Apart From Love

by Uvi Poznansky

  I should’ve kicked off my high heels, or at least, pointed them away, so they would hover, like, just above the surface, when—in front of everyone—I laid myself down on top of the damn thing.

  And maybe it wasn’t a mistake exactly, ‘cause for Lenny, the piano is so much more than a musical instrument, which makes me hate it. I really do. Me, I can’t exactly explain it—but like, I wish it would disappear, or break down, or something.

  I remember the first morning I spent here, in this apartment, a month after his wife had left him. I sat down right here, on this bench in front of her piano, which looked whiter than white, because it was displayed against the background of a silvery blue wallpaper, which buckled at the seams, here and there.

  With great caution I brushed my fingers lightly across them keys. And from the belly of the beast a sound came, shaking the air, a soft, low grumble ending with a hum; which startled me.

  Facing me was her notebook, with a beautiful signature, which had plenty of twists and turns across the cover, and which was kinda hard to read—but at last I could make it out as Natasha. Next to the notebook was an old picture of her. I could see right away that she could easily be mistaken for my sister: her face was just like mine, and so was the red hair.

  A majestic bust—the bust of Beethoven—perched above me. At the time I didn’t hardly know who or what Beethoven was. Anyhow, I was so scared that it made my hair curl. The bust seemed to gaze fiercely at the air with them marble eyes, eyes as intense as they was vacant. I turned around and could see Lenny, right there on the sofa, looking at me strange like, as if he was seeing some ghost.

  He came over and sat down on the bench right here, beside me, and turned the photograph over, to hide his wife from me and perhaps, from himself. I thought he would put his arm around me, so we could start kissing—but instead, he took a long time to explain about them keys, and studied my fingers carefully, which made me feel awkward, and sorry, too. Sorry that my fingers wasn’t longer, and sorry that I couldn’t spread them apart no wider, the way Natasha could, being a pianist.

  I was real sorry that my thumb looked kinda thick, which meant I was a simple, earthy girl. This, according to my ma. She ought to know: years ago—before being hired as a cleaning lady—ma had worked in Venice Beach, down at the boardwalk, as a fortune teller.

  I remember her eyes. They looked downright stunning under the false eyelashes. As part of her gig, she would read the palm of my hand and like, shake her head with great concern for my future, so the hoop earrings would tinkle, as would the beaded necklaces and the jangle bracelets. Then her fake crystal ball would light up, at which time she would take firm hold of my hand and like, raise it up inside her fist, to show the crowd gathering around us how my thumb looked, how stubby it was, and how my lifeline, there on the palm of my hand, had an unusual, split end.

  This scared me, really—because me, I was only seven years old back then—and it made some of the onlookers drop their jaws, like, in great awe.

  They would come even closer, and press around us, eager to gain some insight into their own fate, and into each line on their palms and each little mark, and what all of them things could possibly mean. For a good price, ma would give out advice—mixed in with some warnings—which she crafted, like, in vague, immensely puzzling phrases.

  But then, she didn’t explain what the trouble was, exactly, with the split end of my lifeline; which left me kinda wondering. For sure ma couldn’t tell, back then, that I would hook up with someone like Lenny: a married man who had a son a year older than me.

  Now, in spite of sitting right next to me, Lenny didn’t notice no problem with the shape of my thumbs; which was lucky, ‘cause he raised his eyes for a second to the bust of Beethoven, and then, with a sudden spunk, like he was about to take a long, difficult leap, asked me if I wanted to learn how to play music.

  And I said yes, ‘cause I was sixteen, going on seventeen, and so I hoped that my hands could still grow a little, and maybe with some practice, my fingers could kinda stretch out, and become as long and as nimble as Natasha’s. And then, perhaps, he would stop comparing us to each other all the time in his head, and—to my relief—he would give up trying to mold me, like, in her shape.

  Let me be me, Lenny. Just let me be who I am.

  During the next few days, I toyed with the idea of enrolling in a Beginning Piano class in Santa Monica College. Lenny was real eager about it, and he even paid the tuition fee for me, and promised it was gonna open me up to a world of wonder, and inspire me, and teach me about them notes, and about rhythm, chords, and pedaling, and how to apply them basics to classical music.

  But then, a few weeks later, when I came back from the first class session, he changed his tune, perhaps because I made the mistake of testing my power over him:

  I told him that I’d met two young students in class, one of whom had said, “So what d’you say, let’s have some beer after class?” and the other had offered to carry my books, which immediately sparked a big fight between them.

  And the music professor, he tried to pull them apart, and by accident, he got in-between them—in the line of fire, so to speak—which left him with a big bruise right there, under his eye. And sadly, he couldn’t explain things as clearly as I’d hoped, on account of having to press a big icepack to his face.

  Lenny tightened his lips, and when I saw his face my heart fell inside me.

  I told him, real honest, that I’d ended up carrying my own books, and never had no beer with anyone but him, and that I didn’t need no handsome boys when I already had him, that he was a grownup, a smart, accomplished man, and that—no matter what happened—I would be his, only his, if only he would have me.

