Your breath is warm but the lips are trembling
Let me wake you, are your eyes agleam?
I’m whispering your name, can’t you hear my heart racing?
I reach out to touch your smile
Here it comes, so sweet in the morning light
Let’s wait, let us wait awhile
Let us cling together till the night
Hold me holding you
Burning, burning
Someone’s crying
Someone’s crying
Someone’s crying
And I think it’s me
At last, when all is quiet, she opens her eyes, turning her attention to something else: shoes. There are dozens of them, most with high heels, all strewn carelessly across the floor, remnants of times gone by.
“Don’t,” I say, hating myself for having to control her. “You can't wear these anymore.”
And she asks, “Why?”
I hesitate to tell her that nowadays she cannot walk in them without losing her balance. With a stubborn glint in her eye, she puts on a pair of stilettos and holds her breath, just standing there like a child, afraid to move.
“Here,” say I, rising from the bed to set a pair of flats before her, so she can step into them. “They look like ballet flats, don’t they? With these, you’ll be able to move about. Want to dance, Natasha?”
“I do,” she whispers. “I so do.”
Getting her ready for her procedure today is not going to be easy, I can tell. Patience is not enough. I guide her hand into the sleeve, the way she used to do for Ben when he was five-years old. Then I turn her around to make sure her blouse is properly tucked into the skirt. I hold her close, but in other ways I must distance myself from her. I must not let her sense my anxiety or guess any of my concerns.
Behind her I catch sight of my face. It is reflected in the kitchen window and to my relief it seems like a mask. It is utterly blank when I ask myself, how will she react when they place the heavy lead apron over her body? When they aim the machine at her head? Is there a risk of radiation? Isn’t the brain protected by the skull for a reason, so it keeps its secrets?
Should I allow her to be searched this way, revealed, violated? What will be exposed as the X-rays travel through the gray matter, as the lobes are outlined, the flesh mapped onto film for all to see, and the spirit—damaged as it may be—is captured there, in all shades of white and black?
By the time Natasha is ready it is nearly noon. I prepare a couple of sandwiches for later, and then, the last thing I do—despite knowing it may cause us to be late—is something I have not done in a long while, but I tell myself that at this point, she may need it. I sure do.
So I mix a drink for both of us, and not just any old drink: it is the one Natasha loves, the one that used to remind her to loosen up around me and be ready for some excitement. And it is the one that makes me feel naughty. Even after all these years of knowing her I still feel as if I were just about to corrupt the innocent.
There is a slight tremor in my hands, which I must overcome, for her sake and mine. Oh, let me live in the moment! Let everything else fade away. Let all my worries disappear—until later, until I can no longer avoid surrendering to them. This, right here, is our old ritual, and it has never failed us before. This instant is for us.
From the kitchen cupboard I take out a small saucer, which I fill with coarse salt, and two highball glasses. I slice a wedge of lime and place it into her fingers, expecting her to do her part, which is to moisten the rim. But when Natasha glances at me, a bit startled, I cup her fingers in mine and somehow, we do it together.
Then I dab the moist rim into the salt while carefully turning the glass, so that only the outer edge of it is covered with little crystals. She chuckles as I shake off the excess ones.
“What’s so funny?” I ask, as I squeeze fresh grapefruit juice and pour it into the two salt-rimmed glasses.
She shrugs, which I take to mean, oh, I don’t know. Nothing.
I finish off the cocktail with just a little splash of gin. Even a hint of it would make her tipsy.
“Ready?” I ask her.
From her seat she looks up at me, as if to ask, what do you mean, ready? For what?
“For your Salty Dog, what else,” I say, almost expecting her to recall the name of this concoction, almost surprised that she doesn’t. Once again my hand trembles. I do my best to control it, while setting the filled glass on the table before her.
“Salty Dog?” She echoes, licking the rim of her glass, rotating it so as to sip all the way around it, aiming to get all the grains of crunchy, crushed salt, flavored by the citrusy liquid.
