Apart From Love

by Uvi Poznansky

  Where are you? Me, I know you can’t be too far.

  You angry with me?

  Later, like, twenty minutes into my walk, I figure I need a sweater for me, and a blanket or something for the little one, ‘cause I reckon it’s turning kinda windy. So I go back, and I think I see someone, some passerby running the other way, into the back alley.

  I climb up the stairs, turning over my shoulder once or twice, to see if I can tell who it is, ‘cause like, something about him looks awful familiar. But like, he’s already gone.

  Then, as the door opens, I see that the tape recorder’s been moved, and I tell myself, Look! It’s still recording! So I hurry in, Stop, Rewind, Play, and then I close my eyes, and like, I take him in, because I so enjoy the sound, the deep sound of his voice.

  No, not angry.

  How can I be? I will never forget what you did for me.

  And later, I could not believe it when you pushed the yellow manila envelope into my hands, with all that money in it, the day dad threw me out. I only used a small portion of it, that first week. By now I’ve nearly replenished what was spent. I am working now, and plan to give you back the amount in full.

  Oh, and another thing.

  I’m so glad that in addition to that envelope, you put the photo album in my suitcase. I barely noticed when you did it, nor did I realize what it was that I carried out with me, as I left this place.

  Since then, I cannot tell you, Anita, how many times I have taken the album out, and opened it to that one page, on which a picture used to be missing.

  You must have noticed it: at the top, there is a picture of my mom, from the time she was very young—perhaps your age—and pregnant. At the bottom, there is a picture of a little boy fascinated by that single candle in front of him, on his birthday cake. In between these two pictures, there used to be another one, which—try as I may—I cannot remember. Strangely, it has gone missing.

  In its place I find, to my surprise, a small, black-and-white ultrasound image. It shows a profile of a baby, curled in the womb. I know, of course, that it could not have been me. The photo paper is much too fresh, and hasn’t even begun to yellow. Even so, that picture—which you must have inserted there—has filled a hole.

  Somehow it makes me feel as if the first stages of my life have been fully recorded.

  What can I say to that, except:

  Don’t look back, Ben.

  Like, don’t Rewind.

  Play.

  To which he answers, later that night:

  Stop.

  It is your turn now to find me.

  Eject—

  Appendix 1 Editorial Notes

  As Written by Mr. Bliss, Attorney

  In writing this Introduction I shall make every effort to avoid making it read like a legal brief. As an attorney at law, I claim neither knowledge nor any kind of experience in the task of literary editing. However, the body of work that my longtime client, Mr. Leonard Kaminsky (hereby named The Author) left behind him, which was found, rather unfortunately, in a fragmented and highly unfinished state, made it necessary for me, for professional as well as personal reasons, to rise to the task.

  I served the author for nearly thirty years. Smart and tightlipped, he gave me the impression of someone who is likely to conceal some secret affairs, someone with a healthy appetite for the ladies, an appetite matched only by his experience.

  Which at the time, I considered enviable.

  Quite often, when I would attend a concert, I could recognize him down there in the front row, accompanied from time to time by an extremely blond girlfriend, whose name as I recall was Lana. He would listen intently to the music, his face glowing with joy, which was as remarkable as her boredom.

  Such were the circumstances when, according to the newspapers of the time, he fell madly in love with his first wife, the renowned pianist Mrs. Natasha Horowitz (later, Kaminsky). The spark happened instantly, while he was watching her performing on stage. Soon afterwards they married, over the bitter objections of her family.

  Then, less than six years ago, the author mentioned to me (quite abruptly and out of context) that having suffered through the misfortune of watching her deteriorate, he was determined to assemble a ‘collection of voices’, with the goal being the ‘preservation of time.’

  However, until unearthing the pile of notebooks, which contained various fragments, various blurbs of his writing, and until coming upon the three audiotapes, which were labeled in his handwriting, I had absolutely no inkling what he had meant.

  Once these fragments came into my possession (as no one else would claim them) I found myself obligated to review and arrange them, as best I could, into a coherent whole.

  I aimed to do it in such a way as would benefit his survivors, or more precisely, those he had named in his latest will: his older son, Mr. Benjamin Kaminsky, twenty-eight years of age, born to him by his first wife; and his younger son, Nathan Kaminsky Junior, one month old, born to him by his second wife in April of this year.

  My conversations with the author were infrequent at best. The last time I saw him was three days prior to his being found lifeless.

  We talked strictly about routine matters of law, as they related to his investments and his will. Thus I must admit that he never shared with me his ideas about the art of writing, nor did he mention that his attention (aside from work) was focused on recording certain sounds, capturing certain objects (such as The White Piano) in words, and furthermore, preserving certain events (or as he would say, certain ‘moments in time’) on paper. Which in later days, would prove crucial in piecing together what lead, eventually, to his untimely death.

