The Ruined House

by Ruby Namdar

  An intense light shone on them from above. The video crew had reached the circle and was aiming powerful spotlights at its center. Eyeglasses, cuff links, and bald spots glittered with every step. The song reached a crescendo. Michael and the other dancers joined in, whooping the Hasidic tune in a triumphant chorus. Andrew danced and danced. Although his senses felt battered by the close physical contact, its intrusiveness aroused not the antagonism he might have anticipated but a pleasurable, hypnotically intimate sense of warmth. Most striking was his reaction to so much masculine sweat not his own. The sensation was one he couldn’t place. His body could remember the salty, vaginal-tasting sweat of wild lovemaking, the perspiration of long hikes, the damp curls of a baby lifted from her crib after an afternoon nap. This, though, took him further, deeper . . . A kiss? Yes, it was a little like a first kiss with its repulsive thrill of someone else’s sweet saliva. No, it went even deeper than that. It was liberating, cathartic. It was like surrendering to a summer downpour that ran down one’s face and soaked one through and through. The sopping wet clothes. Time ceased to exist. All inhibitions were gone. All was one and One was All.

  His pas de deux with Michael ended as abruptly as it began. Swept back up by the flow of bodies, he spun briefly in its orbit before being flung out of it and deposited, sweat-drenched, in the very spot he had entered it from. The insistent beat of the music was like a second pulse driven by his pounding heart. How much time had elapsed? A minute or two, it couldn’t have been more. His body still shook with the wild rhythm of the dance. Relief was tinged with disappointment. Part of him would have liked to plunge back into the circle, to reimmerse itself in the storm that had swept his senses and surrender to it unconditionally. But another part, more stable and familiar, was already leading him, short of breath, out of the storm to safety. He stood between the circle of dancers and his table, not knowing which way to turn. His heartbeat slowed, and, with it, the everyday Andrew took command. For another minute, he remained standing. Then, his legs weak, he walked to the table at which the waiters were serving the second course.

  “Hi, Dad. Having a good time?” Rachel’s sarcasm was annoying. Irritably, she threw herself into a seat by his side and reached out for her no-longer-bubbly flute of champagne. Andrew murmured a vague answer. His emotional, semi-ecstatic state surprised him. Its strange, dreamlike, yet not unpleasant stimulation was like being drunk. The perspiration now drying on his skin, the loud music, the obscene quantities of food, the heat, the wine: all merged in a sensation as utterly new as it was terribly old. The rhythm of the dance was still beating in his veins, low and primitive like an ancient drum. It had a thrilling, primeval, almost pagan feel. Rachel muttered something that failed to register on him. He glanced again at the Hebrew on the wall. Something about it tugged at him, like a secret code that suddenly seemed painfully familiar. He couldn’t take his eyes off it. A strange, wistful longing overcame him, for what he didn’t know. His heart brimmed. His eyes felt like they would soon fill with tears, and his breathing kept growing deeper.

  There was a flurry of excitement. An orchestrated clash of cymbals announced the return of the red-uniformed waiters with large, steaming trays of grilled prime rib on their shoulders. The vapors swirled toward the Holy Name, whose letters seemed to shimmy with life on the wall. The pungent smells of perfume, sweat, breathy exhalations, and the repugnantly appetizing grilled meat assaulted Andrew’s nasal cavities, making him dizzy and unsure where he was. Lo, the foundations of the thresholds shook and the house was filled with smoke. The walls were moving apart, farther and farther from each other, lifting like stage curtains to reveal the gleaming white marble facades of a huge, ravishingly beautiful shrine crowned with gold. The song of Levites surged and spiraled upward in a deep, ancient chant in which, as though from the first days of Creation, the world’s soul was enfolded. The Temple’s golden gates shone in the pinkish-violet light of the desert twilight. A thick, upright column of smoke rose from the burning logs on the altar, oblivious of the evening breeze that blew as though to dislodge and disperse it to the four winds. Men of piety and men of deeds danced with hymns of praise and the Levites on the fifteen steps leading to the Women’s Gallery from the Gallery of Israel played their zithers, dulcimers, cymbals, and divers instruments. A barefoot, nimble old man dressed in a gold-embroidered cloak juggled eight torches in the air, catching one and throwing another back in the air. Never did one touch another.

