by Bruce Bauman
Jay didn’t acknowledge that she’d read his e-mail describing the scene at the Hammer. “Did you think I secretly pined for Alchemy? That I wanted to run away with him? That is so damn crazy.”
“I was crazy. I plead temporary insanity.”
“I had always wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. Not him. Not anyone else. You.”
“Had?”
“I don’t know. I can barely see beyond my next five minutes.”
“Jay, please don’t let this one misguided, monstrously large fuck-up destroy years of love and devotion. We, I, need … Come to see Butterworth with me. Or any therapist you choose.”
“Tell me yesterday morning was the first time you thought those horrible things about me.”
Moses bowed his head, thinking if she had told him of the affair the night they’d seen Alchemy’s damn band, or if he’d never shared his daymares with her, maybe they wouldn’t be in this position. But he knew that he was only scapegoating her for his neurotic behavior.
“You can’t.” She continued, “I don’t want to imagine what else you’ve dreamed up about me.”
“You know I think horrible things. Mostly about myself. Would it be better if I lied? Would you believe me? Would you stay?”
“That’s just it. I can’t trust what you say anymore. Maybe you only want me here because you’re afraid to be alone, if the cancer strikes again.”
“Absolutely false.” Moses refused to fully accept what her words implied. “Jay, tell me you don’t love me anymore.”
“Whoever declared ‘Love conquers all’ was an idiot.” Jay’s voice pulsed with contempt. “I won’t live with that kind of unspoken, lurking nastiness. Such pettiness! Moses, you always tried to protect me from the meanness, the disappointments in the world. Then you hurt me and disappointed me more than anyone. I wish you’d had an affair, or I’d fallen in love with someone else. That would be easier than this. I don’t understand how we got here. I’ve never complained, at least out loud, that we hardly have sex. We had so much more sex when you were sick! I hoped when you went to Mexico last year that would change. We had sex two times in ten days. I couldn’t blame your illness anymore. And when we do, sometimes it’s like you don’t want to touch me—”
“You couldn’t be more off, please listen—”
“No, you listen. I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours crying my insides out. I dedicated my life to you these last years. After yesterday …” She sighed. “I’m empty.”
Moses surrendered. He had no one to blame but himself.
Jay looked up, sniffing, rubbing her eyes. “Moses, about your father, I, well—”
“I’ve decided to see him. I have to find out a different truth, not Salome’s version.”
“Hey! Guys …” They simultaneously shuddered as they recognized Alchemy’s voice. Neither had heard his car on the street or his footsteps walking up the front yard pathway.
Jay mouthed, “Did you know?”
Moses shook his head as he got up to open the door. Alchemy instantly saw the distress on Moses’s face and, behind him, the evident shock in Jay’s widening eyes. His almost breezy demeanor turned circumspect.
“Bad timing. But Mose, necessary after yesterday. It’s essential you read this.” He handed Moses a manila envelope that contained Malcolm’s letter and the medal. Alchemy shot a solicitous glance in Jay’s direction as she pushed herself off the couch. Moses spotted it. He failed to decipher their unspoken communication.
Alchemy tried to explain his presence and the envelope. “Look, this defies simple explanation. I saw Teumer in Brazil when we were on tour. He gave me this … Said it was up to me to give it to you or not. I think you’ll see.”
“Jesus Christ, now you see fit to give it to me?”
“Yeah, we fucked up. We decided it was—”
“We?”
“Yes, Jay and I—”
Moses swiveled his hips, and Jay’s exasperated gape of horror met his look of confusion and disgust. “You’ve been seeing each other? Maybe I’m not so crazy after all.”
In a rush to stop any further false condemnations, Jay blurted out, “Twice. Both times for less than twenty minutes. To help you. Alchemy wanted my opinion about the letter.”
“And you told him no? And you knew about my father?” Jay nodded sheepishly. “Fuck, I can’t believe this.” Palms together, he squeezed the envelope between his hands. “So Teumer gave this to you for me?” Suddenly Moses’s mood shifted from shame to self-righteous fury. He tossed the envelope on the dining room table. “Alchemy, I think it’s best if you go.”