I lean over, craving to be hugged—but she does not respond, and the only thing that wraps around me is loneliness.
There is something so endearing about her, about the way she rolls the tangy little crystals around her tongue, losing herself in the bittersweet taste. How can I forget? Natasha used to blush doing this. Having achieved the precise, unforgiving discipline of a concert pianist, she used to judge herself, harshly so. Not now, not anymore.
At least, there is something good—or so I would like to believe—in the change she is undergoing. Natasha seems to be retreating into an odd state of innocence. Other women her age may complain that time steals away their youth, but for her it snatches her back into it, taking her farther and farther away from me. Slowly, irrevocably, she is becoming a child, leaving me here by myself, distant, forgotten.
Between the two of us, I am the one who must remain the adult. I know I am supposed to be strong for her, but who, just who is supposed to be strong for me now?
Glancing at my watch, “Time to go,” I tell her.
Natasha shakes her head, no.
Funny, isn’t it? Ever since she gave birth to a stillborn—oh, when was that? Ten years ago, I think—ever since I had to take care of Ben, our son, because she was too distraught to do it, ever since then I have longed to mend what was broken and somehow, bring back the dead. I wanted to have one more child, and now, now I do—a defiant one at that.
“I won’t go,” she says. “And you can’t make me!”
In place of arguing I ask, “Want to dance?”
She beams broadly, which tells me that this must be the best way to overcome her resistance, her refusal to go out of here. I raise her to her feet, but not before setting my glass in the sink, having taken a hasty sip, which must have been a mistake: as I twirl her, ever so gently, out of the kitchen and around the tiny entrance hall, heading out of the door and into the staircase leading down to the street, that’s when at last, it hits me: that taste, the taste of salt, the way it opens up old wounds, forbidden memories.
Still I go through the motions, leading her down the street to the bus station, holding her hand.
“Where are you taking me?” she asks. And before I can think of an answer she says, gleefully, “Oh, I know! To the beach?”
Passersby may notice how I shake my head. Who cares. I’m so angry, angry with myself. I know I should have been more careful. I should have known what this sensation, this acrid, salty sting running down my throat might do to me. In a flash it sends me years back, straight into the surf, the high waves rising with menace, opening their frothy, drooling mouth, snapping at the sides of the landing craft, roaring wildly upon it—
❋
Right from the onset of the attack I felt awkwardly out of place. The purpose of the Marine Corps is storming the land from the sea. And yet they were held back from the Normandy invasion, perhaps because the Army had more men, or else because of some rivalry between them, some calculation of a future claim to fame. So as a marine I was not even supposed to join this Army infantry unit on its mission, but as luck would have it there I was, the wrong man at the wrong time.
Sitting ahead of me in the boat were silent figures, one military helmet after another. Each steel shell was covered with a net to reduce its shine, especially when wet, and to allow vegetatio
n to be added for the purpose of camouflage.
I sensed the tensing of my muscles, the fear—unspoken but present—in all of us, dreading the unknown. We kept our eyes open, straining for a view of the target, afraid that it may go unnoticed, that the shoreline may disappear in the mist, and nothing will remain but the icy, sharp stabbing of this spray, the bitterness of it.
“The weather is far from ideal,” said one.
And another said, “Perhaps so. But postponing the attack is not going to happen.”
“Why not?”
“Because. It would mean a delay of at least two weeks.”
“Why?”
“Because the invasion plan, it has certain requirements—”
“Such as?”
“Such as the phase of the moon, the tides, and the time of day, which means that only a few hours in each month are deemed suitable.”
“But—”
“But what?”
“The whole thing is wrong. Even the elements are against us.”
“You’re right,” said the other. “The weather is far from ideal.”
Both of them fell silent. Doubts started crossing my mind: should we be so lucky as to reach dry land, that was where danger was lurking. In the distance, above the sound of the breakers, all seemed still. There was complete silence in the bay, which gave us no clue as to the position of the Germans. Not one shot was fired, not yet.
