The History of Love (21 page)

That night, a freezing wind blew in. When the children woke up, they went to the windows and found the world encased in ice. One child, the smallest, shrieked out in delight and her cry tore through the silence and exploded the ice of a giant oak tree. The world shone.

They found him frozen on the ground like a bird. It’s said that when they put their ears to the shell of his ears, they could hear themselves.

Beneath that page was another page, titled THE DEATH OF TOLSTOY, and beneath that was one for Osip Mandelstam, who died at the bitter end of 1938 in a transit camp near Vladivostok, and beneath that, six or eight more. Only the last page was different. It said:
THE DEATH OF LEOPOLD GURSKY
. Litvinoff felt a gust of cold in his heart. He glanced at his friend, who was breathing heavily. He started to read. When he got to the end he shook his head and read it again. And again after that. He read it over and over, mouthing the words as if they were not an announcement of death, but a prayer for life. As if just by saying them, he could keep his friend safe from the angel of death, the force of his breath alone keeping its wings pinned for a moment more, a moment more—until it gave up and left his friend alone. All night, Litvinoff watched over his friend, and all night he moved his lips. And for the first time in as long as he could remember, he did not feel useless.

As morning broke, Litvinoff saw with relief that the color had returned to his friend’s face. He was sleeping the restful sleep of recovery. When the sun had climbed to the position of eight o’clock, he stood. His legs were stiff. His insides felt scraped out. But he was filled with happiness. He folded THE DEATH OF LEOPOLD GURSKY
in half. And here is another thing no one knows about Zvi Litvinoff: for the rest of his life he carried in his breast pocket the page he’d protected all night from becoming real, so that he could buy a little more time—for his friend, for life.

UNTIL THE WRITING HAND HURTS

T
he pages I’d written so long ago slipped from my hands and scattered on the floor. I thought: Who? And how? I thought: After all these
—
What? Years.

I fell back into my memories. The night passed in a fog. By morning I was still shocked. It was noon before I was able to go on. I knelt down in the flour. I gathered the pages up one by one. Page ten gave me a paper cut. Page twenty-two a pang in the kidneys. Page four a blockage in the heart.

A bitter joke came to mind.
Words failed me.
And yet. I clutched the pages, afraid my mind was playing tricks on me, that I would look down and find them blank.

I made my way to the kitchen. The cake sagged on the table. Ladies and gentlemen. We are gathered today to celebrate the mysteries of life. What? No, stone throwing is not allowed. Only flowers. Or money.

I wiped the egg shells and spilled sugar off my chair and sat down at the table. Outside, my loyal pigeon cooed and fluttered its wings against the glass. Perhaps I should have given him a name. Why not, I’ve taken pains to name plenty of things less real than he. I tried to think of a name that would give me pleasure to call. I glanced around. My eye came to rest on the menu from the Chinese take-out. They haven’t changed it for years. MR. TONG’S FAMOUS CANTONESE, SZECHUAN AND HUMAN CUISINE. I tapped the window. The pigeon flapped off.
Goodbye, Mr. Tong.

It took me most of the afternoon to read. Memories crowded in. My eyes blurred, I had trouble focusing. I thought: I’m seeing things. I pushed back my chair and stood. I thought: Mazel tov, Gursky, you’ve finally lost it completely. I watered the plant.
To lose you have to have had.
Ah? So
now
you’re a stickler for details? Have, didn’t have! Listen to you! You made a profession out of losing. A champion loser you were. And yet. Where’s the proof you ever had her? Where’s the proof that she was yours to have?

I filled the sink with soapy water and washed the dirty pots. And with each pot and pan and spoon I put away, I also put away a thought I couldn’t bear, until my kitchen and my mind returned to a state of mutual organization. And yet.

Shlomo Wasserman had become Ignacio da Silva. The character I called Duddelsach was now Rodriguez. Feingold was De Biedma. So-called Slonim became Buenos Aires, a town I’d never heard of now stood in for Minsk. It was almost funny. But. I didn’t laugh.

I studied the handwriting on the envelope. There was no note. Believe me: I checked five or six times. No return address. I would have interrogated Bruno if I’d thought he’d have anything to tell. If there’s a package, the super leaves it on the table in the lobby. No doubt Bruno saw it and picked it up. It’s a big event when something comes for either of us that can’t fit in the mailbox. If I’m not mistaken, the last time was two years ago. Bruno had ordered a studded dog collar. Perhaps it doesn’t go without saying that he’d recently brought home a dog. It was small and warm and something to love. He called it Bibi.
Come, Bibi, come!
I’d hear him call. But. Bibi never came. Then one day he took it to the dog run.
Vamos, Chico
! someone called to their dog, and Bibi took off toward the Puerto Rican.
Come, Bibi, come!
Bruno cried, but to no avail. He switched tactics.
Vamos, Bibi!
he shrieked at the top of his lungs. And lo and behold, Bibi came running. She barked all night and shat over the floor, but he loved her.