  13

  Eleven thirty p.m. The highway is empty and the car gulps the miles like a horse eager to return to its stable. It had just begun to snow. The radio warns of a rapidly approaching blizzard that threatens to cut off the city. They do not want to get stuck in it on the highway. Rachel, the alcohol wearing off and giving way to a predictable headache, is getting the toxic remains of the evening off her chest. “All that celebrating doesn’t convince me. It’s artificial, forced happiness. They’ve been brainwashed. Those women with their ten-thousand-dollar nose jobs and anorexic daughters! And their Gucci and Prada bags, and three-and four-carat engagement rings, and Madison Avenue hats and dresses! It’s disgusting, perfectly disgusting! All they talk about is clothes, home appliances, and shopping. It’s unbelievable, like a pious parody of our consumer society.”

  Her voice, though, is growing softer, almost accepting. The last thing she would have admitted to herself was that she had actually enjoyed their little adventure. Enough with the news channel. A golden-black saxophone is playing on the jazz station. The New York skyline rises regally to their left. The green lights of the Triborough Bridge are already winking ahead of them. Andrew drives silently, his face and neck still coated with warm, dry, sticky perspiration. His mind hadn’t stopped reeling from the awesomely powerful vision. Its last traces, though their bright threads were already unraveling, continued to reverberate. He reached for the radio, as though intending to turn up the volume, then retracted his hand. What was this about? What was happening to him? This wasn’t the first time. He was having more and more of these strange visions. They came from nowhere and had no explanation, not even a hypothetical one. This wasn’t the time to think about it, though. He was too tired, confused, and overstimulated. It could wait till tomorrow. He had to concentrate on his driving. He bent over the wheel, as though to grip it better. Bright flares keep arching before his eyes, eight fiery torches, dancing nimbly in the dark night’s air.

  14

  February 14, 2001

  The 21st of Shevat, 5761

  A heavy white snow covers the city like a gleaming satin blanket. Seen from above, Riverside Drive has been stripped of its innumerable, confusing details. Nothing is left but a fresh coat of pure form. For a moment, the perfection we spend our lives in pursuit of has become a reality. Soon, the sacred stillness will be broken. There will be sounds of traffic. Snowplows will clear the main arteries. Doormen will bustle up and down the sidewalks with little carts of salt, scattering its corrosive grains in front of their buildings to melt the snow and sting the soft paws of dogs. Later, closer to eleven, a wonderfully lively commotion will resound from Riverside Park, the merry voices of children sledding down the hill at 108th Street. A tantalizing smell of fresh rolls, hot chocolate, and simmering soup will emanate from the cafés and next-door apartments—the smell of winter with its almost unbearable longing.

  Meanwhile, the silence is unbroken. The air from the river is cold and crisp and little snowflakes ripple wavelike through the air. The trunks and branches of bare trees look even darker against the all-white backdrop. The world is an abstract painting whose missing element is provided by the small figure of an old Asian man, wrapped in a tattered black overcoat, walking slowly down the Drive. A Zen monk? A poet? A crazy person? From time to time, he pauses to meditate on a virginal bank of white snow. Then he inscribes on it, with a cheap metal hanger that has been straightened into a stylus, large, mysterious Chinese characters that appear to conceal a great, transcendent secret.

  15
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  February 18, 2001

  The 25th of Shevat, 5761

  Five p.m. Last week’s snow had half melted, leaving behind dirty piles of slush. Andrew returned home slightly earlier than usual. He stood at the kitchen counter, sorting the mail while absentmindedly listening to the messages on the answering machine. The one from Linda took him aback, both in its content and in the urgency, bordering on impatience, in her voice. “Hi, Andy. I’m calling again about the Cape. Can you get back to me with your exact dates? I need to plan the summer. Thanks.”

