by Nick Totem
“I don’t know, but for sure we won’t starve.”
“Speaking of Iraq, I’ve been curious since you told me about being on patrol; remember when we first met. Were you afraid?” The abrupt change of topic accompanied an animal luster in her eyes he had seen only once before.
“Of course.”
“Did you shoot a gun?”
He bit his lips and trained his eyes on her, and seeing her expectant expression he said, “Yes.”
“What? Really? Tell me more,” she said with all seriousness.
“Nothing much to tell . . . Why are you so eager to know?”
“I don’t know. I’m curious. Just in case the hooligan comes back, you can protect us. Right?”
He didn’t say anything, not quite buying her motives.
She asked. “Did it bother you much, afterward, coming back from Iraq? I mean psychologically. You know there is killing and dying going on all the time in this world.”
“Of course.”
“It’s often said that those who kill themselves suffer before, those who kill others suffer after.”
“I guess so. But no more of this morbid talk. We’re supposed to be celebrating the good news, how did we get into this killing talk? I’m thirsty. Let’s go out for a drink and celebrate.”
Later as they were waiting for the elevator, Thomas said, “It’s strange to tell you all my private thoughts, like we’re so intimate.”
“But we are,” she retorted coolly. “It’s the best kind of intimacy. You’re so much like Cristiano, you know that? I know it’s weird to compare you with my ex, but I meant it as a compliment.”
Thomas didn’t mind the comparison at all.
35
As the big day neared, when Lana was to have the bilateral mastectomies, the surgery to remove both breasts, Thomas came to the apartment every day to prepare her as well as he could. The pre-op, the post-op, the steps of the surgery, the risks—he discussed these with her and repeated what he had been told by Robert Chen. Still, an anxious tension pervaded the little apartment so thick that he could almost stir it with his very hand.
On the night before the surgery, Lana suddenly said, “Thomas, I want to hear the symphony.”
“What symphony?” He feigned ignorance.
“Cristiano’s symphony, of course,” she answered with a most natural tone. “It’s on YouTube.”
“Are you sure?” He chuckled to himself, realizing that he could almost remember each movement.
“Yes. I feel like I can face the surgery. I feel I can. I know it’s going to be a long slog. But I think I’ll be okay.”
“Of course, you will.” He felt it, too, as she had been all day, her catchy cheerfulness and optimism. As he opened his laptop, he continued, “What is it called? The symphony.”
“The String Symphony. Or try searching his name, Cristiano Cameos.”
“Let’s see here.” He scrolled the screen down. “Oh, yeah. This looks like it could be it.”
Lana came next to him and looked at the screen. “Oh, yes. That must be the one. I’ve never heard the symphony in its entirety.” She held onto his arm.
They sat on the bed. Though he had listened to it countless times, and each time he had found something new in it, like the work of a great composer, Thomas cleaned his glasses and watched the screen expectantly, as though the proof of Lana’s life and, by extension, the reason for his being with her were being presented.
“He dedicated the symphony to you,” Thomas said when it ended.
“It’s beautiful, Thomas. I had heard pieces of it before but the whole thing together is sublime, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, he’s very talented.”
The sadness and regret that had settled on her face as she had been watching now completely disappeared and were replaced by beaming pride.
“You know,” she said after collecting herself. “Cristiano once told me he saw himself in other people as he travelled around the world. Not just in personalities, or demeanors, but actual physical resemblances, and he was convinced that there are pieces of all of us in other people. And no matter how unique we are, any of us can be constructed from these pieces. Only a few cells separate us, the differences are in our souls.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Sometimes, I think you look just like Cristiano. Your hair, your face, your passion. Maybe because of the Cuban blood in you.”
“Really?” He found it strangely complimentary that she was comparing him to Cristiano, a genius no less.
“And what’s more? Cristiano theorized that technological progress was unavoidable. For example, the lightbulb was going to be invented regardless of whether Edison had existed, or the invention of calculus, or relativity, and it didn’t matter if Newton or Einstein had existed. Someone else would have made the discovery,” she said breathlessly. “In fact he was convinced that only through creation and art can human beings approach God. Even the scientists and the mathematicians, when they’re at their best, their works become a sort of art.”
“That’s an interesting theory, but what about people like me? Did he have a theory about average people who have no talent for art or creation,” he said lightly, almost facetiously. “Lana, I’m just an average man.”
“We can live . . . bravely.” Her eyes brightened, as if she was transmitting her thoughts to him.
“Let’s get some rest now. We have to wake up early and be at the hospital by six,” he said, seeing in the strain on her face.
“Thank you, Thomas. I can never thank you enough.”
She lay down, her eyes closed and arms folded. They turned down the lights, but Thomas was still very alert, and so he sat by the window, scanning the street, wondering if Chau the Dog was hiding somewhere. The hours went by, and soon the street was nothing more than a desolation of pavement and asphalt and darkened shop windows. The occasional headlights sped by, ironing out some wispy folds of the night that he could almost see. The city’s old soul waking up—right on time as midnight struck—he mused. All was still on the street under a moonless sky. He merely sensed it, the old soul, that it and his soul were in sync, entangling beyond the empirical. He turned toward Lana and listened to her breathing. A gentle murmur, so familiar to him now, sounded and shortly faded. What Lana had said about Cristiano’s belief in the similarity of human beings seemed to him very true; people are more alike than they care to admit, he mused. And he was happy that she had said on several occasions how he and Cristiano looked alike. Suddenly, another murmur reached him, but this time it was punctuated heavily in the end of her breath. He listened intently. A sigh came and was followed instantly by a moan. He went to her.
