Never mind the extra expense and the fact that her whole world was now topsy-turvy and her job might be in jeopardy. She had never put so much effort into performing wifely tasks. A delicious fantasy preoccupied her. Franz had always been with her, even from the time of her childhood spent in an attic room with faded wallpaper covered with yellow roses. The chimes in the belfry of the Gothic parish church tolled out vespers in the summer evenings. In those days, she had read Half Magic, a story of children who found imperial Roman coins that when rubbed, transported them to other times. She hoped that even one of the silver dimes she placed so carefully in the slits of her coin collector folio would turn out to be ancient, and magical. But never had any magic manifested in her life.
About ten years ago, she’d investigated Kabbalah, the genuine thing, not the red-string celebrity hype. Her friend Esther had brought her as a guest to a study group led by Rebbe Menachem Mendel. On ten Tuesday nights she had sat, intimidated and silent, on a folding chair in a bare room in a minuscule orthodox shul in the Fairfax district. The rebbe instructed a class of fourteen in the concept of the transmigration of souls, and in the mystic secrets of the great Kabbalist Isaac Luria of Safed. Her sober adult self half-believed these speculations. Any Lurianist would shrug off Franz’s appearance as routine. Magical, no—simply a manifestation of the complex processes of tikkun, the repair of the world.
She and Esther were still in contact and met several times a year for coffee. They had not discussed Kabbalah in a long time. Should she call her? Better to say nothing to anyone, at least not yet.
She was not sure, really, if Franz were real. But he must be real. He ate the real food she served him, and wore the real blue jeans and jumbo size Hanes T-shirts she bought for him. Before her eyes, he was composing, with a real Visconti fountain pen, on tangible paper, a song cycle, the Winterreisse.
One Sunday morning, Helen tiptoed outside to retrieve the Los Angeles Times lying in a puddle in the driveway. The gardener must have knocked a sprinkler head out of alignment. Irritated, she picked up the sopping wet plastic wrap and turned it over. Water streamed onto the asphalt.
“Hello, darling, who is your visitor?”
She looked up. Roxanne held the Yorkshire, stroking its silky hair with long red acrylic fingernails.
There was no avoiding some kind of pleasantry.
“That’s Cousin Franz from Vienna. That whole side of the family never came to America. I guess they’re checking us out now.”
Roxanne’s waxed eyebrows arched. “Oh? Well, he seems like a peculiar sort. What does he do?”
“He’s brilliant, a world-class scholar. He has a doctorate in Renaissance musicology, and decided to take the summer off before he goes back to his professorship in Vienna.”
Roxanne put the dog down, holding on to a bright pink leash studded with rhinestones.
“Well, my dear, don’t support him for too long. But, you know how we women are, forever taking in strays.”
Helen shrugged. “Perhaps you’re right. You know, Roxanne, some delights in life are just very expensive.”
Roxanne smirked. “Cheaper to hire it by the hour, darling.”
It was impossible to fake civility. Scowling Helen turned abruptly and walked inside.
That afternoon, Helen scoured the Newbould biography, hunting for clues as to her own existence. Was she inspiring him? The Unknown Lady of the Song Cycle. It was thrilling to think of her mysterious and important place in musical history. Did he desire her? Would he be her lover? More than once, the moonlight streaming through her windows woke her as she reached for him, certain in her sleepy delusion that he was caressing her. But he never approached her. He never shared any insights, never requested an introduction to other people. She had so hoped (and dreaded, for what explanation would she give the guests?) he would allow her to act as hostess for one of those Schubertiade soirees that were the stuff of musical legend, but he never alluded to them.
In early August she turned down an out-of-town business trip. She sat across from her boss in his corner office. His brown eyes narrowed. He was a lean forty, his face impassive, a cobra, ready to strike.
“What is this, a refusal? We need you to go. You have been slacking off. Don’t think management hasn’t noticed.”
“I can’t travel anymore. I have an emergency at home. A cousin of mine is sick and needs my help.”
