A Touch of Passion (boxed set romance bundle)

by Uvi Poznansky

  “That,” I said, “was my second guess.”

  “She’s sitting there idly,” he said, pointing farther ahead, across the intersection. “There in the driveway, see? And she’s doing nothing but trying to tempt me morning, noon, and night to take her out for a spin, which is the first thing I’ll do as soon as I get my driving license.”

  “What’s stopping you?”

  “I keep failing the damn test.”

  We turned the corner and there she was, looking quite substantial in her wide, matronly body, radiating heat in the mid-morning sun. She was graced by the ample roundness of the front and rear fenders, which were shaped as puffed-out cheeks. The grille was a three-part affair with a tall center that nosed its way down in-between twin nostrils, low down on the fenders. I imagined that she knew I was coming for her.

  As I turned the key in the ignition I saw Uncle Shmeel in the rear view mirror, taking the clarinet out of its case and putting it to his lips. Then, growing smaller and smaller as I drove away to Natasha, he could still be heard across the distance, blowing a tune for me. One note after another rose trembling in the air, awakening a mood, a joy turned into something inexplicable, into sadness, over which I murmured, “I don't need a song to prove that I'm in such a lowdown groove.”

  Memory is a Liar

  Chapter 8

  The last stretch of road, as I drove over the hilltop and turned downhill, was steep. Then, her house came into view. I recognized it from a photograph she had sent me. And yet, it looked somewhat different, less glamorous than I had expected. Unlike other houses in the neighborhood, it seemed to suffer from neglect. The roof seemed to be in dire need of repair, as did the wooden fence in front.

  I had never driven this car before, and rarely have I driven any other car, except for the Jeep at the camp. So it took some effort to slow it down. Meanwhile I noticed there was someone at her doorstep: a milkman. Having delivered fresh milk in a set of glass bottles, he straightened up and looked at me in sheer astonishment. This, I figured, was not because of knowing that the car belonged to Uncle Shmeel and not because of knowing that it was a gift from old Pearl, who was incredibly generous to him—I mean to Uncle Shmeel, not to the milkman—on account of waiting for his long-overdue marriage proposal.

  This astonishment was not even because the 1941 Ford Super Deluxe Convertible was known to have such a fine class distinction—but simply because it trumpeted like a disreputable, vulgar boor. The noise was such an embarrassment! Passing wind to mitigate the flatulent effect of beans would have sounded heavenly, by comparison. What was I doing wrong?

  And another thing: What if I could find nothing to say to Natasha? After all, the last time I had met her was last year. When was that? October? November?

  Since then we had exchanged quite a number of letters, but now, with the paper between us removed, there was something utterly frightening in having to face her and—even worse—to talk.

  Oh, I could not forgive myself for neglecting to think of some topic, some lines to recite, should the conversation suddenly run dry.

  Just my luck! It was too late to prepare myself now, because two things happened at once: first, I spotted the slender outline of a girl up there in the window, combing her long, red hair. And second, the front door opened, letting out her Mama.

  Somehow I managed to bring the car to a stop. She took one look at me and with menace in her eyes, set her hands on her hips.

  I fumbled to pull up the brakes. “Hello,” I said.

  And she muttered, “Not you again.”

  The woman was wearing a square-shouldered jacket, in the style that became popular recently, which also featured narrow hips and skirts that ended just below the knee. With so many men leaving for military service, magazines and pattern companies advised women on how to remake their suits into smart outfits. The alteration idea must have appealed to Mrs. Horowitz, because her husband, the famous conductor Benjamin Horowitz, had passed away only a few months ago, and the cloth would otherwise sit unused. Looking rather substantial in it, she plodded heavily forward, overtaking the milkman and heading in my direction.

  I turned off the ignition and leapt dashingly out of the open-air convertible, which was the moment her expression changed. I could tell, by the way her jaw fell open, that the impression I made—or rather, the impression the vehicle made—was the best I could possibly hope for.

