Call Me Zelda (7 page)

I abandoned all pretense and broke into a run.

The bag felt like a sack of bricks on my shoulder. My face stung from the cold, and fear chilled my heart. I couldn’t help but turn my head to the side. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a man in a long dark coat pursuing me. My worst fears confirmed, I sprang forward, running as fast as I could. That fear held me by the throat and I could not make any sound besides the gasping from my lungs, tight from exertion in near-freezing temperatures.

As I neared the corner, I realized that I didn’t want him to know where I lived, but I didn’t have anywhere else to go. I didn’t have much time to contemplate an alternate route, however, because I felt his hands pulling my hair. I finally managed a scream, but only for a moment before his filthy fingers clamped over my mouth.

I threw my bags at him, hoping he was just looking to rob me. He made no move toward them, and I knew from the evil in his small blue eyes that there was something else he wanted. Panic sent a surge of energy through my body, and I bit his fingers and screamed for help. As my voice echoed off the pavement, he tackled me and slammed me to the ground. The back of my head hit the sidewalk and I saw sparks in my field of vision. The sting of blood filled my mouth where I’d bitten my tongue. I spit in his face and tried to bring up my fingers to scratch his eyes, but he had my hands pinned too tightly at my sides.

My leg pulled itself from under his, and I managed to knee him in the groin, but he was tall and I could bring my knee up only so much, so he didn’t get the full force of the impact. He grunted a little, raised his fist, and struck me across the face, this time causing my vision to go black for a moment.

It was suddenly clear to me that I was going to die in the worst way I could imagine. All I could think of was that I didn’t want my parents to find out, because it would hurt them too much.

My God, I had to get him off me!

But he pressed onward. I could feel him fumbling with my skirt, poking at me. I heard a snarl and felt as if I would vomit when suddenly he was jerked from me and thrown into the slushy mess in the street. My eyes still weren’t focused, but I saw the blurred outline of a dark figure punching my attacker repeatedly until the man lay still in the gutter. Then my helper was at my
side. His face and hair were dark in the light. For a moment I thought it was…

“Ben?”

“Shhh,” he said. “Do you think I can lift you?”

That accent. It was not Ben. Where had I heard it before? I squeezed my eyes shut and opened them again to see the face of the Romanian from my building.

“I’m all right,” I said, attempting to pull myself into a sitting position. Overtaken by a dizzy spell, I fell back to the pavement. He moved his arm under my neck just before my head hit the street.

“I will carry you,” he said.

I looked over at my attacker and my heart raced.

“No, please,” I said. “Please call the police. We can’t give him a chance to get away.”

“I will not leave you in the street next to him while I call for help.”

He stood and walked back to the criminal and ripped off his filthy cap that was covering a mostly bald head with only wisps of greasy gray hair along the fringe. He had a mouth of rotten brown teeth, and those slits of blue eyes were swollen from the Romanian’s punches, which my rescuer again administered for good measure. I flinched in spite of myself, and was surprised that a figure so seemingly meek and quiet was capable of such violence.

“We have had a good look,” he said. “If he crawls somewhere before I return, we will be able to describe him to the police.”

With that, he lifted me and carried me into the apartment building and into his rooms on the first floor, where he’d left the door ajar. He placed me on a threadbare couch and ran his fingers through his hair.

“Stay here,” he said unnecessarily. I couldn’t have gone anywhere if I wanted to.

As he left the room, I fell back on the worn couch, grateful that I was here instead of on the street. My vision stopped its shifting, but I could feel the beginnings of a headache. I began to shake, certain I was in some kind of shock and thankful that the Romanian had seen me when he did. My God, if he hadn’t been there—

My teeth chattered and my hands shook, but I was able to slowly sit myself up and look around the apartment. Music sheets littered the floor in a bank of crumpled balls. A plain wooden chair sat by a music stand in front of a great arched window that lent an air of grace to the room. Candles flickered on a table next to a plate of bread crumbs and an empty glass of wine, and logs glowed in a fireplace behind the dining table. The only adornments on the peeling plaster walls were a pencil drawing of an intense, robust man with dark eyes and a dark crop of hair, and an ornate cross that seemed to be at odds with the poverty of the room.

I felt unaccountably safe in this simple place with the faucet leaking from the kitchen. I reached my hand to touch the back of my head and felt a lump, but no blood, so I lay back on the couch. I thought I dreamed the sound of the police siren.

T
he Romanian’s name was Sorin Funar.

After the police officers had taken a statement from each of us and hauled my attacker off to jail, I told Sorin I wanted to go home. He carried my bags, which he’d retrieved for me, in one arm, and let me lean against him with the other. He was my height and thin, and I again wondered how he had overcome the criminal. When we got to the second floor, I thought I was going to be sick, so I allowed him to escort me into my apartment.

I could see that the piano commanded his attention in the
turn of his head as he led me past it and into my bedroom. He placed my bags on the floor and helped me sit on the bed. I was so overcome with relief and gratitude to be safe in my apartment that I began to cry. His face turned red and I could see his discomfort.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m just so thankful you were there. If you hadn’t been there…”

“It is all right,” he said.

“How did you know?”

He looked down at his feet and shuffled his worn shoes against the wood floor.