“You sure? I guess, yes. It’s all on me. Call me anytime. I had no inkling about yesterday. And Mose, I was better off without Bent. You were better off without Teumer. He’s a really twisted guy.”
“Yeah, great.” Moses flicked his head and looked Alchemy toward the door.
Alchemy acceded. “I hope you can understand. If you need … Okay. See you.”
Moses and Jay stood five feet from each other, stranded in their living room, drowning in a sea of incomprehension and despair. Jay ended the silence, her tone defensive. “Like I said, we met briefly, twice in the last, what, five years. Once when I found out about Salome’s exhibition and I told him he needed to tell you or I would. And after he came back with the letter.” She stiffened her posture. “And you are still so wrong to mistrust me. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.”
“Where’d you meet with him?”
“The first time at Kasbah. The second at a private opening at Gagosian Gallery.”
“Did you tell him how to find Teumer?”
“No, Sidonna Cherry—”
“Did you tell him about her, too?”
“She worked for him and for Kasbah before she ever worked for us. Remember?”
“Now, I do.”
“You should read the letter before judging me.”
Moses stood at the dining room table and pulled out the pages. He shook out the envelope and the medal dropped on the table. “Jesus, what the hell?”
Jay frowned. “Never seen that.”
Moses sat down. Jay put a cup of water for tea in the microwave. She didn’t even bother to take it out when it buzzed. A saturnine heaviness settled in her chest as she leaned against the kitchen sink and waited.
43
THE LAMENTATIONS OF MALCOLM TEUMER, II (2008)
The Purloined Letter
Moses,
Since you have found me and your half brother, I assume by now you have met or will meet your mother. I want you to know me from my words, not from a distorted portrait painted by your mother’s delusional accusations or Hannah’s bitter renderings. I began this missive when Laban informed me of your intrusion. When it became obvious that you were no longer pursuing a confrontation, I decided to withhold it. Upon being notified of your brother’s intent to meet me, this became the propitious time and manner to deliver it.
Inside every human, without exception, resides the essence of what moralists call evil. Herbert Spencer, in classic English linguistic perfidy, declared this drive to be the “survival of the fittest.” I witnessed this exhibition of spirit by the delighted participation of women and children in acts of murder and debauchery. This empowering drive to vanquish and control is encoded in our blood and far outweighs courage or human generosity, or, for Christ’s sake, loving thy enemy.
I hope (but doubt) that someday you will understand that the most profound gift I gave you was unlove. I revile the parsing of logic and language that is necessary to justify suffering as a corollary to unconditional love from God and for God. The supreme human drives are self-preservation and selfishness. Greed, lust, envy, and desire for control are all forms of feeding the self. Love of a mate is only a manifestation of base needs to fornicate and control. Altruism is the lie of the self-deceiving.
Moses, life is cruel. Failure is not acceptable, but it is also inevitable. It is your kneeling to failure that I find repulsive.
If your half
brother’s reconnaissance mission was only a prelude to your own visit, you must know who you are before you come: Moses, you are 100% Christian. Not a drop of Jewish blood flows within you.
I will tell you who I am and why you were left behind. I participated in the elimination of Jews and other putrid and inferior species. I served with honor as an aide to Hauptsturmführer Alois Brunner. After the war he and I worked in Major General Reinhard Gehlen’s OSS/CIA–sponsored anti-Communist network. During Operations Paperclip and Applepie, I seized the opportunity to salvage the dreams of the falling Reich. I supplied Lively and Bickley Sr. with identities of SS officers who were Communist sympathizers (as well as a cache of Jewish gold and jewelry) in exchange for “bleaching” my war record, my entire history. I assumed the identity of a once baggy-eyed sad sack Jew who evolved into an unfeeling and unforgiving “victim.” How clever, yes! I endured a defiling of my purity with a circumcision and tattooing. I traveled to America on a Red Cross passport. I strategically maintained my distance from Jews until my involvement with Hannah. Her childless predicament was fortuitous and left her susceptible to what I offered and the cover I needed. I always intended to leave her. It became necessary to expedite my plans when I was recognized. I resisted surrendering you until Laban and Bickley Sr. forced me to make that choice—only if I left you would they continue to assist me in evading those who wished to put me on trial.