  Therefore, I have no way of knowing what final form (if any) the author envisioned for these fragments, and in which order he would have presented them, had he lived to finish the task. Perhaps he knew, somehow, that his days were numbered, which would explain certain morbid phrases (such as Dead Man’s Fingers) which he had incorporated into his latest fiction.

  In trying to fill his place, I regarded myself as more than merely the editor of that which he had left behind. I regarded myself, truly, as its custodian. Thus I found myself engaged in an editorial guesswork, which to me, was as thrilling as it was confusing.

  My dedication to the task was unusual. It surprised even me. I must have been studying these fragments far too long (perhaps to the verge of obsession) and thus, being utterly exhausted, I can no longer see the whole. Which (I confess) leaves me puzzled.

  In spite of this, the text (such as it stands, at this point) must see the light of day, so that you, the reader, with your power of observation and your unbiased judgement, may assist me at some point in the future, and contribute much needed, fresh insight.

  On the morning just preceding his last day, the author called me with instructions to set up a special fund, under my care, for the purpose of paying the rent for his place of residence for the next couple of months. Regretfully, his family (such as it was) dispersed soon after, and the key was entrusted to my keeping.

  Therefore I decided to use this opportunity, sad as it was, to examine the various compartments of his desk (its drawers and file cabinet, and elsewhere). For no apparent reason, the notion that something was amiss happened to cross my mind. Thus I managed to convince myself that my curiosity was purely professional.

  After a few hours of sifting through an incredible mess, which by no means could have been typical of him, I finally gave up. Old bills, out of date address books and crumpled shopping lists were all scrambled together in front of me. One of the drawers, the so-called a secret drawer, showed marks of a knife cutting into its locking mechanism. I closed the drawers, utterly in disgust, and got up from the desk, thinking the search was futile. It was over with, done. That was when the pile of notebooks on the floor suddenly caught my eye.

  I still go back there from time to time, unlock the door and sit at the kitchen table, and reflect on what I have learned. I ponder what seems so sugge
stive in his fiction, and ask myself if this is what really happened. I still entertain some hope (which is waning, gradually) to find additional notes, which might have been concealed by the author (or perhaps, his survivors), and which might provide me with more clues on how to join the fragments.

  If I talk to myself, an echo answers from the walls.

  I like to believe that the author would have approved of my editorial decisions, or at the very least, that he would not have been entirely skeptical of some of them. Also I hope he would find my publishing the text here, in this book, beneficial for his survivors. God willing, it may become a source of income for them (for I would take no part of the reward). In addition, the book is a memoir of sorts, or more precisely, it will become that, in time. In a long time.

  As far as I can tell, this ‘preservation of time’ (as he would say) was recorded, originally, on a number of audiotapes (most of which have not been recovered, so far).

  Without giving away the story I can say only this: for the most part there were two distinct voices (a male and a female) each of whom was about to reveal certain facts about the author, and about each other. With startling honesty, they relayed their memories, and their most intimate desires, right there on audiotape. They did it without shame. And rarely, if ever, did they take into account that he, the author, would (at some point) listen in on their discourse.

  Which eventually, he did.

  Thus, by his handwriting, these voices were conveyed (for lack of a better word) to paper. At what cost to his sanity the author carried on this task, I have no way of guessing. The disclosure of intimacy between the two characters, or even the suggestion of it, must have caused him immeasurable pain.

  For the first time in his life he, the so-called Keeper of Secrets, unravelled the secrets of others—and found himself betrayed.

  At times I wonder: did he really have the guts to listen to the entirety of their confession? Or did he stop mid-stream, finding himself unable to go on?

  How could he possibly reconcile his role as an author, all-knowing and remote, with his direct role in their lives? It seems that he was determined to hover from above, to observe events as they unfold, and to steer himself away, clear out of intimacy, out of danger—and yet, he could not help but wade straight into it.

  The only way this could be done is if the characters stole the story from the author and then ran away with it, uninterrupted. Which, of course, is just a fantasy of mine. It could never happen.

  However, I digress. I tried various methods of arranging the fragments, so that out of discrete, yet disconnected moments described in them, I could, perhaps, recreate the continuity of time; that is, tell a story. A complete story.

  In doing so I held myself back, as best I could, from the temptation of stepping into the role of the author. The task, I told myself repeatedly, was strictly one of editing. At first I attempted joining all the fragments corresponding to the male voice into one story; and likewise, all the fragments corresponding to the female voice into another. However it quickly became clear to me that (try as I may) each of the two disjointed stories seemed to be lacking, in chronological specificity, in background detail and above all, in objectivity.

