[5] This note is not exactly related to the above, I just want to clarify the previous note in which I named my source as a private conversation with Andrew Bookman, but I also said earlier that people only go near him to mess with him. I want to be clear that I myself never messed with your nephew in any way, also I did not go near him at school because to be frank I did not want to get contaminated by his nerd gas. I went to Union Market on the weekend because as you must know that is where Andy goes every Saturday to run a coin swap booth with his parents.
Andy’s parents are also terrible nerds, his dad in combat boots, his mom in a red wig, both of them obsessed with antique coins. Their super nice which just makes it worse. I guess you know that though. You certainly didn’t stop by their booth while I was there.
[6] This is the sound of the Walkdog laugh as you hear it in your head. Carlton O’Neill who was abducted by Walkdog when he was nine years old and let go again for some reason when he was thirty-six described the sound for the Star Ledger. “It sounded like a kid locked up and crying or a train whistle far away.” “‘Wolf-Boy’ Found in Livingston Reservation,” The Star Ledger, August 14 2005, p. 1. Carlton O’Neill was skinny and a mess when he was found. He said he’d been to Canada and the farthest tip of Argentina. All on foot. They gave him a pen to write down who he was and when he remembered how to write his name he fainted.
Andy who was a Walkdog fanatic had this newspaper article tacked to his bulletin board. He also had Carlton O’Neill’s signature on an index card. He had actually tracked the guy down and gotten his autograph. Carlton lived with his mother in East Orange at that point. I don’t know where he is now.
[7] Indiana morning, I’m as low as I can be.
Indiana morning, I’m as low as I can be.
Went to walk my hound dog, but now he’s walking me.
This song is from the album Indiana Morning by Blueswoman Maisie Oates. I heard it at Andy’s house which is also where I read the article about Carlton O’Neill, and also I may as well say since its part of my Research that I saw and touched the “conjure mat” Andy inherited from his grandma. I am wondering if you know anything about this mat? Have you ever seen it? Its gray and hairy and about as big around as those things you put on the table under hot dishes. I said I thought it would be black and Andy said he doesn’t know why its gray, he thinks maybe since its cut off the Walkdog its lacking essential oils. That was in his room which is like Nerd Heaven, full of action figures and model planes. You can’t touch anything or Andy starts freaking out. Obviously I would not be caught dead going in the front door at Andy’s house. I went in the back. He opened a window.
[8] This is Mom’s explanation for most bad things. It is based on personal experience because my grandfather (her dad) drank himself to death. In my opinion this is the reason she married a security guard (my dad) who works at the same bank where Mom is a teller. Security is her thing. This is my parent’s week: Bank, Bank, Bank, Bank, Bank, Groceries, Church. After graduation I am going to Rutgers and my mom assumes I will major in Accounting. Accounting is a good secure choice. I want to major in Music. The only person I have told this to (besides you) is Andy Bookman. It was after we listened to “Indiana Morning.” He said I should do Music if I want, maybe I should even go to an arts school instead of Rutgers. I never thought of that, I said. I felt like such an idiot. But Andy didn’t laugh. He looked calm and thoughtful. Its hard to get started, he said. Its hard to get going by yourself. He was looking at my boots, which I’d left by the window. Snow melting off them on the floor.
[9] They cornered him down by the creek. Behind the fucking police station. I am sorry, I don’t care that I’m swearing in my paper. Why did he have to walk that way? Why couldn’t he have gone down South Orange Ave. like everyone else? Why didn’t I invite him to my house? Do you think Andy Bookman has gotten invited anywhere since seventh grade? They cornered him down by the creek. They yanked off his backpack and threw it in the water. They broke his nose. They broke three of his ribs. They stepped on his wrist and broke that too. They kicked him all over, those same two boys that I won’t repeat their names. Nice boys that everybody knows. All they got was suspended because they’re sorry. Right behind the police station. Where were the police? Where was fucking Walkdog when Andy needed him? I went to the hospital after and Andy’s father was crying in the hall.
[10] His bed was so saggy. He’d probably slept there since he was six years old. It seemed too small. He had the best smile, a perfect dimple on either side. Long eyelashes that brushed my cheek. I don’t want to ruin anything, I said, and he said what? and I said I don’t want to mess up your trip to Denmark. I was already hoping he’d cancel and stay with me because even if I had my own money my parents would never let me to go Europe with a boy, not even a boy like Andy who was so sweet, its not secure, even though there is no place more secure than Andy’s arms. He laughed and kissed me. Your not ruining anything. I love you. Model plane wings turning, shadows on the wall. Snow outside and the windows all blue. He hugged me and I just sank. There are places that once you step in, you can’t get out.
[11]To complete my Research here is the rest of the song “Indiana Morning.”
If you got a dollar, why don’t you give me half.
If you got a dollar, come on and give me half.
The stories I could tell you, they’d make a preacher laugh.
When I had a good man, the sun shone every day.
When I had that good man, the sun shone every day.
Now I need this whiskey to take the pain away.
Budworm in the cotton, beetle in the corn.