  “Mrs. Horowitz,” I said. “How are you this fine morning?”

  To which she said, “It’s already noon.”

  I went around the car to the passenger side and from there, took out the bouquet I had bought earlier. Red roses.

  Opposite me Mrs. Horowitz leaned over the driver-side door, perhaps to examine the plush leather interior. It was then, in the face of her curiosity, that a question suddenly occurred to me. I asked myself, did I—or did I not—turn the front wheels towards the curb, to make sure the car won’t roll?

  And before I could make up my mind either way, I heard a low rumble as something gave way. The brakes must have become disengaged, which sent the car rolling downhill, letting a single red petal fly out of the passenger seat and swirl into the air.

  I took a step back. So did Mrs. Horowitz.

  She gasped. So did I.

  Stumped by not knowing what to do with the bouquet I was holding, I shoved it into her arms.

  “For Natasha,” I said, and took off running after the car.

  Luckily there was no traffic at the moment. The convertible sailed without incident along the middle of the road until reaching a horse-drawn wagon, at which point I braced myself for a crash. But the horse saw it coming and moved sideways, clearing the way. Had it been a car instead of an animal the story would have ended quite differently.

  Now I thanked God that the only noise I could hear was not that of a collision but rather the huffing and puffing of the milkman who, having chased me chasing the car, arrived at his wagon and steadied it to stop the glass bottles from rattling inside.

  I never imagined I could gain enough speed to overtake a runaway car. Somehow, I caught its door and held it with all my might, and felt it slowing, slowing, slowing straight into a ditch.

  And now, standing there by its side, I had all the time in the world to catch my breath, and to agonize over the multitude of questions that started racing through my mind. Is the car broken? Should I try to drive it out of where it was stuck? And what should I tell Uncle Shmeel? How can I make it up to him?

  Also, should I turn back to Natasha’s house, even though her Mama was sure to point out the door? I was tempted to go there, especially because this time I had no need to prepare a topic of conversation, no need to sound smart, for one reason: the way I made my entrance into the neighborhood was all everyone would be eager to talk about, even Natasha.

  It was then that I heard something, the whoosh of roller skates coming down the road in my direction. And as I turned, the incredible happened. Gliding with grace, there she was, coming at me with her hair glowing red, blowing backwards in the wind. Before either one of us knew what was happening Natasha ended up tripping on a loose stone, flying straight into my arms.

  That moment I sensed the same rhythm, the same beat pounding in her chest and mine, which convinced me of one thing: despite messing up a 1941 Ford Super Deluxe Convertible, or maybe because of it, I was—without a doubt—the luckiest man alive!

  But unfortunately, as moments often go, this one did not last. By instinct I drew closer and touched my lips to her forehead, taking in the fragrance of her hair, which must have been a mistake, I mean, not the fragrance but the thought of a kiss. Natasha pulled herself back from me, perhaps embarrassed because of the sudden, unintended touch.

  With delicate, almost transparent fingers she straightened her skirt and smoothed an unruly curl that slinked down the left side of her face. She tucked it carefully behind her ear, slowly composing herself.

  Then, catching her breath, “Now you’ve really done it,” she
said.

  And I asked, “Done what?”

  She answered by asking, “Didn’t you read what I wrote to you?”

  “What?”

  “I said, you must make a good impression on Mama, must behave yourself this time, because she remembers you, and she does so not exactly in a good way, if you know what I mean, and to make matters worse she’s suspicious of all men in uniform, because according to her they’re here one day and gone the next.”

  I shrugged, and Natasha went on. “She says that nothing of value can come out of spending my time with any of them, because I’m too naive, and should avoid those good-for-nothing bums, because all they want is to take advantage of me.”

  “Sorry,” said I. “I never got that letter.”

  “Would it have made any difference if you did?”

  “Probably not.”