“Lana, what’s wrong?”
“Ahhh. I can’t sleep,” she cried out.
“Do you want a sleeping pill? You can take it with a sip of water.”
“I can’t sleep. Maybe we can take a little walk.”
“I don’t think it’s such a good idea.”
“It’s perfectly safe around here. You’ll be with me. Just a little walk in the front of the building. I’m so restless. I’m so worried about the surgery.”
“Let me give you a sleeping pill. It’s not a good idea to be out on the street.”
“I want to go outside for some fresh air. It’s so claustrophobic here. I want to see the city. Maybe it’s my last chance. I may die tomorrow.”
“Don’t say stuff like that. I guarantee you won’t die in surgery. Knock on wood.”
“Please.”
“All right.” He had to suppress a fear of Chau the Dog, waiting on the street. “Five minutes.”
“Thank you, darling.”
They turned on the lights and got dressed. Even at this hour, Lana was stylish as ever—turquoise trousers, a white flowing blouse, and flats for walking. She carelessly stripped off her pajamas to get dressed and he had to turn his eyes away. As they exited, she beamed with excitement.
“It’s so strange, Thomas. I
feel so excited just taking a walk at this hour,” she said as they waited for the elevator, listening to the creaking of metal gears.
“Just five minutes,” he grumbled. He dreaded the street at this hour just because of her. What could he do if the Dog was lurking out there?
Out in the street, the air, cool with a hint of mist, was descending, and it was indeed refreshing. A couple of cars sped by. Thomas jammed the front door to keep it open just in case they had to make quick dash back inside. They strolled left. His car was parked in that direction. It was quite bright under the streetlights, and they passed another couple who were talking and laughing.
“You see. It’s perfectly safe. Don’t scold me, but I took walks like this couple of times by myself when I couldn’t sleep.” She held his arm and clung to him.
“You’re a brave one.”
She laughed. “I’m not afraid of tomorrow. I think I’ll come through okay. I’m hopeful.”
“Of course, you will.”
That old, familiar thrilling happiness rose in him, its power overwhelming him. In the midnight street, he wanted to take her and kiss her as she had once done to him.
She started to hum a tune. “I feel like I can do anything,” she said in between loud humming.
“That’s good.”
“Hello Mister, pleased to meet ya. I wanna hold ya. Gonna take ya for a ride on the big jet plane,” she began to sing and took little dancing steps, her arms flinging high. Then, she danced fully now. She turned around, smiling and bobbing her head, and pointed at him. “You smell like daisy, you drive me crazy. Hey, hey, hey . . . Be my lover . . . Can I take ya, take ya higher? Gonna take ya for a ride on the big jet plane . . .”
The serene midnight street, the words of the song so childlike and quaintly sweet, her carefree playfulness, her eyes shining and beckoning him—a delirious happiness washed over him. A car was driving by in the street.
Lana suddenly stopped with a startled look, and said, “Let’s go back inside.”
But Thomas didn’t quite hear her; he was being lifted high now. No more restraint, no more holding back, he told himself, I’m going to kiss you, damn it all. He reached out for her hand. I know you’re vulnerable, but I’ll love you, Goddamn it, I’m going to kiss you anyway.
Boom, boom, boom. Three shots exploded, piercing the night. He jerked toward the street. Behind him came the sound of glass shattering. A black truck, a driver with a baseball cap, sped away. He turned back to her, and his arm stretched out, trying to catch her as she fell.
“Lana . . .”
They both fell to ground. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?” he cried out. He reached for his glasses, which had fallen a couple of feet away.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not hurt?” His hands checked her body, not believing what he heard.
“No. I’m fine.”
Lana’s eyes had a strange concentration.
“Get up,” he commanded. He jumped up and picked her up, and with her arm in his grip, they ran to the safety of the building.
In the elevator, the shock gelled them in place, each speechless. That they could have been killed—no, Lana could have been killed—left Thomas stunned. What had he done? Had Chau the Dog fired warning shots as Thomas had done, a tit for tat, or had he meant to kill Thomas but missed? Even if they had been warning shots, a stray bullet could change everything. He looked at Lana now to confirm once more that she was still alive, but he had to squint his unbelieving eyes, trying to understand her expression. Her face was . . . almost joyous. And she began to laugh, uproariously, from the depth of her lungs.
“Hah,” he uttered unconsciously.
She laughed on, covering her mouth, bending over. He couldn’t do anything but stare.
“Son of a bitch could have killed us,” she said in between laughs, straightening up. “We could have been killed, Thomas. That was the Dog.”
“Yeah,” he gasped.
She went up to him and gripped his shirt. “Do you know what this means?”