  And while saying that, I opened my arms to him—but still, Lenny remained kinda distant, and he had an unfamiliar look on his face, which I couldn’t figure out, like he didn’t want nothing to do with me. The pleat in his forehead deepened and then, all of a sudden, he burst out with, “It is over, Anita.”

  Me, I didn’t cry, didn’t beg, didn’t ask for no explanations, or hit him on the chest, even. Instead, I just froze there for a moment, with my arms still hanging, like, wide open in the air, and something went—boom!—exploding in my heart; after which I finally stirred, and went to the bedroom to collect my things, and looked for my hot pink high heels, which had rolled there, deep under the bed.

  I stuffed them shoes into my backpack, along with my low-cut blouse and a pair of jeans and the course catalog, without wasting no time—not even once—to wipe my tears with my sleeve.

  Lenny came right after me and leaned on the bedroom door, to stop me from bolting out. And he said, now in a changed voice, “Wait, Anita. It is not what you think.”

  So I slapped the backpack over my shoulders, and got up and rose to the tips of my tows to kiss him—long and hard—on his mouth, so he would have something to remember me by. And then I stormed past him, pushing my way out.

  He rushed to the balcony, and from there, leaning over his desk, he cried after me, “Anita, stop! Just stop, will you? Let me explain...”

  And running to the street I cried back, for the whole neighborhood to hear, ‘cause I wasn’t the one who had something to hide, “Forget it, Lenny! I don’t want no explanation from you—not now, not ever!”

  Which was the moment he said, and his voice sounded pretty painful, even from the distance, “She is back. That is why it is over. It just has to be over, now.”

  This marked the beginning of turmoil, of several years full of doubts and suspicions, with more ups-and-downs than the Ferris Wheel, down there on the Pier, and the Roller Coaster, combined. His wife, Natasha, came back, and she stayed for a while. Then she went away, finding a place to live here and there, perhaps with one of her girlfriends or with aunt Hadassa, or elsewhere.

  And each time I moved back in with Lenny, she managed, somehow, to return. And me, I had to leave, ‘cause like, I didn’t want to have to face her. So I went back h
ome to ma’s place, swearing I won’t want to see him no more. Finally, about five years ago, she left, this time for good, but like, who knows. And since then I haven’t heard nothing about her—not from Lenny, not from anyone else.

  Meanwhile, I’ve gone ahead with the Piano course, even though I’ve given up any hope on extending my stubby thumb, or growing my fingers any longer. And from time to time I would buy some piano sheet music for beginners, like Caprice by Paganini, and practice it—but only in school, and never when he’s around, ‘cause them keys, they may stick under my fingers, which would make my song stutter—and Lenny expects me to be perfect. He expects me to be her.

  Which is why—in spite of me working so hard to try, to become better—he still complains.

  Like, I’ve learned more ways to say things, and improved my vocabulary. I’m awful proud of saying vocabulary; which in plain talk means I have a lot of new words up here, in my head, which can confuse me sometimes, and even leave me speechless—unless I sound them out loudly, right away. Even so, Lenny says that my grammar is atrocious. I am, in his words, a work in progress. I wonder if she ever felt as choked by him—I mean, by what he expects—as I do.

  And so I’m sitting here in the dark, in front of her piano, folded over my stomach because of this sharp pain, which make me scared silly. I wish ma was here, ‘cause like, even if she would give me a good slap, still, at least I could feel a touch, which would be better than this sorry state of being here, in the back of beyond.

  Me, I’m so lonely I want to wail, to cry, to wash away the hurt—but my eyes, they’re burning. They’re dry, like, completely. I guess that being depressed is so much better when you can’t shed a tear.

  So instead I raise my head and with wild, vicious force, I bang my forehead, then bang it again against the keyboard. I’m free now, so free to attack it. The beast wakes up, and from its belly springs a sharp, fierce cry, which makes the air tremble in bursts, short bursts coming at me, doubled by echoes from every wall, every corner.

  Meanwhile, in the background, I can hear them blinds, like, smacking each other, and giving way, suddenly, to a gust of wind. And there, in the opening of the glass door, which leads to the balcony, I spot his outline, standing behind the tape recorder.

  The moonlight shines briefly on his shoulders as Lenny crosses the threshold. With a slight limp he makes his way in, and leans over my shoulders. And I can feel his strong arms wrapping around mine, arresting me, blocking my attempt to bang, bang, bang the keys. He turns me around—but me, I try to refuse him, and I fight like a savage, like a cat, and something surges in me, so in my fury I push him, I shove him away real hard, till he falls to his knees before me.

  It’s then that he locks his hands around me, and all of a sudden he lays his head, so tender like, in my lap. And there, in the dark, I touch his forehead, surprised to find not only the usual pleat—the one that brings back to me a memory of my pa—but a few more wrinkles, screwed up over his eyes. Which makes me figure out his expression: tormented.

