It was simple: If he’d read my book, he knew the truth.
I was his father.
He was my son.
And now it dawned on me that it was possible there had been a brief window of time in which Isaac and I both lived, each aware of the other’s existence.
I went to the bathroom, washed my face with cold water, and went downstairs to check the mail. I thought there was still a chance a letter might arrive from my son, posted before he died. I slipped the key in the box and turned.
And yet. A pile of junk, that was all. The TV Guide, a magazine from Bloomingdale’s, a letter from the World Wildlife Federation who’ve remained my loyal companions since I sent them ten dollars in 1979. I took it upstairs to throw it all away. I had my foot on the pedal of the trash bin when I saw it, a little envelope with my name typed across the front. The seventy-five percent of my heart that was still alive started to thunder. I ripped it open.
Dear Leopold Gursky, it said. Please meet me at 4:00 on Saturday on the benches in front of the entrance to the Central Park zoo. I think you know who I am.
Overcome with feeling, I shouted out, I do!
Sincerely yours, it said.
Sincerely mine, I thought.
Alma.
And then and there I knew my time had come. My hands shook so hard that the paper rattled. I felt my legs giving way. My head got light. So this is how they send the angel. With the name of the girl you always loved.
I banged on the radiator for Bruno. There was no reply, nor was there one a minute later, or a minute after that, though I banged and banged, three taps means ARE YOU ALIVE?, two means YES, one means NO. I listened for the answer, but there wasn’t any. Perhaps I shouldn’t have called him a fool, because now when I needed him most there was nothing at all.
WOULD A LAMED VOVNIK DO THIS?
October 5
This morning I snuck into Alma’s room while she was in the shower and got How to Survive in the Wild Volume 3 out of her backpack. Then I got back into bed and hid it under the covers. When Mom came in I pretended to be sick. She put her hand on my forehead and said What do you feel? so I said I think I have swollen glands, so she said You must be coming down with something, so I said But I have to go to school, so she said Nothing will happen if you miss a day, so I said OK. She brought me some chamomile tea with honey and I drank it with my eyes closed to show how sick I was. I heard Alma leave for school, and Mom went upstairs to work. When I heard her chair creak I took How to Survive in the Wild Volume 3 out and started to read it to see if there were any clues about who Alma was searching for.
Most of the pages were filled with information like how to make a hot-rock bed, or a lean-to, or how to make water potable which I didn’t really understand because I’ve never seen any water that can’t be poured into a pot. (Except maybe ice.) I was starting to wonder if I would find anything about the mystery when I got to a page that said how to survive if your parachute fails to open. There were 10 steps but none of them made sense. For example if you are falling through the air and your parachute fails to open I don’t think it would help that much to have a gardener with a limp. Also it said search for a stone but why would there be stones unless someone was throwing them at you or you had one in your pocket which most normal people don’t? The last step was just a name which was Alma Mereminski.
One thought I had was that Alma was in love with someone named Mr. Mereminski and wanted to marry him. But then I turned the page and it said ALMA MEREMINSKI = ALMA MORITZ. So I thought maybe Alma was in love with Mr. Mereminski and Mr. Moritz. Then I turned the page and at the top it said THINGS I MISS ABOUT M and there was a list of 15 things, and the first was THE WAY HE HOLDS THINGS. I did not understand how you can miss the way somebody holds things.
I tried to think but it was hard. If Alma was in love with Mr. Mereminski or Mr. Moritz, how come I’d never met either of them, and how come they never called her like Herman or Misha? And if she loved Mr. Mereminski or Mr. Moritz, why did she miss him?
The rest of the notebook was blank.
The only person I really miss is Dad. Sometimes I get jealous of Alma because she knew Dad more than I did and can remember so much about him. But the weird thing is that when I read Volume 2 of her notebook last year it said, I FEEL SAD BECAUSE I NEVER REALLY KNEW DAD.