Budworm in the cotton, beetle in the corn.
Feel like I been walking since the day that I was born.
Hear that hound dog. Day that I was born.
Olimpia’s Ghost
My Dear S.,
Emil says you will not come to Freiberg this year; but Mother says you will. Who is right? We all know you hate Vienna with a passion; that is, Mother and Emil know it, and I know it through them, for Mother reads your letters aloud, and sometimes Emil, too, shares a few lines. Pray do not be angry! It is such a little thing, to hear of your successes, and it makes me very happy. And then, your sallies on your masters are so droll, and your remarks on Vienna—St. Stephen’s steeple like a “great rolled-up umbrella”—Mother can hardly read for laughing.
I am sure you will not begrudge me this diversion, my dear S. On the days when there is no letter from you, life continues just as usual. The weather has been fine. There is fruit on the peach trees. In the long twilight, while Emil reads, I go up and down, up and down the stairs.
A few days ago I did have a new amusement: a marionette theater sprang up overnight in the square, like a white mushroom. I watched the marionettes for several hours, even though a light rain was falling, and the children screamed mercilessly. I suppose you would not have liked the noise, or the look of the dirty little boy who came around afterward, hat extended to gather our coins. As I left I saw him sharing a cigar behind the theater with the puppet-master, a rough, disreputable-looking fellow, undoubtedly his father. Oh, but the marionettes were so beautiful! The little Pierrot had a spangled coat, and two great tears shone under his eyes. He wore his heart on the outside, like any fool. As for Columbine, she carried a hand mirror that reflected her lavender hair.
I looked for them today, but they are gone.
I try not to be restless. Emil dislikes what he calls my “thumping.” Tonight I will try to read. A volume by E.T.A. Hoffmann has been discovered in the library, and we think it must be yours, for it is certainly not ours. As I read, I will imagine that you are here again, seated in your chair by the window, teasing Mother as she chuckles over her knitting, and that you turn, with your hair lit up all reddish by the sunset through the window, and speak to me kindly.
Your
Gisela
My Dear S.,
I have had the most marvelous dream! And I believe I ha
ve you to thank for it—for it came directly out of the pages of Hoffmann.
I dreamt that I was entering the door of a very large eating-house, rather like a restaurant in the Prater. The door was of glass, with gilt lettering; I could not make out what it said, but I remember a large O with twisting vines. Inside everything shone: the glasses and tableware, the chandeliers, and the jewels and curled hair of the fine people at the tables. The walls were all covered with mirrors. I saw myself moving among the tables: I wore a mauve dress and, strangely enough, a powdered wig. I was not at all nervous, though the restaurant was very imposing. I went on walking, for I felt vaguely that I was supposed to be meeting someone. Then a young man caught my eye. He wore an old-fashioned frock coat and was talking earnestly to his companion, a lady in a powdered wig.
It was Hoffmann’s Nathanael! I knew him at once: his thin face, very handsome if somewhat sickly; his black eyes; the trembling of his hands. He was precisely like the hero of that bewitching story, “The Sandman,” which I had finished just before going to bed. And who do you suppose the lady was? Olimpia, of course! As I passed behind her chair, she made a wheezing mechanical sound, and then cried out “Ah! Ah!” It was she—Spalanzani’s exquisite doll, so lovely and lifelike that Nathanael fell wildly in love with her. I knew I had stumbled into the part of the story that tells of their courtship. It is difficult to describe the elation I felt upon this discovery. To be in a story! All the chandeliers seemed to blaze more brightly, and I hurried around the table to look at Olimpia’s face.
What do you think? She looked exactly like me!
Well, all but her eyes—these were quite fixed and strange, and glittered only when she nodded her head. This she did regularly, and then her eyes reflected the lights of the restaurant, creating an effect that was almost human. Poor Nathanael was smitten with her. I circled the table to look at him again, but just as he glanced at me, I woke up.
I suppose it should have been frightening—to see oneself as a doll. But it wasn’t, not in the least! I woke up feeling rested and full of life. Indeed, I feel better than I have done for weeks. Both Mother and Emil commented on my color, and said I looked very well. “The summer has reached you at last,” said Mother. You know she often calls me her “arctic chick”—a silly name, for I am not at all cold-natured. If I have been subdued lately, it is only because it makes me melancholy to think you will not come to see us.
Your
Gisela
S.:
So, you think I ought not to read Hoffmann? I am “too sensitive” for his art?
Then why could you not write to me yourself? Think how humiliating it was for me to be taken aside by Emil, like a child! He could hardly look at me; he knew himself it was wrong. “Don’t be angry,” he pleaded—as if I could help it! I felt myself growing hard and stony, absolutely petrifying with rage. When he left me, and I moved at last, raising my hand to smooth my hair, my own shadow startled me, shifting on the wall.
I have given the book to Emil. My dreams are my own.
