“Oh my! Look at that face!” he exclaimed, closely examining my Natasha. “Doesn’t she remind you of a fairytale princess, dreaming?”
Feeling dismayed at him for daring to look at her and even worse, for offering an uninvited opinion, I said not a word. Instead I dashed over the puddle to reach the red-nosed girl and tried to snatch the picture away from her hand. And then, just as I was beginning to congratulate myself—because the paper still felt dry to the touch, despite the dreary conditions—that’s when it happened.
At first all I heard was a stifled little hiccup, which was easy to ignore, coming feebly from the back of her sore throat. Then, in a convulsive, hugely spasmodic expulsion of air, which came forcibly through her nostrils and mouth and sounded more ear-splitting than a trumpet, she sneezed all over the paper.
I gasped.
Rain would have been so much better, I thought, rubbing my eyes in utter disbelief.
Meanwhile, without losing her composure or her grip over the photograph, she managed to wipe her nose.
Taking a deep breath I tried to calm myself down. After all, if I would use just the right amount of precision as well as vigor to pull the thing out of her hold, she would have to give it up.
But first, “Let go of it,” I told her.
And the warden said, “Yeah, you’ve had your fun, Miss! Enough already! Let him have it!”
In a hoarse voice she asked me, “Want your sleeping beauty back?”
And I said, “I do.”
And she said, “Then kiss me, Romeo!”
Her puckered mouth, raised to my face, was far from alluring. In fact, the sight of it up-close nauseated me. The nearer I leaned over it the more convinced I became that the kiss of an Englishwoman was nothing to sneeze at.
What choice did I have? I fastened my fingers upon the paper and yanked, hard. It tore out of her fingers, ripping Natasha in half.
All night long I sat in my room, trying to piece the two parts together, hoping to find a perfect alignment, so the tear would seem like nothing more than a faint hairline. But by now, the paper was not only torn but also warped, so if the parts fit in one area they separated in another. There was no way to make her whole again.
How could I have allowed this to happen? What could I tell Natasha to explain my carelessness, having failed to keep this image of her?
I did my best to convince myself that tomorrow was going to be a good day. It had to be, because nothing could be more disappointing, I thought, than today. I decided to stop being sad about what had just happened—only to start moping all over it the next day, because what was I going to do now, with nothing but pitiful shreds of my love to keep me company during long, lonely nights far away from her?
A Lover’s Cocktail
Chapter 2
Riding my Harley-Davidson would be the best way, I decided, to keep me alert after the sleepless hours of the night, because its big, furious roar would quicken the blood and, for an extra kick, send people scurrying away, left and right of me.
It was a dark, cloudy sunrise. I rode my bike past the water tanks, which had been constructed in London some months ago to fight firebombs, past stacks of sandbags, which had been filled with earth from Knightsbridge Barracks, previously a scampering ground for terriers. In the wind, in the drizzle, through patches of fog, in-between cars, double-decker busses and horse-drawn carts, alongside street shelters and around newsstands, back and forth I went, as part of my military courier service, from the American Embassy to various governmental staff offices.
The engine rattled under me, giving a raw, intense rhythm to the urban cacophony, composed of sounds of drivers, peddlers, shoppers, cops, and soldiers. This beat connected me to the throngs of people and at the same time, separated me. And yet, listening to it forced me to set aside my silence, my sense of loneliness, and take them all in.
Upon entering Piccadilly Circus I stopped. Surrounded by a small crowd, a street performer hailed me to come over, and then started singing:
Swirl in the air of daybreak, and mix in a kiss
Add a splash of blue winter, ‘cause you I miss
Stir it all together, toast a moment apart
Back into my arms is a long way to chart
Cool it with ice, throw in a lost star
Serve it bitter, to the sound of a lonely guitar
Drink it in one gulp, before you set sail
Let me have a taste of a lover’s cocktail
Behind him, down at the street corner, penetrating the clouds of mist, a cast iron telephone kiosk became visible. It drew my attention with an acute, urgent note, more so than all the famous hotels, arcades, shops, restaurants, cinemas, banks, offices, and public buildings around here, put together.