I was thinking about why she wrote that when all of a sudden I had a very strange idea. What if Mom had been in love with someone else named Mr. Mereminski or Mr. Moritz, and he was Alma’s father? And what if he died, or went away, which is why Alma never knew him? And then after that Mom met David Singer and had me. And then he died, which was why Mom was so sad. That would explain why she wrote ALMA MEREMINSKI and ALMA MORITZ but not ALMA SINGER. Maybe she was trying to find her real dad!
I heard Mom get up from her chair so I did my best impression of someone sleeping which I’ve practiced in front of the mirror 100 times. Mom came in and sat on the edge of my bed and didn’t say anything for a long time. But all of a sudden I had to sneeze so I opened my eyes and sneezed and Mom said Poor thing. Then I did something extremely risky. Using my most sleepy voice I said Mom did you ever love someone else before Dad? I was almost 100 percent positive she was going to say no. But instead a funny look came over her face and she said I suppose so, yes! So I said Did he die? and she laughed and said No! Inside I was going crazy but I didn’t want to make her too suspicious so I pretended to fall asleep again.
Now I think I know who Alma is looking for. I also know that if I am a real lamed vovnik I will be able to help her.
October 6
I pretended to be sick for the second day in a row so I could stay home from school again and also so I don’t have to see Dr. Vishnubakat. When Mom went back upstairs I set the alarm on my watch and every 10 minutes I coughed for 5 seconds straight. After half an hour I snuck out of bed so I could look in Alma’s backpack for more clues. I didn’t see anything besides the things that are always in it like a first aid kit and her Swiss Army knife, but then I took out her sweater and wrapped inside were some pages. I only had to look at them for one second to know that they were from the book Mom is translating called The History of Love, because she is always throwing drafts away in the garbage and I know what they look like. I also know that Alma only keeps very important things in the backpack that she might need in case of an emergency so I tried to figure out why The History of Love was so important to her.
Then I thought of something. Mom always says that Dad was the one who gave her The History of Love. But what if this whole time she meant Alma’s dad and not mine? And what if the book held the secret of who he was?
Mom came downstairs and I had to run into the bathroom and pretend I was constipated for 18 minutes so she wouldn’t get suspicious. When I came out she gave me the number for Mr. Goldstein at the hospital and said if I felt like calling him I could. His voice sounded very tired, and when I asked him how he felt he said At night all cows are black. I wanted to tell him about the good thing I was going to do, but I knew I couldn’t tell anyone, not even him.
I got back into bed and talked to myself to figure out why the identity of Alma’s real father had to be a secret. The only reason I could think of was that he was a spy like the blond lady in Alma’s favorite movie, the one who was working for the F.B.I. and couldn’t reveal her true identity to Roger Thornhill even though she was in love with him. Maybe Alma’s real father couldn’t reveal his true identity either, not even to Mom. Maybe that’s why he had two names! Or even more than two! I felt jealous that my dad wasn’t a spy too but then I didn’t feel jealous anymore because I remembered that I might be a lamed vovnik which is even better than a spy.
Mom came downstairs to check on me. She said she was going out for an hour, and asked me if I would be OK by myself. After I heard the door close and the key turn in the lock I went to the bathroom to talk to G-d. Then I went to the kitchen to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. That’s when the telephone rang. I
didn’t think it was anything special but when I answered it the person on the other end said Hello this is Bernard Moritz, may I please speak with Alma Singer?
That’s how I found out G-d can hear me.
My heart was beating like crazy. I had to think very fast. I said She’s not here right now but I can take a message. He said Well it’s a long story. So I said I can give her a long message.
He said Well I found a note she left on my brother’s door. It must have been at least a week ago, he was in the hospital. It said that she knew who he was and that she needed to talk to him about The History of Love. She left this number.
I did not say I knew it! or Did you know he was a spy? I just stayed silent so I wouldn’t say the wrong thing.
But then the man said Anyway my brother passed away, he’d been ill for a long time and I wouldn’t have called except that before he died he told me that he’d found some letters in our mother’s drawer.
