The Witness Tree

by Brendan Howley

  The pianist finished. There was an audible sigh from his listeners, and as he left the stage the harsh overhead lights faded to black, and applause and a shower of coins rained down on the empty stage.

  Eleanor caught the waiter’s eye. “What’s that colored piano player’s name?”

  “Elmo Hope. From right here in New York.”

  “He plays like an angel,” Mrs. Whyte said.

  “Until nine o’clock,” the waiter said, laughing. “Then his momma comes to take him home.”

  “Young man, would you give Mr. Hope this?” Mrs. Whyte offered a five-dollar bill. The waiter took it to the young pianist, now smoking in the corner. He accepted it wordlessly, in another world.

  Kronthal came over to Eleanor and her friends, followed by the cornet player. “Ladies,” Kronthal announced, “I’d like you to meet an acquaintance of mine from Germany. He’s a rower too. Misha Resnikoff, lately of Stockholm, Sweden, and London, England.”

  “A pleasure to meet you all,” Misha said. “I hope my playing wasn’t too hard on your ears.”

  “You were great,” Kronthal enthused.

  Misha smiled. “No, the pianist is great. I’m just shoving the notes along.”

  “Forgive me, but haven’t we met before?” Eleanor asked.

  Misha studied her face for a moment in the dim light. “You know, we have met, in Berlin, on that lake near the Wannsee, I forget the name. You were camping. Early one morning. The fall of 1932.”

  “You two met kayaking?” Kronthal was laughing and waving for another round from the gray-suited gypsy bartender.

  “What on earth are you doing in New York? Are you a professional musician?” Eleanor asked, delighted.

  “No, that decidedly I am not. I work for National Cash Register … uptown, I think is the word.”

  “Seems we meet rowing—at the Oxford–Cambridge boat race, then at the Olympics,” Kronthal offered. “In Berlin. He rowed for Latvia.”

  Grace raked Misha with a practiced glance, then looked at Eleanor, sizing this up. “Well, aren’t you a man of many talents?”

  “Very kind of you, but no, I’m just a foreign mathematician getting out of his very small apartment for the evening.”

  “You play well,” Eleanor said loyally. “I remember now.”

  “No, no. You wait until later, when the real jazzmen play.”

  Misha sat down next to Eleanor and placed his horn on the battered tabletop. She accepted a cigarette from Kronthal. “Tell me, what were you doing on that lake that morning?”

  “Nothing special. I kayaked all over Europe in those days.”

  “Oh, don’t get Ellie started about boats,” Grace warned. “She’ll never shut up.”

  “Mr. Kronthal,” Mrs. Whyte demanded, emboldened by her second manhattan, “that man is going to put a gramophone record on. Would you care to dance?”

  Kronthal offered his hand. “Indeed I would.”

  They danced to “Heart and Soul,” and several other couples joined them, even as the bar stool poet staggered backwards past them, muttering: “It’s true because it’s political. Liquid infinity, Dave, that’s the ticket …” The sweating waiter steered the weaving poet up the stairs and out into the still August night.

  Grace, far quicker than Eleanor, asked Misha, “Why don’t you two dance and talk at the same time?”

  “Forgive my manners,” Misha said. “Would you care to dance?”

  Eleanor grinned shyly. “It’s been a while, I can assure you.”

  “I’m sure we’ll manage.” They did, moving together comfortably, apart from the others, to one side of the stage. The pianist shot Misha a smile that read Who’s the old broad you got there?

  Eleanor was too happy to care, in this cracker box of a club full of smoke and music and crazy politics. This is about as far from Watertown as I could get on a weeknight, she reflected. She liked Misha’s touch and his back, well sprung with muscle. “You seem distracted,” she offered.

  “I’m sorry, I’m listening a lot and dancing a little,” he apologized.

  The recording ended. Somewhere at the other end of the room a radio crackled to life: more music, a swing band from the Empire State Building. Misha held Eleanor’s hand and pulled her closer. “I owe you a good dance, not a lecture on my feeble jazz career.” They danced to the pianist’s slow ballad, Misha leading gently.

  “You don’t seem very political,” Eleanor observed. “Not compared to some of the characters here.”

  He laughed, his smile bright in the dark. “I am,” he promised, “the most political mathematician you ever met.”

