Dancing with Air (Still Life with Memories Book 4)

by Uvi Poznansky

  “A draft it is not! It’s a gem, an expertly forged one!” He raised his eyes to me and added, “I promise you a promotion to sergeant, if the ruse of landing in Calais ends up being successful. So you better continue to work on the next letter.”

  “I will, sir,” I said, now doing my best to sound humble. “In the next few days I’ll have to travel to some of these places and study the topography, because I need more concrete detail, so as to sound reliable.”

  To my surprise, the officer was accommodating. “Sure thing,” he said. “Just let me know when you want to go and I’ll gladly arrange for the necessary permissions.”

  “How about tomorrow, sir? I think I’ll be busy later this week.”

  “How so?”

  “I expect my girlfriend to arrive.”

  His chair screeched under him as he rose to his feet. Coming at me from behind his desk, he asked, “Say what?”

  I caught sight of his face. It was reddening—but still, I thought nothing of it.

  “I wish she were here already,” I said, more to myself than to him. “But these days, crossing the Atlantic by ship—even if it is a modern, steam-powered one—can be as perilous, I’m afraid, as sailing on a wind-powered vessel used to be, because of having to avoid being detected by German submarines.”

  He rolled his eyes as if to say, I know all that, doesn’t everybody?

  Obviously, I was talking too much. “Please forgive me, Sir,” I said. “I can’t help it. I worry about Natasha.”

  As if he couldn’t believe his own ears, the officer shook his head. “She’s on her way to you?” he demanded. “She’s coming here, to London?”

  “Yes, she is—”

  “That,” he bellowed, “is most unfortunate!”

  “Sir, she’s making a big sacrifice of her own career, just to play here in England before the troops—”

  “Her sacrifice,” he said, in a hard voice, “is most unwelcome.”

  “Not sure I understand, sir—”

  He shoved the draft of the letter back into my hand. In utter disbelief I stared at the crumpled thing and tried to straighten it out, in vain.

  “Sir,” I said, this time with trepidation. “Shall I go ahead and send it?”

  “What’s the point?” he asked, mockingly. “You can’t send this to a girl who isn’t there.”

  “Why not?”

  “You think you can mess around with German intelligence? You think they won’t figure things out, sooner or later?”

  “You mean, they’ll be watching me, sir?”

  Captain Smith uttered a sigh, as if he couldn’t believe having to explain the obvious.

  “It’s safe to assume they will,” he said, in an utterly deliberate manner, as if talking to a slow-witted child. “Don’t you think?”

  To which I could only say, “Oh.”

  “What a waste!” he said, throwing his hands in the air, not before grabbing the letter from my hands and sending it in a whirl to the floor, which is where he stamped it, in great disgust, with the full weight of his boot.

  Was he expecting some apology from me? I could not figure out what I had done wrong.

  “All your talent has come to nothing,” he complained. “And why? All because of a woman.”

  Clearly, it was time for me to leave. I started turning away, when suddenly he said, “Unless—”

  “Unless what, sir?”

  “Unless you can find another one.”

  Now it was my turn to ask, “Say what?”

  “Don’t you have another girl back home, like the rest of the guys?”

  “No!” I said. “And you can’t expect this letter to be sent to just anyone out there—”

  “Why not? The right girl isn’t there,” he said. “So the wrong one will have to do.”

  “I can’t think of anyone I could use.”

  “In that case, you need to do some more thinking,” he insisted. “Find someone, anyone! She can be your grade school teacher or your best friend’s babe, I don’t mind at all who she is, as long as she shows no urge to sacrifice herself, unwittingly, on your behalf by coming over here and messing things up for us.”

  “That’s an impossible problem, sir. Even if I can somehow find such a woman, I’ll have nothing to say to her, and every sentence in the entire letter would have to be changed—”

  “So what?” he said, and led me to the door, while offering me a choice bit of literary advice. “Don’t be afraid of rewriting, Corporal. It means you have something worth saying well.”