I didn’t say anything, so the man kept talking.
He said He read the letters and got it into his head that the man who was his real father was the author of a book called The History of Love. I didn’t really believe it until I saw Alma’s note. She mentioned the book, and you see my mother’s name was also Alma. I thought I should talk to her, or at least tell her that Isaac passed away so she wouldn’t wonder.
Now I was confused all over again because I thought this Mr. Moritz was Alma’s father. The only thing I could think of was that Alma’s father had a lot of children who didn’t know him. Maybe this man’s brother was one and Alma was another, and they were both looking for their father at the same time.
I said Did you say he thought his real father was the author of The History of Love?
The man on the phone said Yes.
So I said Well did he think his father’s name was Zvi Litvinoff?
Now the man on the phone sounded confused. He said No he thought it was Leopold Gursky.
I made my voice very calm and said Can you spell that? And he said G-U-R-S-K-Y. I said Why did he think his father’s name was Leopold Gursky? And the man said Because that’s who sent our mother the letters with parts from the book he was writing called The History of Love.
Inside I was going crazy because even though I didn’t understand everything I was sure I was very close to solving the mystery about Alma’s father, and that if I could solve it I would be doing something helpful, and if I did something helpful in a secret way I might still be a lamed vovnik, and everything would be OK.
Then the man said Look I think it would be better if I spoke to Ms. Singer myself. I didn’t want to make him suspicious, so I said I’ll give her the message and hung up the phone.
I sat at the kitchen table trying to think about everything. Now I knew that when Mom said Dad gave her The History of Love what she meant was that Alma’s dad gave it to her because he was the one who wrote it.
I squeezed my eyes shut and said to myself If I am a lamed vovnik how do I find Alma’s father whose name was Leopold Gursky and also Zvi Litvinoff and also Mr. Mereminski and also Mr. Moritz?
I opened my eyes. I stared at the pad where I’d written G-U-R-S-K-Y. Then I looked up at the phone book on top of the refrigerator. I got the step ladder and climbed up. There was a lot of dust on the cover so I wiped it off and opened it up to G. I didn’t really think I was going to find him. I saw GURLAND John. I brought my finger down the page, GUROL, GUROV, GUROVICH, GURRERA, GURRIN, GURSHON, and after GURSHUMOV I saw his name. GURSKY Leopold. It had been right there the whole time. I wrote down his telephone number and his address, 504 Grand Street, closed the phone book, and put the step ladder away.
October 7
Today was Saturday so I did not have to pretend I was sick again. Alma got up early and said she was going out, and when Mom asked me how I felt I said Much better. Then she asked if I wanted to do something together like go to the zoo, because Dr. Vishnubakat said it would be good if we did more things together like a family. Even though I wanted to go I knew there was something I had to do. So I told her Maybe tomorrow. Then I went up to her study and turned on the computer and printed out The History of Love. I put it in a brown envelope and on the front I wrote FOR LEOPOLD GURSKY. I told Mom I was going out to play for a while, and she said Play where? and I said Louis’s house, even though he’s not my friend anymore. Mom said OK but make sure you call me. Then I took 100 dollars out of my lemon-aid money and put it in my pocket. I hid the envelope with The History of Love under my jacket, and went out the door. I did not know where Grand Street was but I’m almost 12 and I knew I would find it.
A + L
The letter arrived in the mail with no return address. My name, Alma Singer, was typed on the front. The only letters I’d ever received had all been from Misha, but he’d never used a typewriter. I opened it. It was only two lines. Dear Alma, it said. Please meet me at 4:00 on Saturday on the benches in front of the entrance to the Central Park zoo. I think you know who I am. Sincerely yours, Leopold Gursky.