I had to call Natasha. I needed to hear her voice.
It was as simple as that.
So I dismounted the bike and drew closer to look at the kiosk, which to me was a novelty, like all things British. It had round corners and tight proportions, designed for the privacy of a caller. The fascia over the door was emblazoned with the Tudor crown, which was pierced through the ironwork, perhaps to allow air in, to ventilate the booth. Most notably, the whole thing was painted brilliant red.
A lady was standing just ahead of me, and now I realized this was a line. “You like this color?” she asked the man ahead of her.
“No,” he said, briskly.
“I heard it causes a stir among some residents.”
“It sure does! I complained profusely about it and so did others, which forced the Post Office into some change: allowing a less strident color, such as grey, for some of the booths, especially in areas of architectural beauty.”
“But not here, at the heart of the city?”
“No, not here,” he said, in a slightly irate tone. “They insist that in time, we’ll all get used to it, somehow. Not me!”
The glass door opened, letting out the previous caller, letting in the next one. Meanwhile, the man started fiddling around with his wristwatch, winding it nervously as if that would make time go faster. I could see this was going to be a long wait.
A peddler waved a hand at me. “Want a shoe-shine?” he asked.
“Not now,” I said.
“Latest news, don’t miss it!” yelled another. “Get the London Gazette, read all about it!”
I did.
Spreading open the newspaper I read the headline Awarded the British Empire Medal. The article listed names of British soldiers who had displayed courage under fire. Their bravery made me wish I could test mine. At the same time it made me doubt the value of what I was doing here. So far, my military service seemed to be devoid of risk, unworthy of glory.
Meanwhile the glass door opened, closed. And now, inside its glazed grid, the man seemed even more on edge: dialing, hanging the phone, shaking his head, dialing again. An arm flailing about could be spotted through one pane, and through another—his mouth, arguing, breathing hard, arguing.
Now the lady in front of me started checking her watch. With a click of her wooden heels she paced around herself, then side to side, and at last marched off, leaving an impatient sigh behind.
At that moment, the door opened. I was in.
I fed the coins into a holding slot in the telephone and marveled at the magic of latest technology: not until the rotary dial had whirled back into position after the last number, and a voice had come out of the earphone, did they tumble inside. The bored voice of a telephone operator came on. I had to wait, glancing over my shoulder at the long line outside the glass, while she dialed the area code, followed by the operator code for New York, followed by the number.
At last, “You again,” said a sleepy voice at the other end.
Recognizing the heavy Russian accent, I wondered how she knew it was me. “Hello?” I said, cautiously.
“Oy,” she groaned. “What wrong have I done in my life to deserve this?”
“Did I say something wrong, Mrs. Horowitz? I hope you’re hav
ing a good day—”
“Day? What day? You out of your mind? It’s the middle of the night, you nincompoop!”
“It is?”
“Oh, let me check. No! Of course I was wrong, what was I thinking? It’s way past midnight. To be precise, it’s 4:00 o’clock in the morning, which makes me incredibly mad, so you better watch out, because for a change I was having a funny dream, but what made it so funny I have no idea at this point, because thanks to you, the whole thing flew right out of my mind, it vanished—poof!—as soon I came to my senses, but even if it were a sad dream, which it wasn’t, that’s no excuse for you to call us at a time like that, when even roosters don’t dare to flick a feather, let alone start crowing about! Young man, please do me a favor and don’t take this as a compliment: disturbing me is your special talent, which may, perhaps, explain why my daughter is foolish enough to be attracted to such a fine loser—”
“Is she, really?”
“Really,” she said, probably shaking her head in dismay. “Calling us at such a God-awful hour!”
