“Is she?”
“She is,” I lied, hoping that the sound of my voice would not betray the tensing of my muscles, the tightening of my jaws.
“Oh good,” he said. “Really, really good.”
There is only one thing more difficult than talking to Ben, and that is writing to him. Amazingly, having to conceal what his mother is going through makes every word—even on subjects unrelated to her—that much harder. I find myself oppressed by my own self-imposed discipline, the discipline of silence.
And what can I tell him, really? That I keep digging into the past, mining its moments, trying to piece them together this way and that, dusting off each memory of Natasha, of how we were, the highs and lows of the music of us, to find out where the problem may have started?
To him, that may seem like an exercise in futility. For me, it is a necessary process of discovery, one that is as tormenting as it is delightful. If the dissonance in our life would fade away, so will the harmony.
Sometimes I go as far back as the moment we first met, when I was a soldier and she—a star, brilliant yet illusive. Natasha was a riddle to me then, and to this day, with all the changes she has gone through, she still is.
I often wonder: can we ever understand, truly understand each other—soldier and musician, man and woman, one heart and another? Will we ever again dance together to the same beat? Is there a point where we may still touch?
Lenny in The Music of Us
Excerpt: Marriage before Death
Without uttering a sound I gave her a look, begging her to leave. Rochelle gave one to me, begging me to play along.
Out loud she said, “Oh how I hate you! I hate you now more than I ever loved you!”
At that, the SS officer burst out laughing. It lasted quite a while, or so it seemed to me, and by the time it finally ended, a cruel smile was left across his face, stretching from one pointy ear to the other.
“Ach,” he hissed. “What a woman! Cold one minute—hot the next!”
Rochelle hung her eyes on me one more time.
“At the very least,” she implored, “you should say you are sorry, so sorry to have left me in such a difficult situation!”
The SS officer cut in.
“Didn’t I tell you?” he asked her. “His kind, they have no morals! Worse than animals is what they are.”
She turned away and went back to his side. From there she said, in a tone of regret, “Right you are. I was naive, up to now, to hope for anything different from him.”
Over her sorrow, the SS officer went on to say, “How could you ever let yourself be seduced by such a man?”
She shook her head. “How silly of me! How foolish it is to hope! I was sure he would confirm to everyone here his desire to marry me.”
To which the SS officer said, “Now, mademoiselle, you have learned your lesson.”
She gave him a tearful smile, but then could not help crying out to me, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t you get it? I’m expecting your child!”
At that I had a change of heart. Why? First, because I was moved to tears by her plea, no matter if it was a fake one or not; and second, because what had I got to lose?
So I uttered, “Forgive me, Rochelle.”
“What?” she asked. “What did you say?”
“Forgive me,” I said, with a catch in my throat. “If I were a free man I would gladly keep my promise to you.”
A triumphant smile played on her red lips. Yet, for just a moment, she was silent.
I thought she might make peace with me, now that I relented. Instead, she turned to the SS officer.
“Herr Müller,” she said. “I’m not here to beg for mercy for this man.”
In surprise, “You’re not?” he asked, raising a thick eyebrow.
And from the other side of the table, his French collaborator echoed, “You’re not?”
My face was still burning, still stinging from that slap of hers. I bit my lips to overcome the pain. If I could muster the nerve to speak up once more, I would ask her the very same thing.
Really? You’re not?
“No,” she stressed.
The toothbrush mustache under Herr Müller’s nose started to twitch. Perhaps he was becoming suspicious of her.
“I thought,” he said, “that you had a big favor to ask of me.”
And she said, “I do.”
And he said, “Well? What is it, then?”
“For the sake of my family,” said Rochelle, “for the pride of my father, for my own honor, and for the future of this baby, I cannot be an unwed mother! I’d rather die!”
Becoming somewhat impatient, “Ach!” he said. “You should have thought of that earlier, before you got involved with the likes of him.”
It was then that she said, “I promise, Herr Müller, giving me what I ask for is sure to give you the greatest pleasure, because it is just what this man deserves.”
“Which is what?”
“Marriage before death.”
Lenny in Marriage before Death
Excerpt: Rise to Power
To show respect I fall to my knees before him. The floor is cold, having absorbed the damp of a long winter. The surface is porous, even crumbly here and there, cut of rocks from the Judea mountains. So is the surface of the stage, right in front of my eyes.
I cannot help noting the marks drawn by his spear in the film of dirt up there, around his boots. Scratch, twist, scratch again... No wonder he seems to be in such a royal pain: with all these attendants here to serve him, not a single one has managed to come up with the bright idea of sweeping the floor. They all carry weapons, but not one has a broom.
Sitting nearly immobile, Saul seems as chalky as the walls around him. He sits crumpled—in an odd way—upon the throne. His nails keep digging into the little velvety cushions that are stretched over the carved armrests. Not once does he give a nod in my direction, nor does he acknowledge my presence in any other way.
Which agitates me. It awakens my doubt, doubt in my skill. Much the same as I feel in my father’s presence. Repressed. On the verge of acting out.
So, rising to my feet I blurt out, “Your majesty—”
“Don’t talk,” whispers one of the attendants. “Play.”
I am pushed a step or two backwards, so as to maintain proper distance from the presence of the king. My name is called out in a clunky manner of introduction, after which I am instructed to choose from an array of musical instruments. I figure they must be the loot of war. So when I play them, the music of enemy tribes shall resound here, around the hall.