Her lips were on his before he could say a word. She kissed him, deeply, almost biting him, and her fingers laced through his hair, drawing him in. She laughed again when she let him go. From the elevator, he looked on as she ran to the apartment, laughing deliriously, and he knew exactly what she had meant to say. He had felt the same thing in Iraq.
36
The police were called. A report was made. By the time the police left, it was nearly four in the morning.
“Do you want to sleep a couple of hours? We have to be by the hospital by six thirty.” Thomas eyed her wearily.
“No, I’m fine. I think I’ll catch the sunrise,” she said somberly. “Come. Let’s sit here and wait for dawn.”
“Do you want to reschedule the surgery? They would understand after what happened.” He tried to see if she was still in shock.
“Absolutely not,” came the reply. “Though I wish I could drink something.”
“No. Nothing by mouth.”
He sat down next to her, almost grudgingly. She leaned over and put her head on his shoulder. “What a night, Thomas,” she murmured. “What a night to be alive.”
When the time came to go to the hospital, Lana was all serenity and tranquility. There was none of the fright that she had displayed with biopsy, though this surgery was much more extensive.
“I’ll be right here when you come out.”
“I’m ready to go now,” she said to the nurse.
Her profile disappearing around the corner left him wistfully anxious, trying to hold firmly onto a future when she would come out of surgery without complications. Though he was fairly certain of a set course of events, the what-if made him nervous as he left the hospital.
Thomas went home and forced himself to sleep. Under the watchful eyes of the woman in the painting, he fell asleep on the couch almost instantly. The sleep was deep and extinguishing, the type of sleep that was more like falling into unconsciousness, passing through dreamy scenes, one after another, happiness alternating with nightmares. In his dream, Cristiano came to him, and he seemed to recognize the face instantly; he was astounded by the similarities between them—the wavy hair, the strong chin, the brooding eyes. And they moved around one another, talking, even dancing to Cristiano’s music, twirling so fast as though they were becoming one.
The surgery was a success. For two days in the hospital, Thomas sat bedside for as long as he was allowed to and left the room only when the nurse was changing Lana’s dressing. He brought books and read to her. They talked of pop culture, of the politics, of current events, and other frivolous subjects. He also observed her closely for the emotional breakdown, the irrepressible self-pitying that often accompanied something tragic, but saw none.
On the third day, he brought her back to her apartment. He had tidied up and placed a dozen roses on the dinner table, whose fragrance diffused pleasantly throughout the apartment. He helped her into bed, and she immediately closed her eyes and fell asleep, having taken a Norco before leaving the hospital. Remembering the last surgery when he had read to her, he approached the bookshelf to get the same Proust volume, to continue where he had left off. The book fell open to the same folded page where there were long strings of numbers on the margin that he had seen before, but now an envelope, addressed to him, was also wedged there. Inside was a letter, hand-written with beautiful cursive writing. As though he was spying on her, he jerked back to look at her; she was lying still, eyes closed, breaths even. Bringing the letter up close and adjusting his glasses, he read:
My Dearest Thomas,
If you receive this letter, it means that I’ve died in surgery. You’ve reassured me time and again that the surgery is safe, but unfortunate things do happen in life. This is my way of saying goodbye to you and to thank you. You have given me much and shown me things that I would never get to experience otherwise. I hope, in my own way, I have shown you the same.
Needless to say, our time together has
been short, but we’ve had moments of tenderness. Had I lived, I was planning to break off with Lloyd. I know, it sounds incredible and the temptation to go back to him is great. He’s always there, his money always there.
If I were to live, I planned to put my guilt about Cristiano not into the past to be forgotten but in its own place so that we can go on with our lives. Perhaps happily.
Yours Always,
Lana.
In his hand, Thomas held his greatest joy but also his greatest fear, the latter destroying the former. A doubt jolted him. He read the letter again but this time saw nothing joyful in it, and the message seemed clear enough, that if Lana were to survive her surgery, then she would go back to Lloyd. Money wins, money always wins, stop kidding yourself—the thought came to him. She had run back to Lloyd in San Francisco, and she would run back to him again.
For the rest of the day, Thomas’s face wore a pensive, sulky look, but Lana, her mind adled by Norco, didn’t seem to notice. Finally it was time to change her dressing.
“You know,” he said, trying to be unaffected by what he had read, as he put on gloves. “Doctors use gloves to protect the patients more than themselves.”
“Is that so?” She sat up.
He counted the items—the gauze, bandages, antibiotic ointment, and tapes laid out over the table—and began to unbutton her shirt. He grimaced.
“I haven’t seen what it looks like.” She looked at him. “I closed my eyes each time the nurse changed the dressing.”
“Really. Actually that’s a good idea. Close your eyes until you’re ready to see.”
“I am now.”
He took off her shirt and began to roll the elastic bandage off her, and then the gauze came off. Thomas had seen much—the dying, the bleeding, the wounded, the maimed and disfigured—but the two wounds across her chest were imbued with a strange tragedy. They were still swollen, and the stitches holding the edges of skin together fought against the turgidity threatening to rupture. He licked his lips and swallowed.