I remember how I expected that some of the soldiers in this boat would soon become casualties. Others must have been thinking the same thing. No one talked anymore, not a word was uttered, but you used your eyes. From time to time I would find myself casting a look sideways at a guy, thinking, which one of us is about to die? Is it you or is it me?
Then, ramps were dropped along the boat line and one after the other, we jumped into the cold water, which rose up to our chest, our shoulders. For a moment, some disappeared under the turbulent surface. Half-swimming, half-wading, and carrying our overloaded packs, we began to move slowly onto the shore, unsure if we are already in front of the Nazi strongpoint.
Where was the enemy? Perhaps over there, atop the bluff? Were they aiming their rifles and machine guns at us, biding their time for just the right second to press the trigger? Were they watching, waiting patiently for us to come closer into their sights, within a comfortable shooting distance, before letting loose?
Accidentally I stumbled and took a big gulp of water, which made me thrash about and filled my throat with a briny tang. My chest heaved, struggling for air until, somehow, I found firm ground underfoot. Carrying my pack I struggled forward through the high surf of the sea and laid my left hand firmly on the pack of the man in front of me. Upon my back I felt the hand of another man. A line was forming. All seemed so orderly, which gave the impression that we were merely carrying out a routine exercise. Forward we marched, now crossing through shallow water that hissed at us, drowning out the alarming sound of silence.
I told myself that we had been trained. We were ready.
But even at that dark, chilling hour, as we headed for the encounter, I had something beating vigorously in my heart, sustaining me. Call it the folly of youth—or else, call it hope: I trusted that I would survive, would come back to a place on the other side of the ocean, because there was Natasha, opening her arms for me, calling me home.
❋
At the bus station I look at her, surprised to discover something that I had not noticed before: a thin strand of silver running in and out through the shine, the red shine of her hair. In my eyes Natasha is beautiful, even though her figure seems more fragile than ever.
Strong is what I need her to be. What we are facing now, I’m afraid, is a different kind of battle.
Her doctor cannot be right. Can he? The only reason I’m taking her to that procedure is to rule out what he is considering, to prove him wrong. That word he used is trembling on my tongue. It is too tough for me to say, too painful to imagine. It cannot be true. I can’t let it! Any calamity will be better than that, even cancer, because that can, perhaps, be cured. Not so Alzheimer’s.
Someone’s crying, and I think it’s me.
In the distance I spot the bus. Turning to Natasha I say, softly, “Hold on to me, dear,” but I have no idea if she heard me, because a sudden gust of wind has stolen away my words.
She smiles, leans her head against my shoulder. For the duration of the touch, everything around us seems to vanish, even my worries. I gather her gently into my arms, holding her like a breath.
Instinctively Natasha nuzzles up to me.
In a heartbeat I cup her face in my hands and there we stand, both of us in awe of the moment, kissing. Her lips are both sweet and salty.
Then I whisper, “Hold me holding you.”
And in my mind I add, You must, my love! Because if this disease, which I don’t even want to name, gets hold of you, then... Then, what will remain between us? What will I do but wonder, and be ashamed of myself for wondering: which one of us is about to stop living? Is it you or is it me?
The most cherished thing you gave me, Natasha, the one I can still rescue for us, is this: our past. I should capture each moment, wrap it up—ever so carefully—in words, so our passion may continue to blossom on this page, even as we decline.
This has been the first chapter of
Dancing with Air
Volume IV of Still Life with Memories
by
Uvi Poznansky
First Chapter of My Own Voice
Volume I of Still Life with Memories
Later, when I wake up, it takes me a while to grasp where I am, and even longer to figure out that I’ve lost time, that time has passed. The last thing I remember is like, making breakfast for him—and now, somehow, it’s late afternoon.