“I saw you arrive,” he said. “I was at the window, practicing. Then I saw that you did not want to come in.”

“I was stupid,” I said.

“No,” he said. “I did not think anything of it until I saw him.”

“Follow me?”

“Yes, after you started your walk I saw him cross the street and turn the corner you had just turned.”

“If you weren’t at that window,” I said as my tears slowed. “If you hadn’t come out on the street.”

He nodded. I saw him flex his fingers open and closed, and I felt my stomach drop. He needed those hands. They were everything to him and he’d used them to punch my attacker.

“Are your fingers all right?” I asked.

“A little stiff,” he said, finally smiling. “But not broken.”

“Where did you learn to punch like that?”

“I lived in a tough town,” he said. “A skinny boy with a violin needs to learn how to use his fists at a young age.”

I smiled at him.

“Well, I’ll be forever grateful,” I said. “I can’t thank you enough.”

He started looking around the room and shifting from foot to foot. I could see he wanted to leave. I stood to show him the door but he stopped me.

“I will let myself out,” he said. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

He left the room and I heard the door close a few moments later. I stared after him, unable to sleep for the remainder of the night.

FIVE

I was in agony from the headaches, and because I was sure Zelda felt abandoned by me. In the three days I’d been out of work, I sensed her turmoil in my body the way an arthritic senses a coming storm.

I was sick of hiding in my apartment, scared to walk outside, anxious about sleep and the terrible dreams I’d been having. At least the piano didn’t taunt me the way I thought it would. It looked somehow softer, pliable, more inviting; though without any music on its stand it did have a barren feel. I regarded it and was suddenly overcome by an urge to make it an offering of sorts while bringing a piece of Ben to these rooms.

I went to my bedroom and jostled through shoes and old nursing uniforms in the back of the closet. The box I was looking for was in front of a box of my daughter’s things that I deliberately did not look at. I slid it out and sat with it on the floor, watching the dust motes rising from it, dancing in the afternoon light. With a deep breath, I lifted the lid and was overcome by the smell of one of Ben’s uniforms after all these years. I slammed the lid shut and shoved the box back in the closet with my heart racing. I walked over to the
window and put my hands on the sill, breathing deeply until my heart steadied.

During the war, I had used this technique to cope. I would walk away for just a moment, breathe, steel myself, and return. I used to pride myself on keeping grace under pressure. Other nurses envied me for it. Doctors depended on me because of it. I stood up straight and turned to face the room with more determination.

When I pulled out the box and lifted the lid this time, I was prepared for the scent of Ben’s uniforms under years of dust and neglect. The smell was there, but I did not recoil. I inhaled it and allowed him to fill me with each breath.

I reached into the box and pulled out the framed photograph of the two of us at my parents’ house on our wedding day. We were standing against the side of the barn, but my brother had taken the picture without our knowledge. In it, Ben had his hand on my lower back, I had my arms wrapped around his neck, and our foreheads were touching. It was beautiful.

Forcing myself to stand, I carried the photograph out to the living room, and as I placed the picture on the piano, the lonely, aching sound of Sorin’s violin drifted up the stairwell and into my apartment. I hadn’t seen him since the night of the attack, and I wanted to thank him somehow, to show him my gratitude.

I decided to take him some of the loaf of my mother’s banana bread I’d just baked, but when I took the bread down the stairs and knocked on his door he didn’t answer. I listened at the door, but he didn’t make any noise. I didn’t want to leave the bread in case of rodents, so I knocked again, much harder.

A muffled sound came through the door, like a rustling of paper. A distant cough. I knocked a final time and called, “It’s Anna. I’ve baked some bread for you. It’s here.”

I placed the bread on the floor outside of his door, made sure the paper was closed tightly around it, and went back up to my room. The tea I’d put on the stove was whistling, so I poured
myself a cup, added half a teaspoon of sugar, and set it on the piano to cool. I went back to the hallway and looked down the stairwell to see that the bread was gone.

Soon afterward, I knew I’d overdone it. My head felt split in two, and I was overcome with fatigue. I slept the rest of the afternoon.

For the next two days I continued my strange routine. I moved pictures from Ben’s box in the closet to various places around the apartment. I sat at the piano without playing, but let my tingling fingers rest on the keys, finding the scales without pressing them. I continued to leave offerings of gratitude at Sorin’s apartment. Wednesday, I left him half of a roast I’d cooked. Thursday, several mason jars of mulled cider. I also gave some of the cider to the ballerinas, and they accepted it with hearty thanks and invited me in. I declined as they regarded my bruised face with curiosity, and I left them before they could ask any questions.

By Friday, echoes of pain continued to shoot through my head, but I was ready to return to work. I’d spoken to Dr. Meyer by phone and he was glad to hear I was well enough to return, even if it was only for one day before the weekend. I decided to keep my attack a secret, and told the clinic that I’d had a bad cold. It was a traumatic experience, and I didn’t want Dr. Meyer to know about it and scrutinize me for it.

When I got to work, I hung my coat in the nurses’ room and quickly started down the hall to Zelda. Anxiety and anticipation had my heart racing and my palms clammy. I gave her door a knock, counted to ten to allow her to ready herself for a visitor, and opened it. At first, I did not see her.