  “From now on, because of you, Mama’s going to give me an earful, much more than she already does, each and every time I happen to bring up your name.”

  “Really? Like what?”

  “She’s going to repeat, over and over, ‘He’s not for you and I told you so,’ until she’s blue in the face.”

  “In that case you’re going to have no choice but to fall in love with me,” I said.

  To which she said, “What?”

  And I said, “With this much force, she’s practically pushing you into my arms, isn’t she?”

  “I don’t wish to rebel against her,” said Natasha, under her breath. “But yes, she makes me so angry inside, she does.”

  “I should really thank her for it.”

  “Why?”

  “If not for her I would be slow to sense this heat in you.”

  She blushed and fell silent for a long time.

  Meanwhile I made myself busy looking at the front of the car. It was scratched, even dented in one place, but the front wheels sat on a firm surface, which suggested to me that with the right moves I could drive it, somehow, out of the ditch. I hopped into the driver’s seat and steered the car gently till it climbed into the side of the road.

  Watching me she said, a bit shyly, “You look different than I remember you.”

  “So do you.”

  “Really?” she said, her eyes glinting with curiosity. “How so?”

  I held myself back from telling her that the first time, several months ago, she had looked like a kid, but not so anymore. Now her arms were no longer scrawny, nor did her legs look like pencils. She was still thin, but in a much more shapely way. Somehow I could sense the fullness of her breast, heaving rapidly under the pink blouse.

  “Oh,” I said, as I leaned over to open the passenger-side door for her. “There is a change in you, a subtle change, which I find hard to define even for myself. Perhaps I’m imagining it, who knows. Memory can play tricks on you.”

  “It sure does,” she said. “Memory is such a liar.”

  I laid my arm behind her, hoping she would lean her head against my shoulder. She did.

  Then, as I started turning the vehicle to drive her back home, I heard her saying, mostly to herself, “But then, when you lose it, you lose your grip on reality. I’ve seen it happen. Long ago Papa used to teach me various memorization techniques, even for the most complex, most challenging piano music, but then, in his last days, he didn’t even remember my name. He didn’t know who I was. I’ll never forget it.”

  Tears sparkled in her eyes. To spare her feelings I pretended not to hear.

  In a blink she turned to me. “You won’t understand what I’m going to say, because you weren’t here to see, to witness what Mama and I went through during his illness.”

  “Try me.”

  “No,” she said. “There’s too much agony, even now.”

  “Let me hear it.”

  “Memory is a liar,” she said, once again, “but even if it’s not telling the truth I must hold on to it.”

  And a minute later she added, “I mustn’t lose it or I’ll lose myself.”

  It was a strange thing to say, especially on a first date.

  “What happened to your Pa,” I said, “will never happen to you.”

  “Is that a promise?” she asked.

  I replied with a smile, finding myself dumbfounded not only by her question but also by the contradictions in her, the frequent change of mood, the stark contrast between her bright appearance and the dark soul that lived in her. It must have given depth to the way she played music, as it allowed her to soar with happiness and plunge into despair.

  She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. I wanted to hug her, to protect her, even from herself. But a little voice in me, sounding a lot like my father, whispered that I should get far away from her as fast as I could, because being so complex, she’s bound to be trouble. I should find me a simpler girl, one with no worries in the world.

  Natasha was right. I could not understand her. Instead I looked away. Then, in a flash, I had an odd premonition. I saw her in my mind, years later, fighting to hold on to the memory of her Papa, of her grief for him, and of this very moment, and little by little losing the battle.

  And now, talking to herself again, she said, “He didn’t remember my name. Thinking of how brilliant he used to be I felt such pain. I still do. I can only hope never to forget it.”

  Bei Mir Bistu Shein

  Chapter 9

  The girl opened the door and called out, “Mama?”