She gazed into the middle distance, avoiding his eyes. The company encouraged “work/life balance” for the higher-ups, but not for lower level managers. Retribution would be slow but certain, an agonizing process of demotion and eventual firing. But she no longer cared about her work. All that mattered was that Franz was happy.
One morning in early August, Franz did not appear at the habitual time. Baffled, she waited a quarter hour, and then walked alone on the usual path. On her return, she folded mushrooms into an omelet and popped English muffins into the toaster. Franz slouched into the kitchen, glared at the food, gulped down two cups of coffee, and disappeared. A door slammed. That evening, he hardly touched the prime rib. By ten o’clock, an empty fifth of single malt Scotch lay on its side near the Steinway.
Two weeks went by. He rarely spoke to her. Several bags of Oreo cookies disappeared every day. He demanded that she buy alcoholic beverages. The garbage can set out every Tuesday was piled high with empty beer cans and whiskey bottles. He slept an increasing number of hours. The air around him stank of stale sweat. His eyes were puffy and glazed over. He hummed less, and barely scribbled any notes on the composition paper. Whenever she attempted to converse, he simply looked past her, mumbling unintelligibly.
Helen now walked alone every morning. Every night, she clenched her pillow, gulping air into her lungs, her chest convulsing. Oh, the ingrate!
One Sunday, she met Esther at the Coffee Bean in Brentwood. They hugged, ordered double lattes, and sat down at a table. Rock music pulsated from overhead speakers and made talk difficult.
Esther said, “What’s doing?”
Should Helen mention Franz? Her reply was noncommittal. “Same-old, same-old, work as usual, no man in my life. I think I’ve already had my last chance.”
Esther showed off a three-carat engagement ring. “He’s perfect in every way. I finally went to a matchmaker. Genuine Jewish shadchan. Why I didn’t years ago, I can’t believe, it’s this heartless horrible city that makes it impossible to meet anyone.”
Happy news, Helen was glad for her friend, wasn’t she? What was this twinge of envy? She asserted the conventional opinion: “We’re all in our little isolated boxes. And the available men are spoiled egomaniacs. The good ones are taken.”
Esther nodded. “Don’t give up. There’s someone out there for you. I’m telling you, get yourself a good go-between, an expert with a proven record.”
Here was an opportunity for Helen to share her secret, to ask for advice. She hesitated. This crowded place seemed inappropriate. Many glamorous neurotics spilled unseemly details in public, and these revelations always made her wince.
She broached the subject offhandedly. “Remember our class together, with Reb Mendel, back in the day?”
Esther said, “He’s a fantastic man. I’ve never made the full turn to orthodoxy, so I haven’t seen him in an age.”
“What do you think of transmigration of souls? And time travel, I always wondered what Kabbalah has to say.”
Esther shrugged. “I gave all that stuff up. It’s way too strange. I’m better off down in the here-and-now, thinking about the concrete.” She pointed again to her ring. “Matchmaker make me a match. Mine is very grounded in the everyday, and that’s why she gets results.”
Helen retreated. No sense in plunging any deeper. The reality was, she had nobody to whom she could reveal her situation. The talk turned to safe gossipy matters, their jobs, movies and books, Esther’s recent trip to Israel.
On a Saturday afternoon in late August, Helen sat propped against the oversized pillows on her bed, read
ing The New Yorker and sipping lemonade. The sound of water whooshing in the wall pipes alerted her that the shower was running. At long last, was Franz snapping out of his funk?
A little later, she sensed a presence. She looked out the French casement window. Sometimes curious deer sniffed at the glass. Nothing moved outside except a lizard scampering on the patio. She glanced toward the bedroom doorway. Her heart fluttered as she lay the magazine down. Franz lounged against the wall, hair glistening wet from his shower. He had never entered her snuggery. He walked over and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Fraulein,” he declared, sweeping his chubby fingers toward the cypress and olive trees visible from her windows. “I have so wanted to see the Umbrian landscapes that the Florentine masters painted as backdrops for their Madonnas, and this must be very like. Wonderful, but,” he added in a soft, choking voice, “I miss the woods of Vienna.”
