by Ruby Namdar
There was an acrid smell of burning. The carrots! Startled, Andrew snapped out of his trance, frantically eyeing the smoking skillet. The strips at its center were nicely done, but the blackened ones at the edges would give the dish a harsh, carbonized taste. Whisking the skillet from the fire, he quickly fished the burned carrots from the bubbling oil. The desert was gone; gone the glitter of gold, the hypnotic gleam of the gemstones, the dreamlike tinkle of the bells. The white wall tiles of the stove’s backsplash reflected his image in broken, Cubist planes. The last strains of sound receded. Some citrine-colored wine remained at the bottom of his glass. What had just happened? If not for the sticky semi-dried blood on his right thumb, earlobe, and big toe, he could have sworn it was nothing but an illusion. He emptied the glass and poured himself a bit more wine. The carrots needed to be removed from the oil before they got soggy, but he stood watching them shrivel darkly in the fatty fluid, absorbing more of it with each passing moment.
Four o’clock. Inside the lit oven, the meat and vegetables, well seasoned and garnished with raisins and crushed walnuts, were cradled peacefully in a heavy, fruit-and-floral-patterned ceramic pot purchased in Italy years ago. Beside it, the tarte tatin silently simmered beneath its topping of cinnamon, cardamom, brown sugar, and calvados. Andrew expertly moistened the couscous. In place of the butter, he preferred the expensive olive oil he kept for special occasions, which gave the grain a buoyant freshness. Before serving, he would steam it in a wicker steamer to make it warm and fluffy. The fresh greens were tossed but not dressed; he didn’t want them to get soggy and overpowered by the vinaigrette. But while his hands were busy with the crispy, doughy semolina, his heart was no longer in it. He was going through the motions, but the ritual felt stale. The last of the wine he had poured had not been drunk. Something of his eerie vision, though it was mostly forgotten, still lingered. What could it have been? Fatigue and overstimulation, he supposed. Such things happened all the time. Usually, the conscious mind overlooked and repressed them. Waking and sleeping, after all, were a single continuum, not separate, discrete states. But what language had it been? He had never heard it before. Where had all those scenes come from? Some Turkish or Iranian movie he had seen? God only knows. He finished kneading the couscous, washed his hands thoroughly, wiped the counter clean, and piled the dishes in the sink. He still had to shower and change, and the table wasn’t yet set. The guests were coming at seven.
2
March 22, 2001
The 27th of Adar, 5761
Do you remember how you surprised me that time, Andy, on our first anniversary?” Linda was curled up cozily on the couch, her feet beneath the white woolen wrap that usually lay, carefully folded, on an armrest. Winter or summer, her feet were always cold. “Early that morning you took the table out to a field in the middle of nowhere and set it with sterling silver and china and crystal, like in a fancy restaurant. There was even champagne in an ice bucket, all comme il faut. And white roses. We never cared for red. Everything was so beautiful! It was so romantic, so perfect. You made me happy, happier than I ever had dreamed I could be!”
Why had she suddenly remembered all this after twenty-five years? “Memories have their own laws. They’re no more related to the events they originated in than the US dollar is to the gold bars, kept in the famous safes of Fort Knox, that once backed it and were its iconic symbol.” No, something was wrong with that last sentence. Iconic symbol? Linda never used those words, never thought in them. Those are my words! It’s a dream, I’m dreaming!
This realization, however, did not cause Andrew to awake, at least not at once. He clung to the pleasantness of the dream, loath to part with its sweet intimacy. When he opened his eyes at last, the bedroom was dark except for a narrow band of reddish light beneath the not fully lowered blinds. Ann Lee was lying on the far side of the bed, nestled in the ruffled sheets like a tiny, naked nestling. He looked away from her and shut his eyes again, trying unsuccessfully to revive his dream and reenter its warm, brightly lit space. That lovingly set table in the flowering meadow, bright in the afternoon light like an advertisement for promise! How happy Linda had been!