  What’s the rush? Andrew wondered. We’re still in the middle of February. He erased the message and scrawled on the back of an envelope: Linda, dates for Cape Cod. He was proud (as in the end Linda had come to be, too) of the amicable divorce that had allowed them each to retain half of their summer home on the Cape. Linda had the use of it in July, while in August it was his. Sometimes her duties as a clinical social worker forced her to remain in the city, and then Andrew could spend the whole summer there. Their joint ownership subjected the house to an odd kind of suspended animation in which their unraveled relationship was perpetuated. Each of them was careful to preserve the aesthetic status quo: not one of the cracked dishes, yellowing sheets, frayed beach towels, rugs stained with children’s pee, or place mats with twenty years’ worth of chocolate milk, lemonade, and wine stains on them was ever replaced. Everything had been frozen since the day of their divorce: the Danish-modern living-room furniture, the batiked fabrics fashionable in the seventies and early eighties; the big brass bed in the master bedroom whose comical creaking had enlivened their midsummer nights’ lovemaking; the rafters and wooden shingles on the roof, now gray with age; the bushes stubbornly sprouting along the sandy descent to the beach. And yet none of this seemed the least bit shabby. On the contrary, all was enveloped in an aura of longing, cushioned by the tenderness of children’s laughter, hot corn on the cob, and blueberry pie with vanilla ice cream. Sometimes it seemed that sharing the house was just an alibi, for which they were grateful, for keeping their memories alive.

  Andrew smiled. It was odd to think of the Cape now, in a New York February. A grainy scene, as if shot with an old Super 8 Kodak, passed before him: white sails glinting in a blue haze, the ferry for Martha’s Vineyard, broad amidships, heading into the deep bay. Whiskey! Andrew suddenly craved a drink. He looked at his watch: a quarter after five. Was it too early for alcohol? What was it about the Cape? You couldn’t be there without leaving part of yourself behind to haunt the empty beaches and gray stone fences, the stubby lighthouses and old saltbox homes. It had an ascetic splendor, a power born of the sun and the whiplashing wind, the salt air and the violent thunderstorms. Andrew poured himself a scotch and settled down on the couch. The mere mention of Cape Cod sent a shiver of belonging through him, as though it were the name of a native city or an old country his ancestors came from. His connection to America was natural, direct. He felt completely at home in the WASP world of New England with its white colonial houses fronted by well-tended lawns and flags, its spring Easter egg hunts and summer lemonade stands. He saw its false consciousness, of course, the deception wrought by its pretense of frugality and mannered Puritan simplicity, behind which the influential rich hid their power and greed, privileging the rocking chair on the porch over the fancy yacht and marble-columned mansion because it better expressed the spirit of the place. And why shouldn’t they love the spirit of the place? They had appropriated it for their advantage, tamed and domesticated it as their forefathers had tamed the wild horses, the unnavigated rivers, and the virgin forests. Yes, he saw all that. Still, something in him swallowed its romantic lie hook, line, and sinker and hankered for every last local pose and posture. Take, for example, those weathered decoys that filled the souvenir shops: little ducks blackened by age, long-necked Canada geese, and green-headed mallards, once used by hunters to lure in and slaughter whole flocks of birds and now, like old swords and ancient pistols, household bric-a-brac. He liked them even though they were the worst kitsch, liked the nondescript mementos that embodied all the yearning of the vast country. The old buoys. The bleached, sand-and-wind-blasted oars. The cuff links, letter openers, and snuffboxes carved from yellowing scrimshaw. He went to the counter, poured himself some more whiskey, corked the bottle, returned it to the liquor cabinet, reconsidered, and took it with him back to the couch, setting it on the coffee table while the blues, greens, and grays of the seashore went on drifting evocatively through his mind.

  The Atlantic’s colors were so different from the Pacific’s. The Pacific was almost theatrically dramatic with its gigantic blue waves, its breathtaking cliffs, its sandy black beaches, its clear, celestially pure sapphire light. The Atlantic was more gently, more humanly shaded, ranging from blue to green and gray to dune yellow. The Pacific faced west, continuing the outward sweep of the continent toward the unknown. The Atlantic looked longingly back toward the Old World, striving to bridge a widening cultural abyss. In his young, innocent, stormy California years, he had had a passionate romance with the Pacific. The youthful, joyous potency of life—the freely available sex, the drugs, the contact with nature, the delight of self-discovery and self-love—had all been colored with the Pacific’s bright hues. Once, from a cliff at Big Sur, very early on a far-off summer morning, young Andy had seen a sight that branded his tender soul: wondrous and without warning, a southbound school of black-finned whales, their sleek backs gleaming like dark pebbles, overleaped each other in dreamlike silence, forming a series of perfect arcs in the milky mist of the dawn. Now, though, in maturity, the grayer, less spectacular, duller Atlantic was more to his liking. Viewed in retrospect, the exaltation produced by the Pacific struck him as an overly intense, even slightly vulgar adolescent infatuation. The capable, successful, handsome, middle-aged Andrew of today loved the Atlantic with its warmth-breathing Gulf Stream and its fat, amiable whales lounging out of sight the way one loves—undemonstratively, peacefully, gently—a long-wed wife.

