Dancing with Air (Still Life with Memories Book 4)

by Uvi Poznansky

  He gave me a pat on my shoulder, gave a nod to her, and left.

  Meanwhile, she stepped across the threshold with an expression that to me, was utterly unreadable. My heart pounded as we exchanged a look. In a flash, fear tightened its grip on me, fear that despite our love, despite everything we had gone through together, I might lose her.

  For the life of me I could not tell her mood, but now, this I knew: Natasha came back to me, ready to talk.

  Only Forever

  Chapter 19

  Coming in, the first thing Natasha did was the last thing I would have expected. For months I had been fretting about this moment, the moment she would confront me about carrying on with another woman. Even though I had a perfectly good explanation, there was no way for me use it.

  I knew, oh so well, the feeling of cheating lovers and husbands, trying to squirm away, dodging the inevitable charge of betrayal, shielding themselves, somehow, with a clunky excuse. Mine was a valid one, but I was prevented from using it, not only by my own commitment to the secrecy of the mission but also by a direct command from my officer. I found myself double-trapped.

  So imagine my surprise when instead of yelling at me—instead of shaking that letter violently right in front of my eyes and demanding vows, promises, guarantees, or at the very least some expression of regret—Natasha came over to the bed where I was lying, stretched over to reach my forehead, and ever so gently, kissed it.

  Raising my eyes to her I said, in great misery, “Oh my love, I don’t deserve it.”

  In reply she put her finger lightly upon my lips. “Hush,” she whispered. “Don’t say anything.”

  “But—”

  “There’s no need for words. I understand.”

  “You do?”

  In place of an answer, Natasha gave me a smile. In her hands was my notebook, which she had closed upon Lana’s letter. Setting it aside, “Move over,” she said. “Let me snuggle up.”

  I could not believe my ears. This was too easy, which made it hard, ever so hard to figure out. What could I conclude but this: perhaps she was reserving her anger, saving it for later, because there I was, with a deep cut on my knee, at times drowsy, other times awake, only to find myself drenched in pain.

  Meanwhile Natasha stepped away from my left side, perhaps to avoid leaning over the swollen leg. She came around to the right side, kicked off her shoes, and reclined on the bed, hugging me.

  Then, noticing my silence, she began to tell me about what had happened to her during the days I was unconscious. With no performances scheduled until next week, she had volunteered at the post office to help clear the backlog of undelivered mail, which was extensive, because of a severe shortage of hands.

  “The clerk,” she said, “he estimated it would take a month to clear up the mail, but I did it in just under a week.”

  “Which clerk was that?”

  “You may know him,” she said. “The one with the slight German accent.”

  At once I tensed up. “Oh him,” I said. “Was he nosy? Did he ask you too many questions? Did he give you any trouble?”

  “Not at all! The tough part for me was not that, but handling certain pieces of mail, because soldier’s wives and sweethearts write letters every day, especially when they hear the news, reporting about one battle after another. So I had stacks and stacks of mail to send back, which unfortunately, had to be marked ‘Deceased.’”

  “Oh, what a heartbreak!”

  “Yes, it was, which made me realize how lucky I was to have been right there, when the blast happened, to find you just when you needed me.”

  I said, simply, “I owe you my life.”

  To which Natasha said, “You owe your life not to me, but to providence.”

  To that she added, “I need you to get healthy, Lenny, because I promised Mama to go back to NY and take care of her, just as soon as you stand on your feet again.”

  “What?” I cried. “You’re leaving me?”

  “I have to,” said Natasha. “Ma is sick—”

  “Is she, really?” I asked, bitterly. “And is that your only excuse to cut and run?”

  She gave me a look as if to ask, what on earth do you mean?

  So I said, “Perhaps the real reason is something else entirely.”

  “Such as what?”

  “Such as, you’re angry with me and you won’t admit it!”

  “Am not!”

  “Are too! Instead of being left alone, I’d rather we talk about Lana’s letter.”

  At once, Natasha rose on her elbows. There was a spark in her eyes when she cast a look at me and said, heatedly, “Enough! I don’t want to hear another word about that woman.”

  I found myself wallowing in self-pity. “You think I had an affair,” I said. “And now you found a roundabout way of punishing me. I feel deserted, already.”

  She stammered, “Why, why don’t you believe me when I say, I understand what happened, understand it in its entirety?”

  “Because.”

  “Because what?”

  “Because it’s impossible! There’s no way for me to explain a thing about all that’s happened, and no way for you to guess at it.”

  “Still, without you saying a thing, I get it!”

  “How can you?”

  “Because,” she stressed, “I have eyes! Come to think of it, I would be far better than you at this spy game!”

  “What?” I cried. “How—”

  “This week, while working at the post office, I did a little spying of my own,” said Natasha. “And I noticed that clerk, the way he removes a choice item of mail from the pile, ever so stealthily, the way he makes a copy of it. Then he seals the envelope, looking left and right to make sure he’s not being observed, and puts it back in the pile. Just then I put two and two together.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning, I realized he’s working for the other side. And I wondered if he’s working for us as well, which made me think, Lenny, but it was not until later that evening that the idea came to me, and I knew what I had to do, to convince myself of my little theory.”