I pluck the strings of a sitar, then put it back down and pick up a lyre, which I make quiver, quiver with notes of fire! Then I rap, clap, tap, snap my fingers, and just to be cute, play a tune on my flute, after which I do a skip, skip, skip and a back flip.
It is a long performance, and towards the end of it I find myself trying to catch my breath. Alas, my time is up. Even so I would not stop.
Entranced I go on to recite several of my poems, which I have never done before, for fear of exposing my most intimate, raw emotions, which is a risky thing for a man, and even riskier for a boy my age. Allowing your vulnerability to show takes one thing above all: a special kind of courage. Trust me, it takes balls.
So, having read the last verse I cast a look at the attendants, especially the ones closest to me. Their faces seem to have softened. I can sense them beginning to adore me. One of them comes over and taps my shoulder, which nearly knocks me off my feet. Another one laughs. Others wipe their eyes.
Then I glance at Saul, hoping for a tear, a smile, a word of encouragement. Instead I note an odd, vacant look on his face. Utter indifference. It stings me. Am I too short, too young, too curly for the role he has in mind for me?
Wiping the sweat off my brow I bow down before him and turn to leave the court, which is the moment he leans forward on his spear.
“Stop right there,” says Saul. “Tell me: what can you do best?”
He glowers at me as if to ask, Recover? From what?
“From this,” I point out, daring to be honest. “Rejection.”
David in Rise to Power
Excerpt: A Peek at Bathsheba
Wrapped in a long, flowing fabric that creates countless folds around her curves, she loosens just the top of it and lets it slide off her head—only to reveal a blush, and mischievous glint, shining in her eye. It is over that sparkle that I catch a sudden reflection, coming from the back window, of a full moon.
Looking left, right, and down the staircase, to make sure no one is lurking outside my chamber door, I let her in. Then I lock it behind her, so no one may intrude upon us.
In a manner of greeting I raise my goblet. It is a gift from my supplier, Hiram king of Tyre, and unlike the other goblets I have in my possession, this one is made of fine glass, with minute air bubbles floating in it. With a big splash I fill it up to the rim with red, aromatic wine. In it I dip a glistening, ruddy cherry, and offer it to her, with a flowery toast.
“For you,” I say. “With my everlasting love!”
Bathsheba takes the goblet from my hand, and raises it to her lips. “Love, everlasting?” she says, raising an eyebrow. “What does that mean, in this place?”
I hesitate to ask, “What place is that?”
“This court,” she says, with a slight curtsy, “where the signature feature is a harem, which is as big as the king is endowed with glory.”
“Glory is a good thing,” say I, lowering my voice. “But sometimes it is better to meet in the shadows.”
“Especially,” she says, matching her voice to mine, “when there are so many others.”
“Here we are,” say I. “It’s just us.”
“Really,” says Bathsheba, sipping her wine and ever so delightfully, licking her lips. “It must be a special night, then! Just you and me, and no one else, no one else at all.”
Yet I cannot avoid feeling the presence of someone other than me in her thoughts, perhaps her husband, Uriah, who is one of my mighty soldiers and the most trusty of them. Earlier today he must have received his transfer orders to join the cavalry in the eastern hills, where he would be stationed outside the city of Rabbah.
I have a catch in my throat as I tell her, “I’m so glad you came.”
Bathsheba lifts her eyes and looks straight at me.
“Really,” she says, in her most velvety tone. “You mean, I had a choice in this matter?”
Her question stumps me at first, because how can I admit that she is right, so right in asking it? Instead I just shrug.
“You do have a choice,” I say at last. “And I hope you’ll make it.”
“I’m so glad to hear that,” says Bathsheba. “With that ape, I mean, that bodyguard of yours knocking so loudly, so rudely, and for such a long time at my door, I had my doubts about it.”
“You can go, if you wish,” I stress, with a reluctant tone. “But I wish you wouldn’t. Stay with me, tonight.”
Bathsheba picks the stem of the red cherry, and takes little bites out of it. In her pleasure she hums, and smacks her lips. Then she raises the goblet to my lips, letting me take in the aroma. I do, and then I take a long gulp.
With a slight sway of her hips Bathsheba walks past me, knowing I cannot take my eyes off of her. She wanders about my chamber as if she were the one owning it.
“You’ve been brought here by my order,” I whisper to her, across the space. “But I am the one held captive.”
David in A Peek at Bathsheba
Books by Uviart
Ash Mysteries with a Dash of Romance
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Coma Confidential
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Virtually Lace
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Still Life with Memories
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My Own Voice
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The White Piano
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The Music of Us
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Dancing with Air
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978-1536896534
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Marriage before Death
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Apart from Love
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Apart from War
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The David Chronicles
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Rise to Power
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978-0-9849932-4-6
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A Peek at Bathsheba
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The Edge of Revolt
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The David
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978-1797440699
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Inspired by Art: Fighting Goliath
(Volume IV of The David Chronicles. Art book)
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Inspired by Art: Fall of a Giant
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Inspired by Art: Rise to Power
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Inspired by Art: A Peek at Bathsheba
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Inspired by Art: The Edge of Revolt
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Inspired by Art: The Last Concubine
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A Favorite Son
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