  So I hold myself back from saying, Where was you, I was awful lost here, all by myself for so many hours, and I thought that for sure, you’ve gone away. And instead I caress him, and take his face between my hands, and smooth his forehead with a kiss, asking, “What is it, what happened? Lenny, you crying?”

  In place of an answer he fumbles in his shirt pocket, and from there gets his by-focals—even though the only thing to see here, in the darkness, is a patch of moonlight, which is blurry anyway, even with perfect vision; and the only thing to read is my face.

  He puts the glasses on, like, to hide behind them; which makes me wonder. During the last ten years I’ve learned there’s something about his wife, Natasha, something he conceals not only from me, but from his son, even. So I reckon it must be laying heavily on his mind.

  “Oh, Lenny,” I say, “just tell me what it is, will you? How hard can it be, to stop being the keeper of secrets?”

  “I am worse than that,” he says. “I am the inventor of lies.”

  “You’re a writer,” I shrug. “So, you make things up. What’s so wrong with that?”

  He turns away from me to wipe something in his eye, which makes me figure that he’s shutting himself off.

  So I try again. This time I say, “Let me read your stories.”

  “No,” he says. “My writing is not the place where the fiction is.”

  “But Lenny,” I plead, “don’t you think you could make things so much easier, for you and me and everyone else, if only you said something real, like, if you told me the truth?”

  He shakes his head, refusing me, trying to pull himself out of my hold, which makes me lose my balance and fall to my knees opposite him, right there on the floor, between the claws of the piano, so that now we’re face to face.

  There’s more light now, which brings out more of him. And so, seeing him in such an agony I say, “You’ve taught me so much, Lenny. I note every one of your words, especially the ones I don’t hardly get. I repeat them in my head, so that later I can figure out what they mean, and even use them, instead of just saying things.”

  “All I know,” he blurts out, “is this: the words you learn—she forgets.”

  He don’t really name her—but we both recognize who it is he’s talking about. By now I know that Lenny knows that I don’t want no explanations from him, no matter how hard he gets, or how closed his face becomes. I’m not one to pry—but then again, maybe the time’s come for him to try, like, try to confide in me. Maybe prying things open isn’t such a bad idea.

  And so I suggest, “Why not tell me something about her?”

  “No,” he says, biting his lips. “I have said too much already.”

  Me, I watch him in silence, and before I can say nothing he adds, “No. There is no way for you to understand, to take in what she is going though.”

  “Maybe not,” I say. “But just, try me.”

  “No,” he repeats, a third time. “Yesterday, I tried to tell Ben, which was a mistake, a big mistake. Oh hell... What kind of a father am I? I should have kept my mouth shut, because since then he has left, and stayed out all night, who knows where. And with these legs under me, I can do no better than sit there, on the balcony with the tape recorder, and just, let my mind wander... Rewind, Play, Rewind, Play... I will never forgive myself if—”

  “Stop, just stop it! Stop torturing yourself,” I cut in. “Maybe he just needs some time alone.”

  He turns his head away, over his shoulder, and glances at the thin, vertical intervals, right there between them blinds. By now you can start to detect, as if by reflection, a balcony. It’s kinda identical to ours, and cast back from the other building, the building directly there, opposite us.

  It seems like Lenny’s trying to guess—by the graying of the dark—how much time until daybreak. He presses the sides of his head, till a vein flares up on his temple, pulsing there between the nails of his fingers.

  “If anything happens to Ben it would be on me. It would be entirely my fault. My God,” he says. “I should have buried the whole thing, and kept it there, in the grave.”

  He don’t speak no more after that.

  By now, the night is almost gone. It’s peeling away, like an old, silvery blue wallpaper, rolling in from the corners. There, in the balcony facing us, an old woman comes out in a loosely tied bathrobe, rubbing her eyes, kinda sleepy. She waters her plants, floods her dry geranium, then goes back inside, pulling the sliding glass door shut behind her, with a long, deafening screech.

  Lenny winces. I can tell: this isn’t what he’s listening for.

  Now, more familiar sounds: a car is being started in the parking area, making a knocking noise, ‘cause it’s an old clunker and the engine is still cold. Finally it lurches, somehow, into the street and you can hear it like, turning away, even as the brakes of another car is being stepped on, followed by a sudden, rubbery squeal.

  This isn’t what he’s listening for.

/>   It’s Morning. You can hear water gushing through the pipes inside the walls, because there, in the apartment next door, someone has just started taking a shower. Meanwhile, in the garden below, the sprinklers come on, spluttering water one spit after another.

  This isn’t what he’s listening for.

  For him, all them sounds are being drowned out by the tick, the incessant tick, tick, tick of the old alarm clock. The little hammer on top of it is idle, and so is the twin bells. They’re just hanging there, left and right of the hammer, reflecting this whole room, and the piano, and us, too. We seem so unlike ourselves, bent out of shape in their brass finish.