  ❋

  A few minutes later I found myself walking down the street, where I was wracking my brain, trying to find a solution. Little did I know it was just about to be presented to me.

  “Hey, Lenny, why the long face?” said a familiar voice.

  “Don’t talk to me now, Ryan,” I said. “Can’t you see I have things to do?”

  “No,” he said. “Scratching your head can barely qualify as being busy.”

  “Please, Ryan, just go away.”

  His arm wrapped around the waist of his English girlfriend. “Oh, cheer up!” he told me. “Pleasure is the purpose of life!”

  Giggling, Kate rose to her tiptoes to nuzzle his ear. “Maybe so,” she groaned, “but moderation is the key.”

  “Is it, really?” he asked, and both of them burst into laughter.

  “C’mon,” she pleaded. “You promised to take me to London Zoo.”

  “Just one moment,” he said.

  To which Kate said, “Someone needs to feed those poor Pelicans. They don’t get enough food lately, because fish have to be rationed strictly, all because of this war.”

  She turned to go, and meanwhile Ryan stepped closer to me and said, under his breath, “Lenny, I’ve worked up my courage, at last!”

  I asked, “To do what?”

  “To send my old girlfriend, Lana, her final goodbye note.”

  “Oh really? You’re going to break her heart.”

  “That’s life. She’s been expecting it for quite a while. D’you have a stamp, by any chance?”

  “No. But I can find one for you, up in my room.”

  He handed me the envelope. “Seal it with a kiss, I’m sure Lana will thank you for it one day.”

  “You don’t really mean that.”

  “Mail it to her, Lenny, will you?”

  Taking it I hurried away, feeling suddenly lucky. The wrong girl was almost too easy to find.

  I had met her a few months back, on my visit to New York, so getting word from me would not seem strange to Lana. Quite the opposite, she would welcome an exchange of letters, because she was interested in all men in uniform, and in particular, she was drawn to me.

  And German intelligence? No doubt, they would take pleasure in the conversation. Yes, I would keep them entertained, so as to fool their war machine into a mishap. So in the future, they would find themselves vulnerable to attack in a place they least expected.

  In my room I copied her address to a new envelope. Then I smoothed the paper of my original draft, thinking how I might adjust the opening, so it would make sense for Lana.

  The idea that I might regret this sometime in the future did not occur to me until later, when I turned on the radio. The delicate voice of a singer reminded me, for no good reason, of Natasha:

  I heard what they say about you, cheatin’ man

  I can take it from you, I really can

  Tell me the truth

  Or I’ll drown my suspicions in Gin and Vermouth

  I can take it if you treat me wrong

  Because I love you and because I’m strong

  Tell me the truth, just don’t you lie to me

  Don’t reduce my love to despair and debris

  Snuggle Up a Little Closer

  Chapter 5

  Everyone asked what was the matter with me. In reply I just shrugged, because really, what could I say? I missed Natasha, I was restless. No, more than that: I was worried, worried beyond meas
ure. The thought of her aboard that vessel, traveling across troubled waters, kept tormenting me. The only thing that quelled my anxiety was listening to music, especially to this song:

  Snuggle up a little closer, ‘cause I pine

  To feel the touch of you, lovey mine

  Like to hold your hand and mosey

  Like to kiss your lips, so rosy

  Till the moon and stars start fading, my sunshine

  I pictured her in the steam-powered merchant ship. There she was, still in the bay, a sitting duck for the formidable, well-armed German U-boats, crossing into US Coastal waters, lurking around her. Until recently, the United States Government neglected to order a blackout of seacoast cities, leaving ships silhouetted against the shoreline, which made them an easy target. My heart sank, time and again, at the sight of photographs in the London Gazette, showing US beaches littered with burned-out skeletons of boats.

  Had she made it safely out of the New York Harbor? Was she in a convoy? Where was she positioned in it? How much longer until her arrival?