One day Bruno took her to the dog run. She frolicked and shat and sniffed while Bruno looked on with pride. The gate opened for an Irish setter. Bibi glanced up. Before Bruno knew was happening, she shot through the open gate and disappeared down the street. He tried to chase her.
Run!
he said to himself. The memory of speed flooded his system, but his body revolted. With his first steps his legs tangled and wilted.
Vamos Bibi!
he cried. And yet. No one came. In his hour of need—crumpled on the sidewalk while Bibi betrayed him by being what she was: an animal—I was at home pecking away at my typewriter. He came home, devastated. That evening we went back to the dog run to wait for her.
She’ll come back,
I said. But. She never came back. That was two years ago, and still he goes to wait.

I tried to make sense of things. Now that I think about it, I have always tried. It could be my epitaph. LEO GURSKY: HE TRIED TO MAKE SENSE.

Night fell and still I was lost. I hadn’t eaten all day. I called Mr. Tong. The Chinese take-out, not the bird. Twenty minutes later, I was alone with my spring rolls. I turned on the radio. They were asking for pledges. In return you got a plunger that said WNYC.

There are things I find hard to describe. And yet I persist like a stubborn mule in my efforts. Once Bruno came downstairs and saw me sitting at the kitchen table in front of the typewriter.
That thing again?
The earphones had slipped down to rest like a half-halo on the back of his head. I kneaded my knuckles over the steam from my teacup.
A regular Vladimir Horowitz
, he remarked as he passed on his way to the refrigerator. He hunched over, digging around for whatever it was he wanted in there. I rolled a new page into my machine. He turned around, the refrigerator door still open, a milk mustache on his upper lip.
Play on, Maestro,
he said, then pulled the earphones onto his ears and shuffled out the door, turning on the light above the table as he passed. I watched the light chain swing as I listened to the voice of Molly Bloom blasting his ears, THERE’S NOTHING LIKE A KISS LONG AND HOT DOWN TO YOUR SOUL ALMOST PARALYSES YOU, it’s only her Bruno listens to now, wearing down the magnetic strip.

Over and over, I read the pages of the book I’d written as a young man. It was so long ago. I was naïve. A twenty-year-old in love. A swollen heart and a head to match. I thought I could do anything! Strange as that might seem, now that I’ve done all I’m going to do.

I thought: How did it survive? As far as I knew, the only copy was lost in a flood. I mean, if you don’t count the excerpts I sent in letters to the girl I loved after she left for America. I couldn’t resist sending her my best pages. But. It was only a few parts. And here in my hands was almost the whole book! Somehow in English! With Spanish names! It boggled the mind.

I sat shiva for Isaac, and while I sat, I tried to understand. Alone in my apartment, the pages on my lap. Night became day became night became day. I fell in and out of sleep. But. I didn’t get any closer to solving the mystery. Story of my life: I was a locksmith. I could unlock every door in the city. And yet I couldn’t unlock anything I wanted to unlock.

I decided to make a list of all the people I knew who were alive, in case I was forgetting someone. I busied myself looking for paper and pen. Then I sat down, smoothed down the page, and brought the nib to meet it. But. My mind drew a blank.

Instead I wrote: Questions for the Sender
.
This I underlined twice. I continued:

1. Who are you?

2. Where did you find this?

3. How did it survive?

4. Why is it in english?

5. Who else has read it?

6. Did they like it?

6. Is the number of readers greater or less than—

I paused and deliberated. Was there a number that wouldn’t disappoint me?

I looked out the window. Across the street, a tree tossed in the wind. It was the afternoon, the children were shouting. I like to listen to their songs.
This is a game! Of concentration!
the girls sing and clap.
No repeats! Or hesitations! Starting with:
I wait on tenterhooks.
Animals!
they shout. Animals! I think.
Horse
! one says.
Monkey
! says the other. Back and forth it goes.
Cow
! shouts the first.
Tiger
! cries the second, because a moment of hesitation ruins the rhythm and ends the game.
Pony!
Kangaroo! Mouse! Lion!
Giraffe!
One girl fumbles.
YAK!
I shout.

I looked down at my page of questions. What would it take, I wondered, for a book I wrote sixty years ago to arrive in my mailbox, in a different language?

Suddenly I was struck by a thought. It came to me in Yiddish, I’ll do my best to paraphrase, it was something along the lines of: COULD I BE FAMOUS WITHOUT KNOWING IT? I felt dizzy. I drank down a glass of cold water and took some aspirin. Don’t be an idiot, I told myself. And yet.

I grabbed my coat. The first drops of rain pelted the window, so I put on my galoshes. Bruno calls them rubbers. But that’s his business. Outside, a howling wind. I struggled through the streets, locked in a battle with my umbrella. Three times it blew itself inside out. I hung on. Once it slammed me against the side of a building. Twice I was airborne.