Yet something was nagging him, clouding the almost too bright glow of it. Their first anniversary? Rachel was eight months old. He was totally involved in finishing his dissertation. They were living in Brooklyn, in the little apartment in Park Slope from which they moved to their own house a year later. Why couldn’t he remember their first anniversary? The wonderful table, the sense of bliss—had it really been then? Could it be that it never had happened? But it had to have! He couldn’t have made it up! His dream had been there all along, like a secret room behind a hidden door. He needed only to find the door and open it to resolve what was nagging him—to resolve all the nagging questions there were.
He opened his eyes again. They were getting used to the darkness. The room no longer looked so strange. No, it hadn’t happened. Never. There had been no table, no silver, no crystal. No roses, either. He had never courted Linda that romantically, not before their wedding and certainly not after it. The wedding itself had been perfectly ordinary. Back then, no one made much of such things. The ceremony was nondescript, almost cynical: an early morning visit to City Hall, a few comically mumbled lines with the famous “I do!” of movies and TV shows, a hurried breakfast afterward. He could at least have brought her a bouquet of roses. White or red, what did it matter? Even playing it for laughs would have been better than nothing. Forget the roses. Twenty-five cents’ worth of miserable carnations would have done the trick, too. True, there was a party. On Steve and Marney’s roof. Linda wore a white Indian gown that billowed charmingly—she was in her fifth month—over her belly. As parties went, it was a nice one. Still, it was only a party. They had never had a real wedding, of the kind that feeds the flame of nostalgia in years to come. None of their friends wanted a big, old-fashioned wedding back then, it felt so bourgeois, so old. And yet why does he feel so sad, after so many years and all that had happened between them? Was it guilt? Absolutely not! He had no reasons for guilt. She wasn’t the only one who had suffered. They both had paid a heavy—a very heavy—price. It was too late to do anything about it, anyway.
His sadness deepened, feeling infinite. If the dam holding it back were to burst, nothing would stand in its way. He threw a worried glance at Ann Lee, as if fearful his inner monologue might wake her. Please, let her sleep! He really couldn’t deal with her right now. A sharp, angular shoulder protruded from the satin sheet. A skinny little bird. Please! There was a salty, burning lump in his throat. He felt an involuntary tremor. Breathe deep. Breathe deep. Whatever you do, don’t wake her.
3
April 6, 2001
The 13th of Nisan, 5761
Springtime. As it does every year, April is already driving the city to distraction with the overwhelming feeling of desire, lighting the flames of yellow daffodils, deep red tulips, and pinkish-white magnolias. With any luck, their heady display will last for a few weeks before being quenched by spring rains and May breezes, followed by the insufferable heat of a summer that seems to arrive earlier with each passing year.
Andrew was happy to skip the family Passover Seder. Linda’s decision to have it at Cora’s had given him the perfect excuse. It was always the same: the sweet Kiddush wine, the summer-camp songs, the strained discussions about freedom and memory. He needed a break from it, and he made up his mind to have dinner guests that night. There would be a colleague from the Comparative Culture Department and her husband; a painter who teaches in the MFA program at Hunter; the art critic for The Public Sphere and her female partner who wrote popular cookbooks under a pseudonym; the cultural attaché of the Canadian consulate (they had met at a party and exchanged cards); and a woman from out of town, a young urban anthropologist from Vancouver who was being hosted by the department.
He remembered the Seders of his childhood only dimly. Not that they weren’t taken seriously—far from it. Ethel made a
ll the heavy, sweet, overcooked East European dishes that were eaten once a year and had names that were as strange as they tasted, all concentrated in his memory in that single mysterious, preposterous phrase, gefilte fish. Walter wore a white robe, removed from mothballs and stiff with age, whose yellowed creases seemed ironed into it, and a high white skullcap sewn from the same fabric. It was weird to see him, the sober, practical father who always kept his two feet on the ground, dressed in an archaic outfit and mumbling ancient verses that sounded like prehistoric incantations. Yet searching for the afikomen, the hidden piece of matzo that ended the meal, had been fun. He and Matthew had teamed up for a change in their frantic search.