  For six long days I made it a habit to ride along the twists and turns of the Thames. Every morning I went through the entire length of the Port of London, all eleven miles of it, with one wharf after another coming into view. I looked at ships as they emerged from the mist and docked. Often I stopped to chat with sailors and merchants as they came ashore. If they had a New York accent I would wait there until the last of them had disembarked. I felt my pulse quickening, in spite of my wish to stay calm, at the sight of a red shock of hair—only to find myself disappointed.

  No, Natasha wasn’t among them.

  I told myself, time and again, to be patient. The convoy must have been moving at the speed of the slowest ship in it. My girl would be here, she would be coming soon, perhaps aboard the next vessel.

  On the seventh day I decided to busy myself by making a few changes to my Harley-Davidson, in preparation for her arrival. I wanted to show her all around the city, but would Natasha prefer to ride in the sidecar? I added a cushion there for her, and set the entire thing as low as I could, because as any rider knows, with it hooked in place the motorcycle was transformed into a whole other animal, and forget everything you knew about riding it.

  On second thought, would she like to ride behind me? Using a blow torch I bent an iron bar, then attached it behind the seat, so it would serve her as a backrest. I affixed another cushion on top of that to make her comfortable, because in my eyes she was a princess. I would spare no effort to have her ride in style.

  Time must have flown by quickly that morning as I was testing these adjustments, after which I had to attend to my military duties. They kept me busy for the rest of the day. And so I went back to my place for a change of clothes and ended up arriving at the Upper Pool of the Port of London a lot later than usual.

  Ships were moving closer, approaching the riverbank in a single file, waddling in from the sea like so many dirty ducks. The sun was already beginning to set, and in the distance I spotted a few people, bent under the weight of their bags and bundles. They looked over their shoulders, apparently in awe of Tower Bridge and its glittering reflection, which turned its solid mass into a fluid, rippling orange glow.

  “How beautiful is that!” said one.

  And another said, “Amazing!”

  “I’m glad, so glad to be on solid ground, at long last, thanks to those US destroyers steaming forty miles north of us, to provide close cover.”

  “Even so, she had to use a zigzag course, changing direction every so many minutes, so an enemy submarine won’t be able to zero in on us.”

  “I was seasick,” said the first one, wobbling along the dock like a drunken sailor.

  And the other one said, “So was I.”

  “Oh boy, did I pray!”

  “Me too! I prayed like never before in my life.”

  “I raised my eyes to heaven, crying out, ‘Oh Lord, let us not be hit by one of their torpedoes.’”

  The two men passed by my bike, which was the moment I spotted another figure, silhouetted against the sunset, setting her foot on the dock. She wore what was known back then as a cartwheel hat. It was made of red felt, with a long, black ribbon and bow, tied around the crown.

  I dismounted. From afar I could not read the features of her face, because she turned her head to look at her suitcase, nor could I tell the color of her hair, because it was tucked under the hat. But I figured, I might as well strike a conversation with her, on the far-fetched hope that she might have met Natasha or knew something, anything about her.

  I could not be sure if this young woman noticed me, not only because the sun was in my eyes but also because of the little veil, giving her an air of mystery, and because of the oversized, stiff brim, sweeping around her head. Its wide line balanced out the new, slimmer look, which was coming into fashion, lately. Unable to deny my curiosity I started walking towards her, squinting.

  A cloud drifted over across the horizon, shielding the sun, and now I could see: her white and black polka-dotted dress was neatly gathered around the waist by a black linen belt. In the evening breeze, dots were flapping against her hips, dancing around her knees.

  The fabric was crimped, however, which suggested to me that at the last minute, just before coming ashore, she must have taken the dress out of the suitcase and changed into it, with no time to take care of the creases, to smooth them. I imagined she was eager to look her prettiest for someone, a special someone she was expecting to meet.

  What’s the matter with you, I asked myself. What game are you playing? A spy? A private investigator?