  “You’re playing with danger, Natasha—”

  “Perhaps I am. Then again—if I’m right—so are you!”

  “I have no idea where you’re going with this.”

  “I think you do, Lenny. I wonder, didn’t you notice that I took your notebook?”

  “I did, but—”

  “Look, there’s a reason why I needed it, even though there’s not a single ink stroke inside,” said Natasha, stretching over to pick up the notebook. Then she opened it, revealing the top page, which was blank.

  “There’s nothing there,” I said.

  “Really?” she said. “I had to examine it quite carefully, under a bright light. Then I closed my eyes, because having played the piano since childhood, I developed a feel for the keys and a fine sensitivity for other patterns as well. So, mainly by touch, I read the indentations, the pressure marks left by your pen.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  And a moment later I added, “And? Were you able to decipher them?”

  “Just enough to make sense of the whole thing. Here, for example,” she said, pointing at the paper, “Can you see?”

  “See what?”

  “This is where, on the previous page—the one that has been torn out—you wrote to that women, ‘Given your exceptional wit, not to mention your good looks, no wonder I wish to impress you.’”

  “Oh,” I said, and then added, “Sorry.”

  “When I read it the first time, I found it pretentious, Lenny. Then I read it again, only to realize I was right in the first place. I sensed, somehow, that you were playing a role, that of a ladies’ man. It doesn’t quite fit you, which made me curious.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  “As you should be,” she said, and went back to focusing on the blank page. “Right here at the top, there’s a paragraph that is unclear to me, I mean, the letters were not
pressed hard enough—but immediately after that, see, down here?”

  “I don’t see a thing,” said I. “But I’m sure you do.”

  “You wrote, again with that false bravado, ‘I’ve gained certain expertise, having visited the city of Dover.... I’ve seen our soldiers go through extensive military exercises in preparation for the attack. They’re ready for their mission. In a different way, so am I.’”

  It felt strange, hearing my words being read back to me, as if she were my own echo.

  “So?” I asked. “What d’you make of that?”

  Natasha lifted her eyes from the paper to peer into mine. “I think,” she said, “it’s not what a real Don Juan would say to a girl. I think you were posing.”

  “Was I?”

  “Yes, not so much for that women as for someone else, someone who doesn’t know you as well as I do, and may swallow this nonsense and believe, at the same time, that this is a credible love letter.”

  I fell silent, finding myself in awe. She had such a brilliant mind, such an amazing insight! I admired her capacity for interpretation, not only of some pressure marks on a page but also of my character, the way it came about in my writing.

  Natasha smiled, this time triumphantly.

  “It just so happens,” she said, “that I was in Dover just about the same time as you, right? And as far as I can remember—help me here, will you?—there were no ‘extensive military exercises‘ anywhere in sight, nothing but inflatable tanks, one of which was already losing air, and some dummy landing craft.”

  “I suppose that calling these military exercises ‘extensive’ was a bit over the top—”

  “Here’s what I figure, want to hear?”

  “I do.”

  “It stands to reason that you’re playing a game,” she said. “A spy game.”

  “Who, me?”

  “Who else, then? You’re trying to convince someone on the other side to stay on the alert at the wrong place, the wrong time. And for that purpose, you’re using the wrong girl.”

  What could I say but one thing: “You’re amazing.”

  Again, she put her finger on my lips.

  “Don’t say a word,” she whispered. “Don’t even come close to confirming my theory, because if I’m right, and I think I am, your mission is an important one, and it can’t be betrayed.”

  “All I can say is this: you and I, we’re a team.”

  “That’s just exactly what Mrs. Babcock says.”

  “I always liked her, and now I know why.”

  Natasha closed my notebook, and let Lana’s letter fall down to the floor. “So,” she said, “now that we’re on the same page, so to speak, I have a little favor to ask of you.”

  “Anything, sweetie.”

  “Once I’m gone—”

  “Please, Natashinka. Don’t leave me.”

  “You know I must.”

  “I know nothing of the sort.”

  “Oh Lenny, don’t make it harder on me than it has to be. Will you wait for me?”

  “Only forever.”

  “Will you do something for me?”

  “Anything you want.”

  “When I’m back there, on the other side of the ocean, how about you go back to writing these letters, with one little difference—”

  “Which is what?”

  “Address them not to the wrong girl, but to me.”

  “That,” I said, “was my idea in the first place, till you messed it up, sweetie, by coming here!”

  “Well, let’s start this thing all over again,” she said. “Only this time, do it right.”

  “But,” I said, “just don’t be surprised if my letters arrive in bad shape.”

  “I fully expect them to be illegible—how did that woman put it?—obliterated beyond recognition. Boy, was she right! Just saying ‘obliterated’ makes me feel smart!”