How long ago that had been! Although Linda had revived the tradition of the Seder, it was not like what he remembered. She invited friends and relatives, distributed songbooks, and handed out funny figurines shaped like frogs, lice, and other pests that symbolized the Ten Plagues. Still, Andrew felt a pang. Tomorrow night they would be sitting around the table, eating, laughing, singing, and reading long passages from the Haggadah that no one understood. How nice it would be! Should he call off his dinner and join them? No, it was too late. He couldn’t cancel a dinner party at the last minute. Never mind. He would go to Linda’s Seder next year. What should he make, though? The lamb tagine stew with couscous once again? No, something more springlike, more festive. He would roast a whole leg of lamb, on the bone, served medium rare. He would bring it to the table and carve it in front of everyone, they’ll love the dramatic effect.
4
April 7, 2001
The 15th of Nisan, 5761
Eleven p.m. The guests had gone home. The table was cleared and the dishes were neatly stacked in the sink. The dinner had gone more than well. The conversation had flowed, the wine was superb, and the food earned the kudos of all.
But Andrew felt wrung out and depleted. He switched off the lights and went to bed. Although it was early for him, he fell asleep the minute he lay down, as though plunging into a deep crevasse. His tired brain had only a second to think before switching itself off, too. The last thing he saw was a round, thick-rimmed well that broke loose from the earth and rolled slowly down a gentle incline. Round and heavy like a pregnant belly, it sprayed water in all directions, the drops glinting in the sunlight like little shards of glass.
“What?” Andrew’s eyes opened wide by themselves. He couldn’t believe the time on the alarm clock: 11:50, not even midnight! To his surprise, he felt oddly wakeful, as fully rested as if he had slept for twelve hours. Or could it be daytime already? There was light outside. He got out of bed and went to the window: a full, incredibly large moon hung over the river, cloaked in a velvety halo and gilding the fanlike ripples on the water. He opened the window. A clear, cloudless spring night greeted him with its sounds. The air was unexpectedly warm and fragrant. Since when were there such balmy nights in early April? It was as if someone had imported a foreign climate and let it loose under the cover of darkness on Riverside Drive. The desert dryness felt more like Arizona than the East Coast.
Andrew, stirred, turned from the wondrous view back to the room, padding about in bare feet with the lights off. He hadn’t felt so alert in ages, perhaps since his childhood. Every cell tingled with pleasure. The familiar room seemed new. He regarded it with amazement, running his fingers over its walls and objects as if touching their textured surfaces for the first time. Although the moon was gone from the window, the bright sky filled the apartment with light. He rested his elbows on the windowsill and leaned outside, studying the glyphs and cartouches sculpted on the cornices of the building nearly a century before. Light flickered on the river and a breeze blew through the branches of the budding trees. Leaving the window open, he sprawled out on the couch, still breathing the enchanted night. He didn’t feel like eating, drinking, sleeping, reading, or talking to anyone—not even like making love. He wanted only to go on sitting there, surrendering to the intoxicating wakefulness that he felt in every part of him.
Time passed unnoticed. Could it already be morning? The pale dawn light was soft and dreamy. Perhaps he had dozed off for a while. Rising from the couch, he took off his pajamas, put on his tracksuit, quickly laced his sneakers, and hurried outside. Each minute was precious. He crossed the empty lobby and half ran to the park. Everything continued to feel special. Although not a soul was in sight, the street seemed vibrant with life. The sidewalk quivered beneath his feet. The last lights illuminated in the buildings across the river twinkled, going out one by one as the pallid dawn brightened. He followed a path in the park, breathing deeply in and out. The lampposts shone like candles in the haze. A white mist floated above the lawns. The breeze was soft and caressing. From afar came a sound of song. Who could be singing so early in the morning? Andrew sat excitedly on a bench facing the river, an electric field of anticipation crackling around him. The breeze was like a stream in which he was totally immersed. The singing grew closer, louder. This time he recognized it. The melody, the lilting, guttural tongue, the ancient, rocking rhythm—they had all but raised the roof at the bar mitzvah in Long Island in February. There were string and wind instruments now, too, like those he had heard that fine winter day near the university, in that wondrous procession, where he saw that beautiful white bull being led through the street.