  Strangely, the closer I got to her the more pronounced was the thumping of my heart. I quickened my step, crossing through a sudden gust of air, in which I caught not only the smell of the ocean but also a whiff of perfume. Somehow it reminded me of Natasha’s, except that in her case, the only purpose for which she used it was to dab the corner of an envelope, when sending a letter to me.

  “Hello!” I said, trying to strike a conversation with this stranger. “I heard it was a difficult journey.”

  Just then, the wind grew stronger. It lifted the hat into a tilt and for just an instant, revealed a glint, the red glint of a curl. At once she caught the brim, set the hat properly back in place—but not before I noticed the rosy blush.

  Burning suddenly with desire I reached for her hand. Instead of taking it, Natasha wrapped her arms around me, coming into mine. Speechless, I embraced her.

  “Oh, Lenny,” she said, her voice so soothing, so velvety, just as I remembered it. “Just snuggle up a little closer.”

  If not for hugging her I would pinch myself. This wasn’t a dream. She was really here, in the flesh.

  “And yes, you’ve heard right,” she said. “The journey was rough.”

  “And,” said I, “so much longer than expected.”

  Through the fabric of her dress I felt her breasts press hard against my body. I had to control myself, had to deny my urge to caress her all over, not only because there were people walking around us but also because of something else: I feared that the intensity of my desire might startle her.

  Overcome, suddenly, by exhaustion, Natasha stepped out of my embrace and plopped onto her suitcase. “Ma came to say goodbye, “ she said. “I saw her across from me, as we left the shore. She was offering a prayer, tears running down her cheeks. Then, once out to sea, the Germans fired at us.”

  “Really? What happened?”

  “The ships, they took up their positions in the convoy and plodded ahead. Straightaway, two of them were lost. One ran aground. The other, suffering from engine trouble, turned back to the harbor. And as for us I thought that was the end.”

  I shuddered at the thought.

  “This journey,” said Natasha, “it was more challenging than anything I’ve gone through in the past. Even watching Papa during his last months was easier, in a way, because back then I was on the outside, observing his pain.”

 
; I waited for her to continue.

  After a slight reflection, she added, “I could only guess what was happening to him, I mean, the ways his illness drained his mind, the ways he suffered. But now, I wasn’t an observer. I lived it, Lenny! Everyone on board—including me—was going through the same fear, the same hardship.”

  I could not help but ask her, “What were you thinking, putting yourself at risk?”

  In reply, she rose to her feet. “For this very moment,” she said, clinging to me, “I would go through it all over again.”

  I took a step back, to stress, “Your Mama, she’s beside herself with worry, and as for me—”

  “You talked to her?” asked Natasha, her eyes twinkling. “Of course you did, how else would you know to wait here for me? She doesn’t get it—”

  “And neither do I!”

  “But Lenny, it’s so simple! I missed you—”

  “That’s no reason, Natasha, for what you’ve done. Why leave home, especially now, when we’re at war? If you love me, keep yourself safe, if only for my sake! Why, why put your life at risk—”

  “Perhaps,” she said, “I’m not looking for safety! Have you ever thought of that? Perhaps something else is more important to me.”

  “Like what?”

  “I can’t continue to depend on others, Lenny, the way I’ve done all my life. This is my time to change, to demand new things of myself, even if they happen to frighten me, even if I’m scared out of my mind.”

  “Not sure I understand—”

  “Please try, Lenny.”

  “What is it you want?”

  “Just this: to stop leaning on those closest to me.”

  “You could’ve done that back home, couldn’t you?”

  “That’s the place where I’m being taken care of, to the point of feeling stuck. Worse than that: suffocated. Someone, usually Mama, drives me to where I need to be. Someone points me to the dressing room, calls me to the stage. I’m nothing more than a mechanical doll. All I do is respond.”

  “You do much more than that! You excite audiences, Natasha! And to me, you’re an inspiration—”