I’m lying here on my side, with the bedside lamp shedding a dim light behind me. I can tell that his side of the bed is empty. Why am I here? How did I get here? Why am I so dazed, so confused? And where’s Lenny?
I gaze across the ceiling and along the walls, trying to pick out every shade, every hint. And there, opposite the bed I spot my wedding dress which—now I recall—I’ve hung on the coat rack, right there in the corner.
The corner of the bedroom is the only place here which I reckon is truly mine. Strange, no? I still feel that way, despite having slept here with him, on and off, for like, the past ten years. I keep telling myself that I must claim this space, claim it as mine, right away. And maybe I will one day, when the baby’s born.
I try to picture a crib here, next to me, and at once everything looks so much brighter. I hope the baby can soon feel something of what’s in my heart—but not the confusion.
Staring at that corner I know one thing, and I know it real clear, at once: this lovely dress, made of heavy satin and trimmed with lace and beading and what not, which I’ve dyed, the morning after the wedding, orange at the top and purple at the bottom, so it can still be used in the future—like, at dances and parties and stuff—this dress isn’t gonna to fit me no more.
Up to now I’ve pictured it in my head, shining awful brilliant, just like a rainbow, and swirling all around me; and with every step, billowing between my legs, and like, making me adorable, so adorable in Lenny’s eyes—but now that I touch my belly and feel the beginning, the very beginning of change, right here around my waist, what’s the point of all that.
On the floor, under the hem of the dress, I can see two pairs of shoes: one is my new, white satin shoes, which Lenny’s bought for me, like, two weeks ago, just for the wedding.
When he wants to, he can be real kind. He knows so well how to spoil a woman. He gave me a ring with a pink sapphire. I bet you it’s real! Also, a gold chain with a locket, which at the last minute—like, just before saying, I do—I decided not to wear. I wanted to look classy, and worried that it’s gonna be a bit much.
And the other pair? Now, that’s my very first pair of high heel shoes. They’re worn out, but still kinda brigh
t, and chipped only a little. To this day I’m totally crazy about the color: hot pink!
Ten years ago I spotted them up there, in a store window, and for a whole month I stared at them every day, on my way home from school, and my heart sank, knowing I didn’t have no money to buy them. I liked how the side of the strap was like, spruced up with a plastic rose, which has since fallen off. Awful cute, it was!
Then I found a job at this ice cream place, down there at the Santa Monica pier. I got my first week’s pay, and was so happy, so thrilled to rush in and buy them, because they wasn’t only pink—but glossy too, and because now I was just like an adult. Ma took one look at them and slapped me, which made me figure that now, I was gonna have no choice but to apply plenty of makeup, so that this side of my face, which was flaming red, won’t stand out all that much.
Then she slapped me again, this time on the other side, which turned out to be just as stinging—but at least, it solved the problem for me, ’cause now I found myself, like, pretty even; you know, balanced on both sides.
Ma said I looked like a bitch in them shoes—but I didn’t care, really I didn’t, because it was my sixteenth birthday and it was my own damn money, for me to do as I please, and because I had to fight her, like, tooth and nail to keep the little I had, so that she won’t take it from me, for my sake of course; and because most of all, I thought them shoes made me look just fine.
Now I can see one pink shoe standing lopsided, held up somehow in-between them white shoes; and the other pink one lying there, turned over, like some open-mouthed baby whale, trying to rise for a breath from a sea of dust.
Me, I still remember the first time I wore them, which was also the first time I met Lenny.
He was standing out there, on the other side of the pier. The lights on the Ferris Wheel had just started to come on. They was gleaming there, directly behind him.
Somehow I could spot his outline in the distance, in-between the swirly letters, which I couldn’t read, because from the inside, which was where I was standing, left was right, right was left, flipped into looking kinda foreign, which can really confuse you. But I knew them letters spelled the name of the place. They looked cool, too, like they’re gonna drip and totally melt, floating up there on the pane of glass between us.
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