I slapped my own head, hoping she did not catch the sound of it. How in the world could I do it, how could I neglect to take the difference in time zone into account?
After a slight pause—during which she huffed and puffed in my ear, perhaps reaching over for her glasses, out there on the nightstand—Mrs. Horowitz went on to say, “So, young man, what have you got to say for yourself?”
“Wait, wait, Mrs. Horowitz,” I said, hurriedly depositing more coins into the slot, because thanks to her, this conversation was becoming longer than expected, and costlier too, even before I had an opportunity to talk with Natasha.
Meanwhile I could hear the bedsprings moan under the weight of her Mama. Perhaps now she was sitting up, pulling the bedspread all the way up to her three chins, and adjusting the glasses over her nose so she can glare at me over their frame, even though I was all the way across the ocean.
I imagined seeing her cheeks through those lenses, with a detailed, dilated view of the crinkles under the droopy eyelids.
“I’m sure that waking us up makes no difference to you,” she said.
To which I said, “Why would you think that, Mrs. Horowitz?”
“Because,” she said, “you must think that we here in the Big Apple are up and about around the clock, and besides, we can’t wait to get a call from an important persona such as yourself at any time whatsoever, day or night!”
Utterly dumfounded I could not bring myself to say another word, which made it all the more difficult to put together a whole sentence, to beg her to wake up her daughter.
So I was just about to say goodbye and so sorry, my mistake, this will never happen again, I promise, when all of a sudden Mrs. Horowitz said, “Natasha isn’t here.”
“What?” I cried.
“You deaf? I said, she isn’t here!”
“Where, then, is she?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“You’re her Mama! Aren’t you supposed to know?”
“It’s all your fault,” she said.
To which I said, “Naturally.”
She had always been known for being overbearing, but even for her, this relentless attack on me seemed a bit much, which made me realize, suddenly, that this was her way of dealing with something else, something that made her feel powerless.
And indeed, a heartbeat later she started crying. “I’m very, very worried about Natasha,” she sniveled. “And because of this I wasn’t able to fall sleep all night!”
I hesitated to point out that according to her own words, Mrs. Horowitz had just been rudely arisen from a snooze.
Instead I asked, “Did Natasha say where she was going?”
“She did,” said her Mama, in a teary voice.
“And—”
“And you’re not going to believe it. I heard it with my own ears and I still can’t believe it.”
“Please,” I pleaded. “Tell me!”
“Natasha,” she said, “is a delicate girl.”
“She’s a princess.”
“Exactly! And until you showed up in her life, she was in a slumber, so to speak. She lived in a world of dreams, smiling at a rainbow, crying for a lost star, and giving herself to nothing else but her music, all of which made it easy for me to manage her career. Well, perhaps ‘easy’ is not the right word, ‘possible’ is. But no, not anymore! Now, unfortunately, my daughter knows what she wants and has an opinion of her own about every little thing, which of course has to be the exact opposite of mine, and the worst thing is, she takes bold action about it, which is quite clearly a mistake, and she does it with half-witted haste, which means that as forceful as I thought I was, I can do little to stand in her way. Oh my, she is out of control!”
“So sorry to hear it,” I said. “But—”
“You should be, because without me by her side, guiding her, she’s going to find herself in trouble in a big hurry.”
“Will you tell me already?” I said. “Where is she?”
“On a vessel.”
“Excuse me?”
“Didn’t you hear me? I said, she’s on a ship!”
“Heading where?”
“Where else? England!”
“In Heaven’s name,” I said, with mixed emotions, “couldn’t you stop her?”
“Of course I tried, even without waiting, ever so patiently, for your little bit of wisdom,” said Mrs. Horowitz. “I reminded her of the movie we saw earlier this year, which was scary to both of us, in which the ship’s captain was mentally unbalanced, which explained why several mysterious deaths occurred, and so, looking at things in that light, why would she choose to put her life in the hands of strangers, when she can always rely on me?”