I see now it was the only choice—the right choice. I have followed your life as I have followed the career of your mother.
Hannah reared you in such a manner that makes you unfit to bear my name. You did not inherit Salome’s beauty or tempestuous vigor. You are diseased of body and weak in spirit.
I heard you speak at the Skirball Center on a panel about the children of those who survived internment and their attitudes toward God. I asked you a question after the talk, “Where was your God then? Where is he now?” You could not formulate a cogent response. You circled around the question—as you must, because their God is not. He never was. These Jewish children have committed suicide or broken down because they are weak. Their parents were the strong ones. They survived without their God.
I was repulsed yet oddly proud when you went to Israel. The Israelis have earned my respect. They are more like Germans: They kill to preserve themselves. I wish you had remained there, enlisted in the army, and perished for your beliefs, as Israel will someday perish.
I saw you once more when we passed each other at the 3rd Street Promenade. You trailed a step behind your attractive wife. She is no doubt the lead dog. It is an affront to me that you have no children.
The first time I killed a man, I felt the superiority and triumph of my will. Murder and sex are inextricably tied together: Murder is a denial of creation and sex is the act of creation. True men live through our seed. The truest men understand the need to kill to persevere. Throughout history the powerful have taken the best women. I have taken many. After they have been taken, they are cast aside to lesser men. You are a lesser man who could neither kill nor procreate.
You have eight siblings. Two I left in Germany as I left you. Others live with me in Brazil.
Laban explained your disease and that you desired my help. I considered, but decided against introducing you to your half brothers and half sisters. They do not know you exist. I only agreed to see you to placate Laban, and because, at the time, I never believed you would survive more than a year. Yet, because of your brother, you are still alive.
I have no desire to meet you. But I do have one wish for you: Reward yourself with your newfound life and birthright. Be hard. Be my son.
44
THE SONGS OF SALOME
Still Born, Again
I was in the studio Dad had built for me gathering photos of Orient and of Kyle. I found one when she, Art, and I were secretly smoking cigars outside Donnie Boyle’s. Alchemy was playing wiffle ball in the backyard with a friend when I heard him scream, “Mom!” Hilda was passed out on the back porch. Alchemy ran inside and dialed 911. I wrapped Hilda in my arms. I sensated this was her time to transmigrate to another world. I kissed her forehead, and even though she couldn’t hear me, I said, “I will miss you so damn much.”
The paramedics rushed her to Eastern Long Island Hospital. She’d suffered a mild heart attack. The doctors predicted full recovery but wanted to keep her for observation. I extended our stay by three weeks, for her sake and mine.
The night before her release, she died from “cardiogenic shock.” I had sensated correctly. I felt myself untethering. I called Ruggles and he talked to me for almost two hours. He asked if I wanted to come to Collier Layne. I didn’t. His words seemed wise: “If it was going to happen, and it was, isn’t it better you and Alchemy were there? This way you were able to spend quality time together.”
Nathaniel flew back for the funeral. He protected me from the odors of miniminded pieties whispered by Hilda’s friends while they conveyed their phony condolences. Billy Jr. said he would sell the house and put the money in the trust. We took a few mementos, packed up books, records, photo albums and stored them in a neighbor’s barn. The rest would be donated to charities.
One last time I climbed to the roof. Two great white egrets gracefully patrolled the bay, and I bid a final goodbye to Kyle, Art, Dad, and Hilda.