  The ladies’ room ten minutes later: Grace and Eleanor were at the sink mirror, laughing. “Well, Mother certainly is having a whale of a time, isn’t she? That James is charming the daylights out of her. Not exactly a wallflower yourself, are you, Ellie?”

  “I’m a little short of breath. It’s hot out there.”

  “Yes, you’re a little flushed, darling, now I take a look at you.”

  “It’s been a while since I’ve been on a dance floor,” Eleanor replied.

  Grace stepped back and stared at her friend in the scarred mirror. “Well, Gabriel and all the angels, Eleanor Dulles, you’re smitten.”

  “You’re being dramatic, Grace.”

  She clasped Eleanor’s wrist. “Honey, look, your hands are trembling.”

  “Oh, Grace, he’s ten years younger than me.”

  “I tell you one thing and that’s for sure, Miss Dulles, that young man is no boy. You can feel it coming off him. And don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

  “You talk such trash, Grace. Really.”

  “I do not. Have you even been close to a man since David died?”

  “No.”

  “Comb, please. A word of advice for you: you want to see a little more of the world than those pointy-headed folk up at the Social Security tabulating office. Life’s just going to pass you by.”

  “I’d make a perfect fool of myself.”

  “Take him canoeing or whatever you call it, get out on the water, get some sunshine. I’ll look after Sophie.”

  “I haven’t been faltbooting in ages.”

  “Time to go, honey. These things are never chance.”

  There came a rapping on the door, exasperated. “Come on out, you two,” Mrs. Whyte ordered, her voice muffled by the thin door. “I’m not a camel.”

  XXIII

  SULLIVAN COUNTY, NEW YORK STATE

  SEPTEMBER 1938

  They’d borrowed Mrs. Whyte’s roadster, a blue-black cloth top Hispano-Suiza convertible Eleanor secretly coveted for its muscular ways. Last of my fantasies, she thought as she drove west along a winding stretch of dusty road cut through mute evergreen forest. She’d borrowed Grace’s sunglasses as well, but even so, the midday sun gave her a headache that didn’t fade until they crossed the Hudson into the wilds of Sullivan County. They’d stowed their boats in the convertible’s trunk; a picnic hamper lay between them, draped with the morning newspapers, Misha having read the headlines to Eleanor as they left New York behind.

  “Hang on, we have to turn here,” Misha warned over the clatter of revving engine and sprayed gravel. “This is it—Beech Mountain Road. Well done.”

  “Don’t thank me,” Eleanor replied, gearing down to make the turn. “Thank Grace—she’s very keen on point-to-point rallies.”

  “Ah,” Misha said. A roadside sign, holed by pellet guns, caught his attention. “Mongaup. What is that?”

  “Indian name. The Lenni-Lenape tribe. They were forced all the way to Oklahoma.”

  “All very mysterious, America.”

  This time Eleanor didn’t laugh. “You’re pretty mysterious yourself, Herr Krumme-Lanke-at-dawn.”

  “At Cambridge they called me ‘The Eskimo.’ Because of the kayak.” He looked down at Grace’s map and found the crescent of blue ink marking Mongaup Pond. “How do you know Jim Kronthal?”

  “I only
met him that day. The art auction Grace’s mother had taken us to. He came over and started to talk about Rembrandt. You?”

  “It’s a small world, Jews who row,” Misha said, laughing.

  “So meeting at the Vanguard wasn’t entirely coincidence?”

  Misha shook his head. “He’d been promising me an audience for weeks. Usually it’s me, Elmo, and the bar stool philosophers.”

  The forest suddenly opened into an expanse of meadow, high thin grass cleaved by a derelict split rail fence and dotted with clots of blackberry and hawthorn. A great gray house, gabled and eaved in peeling gingerbread, sailed a sea of uncut rye, barely moving in the heat; in each window, a white face and side curls and a black hat and passive eyes, watching.

  “Those are Orthodox Jews, Hasids.” Misha paused, staring. “In the middle of nowhere.”

  Eleanor nodded. “They’re probably up from Brooklyn.”

  Misha was transfixed. “I—you don’t think of this in America. Reminds me of Vilna. It’s like they’ve never seen a car before.”

  “Vilna?”