  I leaned over and kissed her.

  “Yes,” she said, a moment later. “I know the letter will have very few readable phrases, but already I can’t wait to get it.”

  “Shall I write how much I love you?”

  At first I heard laughter bubbling up in her voice. “No,” she said. “Or maybe, just a little, but not more than absolutely necessary, because others will read it before me. The more blue marks, due to the heavy hand of the military censor, the better.”

  Then she became utterly serious.

  “To us,” she said, “this may look like a game, but to other people—people being persecuted in concentration camps, people hiding in icy forests, fighting on bloodied battlefields—it sure doesn’t.”

  Natasha got up to turn off the desk lamp and stood there for a moment, pulling the blackout curtains apart just enough to take a glance at the moonlit buildings of London and at the streets, sprawling out there under the stars.

  I pulled myself up, overcoming a strong pang of pain, to watch her silhouette. No longer a girl, imagining herself dancing with air—she was a woman now, a woman with a solid resolve to take charge of the course of our story.

  When Natasha came back, she sat at the edge of the bed and turned on the radio. And to the faint sound of music, she started unbraiding her hair.

  I turned on my side, drew closer to her, and ran my hand along the arch of her back and the fullness of her hips. Never before had I experienced such a complete sense of peace. In spite of the suffering of my flesh, I had no worry, no tension whatsoever in my soul. Until now, my life had been in turmoil, like dust and debris swirling around in the wind. And just like that, a revelation: here, I thought, was something that felt like the eye of the storm. Here was the core. This was us, united not only in love but also in trust. It was a new feeling for me, a special moment.

  Then, peeking over her shoulder, I detected a sudden glint.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  And Natasha said, “It’s the little gold locket you gave me, remember?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I do.”

  Touching the gold link that held it, she raised the necklace from her cleavage and rolled over to face me. “Every night,” she whispered, “just before falling asleep, I hold it in my hand, imagining us—I mean, our little pictures—ensconced inside of it, smiling at each other, giving joy, giving warmth.”

  I gathered her to my breast. One day, I thought, we would remember this time, when—just like the two little images in her gold locket—we were held together by something we could not even name, a rapture that could not be captured in words. And even as we would grow old, those memories of what both of us went through would keep us here, in this embrace, forever young, forever ensconced in love.

  And the last thing I remembered, before losing myself in her kiss, was the deep, vibrant voice that played on the radio. It sounded so much like mine, so much like a prayer.

  Do I want you to stay

  And be here by my side?

  Only forever

  Be my joy and my pride

  Would I let you leave me

  If you say that you must?

  Take my heart with you

  ‘Cause its you that I trust

  Would I be counting the days

  Till you’re back in my arms?

  Only always

  Enchanted by your charms

  We’ll Be There

  Epilogue

  Just before she is taken into the examination room, I ask her to leave her jewelry behind, with me.

  “Why?” asks Natasha, turning around so I can unfasten the little gold clasp at the back of her neck.

  “Because,” I explain, “I’ve read somewhere that metal may make it impossible for the imaging machine to see what’s deep inside, behind it. Everything should be visible.”

  “Everything?”

  “Yes. We don’t want to take any chances.”

  I hear her breath, caught in her throat at the sound of worry in my voice. I should act cheerful. I should sound carefree.

  “It’s for safekeeping,” I say, as casually as I
can, as I remove her necklace. “Just for a few moments, until you come back out here.”

  Natasha is silent, so I have no idea if she understands me. All I know is that her hand flutters around her neck, touching-not-touching the skin, searching for something that—in her mind—has gone missing.

  Holding the little heart-shaped locket I am now pacing back and forth in the corridor, outside the examination room. I count the fluorescent fixtures overhead. I turn around and count doors. I pace some more.

  I try to force myself to relax, knowing that the effort is bound to fail. I open the heart-shaped locket, close it, open it again. There are two faces inside. Even though the paper has yellowed a bit over the years, they have not changed, which should not surprise me.

  They are forever young, forever hopeful. In the cold, bluish light of this place, the only thing that warms the heart is their smile.

  Is this really me? Was I so happy? Was she?

  While I wait for her, other thoughts come drifting in. I recall the conversation I had with our teenage son, Ben. He called me last night, after a long period of neglecting to do so. There were things I wanted to tell him but decided not to, because he didn’t really want to know. And perhaps there were things he wanted to ask but decided not to, because he really didn’t want to know.

  I wanted to tell him that his mother would be having a head X-Ray exam the next day. I wanted to let him know that she was ill, that in all probability she was not going to get well. And I wanted to say that I needed him to be strong—but then, guessing what he would say, I didn’t. Taking my plea the wrong way, he would merely promise not to cry.

  What I hoped he would take a leap to understand—even as I said nothing—was this: I needed him to be here, to support me, be my right hand, because these days, taking care of her was becoming more than one man can handle.

  Instead, we just had a little chitchat. I said, “Ben?”

  “Yes?”