  We heard the clap, clap, clap sound of slippers as Mrs. Horowitz came down the stairs. Having removed her square-shouldered jacket, the woman looked rumpled. Her brown shirt hung limply over a hunched back, and the front was equally ill tailored. It drew attention to the way her breasts dangled down, which reminded me of rumpled balloons with the air gone out of them, bouncing against each other as they hover in midair the day after a party is over.

  Mrs. Horowitz stomped over and looked me in the eye. I thought she would say something about the car rolling downhill, or ask if it got damaged, but all she said instead was, “You again?”

  I said not a thing and smiled at her as charmingly as I knew how, which must have done something to disarm her, at least for a moment. She let me in and asked Natasha to make coffee for our dear guest and a cup of tea for her, and on second thought no, not tea but hot, boiling hot water with a heaping teaspoon of honey, and on second thought no, just half a teaspoon, and not to forget, a squeeze of lemon, too.

  I took a step over the threshold. The living room was huge, and the furniture—highly decorative, giving you the impression that you were transported, somehow, around the other side of the world and back in time, to a palace built in the second half of the eighteenth century in Russia. Every piece was gilded in a variety of hues: red-gold, green-gold, even silver. Here and there, some of the gold leaf was damaged, but that did not detract from the richness of the decor.

  I was especially overwhelmed by the eclectic combinations of ornamental motifs. There were carved garlands of flowers and foliage, rosettes, shells, urns, harps, even sphinxes.

  And yet there was something about the place that made it look not only in disrepair but also about to be deserted.

  It felt—oh, how would I put it in words?—as if it didn’t belong to this family anymore, as if they had stopped caring for it, for some reason. The floor was covered with dust. The iron chandelier hanging above the staircase had half of its light bulbs missing.

  Opposite me a large window brought in a strange, hazy sight: the modern skyline of Manhatten, which looked utterly out of place here. The old curtains that framed it were badly frayed at the hem. The only thing in the room that looked intact was the piano, in which you could see a mirrored, upside-down view of faraway skyscrapers. They seemed to be plunging down into the polished, black surface.

  Over the mantle hung three formal family pictures. When Natasha came back from the kitchen I asked her about them.

  At once, her Mama cut in. “My daughter comes from a long line of musicians,” she said, in her heavy
Russian accent.

  “Mama,” said the girl. “I can speak for myself.”

  I pointed at the first picture. “Who’s this?”

  “This,” said Natasha, “Is my great grandfather, the famous Abraham Horowitz, who graduated from the Kiev Conservatory at the turn of the century. He rose to stardom rapidly and toured from Moscow to Rostov-on-the-Don, where he was often paid with bread, butter and chocolate, rather than money, because these were tough times.”

  “And this?”

  “This is Joseph Horowitz, my grandfather. He aspired to become a violin player, but his hand was damaged for life, when the riffraff attacked him during a pogrom in Odessa. So instead he became a music teacher. Later, he developed a method, a unique method to memorize long passages of music, by practicing the notes back to front.”

  “And this,” she said, reaching up to touch the third picture, “this is my Papa, Benjamin Horowitz. When he came to the states he became a conductor. Meanwhile he took that method one step further. Instead of the traditional way of playing through the passage repeatedly, you would commit it to memory, or rather to your subconscious mind, by means of performing it every night before falling asleep—without holding the instrument in your hands.”

  “A spendthrift, that’s what he was,” Mrs. Horowitz blurted out all of a sudden.

  “Now, Mama, don’t start!” said the girl.

  “Who’s starting?” the older woman threw her hands in the air. “I’m already in the middle of talking!”

  “Then please, please stop—”

  “What, I’m not allowed to tell the truth? The only inheritance your Pa left us is a dream, the dream of you becoming famous one day, and oh yes, how could I forget, also a bunch of heavy loans on the house, without any means of paying them off.”

  “Why complain so much, Mama? It was fun for you, wasn’t it, while it lasted—”

  “Which wasn’t too long, the way he gambled away his money! By the time his illness started, we were already hopelessly in debt.”