His next words sounded a death knell.
“You have been so very kind, and this is a magnificent house. And you are a gracious companion and a lovely woman. But, I want to see my friends.”
Now his mouth was puckering and he was sobbing.
“I am terrified, because the melodies are receding. I cannot hear them clearly anymore. I fear the worst, that I am losing my gift. You must assist me. I must return.”
She took his rotund face between her hands, and felt the fuzzy damp cheeks.
“My dearest love, you are a marvel and a genius. I want only the best for you.”
Tears welled in her eyes. She grabbed his wrist and pulled him toward her. “Franz, my love, my dearest, come to bed. I will make you happy, happier than any man in any time, in any place.” She kissed him full on his mouth.
His body froze and he pulled away from her.
“Fraulein, I must return. You misunderstand. It is life and death.”
She found herself screaming at him. “What makes you think I can help you? I told you from the beginning, I don’t have any powers. You’re the one who got lost. I never got lost, and if I did get lost, I would figure it out by myself. How can you expect me to know what to do?”
Turning on his heel, he stomped out of the room.
Toxic shame, as slimy as black swamp mud, oozed into her psyche. Was she holding Franz against his will? But such a thought was ridiculous. How could she free him? She knew nothing of the ars magica, of the mechanics of vanishing and reappearing, of the re-shuffling of the time/space continuum deck of cards.
At six o’ clock she knocked on the door of the little room.
“Go away, leave me in solitude.”
“But my dearest, you must eat. Please come out.”
“No, I am not hungry. Leave me, do not disturb me.”
She went to bed at nine o’clock and cried herself to sleep. At four in the morning, she jolted awake. A full moon lit up her bedroom with a shimmering white light. She had been dreaming that Rebbe Mendel sat next to her, absorbed in a book, on a train traveling she knew not where. She lay awake, while the night melted into a warm sunny morning.
At breakfast, there was no sign of Franz. She knocked on his door. Silence.
At noon, she telephoned the shul. The rebbe answered.
Her hands were shaking. She mustered a businesslike tone.
“Of course, you probably don’t remember me. I studied with you a few years ago, I’m not Jewish, I admit, my friend Esther brought me. I desperately need your help.”
The baritone voice was gentle, encouraging. “There is a wedding today at five o’clock. But I can counsel you briefly at three.”
The official annals of her family recorded no Jewish connections. Of course, there was that suspicious nineteenth-century peddler on her paternal German side, and she could never keep the math straight as to what negligible percentage of Jewish blood that might be. She dressed in faux orthodox garb, long rayon black skirt, white cotton long-sleeved blouse, gray beret, and black Mary Janes.
The shul was a small brick building. Hebrew letters were blazoned in gold leaf across the lintel of the large oak and iron door. The rebbe greeted her with a friendly nod. The holy man seemed timeless, a part of the warp and woof of the Jewish fabric, which, she always imagined, circled and wrapped the world in centuries-old wisdom.
They sat in the bare room on beige metal folding chairs, six feet across from one another. Near the doorway stood a slim youth, his black forelocks grazing his shoulders. In a monotone she stated the facts as she watched the rebbe’s face.
“I need help with an impossible situation. The musical genius, Franz Schubert, you know of him?”
The rebbe pursed his lips, but said nothing.
“He was born in 1797 and died young in 1828. Somehow, at age twenty-nine, and at the height of his powers, he has gotten lost inside his own head. He turned up on a hiking path in the hills near my home. He has been staying with me for two months. He is desperate to return to his proper earthly plane.”
The old man listened. He stroked his white beard that cascaded over his frayed black gabardine wool coat. He closed his eyes while rocking slightly back and forth, as if davening. His head seemed to sink into his frail thin body. Her short recital finished, she sighed, and slumped in her chair. The late afternoon sun slanted through a window near the ceiling, lighting up motes of dust. It seemed a minor eternity before he opened his black eyes. He spoke in a rasping whisper.