I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting on this park bench. The light is almost all gone, but when there was light I was able to admire the statuary. A bear, a hippo, something with cloven hooves I took to be a goat. On my way I passed a fountain. The basin was dry. I looked to see if there were any pennies at the bottom. But there were only dead leaves. They’re everywhere now, falling and falling, turning the world back into earth. Sometimes I forget that the world is not on the same schedule as I. That everything is not dying, or that if it is dying it will return to life, what with a little sun and the usual encouragement. Sometimes I think: I am older than this tree, older than this bench, older than the rain. And yet. I’m not older than the rain. It’s been falling for years and after I go it will keep on falling.
I read the letter again. I think you know who I am, it said. But I didn’t know anyone named Leopold Gursky.
I’ve made up my mind to sit here and wait. There’s nothing more I have to do in life. My buttocks may get sore, but let that be the worst of it. If I get thirsty it wouldn’t be a crime if I got down on my knees and licked the grass. I like to imagine my feet taking root in the ground and moss growing over my hands. Maybe I’ll take my shoes off to speed the process. Wet earth between the toes, like a boy again. Leaves will grow from my fingers. Maybe a child will climb me. The little boy I watched throwing pebbles into the empty fountain, he wasn’t too old to climb trees. You could tell he had too much wisdom for his age. Probably he believed that he wasn’t made for this world. I wanted to say to him: If not you, who?
Maybe it really was from Misha. It’s the sort of thing he might do. I’d go on Saturday, and there he’d be on the bench. It’d had been two months since that afternoon in his room, with his parents yelling on the other side of the wall. I’d tell him how much I missed him.
Gursky—it sounded Russian.
Maybe it was from Misha.
But probably not.
Sometimes I thought about nothing and sometimes I thought about my life. At least I made a living. What kind of living? A living. I lived. It wasn’t easy. And yet. I found out how little is unbearable.
If it wasn’t from Misha, maybe it was from the man with glasses who worked at the Municipal Archives at 31 Chambers Street, the one who’d called me Miss Rabbit Meat. I’d never asked his name, but he knew mine, and my address, because I’d had to fill out a form. Maybe he’d found something—a file, or a certificate. Or maybe he thought I was older than fifteen.
There was a time I lived in the forest, or in the forests, plural. I ate worms. I ate bugs. I ate anything that I could put in my mouth. Sometimes I would get sick. My stomach was a mess, but I needed something to chew. I drank water from puddles. Snow. Anything I could get hold of. Sometimes I would sneak into potato cellars that the farmers had around their villages. They were a good hiding place because they were a little warmer in the winter. But there were rodents there. To say that I ate raw rats—yes I did. Apparently, I wanted to li
ve very badly. And there was only one reason: her.
The truth is that she told me she couldn’t love me. When she said goodbye, she was saying goodbye forever.
And yet.
I made myself forget. I don’t know why. I keep asking myself. But I did.
Or maybe it was from the old Jewish man who worked at the City Clerk’s Office at 1 Centre Street. He looked like he could be a Leopold Gursky. Maybe he knew something about Alma Moritz, or Isaac, or The History of Love.
I remember the first time I realized I could make myself see something that wasn’t there. I was ten years old, walking home from school. Some boys from my class ran by shouting and laughing. I wanted to be like them. And yet. I didn’t know how. I’d always felt different from the others, and the difference hurt. And then I turned the corner and saw it. A huge elephant, standing alone in the square. I knew I was imagining it. And yet. I wanted to believe.
So I tried.
And I found I could.
Or maybe the letter was from the doorman at 450 East 52nd Street. Maybe he’d asked Isaac about The History of Love. Maybe Isaac had asked him my name. Maybe before he died he’d figured out who I was, and had given the doorman something to give to me.
After that day when I saw the elephant, I let myself see more and believe more. It was a game I played with myself. When I told Alma the things I saw she would laugh and tell me she loved my imagination. For her I changed pebbles into diamonds, shoes into mirrors, I changed glass into water, I gave her wings and pulled birds from her ears and in her pockets she found the feathers, I asked a pear to become a pineapple, a pineapple to become a lightbulb, a lightbulb to become the moon, and the moon to become a coin I flipped for her love, both sides were heads: I knew I couldn’t lose.
The History of Love Page 22