On the way to JFK, an irrecoverable sorrow gnawing at my insides, I asked the driver to stop at the cemetery. Alchemy jumped out and ran ahead of me and stood in front of Hilda and Dad’s headstones. I wished I could’ve reassured him that although their heaven is a lie, there is DNA travel and Hilda existed somewhere where we could all meet again. Only Hilda and Gus weren’t of our DNA and possessed no psychopomp powers. With his long, loose curls flopping over his reddened eyes, his hand touched the nameless headstone next to Dad’s. “Who’s under there?”
“Your brother,” I said, as even-keeled as possible. “I was very young, only two years older than you are now, when I got pregnant. He died during childbirth. I never named him, but I wanted him to have a proper burial so he would be remembered.”
Alchemy started to quake. So did I. I feared he was experiencing a mystical connection through me with his brother. We held hands and knelt in front of the headstone. He rubbed his eyes and runny nose against his red T-shirt.
“Was his father my father?”
“No. I met your father many years later. He lives in England now.”
“I want to see him.”
You could say that my impetuous stop at the cemetery was a coincidence that happened to change the course of our lives. Bullshit. Just as finding Teumer’s photo was no coincidence. Both had to happen. I had to accept Alchemy’s unwavering decisiveness, even as the ferocity of his determination startled me that morning. It always did, no matter how often I witnessed it.
Berlin reeked of death. Over the summer, Z had been diagnosed with AIDS and was interred in Auguste-Viktoria-Krankenhaus. He had barred visitors, preferring to be remembered as the smooth-faced man-boy rather than a leprous escapee from Kalaupapa. People listened to him because paranoia and AIDS were synonymous then; too many cowards thought even being in a room with an HIV-positive person was akin to a death sentence. I visited him almost every day.
I arranged a meeting between Alchemy and Bent. The bastard would see him only in exchange for £1,000. Nathaniel, who was attending a mid-September meeting of No Nukes organizers in London, flew with Alchemy and escorted him to Bent’s Earls Court hovel, which he had actually cleaned up. The three of them ate lunch at a local fish and chips place. Although Nathaniel believed Bent was not high, he returned the next morning to check on Alchemy, just to be safe. No one was home. That evening, he returned to find Bent strung out, mumbling that Alchemy had taken off and not come back. Foolishly, we’d given Bent the money before the visit ended. Nathaniel taxied back to the hotel in a quandary, fighting his anticop instincts. Luckily, he found Alchemy, who’d run away, sitting in the lobby flirting with a desk clerk.
Gibbon called from New York. He was coming to Cologne, and the skinflint even offered to pay for me to meet him there. A collector had offered $60,000 for a commission with the caveat that we meet first. I wanted Nathaniel to come with me, but he had classes and an appointment in the East. Reluctantly, I went alone. I checked into the hotel decorated in a fin de siècle gaudy opulence straight out of one of Greta’s movies. I almost expected Wallace Beery to lumber across the lobby. Dressed in a white bodice tied in the back, a copperish chenille scarf, and a black leather miniskirt, I wandered downstairs to the dining room to meet Gibbon and his buyer.
“Salome, I’d like you to meet Mr. Malcolm Teumer, who has collected your work since your Do Not Disturb exhibition.”
“Fucking holy fucking shit!”
Everyone in the dining room gaped at us. I collected myself. “Gibbon, please go. Leave Teumer and me alone. Wait in the lobby. This won’t take long.”
“What?” Gibbon jumped up and down in place. “No, I won’t.”
“Murray, I said go! Ask no goddamned questions.” Teumer waved him away.
Once we were alone, I sat down and ordered a tea and cognac. “I guess Lively talked to you.”
“Yes. This seemed convenient, as I have other business here.”
“Attending an SS reunion?”
“Don’t be silly.”
“I’m not fifteen anymore. Don’t give me some Joseph Beuys I-was-a-susceptible-youngster bullshit. You’re both impostors in my book.”
“I do not regret my service. And I see you have not lost an ounce of your fiery energy.”
“You haven’t lost an ounce of the superciliousness I once mistook for debonair manliness.” Still ruggedly handsome, he was dressed meticulously in a dark blue suit. “Malcolm, no woman could ever be more relieved than I was that a baby of hers died.”