  The ring of the telephone roused him from his lyrical mood. “Wow! That was some happy hello!” Ann Lee sounded happy, too.

  “Yes.” Andrew smiled uncertainly, as if waking from a nice dream. “I may be a bit drunk.”

  16

  Sunday, ten thirty a.m. The city was still half-asleep. The clean, quiet streets gleamed in the bluish light. In front of the building, a no-longer-young father in a baseball cap was teaching his son to catch a fly ball. Even such an absurdly urban scene, the narrow strip of sidewalk a makeshift outfield, bespoke the freedom of an America that refused to be fenced in. So, for thousands of generations, hunters and warriors had handed down their skills in mime and movement, just like this father enacting the major league center fielder for his son who lapped it up eagerly, leaning forward with his tongue sticking slightly out.

  Ann Lee’s car was parked near the corner of 108th Street. Andrew, thinking with a smile of her girlishly sweet body still cuddled beneath the blanket, had to move the driver’s seat back to squeeze into it before readjusting the rearview mirror. Walter had taught him and his brother, Matthew, to play ball, too, displaying the same expertise he had mowed the lawn with every Saturday in a white polo shirt, his tanned biceps visible beneath its short sleeves. Tall and proud, he had mowed one precise square of grass after another without having to look down. The car glided along Broadway. A few early customers sat in the sidewalk cafés and restaurants, first swallows of the flocks that would wait their turn for Sunday brunch in long lines. How many years had it been since he first read Portnoy’s Complaint? The grotesque description of the Jewish father whose attempts to play ball with his son only revealed his un-American ineptness. A wonderful, masterly bit of prose! Andrew had taught it several times in classes dealing with the body as a vehicle of social identity. It was hard to imagine a greater antithesis to Roth’s caricatured father than Walter Cohen. You couldn’t have been ashamed of Walter even had you tried to be. He had the body language of America, the entire Americ
an lifestyle, down pat. Left at 96th. Amsterdam Avenue. Columbus. Right on Central Park West. The flower stands of the delis were celebrating the early spring. Is 96th Street open through Central Park on Sundays? Better to cross at 86th and turn right past the Met. Their lawn was always trim. New Rochelle wasn’t the Lower East Side, not by a long shot. It was no place to look for what his mother called “your typical Jewish shambles.” Until when were her visiting hours? Alison gets out of Sunday school at twelve. If we leave Linda’s at two, we’ll be at my mother’s by three or three fifteen.

  Alison’s attachment to Andrew’s mother was amazing. By the time she was old enough to know the difference, Ethel was already a shadow of her old self. Lately, she had even started calling her “Bubby.” Where did that come from? We never called her that. Can she have picked it up in Sunday school and decided every Jewish grandmother is a Bubby? When did she begin reinventing her Jewish roots? Right on Fifth. How nice this part of town is. The Met’s first visitors were drinking coffee on its steps, soaking up the sunshine before entering. There’s an exhibit of the latest Thorntons and the new installation center was opened yesterday. Eileen wrote something about it for the Times, I have to talk to her. All of New Rochelle’s houses had identical lawns, as if planned by a single landscape architect. E Pluribus Unum. What better proof could there be of the vitality of the American dream than its big suburban lawn? Since the sixties, we’ve been aggressively socialized to believe that individualism is good and conformity is bad, but there’s another side to it—the freedom to assimilate that was every immigrant’s thanks to the uniformity of the now derided American melting pot, the target of every armchair social critic’s barbs. Who dares speak today of conformity’s liberating power, of the blessed sameness of American life that freed one and all from Europe’s constricting categories of class, religion, and ethnicity? It’s precisely the alleged prison of middle-class homogeneity with its mass-produced neighborhoods and jobs that made possible America’s unrestricted, unprecedented, almost anarchic freedom of choice. Whoever wanted to join the New Society could do so. The only price of admission was mowing the lawn every Saturday in a white polo shirt. Left at 65th and east all the way to York, then south on the FDR to the Brooklyn Bridge. It was eleven o’clock. The streets were still almost empty. There would be time to stop at the bakery in Park Slope and buy the bagels Linda had asked him to bring.