I have been there again, you know. To the restaurant. I have walked between the smooth white tablecloths. No one seems to notice me there—except him. He sees me! Nathanael—he sees me. The first time he looked at me, he started like a hare. I was standing behind Olimpia, just at her shoulder, and Nathanael glanced at me and then down at his beloved and then up at me again, a potent horror dawning in his eyes. I realized then how disconcerting it must have been for him. Here was a second idol standing behind the first, and this one ever so much more alive than the seated one, more human, with vivid eyes aglow beneath the lights! He looked wildly at the mirrors, to find that I was also there. It was clear that no one else in the restaurant could see me. A waiter walked past me, brushing my arm. Nathanael paled; his hair went lank with sweat; I feared to see him faint.
I smiled at him, with the idea of calming his nerves. He flung his arm up before his face.
That made me hesitate. I watched him grope for his glass. He gulped the wine greedily. He was looking at Olimpia now, with a different kind of terror in his eyes. Of course, he believed her to be human. He was desperately in love, and would not wish to act like a madman in front of her. He straightened himself and smoothed his coat, and said something to her in a strange, shrill voice—a silly, drawing-room question about music.
Music: had she been studying it long?
It was—comical.
When he glanced at me again, I could not help baring my teeth. Just a little bit, to see what would happen. He shuddered and blanched more violently than before. It was as if he were a fish, and the hook had pierced his lip.
I winked at him. Very vulgar—but it was a dream! He danced at the end of the line, gasping for air. “Nathanael,” I said. Great drops stood on his brow. “Nathanael!” I repeated. He babbled of Mozart, grapes, and handkerchiefs while his clockwork darling answered, “Ah! Ah!”
Such a ridiculous scene—I woke up laughing!
But I am not laughing now. Dear S., why could you not write to me directly? I would so love a letter from you, even a scolding one! If only you would reply, I would not ask to read E.T.A. Hoffmann or anyone else. And don’t say “propriety”—you know I hate the sound of the word. We all hated it together when we were children, don’t you remember? The Hochwald, and how you flung your hat into the weeds. You said hats were never worn in paradise. Can we not go there?
Your
Gisela
Dear S.—Dear Master,
Do you remember how we used to call you that? I suppose you think me too young to remember myself; but I recall every detail of your visits here, even the first year, when you wore a penknife on a chain, and the blackberries were so plentiful. I used to trail behind when you and Emil walked to the Hochwald. You talked of Cervantes and the noble Castilian tongue; you called each other “Don,” and the two of you tied me to a tree by my apron strings and left me alone for half an hour. The sky grew dark, and the whole wood sighed. I twisted against my apron, trying to move my left arm, which was closest to the knot. The cloth pressed into my abdomen, the rugged bark scraped my forearm, and I closed my eyes as a cold wind shook the bracken. The first drop of rain struck my brow with such violence I thought it was an acorn. Then I heard voices calling me through the trees. “Gisela! Gisela!” You had lost me. I writhed harder against my taut apron, saying nothing, and then you crashed through a thicket and almost toppled into me. “Why didn’t you answer? And what have you done?” you cried, having untied me to discover my arm rubbed bloody by the tree. “Why, Gisela?” Your eyes were dark with fear, your lips so close I could see the dim sheen on them, their texture of cranberry skins.
The family opinion that I am “strange” and “cold” dates from that visit. You knew better. Didn’t you ask permission to bring my milk upstairs? I remember your face in the light of my little candle, the warmth of my heated blankets, the storm outside blowing as if it would knock the house down. You were too large for my room; you made it shrink. “You must tell me everything,” you said, “everything, even if it makes you afraid. Especially if it makes you afraid.” Such urgency in your voice. I was happy for the slight sting in my arm; without it, I might have thought I was dreaming.
Did you not say, dear Master, that the life of dreams is real?
I follow Nathanael through Hoffmann’s streets. When he goes to the opera, I am there, in a great fur the color of horn. When he buys tobacco I am there, turning over some postcards. My favorite amusement is to run beside him when, in the evenings, he goes out to settle his nerves with a bit of air. He runs faster, and I run faster—my feet are so light, so light! I can hear him whimpering, and even praying in a low voice. His fear is so strong! I breathe it in, like the odor of aqua vitae. He is rather beautiful, his brown hair cut long, his face pale as a lamp with suffering. These days he has grown somewhat shabby: his coat is stained, and a faint beard blurs his cheeks. I wish he looked more like you.
G.
My Dear Master
,
My dreams are so lovely, they really ought to be turned into something—perhaps an opera. Yes, why not? I should call it Olimpia’s Ghost. Perhaps you and I could write it together: I would provide the dreams, and you the poetry. Let me know if you would like me to send you some notes. Like this: Evening. A dark garret. NATHANAEL, a young man of gloomy aspect, paces between the window and the fire. That was how I found him last night. When I entered, he crossed himself and sank to his knees, his upraised face capturing all the poor light in the room.
“Who are you? Who are you?” he whispered.
I said: “You know.”
“No!” he said. “You are not she.”
“But I am, Nathanael,” I told him gently. “I am her soul.”
He shook his head, recoiling toward the wall. “Never! I know my Olimpia’s pure soul: it looks at me out of her tranquil eyes.”
Tender : Stories Page 4