“My dear, this situation is more common than you might think. The average person sleepwalks through life. If he is poor, he longs to be rich. If he is rich, he seeks power. He does not study, he does not pursue the way of Torah. Therefore, he does not realize all the wondrous phenomena around him.”
He cleared his throat.
“The sages report many such cases. I myself have experienced four in my lifetime. And it is my pleasure to assist you.”
Helen straightened her shoulders. She had come to the right place. The rebbe leaned slightly forward.
“You yourself have caused this quandary through the intensity of your improper longings. You must understand that Hashem responds to our spiritual yearnings, often in ways that are extraordinary.”
She studied the pattern of the vinyl floor. How did he know of her bitter isolation, of her romantic fancies?
“In the early morning just at daybreak, when the sun rises in the east, take your young genius back down the path on which he arrived. At the borderland where the fog meets the sun, hold his hand, and hand him the box that I will give you. Inside I will place a parchment scroll with a berakhah, a blessing transcribed especially for you. A messenger of Hashem will meet him, and transport him back to his proper place and time. The world will receive the gift of his lyrical melodies that will delight generations. And you, my dear, will receive a gift of wisdom. You will know that all things are in harmony with the Power, Blessed Be He, Who orders the universe.”
With a mischievous smile, he changed topics.
“And when are you planning to marry? It is more than enough time, my dear.”
Helen knitted her brow. A flicker of anxiety passed over her face, but recollecting herself, she managed a self-conscious simper.
“Oh, I think Hashem has forgotten me. But I’ll pray about it tomorrow, after I’ve solved this problem.”
The rebbe disappeared into another room with the boy. Helen stood up and paced, circling the two chairs, and then she sat down and fidgeted with the buttons on her blouse. She trusted this man of God. Yet of course her logical mind was skeptical. Her work colleagues would snicker and her family would groan with disapproval were they to know.
She removed her checkbook and a ballpoint pen from her shoulder bag. As if guided by an automatic hand, her pen wrote the amount $540, which represented Franz’s age on his next birthday multiplied by the number eighteen, the mystical number of life.
A long quarter hour passed. Reb Mendel returned through the doorway. She rose from the chair. He held a pocket-size metal box in his hands. The boy stood mute beside him.
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“And here you are, my dear.”
He placed the box on a wood table just inside the door. She mumbled a thank you, and set the check down on the table. He bowed, and replied in a Hebrew phrase that she did not understand.
When she returned, there was still no sign of Franz. Helen tucked the box underneath her panties in a dresser drawer scented with a rosewater sachet. He appeared briefly at dinnertime, and wolfed down bratwurst and kraut she had bought especially to charm him. Then he disappeared again.
The rebbe had pricked her conscience. She knew his instructions must be obeyed. But she decided to wait just a little while longer. Perhaps Franz yet would fall in love and beg to remain with her.
In the following week, Helen redoubled her efforts to woo Franz. Every night, she prepared elaborate formal dinners. A Wonderbra emphasized her breasts under a black lacy camisole. He remained distant and sullen.
What was she to do? She choked back tears of pique. She would have to suffer, as much as a doomed soprano in a tragic opera, and let him go.
On Saturday just at dusk, she addressed him as they sat at dinner.
“Franz, my dearest, I have good news for you.”
He barely glanced in her direction. He was staring out the window, watching a buck nibble on her pansy bed. He tapped a fork against the plate and glowered.
“I have obtained a magic spell that will send you back to Vienna at sunrise tomorrow. You will arrive within seconds of the time that you left.”
Franz jumped up, knocking over the chair. He yodeled and then he hugged her, planting a sloppy kiss on her lips.
“My dear Helen, das ist herrlich! However can I express my gratitude? I will dedicate my next piano trio to you. I will never forget you.”
He had never before used her first name.
“No, my love, the magic formula does not permit you to remember. Nor will you recall the music you’ve written here in this place. But we needed each other just for a little while. And I’m grateful.”
He righted his chair, sat down, and stabbed at his steak.
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