  “In Poland. The ‘Jerusalem of the East.’ I have an uncle there, in the timber trade. We’re mostly Latvian. I come from a long line of Riga timber merchants. On my father’s side.”

  “What does your father do?”

  Misha smiled at her. “He’s still in Riga. He’s buried there. Real brains, too, long line of Yiddish scholars. He loved words, he loved to sing.”

  “You had your instrument with you in Berlin. I remember that.”

  “Those days, always.”

  “A cornet-playing navigator.”

  “Navigating by the stars,” Misha agreed. “Here’s a navigator’s story for you: One of the profs at Cambridge had worked out that in 7 BC, three of the closest planets aligned and overlapped. Over Palestine, they would have looked like a star, for months on end.” He laughed, a big full laugh that Eleanor felt go right through her.

  “Have you been to Palestine?”

  “Once. I worked in a bank, in Haifa, after my Olympic fiasco. My stepfather arranged it.” They were coming to a fork in the road. Misha ran his finger along the blue line of secondary road. “It’s left here. We’re almost there. Kronthal tells me your brothers are bankers’ lawyers.”

  They’d hit a patch of gravel left by the winter plows, and the stony roar against the Hispano-Suiza’s curved fenders filled the car. “They’re what?”

  “Lawyers. For bankers.”

  Eleanor made a face, curious. “How on earth did he know that?”

  He’d let that part drop carelessly. “His family in Germany, they’re bankers too. We stick together, we bankers’ brats. They knew about your brother Foster, he said. Bond deals or something.” Grace had lent them a guidebook too; Misha scanned the page as they closed on the lakefront road. “Says here this watershed runs all the way to Delaware and the Chesapeake Bay. I’ve heard of the Chesapeake. That’s where the fishermen speak like Shakespeare.”

  Eleanor chuckled, slowing as they moved deeper into the evergreen forest. “You’re so serious. Resnikoff, there’s a name. Does anyone ever call you Romanoff?”

  He shook his head, reading. “My stepfather’s family were originally Resniks: butchers, ritual slaughterers. The ‘off’ came when they began handling the Tsar’s oil business. Look, you can see the lake, through the break in the trees.”

  They paddled the length of the lake. The calm of the place hung heavy in the afternoon sun, the click of lake water against the taut canvas hulls counterpoint to the sluicing snick-drip of the paddle blades through the water. They shared the quiet concentration of water folk, making dead true for the farthest reach of the lake, their wakes parallel. Eleanor had five beats to his four, but there was little else to choose between their styles: upright, balanced, economical. They’d covered the three miles of open water at an easy pace, only the cawing of a mallard furious at the interlopers for accompaniment. On the lee shore of a small bay they pulled in, quietly assembling a deadwood fire for shore lunch, and spreading Eleanor’s old plaid blanket over the harsh hot sand. This was September masquerading as July, down to the pure white sun overhead.

  “Why always a two-seater?” Eleanor asked while a half chicken crisped in the fry pan. She’d been thinking back to the other lake, six years ago, the threads of fog and the bridge and the stony beach sand under her sleeping bag.

  Misha shrugged, opening their bottle of Riesling with one swift pull. “You never know when you’ll have a passenger,” he said, running a thumbnail across the wet end of the cork. Eleanor stared at him, prodding the chicken about in the bubbling fat, but he never broke a smile. “Besides, I can always pack the extra space for overnights. You should turn that—wings don’t take very long.” Then he smiled. She marked that smile, the distance of it, of him.

  “It’s good, you know,” he said, looking west across the lake. “The water. Being out here. It makes me feel like I’m living for something. Maybe a little closer to God.”

  She nodded. “I know. A little closer to God.” The chicken had browned nicely before she spoke next. “The first time I met you, I thought: he’s doing something dangerous, that one.”

  “Eleanor. I work in an office. The most dangerous thing there is the elevator.”

  “What’s your boss at NCR like? Let’s gossip,” she ordered.

  “Fascinating creature. Tall party, low paunch, no visible hair. No visible sense of humor. Knuckle cracker. Very bad suits, but that’s the national costume here in America, apparently. Wife, Alice. Or Anne. Something with an A. Photo near the phone, two fat kids, names unknown, not in the least attractive. I know my job. He leaves me to it.”