  Therefore I came up, at last, with a more complex, yet cleverer method: one of combining the two voices by alternating them (at a certain rhythm) so the story can become more mutually supported by them; and indeed, more orchestrated. Thus, it is fuller, and can be perceived as a sort of a dialogue, or better yet: a musical duet.

  This book also serves as the highest form of complement I could pay the author, posthumously of course. When I unearthed the pile of his notebooks, and began sifting through them, I was surprised, even deeply moved by certain passages. I am not a man given to reading prose, much less poetry. However, decoding these fragments felt (to my astonishment) as if the voices came alive. Over the rustle of paper in my hands, they spoke directly, and at times almost lyrically, to me.

  I find it necessary to write this introduction because no one else would. By the time I was prepared to ask for his assistance, the older son had already left, presumably for Europe. I am uncertain if he did so, in part, to express an objection to some of my editorial decisions—or indeed, to the task as a whole.

  I can appreciate (but politely disagree with) his point of view. He may well be concerned with an alleged violation of his privacy (as first hinted in A Wall, A Space, A Wall). Indeed, some sensitive, even explosive family matters concerning the author, the older son, the first wife and the second wife were indadvertedly exposed here.

  However, let me argue that in my opinion, the author regarded these matters purely as input material for his fiction.

  Therefore, so do I.

  Presently, the second wife, Mrs. Anita Kaminsky, is no longer residing in the Author’s place of residence, which has been partially emptied. The four poster bed has been removed, as was the piano. The oval, standalone mirror in the bedroom lies on the floor, in pieces. Glass shards are still strewn all the way back to the other corner. The tape recorder seems to move around the place. Sometimes it can be found under the desk, in the balcony.

  Other times, it appears next to Beethoven’s bust.

  To my knowledge, the second wife is still in town. So far (possibly because of her grief) she has refused to talk, much less write anything in his honor. I suppose that having given birth only a month or so ago, the task of commenting on the author’s life (and on this story) is somehow not the first on her list.

  To her credit, I must report that the title was inspired by her words. When I asked her, “Any suggestions? What shall I name the book?” she shrugged at first, saying simply, “Call it anything. I don’t fucking care.” However, on her way out of my office, she stopped by the door, and just before going out of sight, threw a smile back at me, and said, “Anything. Apart from Love.”

  Now, to say that Love appears sparingly in the text would be an understatement. The characters seem to avoid saying this word, quite deliberately at times, even when being consumed by its fire.

  There are, however, three notable cases, where the phrase Apart From Love appears in the text. It takes on one meaning in the first two cases, and another meaning in the third one. This ambiguity explains, perhaps, why that phrase struck me in such a remarkable way, and why I settled, finally, on this title and no other.

  After a while I whispered, like, “Just say something to me. Anything.” And I thought, Any other word apart from Love, ‘cause that word is diluted, and no one knows what it really means, anyway.

  Anita to Lenny, in Apart From Love

  Why, why can’t you say nothing? Say any word—but that one, ‘cause you don’t really mean it. Nobody does. Say anything, apart from Love.

  Anita to Ben, in The Entertainer

  For my own sake I should have been much more careful. Now—even in her absence—I find myself in her hands, which feels strange to me. I am surrounded—and at the same time, isolated. I am alone. I am apart from Love.

  Ben, in Nothing Surrendered

  Before his passing, the author came up with temporary working titles for some of the fragments. His titles had a poetic slant to them (such as A Woman, Forgotten, and A Place Called Sunrise). They were adopted here as chapter headings, for lack of a better, more comprehensive naming scheme, for which I am still searching.

  Other fragments he left nameless. In such cases I tried to invent appropriate titles. The ones I came up with can be easily recognized, as they have a down-to-earth slant to them (such as Go Back Your Mama, and No Omelette For You.) Simply numbering the fragments was deemed unsatisfactory, as I constantly shuffled and reshuffled them, in an attempt to identify a correct logical and chronological order.

  Of the thirty-six fragments collected here, only one was published during the author’s lifetime. More precisely, a fragment titled Leonard and Lana was published as a short story some thirty-five years earlier, in a periodical that has since gone out of business. However,
after its publication, it has undergone considerable changes by the author.

  At first I considered omitting it altogether. I debated with myself, thinking I should do so not only because it had been published previously, but because its events were clearly outside the principal scope of time.

  It is worth noting that in this fragment, the character (apparently representing the author as a young man) acted as if he were utterly inexperienced with women, which was starkly different from the way he would have presented himself these days.

  In all, seven notebooks were discovered, one in a secret desk drawer, the rest in one pile, under a heap of sheet music that laid on the floor, in the corner of the living room, under a marble bust of Beethoven.