“So, with that argument, what impact did you leave on her?”
“Not enough, I must admit. All she said, with an annoyed tone that is so unbecoming of her and so surprising to me, was this: ‘Oh please, Mama,’ she said, ‘Can’t you trust, for once, that I know what I’m doing?’”
“Didn’t you tell her there’s a war going on?”
“I said it only a million times! I told her over and over: it’s a long journey across the Atlantic, and ships are being sunk every day. But what good did it do me? She won’t listen!”
“I can’t believe it,” I said, exasperated.
“Neither can I,” said Mrs. Horowitz. “Trust me, I didn’t give her my blessing, not even my permission to do this, but some organization—I think it’s called USO—did.”
“What’s that?”
“From what I hear, their mission is to provide morale-lifting services to U.S. soldiers wherever they serve, ‘Until Every One Comes Home.’ Somehow they decided to do it at my expense, I mean at the expense of putting my daughter in harm’s way, just so she can play music to entertain the troops. Oy, Lenny,” she said, her voice trembling in-between sobs, “I’m so afraid, so terrified that something bad will happen to Natashinka, that I can’t think straight.”
Meanwhile pips started to sound and I knew that a few seconds later, the line would go dead unless more money was fed in. I checked my pocket, fumbling to find more coins, but no luck: it was empty.
“Which ship?” I asked, at full tilt, knowing that the call might end at any second now. “Which port, when—”
“Well,” said Mrs. Horowitz, and in the background, those bedsprings under her came alive again, giving another moan. She must have stretched in bed, perhaps to get a handkerchief. I imagined her arms, with wings of flesh hanging flabbily down, flapping all about. To the sound of her blowing her nose into it, I wondered: did she even pay attention to what I asked? Was I going to get an answer?
“Well,” she said at last, “Natasha is supposed to board ship in a few hours, and she told me it’s about to set sail at noon, just as soon as they finish loading some cargo and stuff, so I’m going to go there to pull her off, whether she likes it or not, so as not to allow her to get too comfortable in that pit
ifully small cabin, because by hook or by crook such is my duty, and when it’s all over I know what to expect, because a mother’s work a thankless job.”
“Forgive me for asking,” I said, “but what will you tell her that you haven’t already?”
To my surprise, Mrs. Horowitz spared me, this time, from a snide remark. Instead, she chuckled.
“Aha! Luckily I’ve come up with plan that is certain to succeed,” she said, and then took a deep breath, clearly preparing herself for another one of her long-drawn-out sentences. “I’ve figured out, at last, how to change her mind, simply by telling her that she’s had her little rebellion and yes, she’s proved herself to be independent, which of course I promise to respect, without question, from now on, so what’s the point of sailing off, when it’s time to obey me and come back to safety, back home.”
“Purely for the sake of argument,” I said, “let’s suppose for a moment that Natasha ignores what you say—”
“Of course, there is a slight chance that she may stay aboard the ship, just to spite me, because no one resists logic without being burdened by some silly inner need.”
“So, what then?”
“In that case,” said Mrs. Horowitz, just before the call was disconnected, “here’s my advice to you, and you can think what you want about it, but coming from me, with the experience of a lifetime in all matters of life, you better listen, and listen good: you, young man, better behave yourself out there, because have no doubt, my daughter has a heart on fire and she’s coming for you!”
In the Name of All that’s Tender
Chapter 3
All day long, my mind was bombarded by scattered thoughts. Well, not thoughts exactly, only questions: where was Natasha at this very moment? Did she defy her Mama’s wishes and stay aboard that cargo ship, heading for England? How could she, who had never been on her own before, figure out her way, especially in a foreign, unfamiliar place? Would she find me? At the time of her arrival, would I still be here in London—or else, would I be deployed at a different location? And what was she thinking, sailing off into dangerous waters?
Dancing with Air (Still Life with Memories Book 4) Page 3