, rather faintly, in the glass below. I remove the shroud, and find a tape already loaded. Then, out of an old habit, I press Rewind. Record.

  One day you will hear my voice. You will know me. What can I say, but this—

  Reflected on the right side of the desk is a cloud, moving slowly, veiling and unveiling the moon. Under it—I mean, under the shine of the mirrored cloud—I notice something else, lying flat: a bunch of lined, yellow papers stapled together, written in his hand. For a minute I hesitate, because what my father has written, what he has protected here, under the glass, with such care, must be private—but then, I find myself so curious, and the hell with privacy! I am his son, after all...

  So I lift the edge of the glass—just a bit—and take hold of the stapled corner, and slide the papers out. They swish in my hand.

  Which is when I hear a soft voice out of the darkness behind me, asking, “Who’s there?”

  To which I whisper, “It’s me: Ben.”

  “You shouldn’t do that,” she says.

  So I ask, “Do what?”

  And Anita says, “You know: read his stuff.”

  “Oh, that,” I say. “I was just bored.”

  “Bored?” she says, yawning, “I ain’t surprised. His writing will get you that way in a big hurry.”

  Anyhow, she can see for herself that the papers are nearly unreadable, because his letters are small, and drawn in blue ink, which seems blurry in the starlight. Leaning closer, she turns the lamp on for me. And as soon as the first sentence becomes clear, I curse him, curse, curse, curse him, because how dare he.

  “Damn it!” I cry. “These words, they—they are not his—but mine! My words—stolen!”

  “You sure? This here, it’s his handwriting.”

  “It is,” I say, “but this, this is my story, which I recorded long ago, when I was twelve years old, maybe.”

  “Then,” she says, “from now on, be careful. Like, think twice about what you say.”

  Somehow, what she means is clear to me, and there is no need to ask for an explanation. I better be careful about the words uttered—or else, they will be spun.

  She presses Stop on the tape recorder, and whispers in my ear—what, I am not going to tell you.

  And I am not going to tell you the smell of her hair, either.

  But then, a moment later I forget all about being on guard. I find myself angry, so angry at my father—but even more than that, surprised. I have told him a thousand times already: my thoughts are mine, and mine alone! How dare he pretend to agree with what I say—and later, ignore it, and invade my privacy, exposing, in the process, some of my most painful, most intimate moments? This is a line he has never crossed before.

  Anita gives me a look, which I take to be a warning. Then she places the shroud back in place, over the tape recorder.

  “The way I picture it is like, this is his desk. He’s always here,” she says, “even when he isn’t. So just, don’t say nothing you don’t want him to hear. You must be careful, Ben. The words you leave behind you, they ain’t yours no more.”

  And with that, she turns away.

  I shut the glass door behind her. I murmur, “Good night,” knowing that no one can hear me inside. If she blows me a kiss, I cannot detect it—and so, neither can you. I do not even wish to look at her, because I aim not to see, and not to tell you even a hint of what I see. As I told you before, go! Go away! Or else, if this is where you must stay, just Stop! Stop listening. My thoughts are mine!

  The rage swells in my chest. I want to burst into his bedroom, even before she gets there, and—slap!—punch the unsuspecting, heavy-eyed old man in the face. Instead, I just crumple the papers, and throw them to the floor and stamp, stamp, stamp my feet on them.

  Which is when the glass door reopens, just a crack, and she says, “Ben—”

  “What? What now?”

  “If I was you, I would burn that tape.”

  “I cannot,” I say, utterly frustrated. “It has my voice on it.”

  And she comes back with, “Unless—”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless,” she says,”like, you want him to know what you really think. Yes, I bet that’s it! You want to draw blood.”

  And with that, she slides the glass shut, so instead of her face, all I see is a reflection of mine.

  I look down at the mess I have made, thinking that perhaps, this is all a mistake. I may be wrong about him. Indeed, I am. He is no worse than me. He may have found himself curious, and the hell with privacy! He is my father, after all...

  He used to be my hero. How could I forget: when grandma collapsed, it was dad who saved her. He breathed life into her; and it lasted in her for two whole weeks. Now, I suppose, he wants to save me. From what, I have no idea. Recently I noted the look in his eyes; they are so full of pity, as I have rarely seen in them before. He seems worried, unusually worried about me. At this point I no longe
r resent it—but still, it makes me uneasy.

  At first I figured, maybe he is worried about my future: I mean, about my drifting aimlessly, and dropping out of medical school, and failing to get a job, and being unable to support myself—but no: never once since my return has he even come close to touching any of these subjects. I must admit: he is rather careful with me. If I am silent—so is he.

  And yet, even when we do talk, there is a distance between us: a separation, which he seems to respect. A wall, a space, a wall.

  And so, I am left to wonder. Why is he worried? What can it be? Perhaps, because of mom? According to him, she was diagnosed with Early Onset Familial Alzheimer Disease. At first I thought, it could be worse, and thank goodness it isn’t a brain tumor—only to realize that during my studies in medical school, I heard of some people with brain tumor who got better—but never once did I hear of anyone who got better from Alzheimer’s.