  “Which is?”

  “I work with the mathematics of ciphers. An odd trade, but an old one, goes back to the Chinese. Honorable, international, a little travel. People will pay good money so that other people can’t read their business. Good colleagues. We’re all badly paid enough to be interesting. Usually.”

  She flipped the chicken and stood, scrubbing the sand from her knees. “I’ll tell you something: you’re something of a cipher yourself, Herr Resnikoff.” Eleanor crossed her arms over her chest before she asked: “Is there someone?”

  “A woman, you mean? No. I wanted a new life here in the New World. There was once, but sentimental I’m not. You?”

  “Between job and Sophie, I’ve a full life. Besides, I’m the cautious type. Too timid. Are you ever going to pour that wine?”

  “You know, my favorite thing about kayaking is sleeping in warm sand. Feeling my spine settle.” He poured the wine into Mrs. Whyte’s finest. “Is this the part where you try to figure out if I’m a right bastard or not? What ruined women I’ve left in my wake?”

  Eleanor was bent over the fry pan, testing the chicken, not looking at him. “Oh, I’ve a pretty good idea, thanks, just watching you operate.” She waved her tongs at him. “Lunch, Herr Resnikoff, is served.”

  They lounged on the blanket, both hungry from the trip across the lake. “Grand. That’s a good salad you’ve made there. I didn’t think Americans knew what endive was.” Misha tore the bread to pieces while Eleanor slid the crisp chicken onto Grace’s good bone china plates.

  She offered Misha a glass; they toasted one another. “Endive? I lived in Paris once, after the war.” She took a sip of the light, cold wine. “Oh, I’m an education. You wait.”

  In the distance, birds cried at a fixed pitch, a repeated note on a piano. They had napped, not touching, until the birds woke Eleanor, her clothes clinging to her from perspiration. She found him gone, the heat-shimmered beach too coarse for a trail of footprints, his kayak unmoved. She searched the length of the water for him, thinking he’d gone swimming, but the surface was utterly still.

  She made for the woods, her damp hair suddenly cooling the nape of her neck. She found a place to sit in the shade between the firs and looked back across the lake, her hands primly in her lap, waiting, quite happily, she decided, just to
see his face again. “Well, Eleanor, old girl,” she muttered, “you’ve done it this time. Here you are, miles from civilization, wandering the forest primeval with a man you met in a madhouse. You’re going to hell in a handbasket.” She laughed, wondering if it was true you really got what you deserved in this life. Did all the heartache since David’s death amount to a chance—only a chance—of something like real happiness? Or did no one or nothing care?

  She looked straight up, through the cross-hatching of pine boughs, at the silver-blue sky. The trees paused motionless in the heat; even the insects were too drowsy to fly. She leant back against a long-dead maple and peered into the green gloom. She should have done this long ago, returned to the water and the trees and the sky and let her soul settle somewhere new. A memory of Sophie crossed her mind: a child running across a farmyard, chasing a calf, laughing as the fleet little animal stutter-stepped away. Whose farm was that? she thought. The Butalas’? No, that wasn’t right. She smiled and shook her head. She had forgotten so much in the intensity of mothering.

  Eleanor looked down at her hands, her palms worn red from the friction of the paddle. They had become the soft, citified hands of a bureaucrat. I’ve lost my calluses. I’m just a weekend waterman now. She could remember them in Germany, the last time, the book on the Bank for International Settlements growing in her mind, ridges of callus across her palms and where her fingers gripped the double scull, hard and leathered.

  He’s not even thirty and I’ll never see forty again. A shiver went through her and she realized, for the first time in ages, that she had never taken off her wedding ring. Eleanor gently turned the ring, watching the light in the triplex of diamonds where the crystals caught a fine needle of sunlight. “Well, David,” she began, a spike of embarrassment darting up her spine. She cleared her throat and thought some more. “David. David, it’s me,” she said very quietly. “I’m still alone. Or maybe not. Are you? Are you alone, where you are?”

  A heaviness crumbled inside her, a breaking sigh that came trembling out of her as the tears fell. She sniffed and laughed a little, everything suddenly absurd, this idea of talking to David especially. “I suppose not. You can’t be alone, if … if there’s a heaven, can you? No. No, you can’t.”