A fierce blue sky broke sharply over the jagged ridges of the bare mountains. The desert wind was dry and warm. Brightly dressed women jangled tambourines; men in white played drums and violins, blew large horns, and piped on reed flutes. The singing kept growing stronger. So did the light, sevenfold like the days of Creation. More and more figures joined the procession, thousands, tens of thousands, myriads of them, flowing eastward like a mighty river. Andrew rose, carried away by the human current, his bare feet sinking into the dry, white sand. The stinging sensation of the thick, semidry blood caked on his right thumb, toe, and earlobe filled him with pride and an overflowing joy. A ram’s horn sounded a loud, prolonged, many-toned blast. Brooks and rivulets cascaded from the tops of the high mountains. The singing swelled and mounted, mounted and swelled sacramentally. A great peak loomed on the horizon, royally crowned by flames and smoke. The winding current surged toward it, sweeping up all in its way.
A warm tongue was licking Andrew’s hand. With a start, he roused himself. A strange woman was standing there, smiling with embarrassment. “Sparky!” she mock-childishly scolded her frisky puppy tugging at its leash. “You can’t go licking every hand you see!”
Andrew stared at her, struggling to fathom where he was. Where had everything disappeared? Had it been only a dream? But how could that be? He hadn’t been sleeping. He hadn’t shut his eyes all night. The dog wagged its tail and gave Andrew a playful look, as if inviting him to romp with it. He shivered. It was cold, cold and damp. His back hurt from leaning against the hard bench and all his muscles ached. Locks of hair, wet with dew, stuck like cold leeches to his temples and forehead. His tracksuit was damp and clammy, as were his socks and sneakers. How long had he been sitting there? When had it become so damp and chilly? The exotic climate had withdrawn into itself, leaving behind an ordinary cold, clammy April morning. Now the woman was tugging at the dog, her movements growing agitated. She was afraid of Andrew. He tried his best to smile normally, but with no success. The muscles of his face were frozen, his teeth clamped in place.
After a while, the puppy relented and turned away. The woman followed, walking as fast as she could without breaking into a run. What time was it? Andrew glanced at his watchless wrist. Something strange was going on, something unclear. He felt weak. A profound fatigue seeped through him, making his limbs limp and his head swim. For a few more minutes, he remained seated. Then, with the last of his strength, he pushed off from the back of the bench, rose to his feet, stretched his aching body, and staggered toward the park exit.
5
An infinite ocean stretches to the horizon in all directions, so solid that its waves seemed frozen.
A whale had risen from the ocean’s depths. It is the Leviathan of Memory, an immense mass that bears no relation to time or individual memory, that isn’t even the sum of all individual memories. Its huge body is poised to breach, stirring up the darkness below, reversing the flow of the hidden currents. Bubbles foam and swirl by the millions, striving to rejoin the air that was their original source. Each is a separate soul, the story of a life, the memory of a single person. The whale craves air, too. It needs to fill its lungs with a pure draft of reality before diving back down to its forsaken depths.
The waves mount. The water gurgles, gushes, and parts in two. Glistening in the sunlight, a smooth, white, giant form fills the visible universe with its powerful presence. The past becomes the present. All that was forgotten is again remembered. Those dead and buried come to life. The irretrievably lost is suddenly restored in its all-palpable existence. The moment seems to last forever. The whale’s exposed body hovered over the face of the water. Time stops in its tracks, looking on in amazement. Yet this, too, shall pass; it wouldn’t last long. That which had been is that which would be. The Leviathan of Memory would plunge back down. The raging sea would swallow it with a gulp and wipe away the great orifice that had yawned in its midst. The tumult shall subside. Motion shall revert to rest. The foamy ripples shall dissipate, spreading equally over the waters. All shall be quiet again. An infinite ocean shall stretch to the horizon in all directions.