The Ruined House

by Ruby Namdar

  He had to finish the article, he simply had to! It was all he had left. But how was he to do it? How was he even to begin? He put out a hand to the computer and snatched it back as though he feared being burned. Should he reread what he had written? How could he work himself back into the mood of it? It didn’t seem possible that he had written its opening section just a few months ago. It felt like ages! The smooth white pages crinkled in his hands. Their letters danced before his eyes without becoming words, a swarm of little flies whose wings never touched. What would become of him? It was hard to believe he had ever finished anything. Could he really have published two books with Stanford University Press? Edited an anthology of essays that won the 1995 Whiting Award? And what about all his articles? He couldn’t possibly have been their author.

  He propped his head in his hands and shut his eyes, trying to concentrate. His mind was in a fog. It was an effort to keep his heavy eyelids from drooping. Was he awake? Asleep? Who could say? I’m cold. I’m sad. I’m sick. I want to crawl back into bed, pull the quilt over me, and never get up again. I want to die. Something was droning behind his forehead as if an old motor had been left running there. I’m weak. I feel empty. He needed something to fill him, something hot, hot and salty. Soup! Pea soup! No, chicken soup! Chicken soup with noodles. A sick man’s food, a wintry comfort food. How he would have liked to hear George’s soft voice now—its modest, scholarly tone, the pleasing pauses for emphasis in its carefully phrased sentences. Whatever he said sounded right, clean, and uncluttered. With his short, graying beard and twinkling eyes, he was like a good grandfather. What would become of him? How would it all end? I miss my wife’s husband.

  A pang of ravenous hunger brushed the cobwebs of sleep from Andrew’s mind, making him open his eyes and get up. Lunch! He must eat something, right away. He reached out to turn off the computer, forgetting he had never turned it on, his indignant fingers encountering its unraised lid without knowing what they had touched. He looked around him. Certain he had forgotten something important but unable to remember what it was, he headed for the door. The sharp ring of the telephone brought him up short. His heart skipped a beat. Who could it be? Linda? Rachel? Ann Lee? Both fear and hope vanished as he heard the phone say, “Hello! This is your last chance to eliminate your credit card debt! Please contact us as soon as you can at the following number. This is a recorded announcement.” The electronic voice recited some numbers and fell still with a metallic click that echoed in the room. Andrew stared at the phone, trying to quell his anxiety. The announcement wasn’t meant for him. It was just an advertisement sent all over the city. There was nothing the matter with his credit card. He mustn’t be paranoid, he can’t turn every stupid little thing into an omen of doom. He strode to the elevator, rang for it several times, and then, impatient with hunger, headed down the emergency stairs.

  9

  A dull sky glowered over the city. The sun, more like a strange, cindery moon, made one think of an apocalyptic, dystopian film about the morning after a nuclear cataclysm. The two naked stone male figures on the building’s front lost their sharp outline in the haze and turned the color of concrete, tormented by the knowledge that they were at last about to buckle beneath the weight of the thousands of tons of stone, iron, and glass that they’ve been carrying on their shoulders for more than eighty years. Andrew passed them quickly, stunned by the heat and humidity’s assault on his drowsy senses. “Good morning, Professor,” said the doorman, who was hosing down the sidewalk to cool it off. “Still on vacation, eh?” Andrew muttered a vague answer and headed for Broadway. The doorman’s tone struck him as audacious. What did he want from him? And what made him say “Good morning” when it was already afternoon? Was he alluding to a professor’s easy life? All these blue-collar workers don’t believe we’ve ever done an honest day’s work, do they? As far as they’re concerned, we’re on vacation all year round. He would have done anything right now to trade places with such a crude, uneducated man, to lay down the hellish torture of writing and live a simple, ordinary life. How wonderful to have no more to do than contentedly spray the sidewalk like a pissing horse while thinking of nothing, nothing at all!

  Andrew’s chest heaved. The hunger that had driven him into the inferno of the street was turning into a bilious, sick feeling. He knew he had to eat something but had no idea what. What could fill the void of a wasted morning of work? Not only was his appetite gone, the very thought of food made him gag. He kept walking absently up 110th Street toward Broadway, considering his options. There was the little Chinese restaurant on the corner of Broadway and 109th. There was the nice sushi bar next to the supermarket. There was Koronet Pizza, boasting one of the biggest, if not greatest, slices in the city. One by one, he vetoed them all.

  Broadway was noisy as usual, its traffic spewing a thick smog of exhaust. A downtown train rumbled under his vibrating feet, causing the metal grates in the sidewalk to ring an alarm. Although it wasn’t clear where he was going, he was impatient for the light to change. How lovable New York was at some times of the year and how detestable it was in summer! What was he doing here? He should have packed his bags and gone to the Cape. Rich oceanic grays and vivid maritime blues filled the air. The mist rolled in from the sea, shrouding the horizon with a dreamlike glow. A monochromatic play of color fanned out on the shoreline, shimmering on the wet sand, reflecting the evening sky.

  For a second, Andrew felt immersed in the stillness of forgetfulness. He awoke from it with a bang. Linda’s brutal, irrevocable words came back to him like a punch to the gut, nearly making him double over on the sidewalk. How could she have done it to him? How could she have said such things after all their years together? And yet she was right. He knew she was right: that was the worst part of it. He had to breathe deeply, he mustn’t lose control. He straightened up and took a breath of leaden air. The light was still red. As though unable to bear the indignity of standing where he was a moment longer, he stepped off the sidewalk and dashed between the speeding cars toward the island in mid-street, as angry drivers honked.

  A few steps brought him there, sweaty and panting. Coming to a stop as though awaiting further instructions, he wiped his face with a white shirtsleeve, now more like a strip of gray rag, and tried catching his breath. Taxis sped by as though on a racetrack, trailing black wakes of burned diesel fuel that refused to dissolve and snaked sluggishly through the muggy air. Where was he? What was he doing here? Right: he was on Broadway. He was crossing to the east side of it. He was looking for a place to eat. His glance wandered to the empty bench where his homeless man had always sat, hoping to see his comfortingly huge, blanket-clad form. He wasn’t there. Why should he be? He was gone for good. In his place was a stout, Slavic-looking woman, her short, pudgy fingers resting on the handles of a wheelchair that contained a man so old that he scarcely looked human. He, too, was very fat, as pale and flabby as a giant maggot. The two of them regarded the sooty fumes in silence as though sitting in a green park. The man was a waterfall of wrinkled, loose skin; it cascaded from his cheeks, chin, and bare arms. A thick, feebly throbbing, sausage-like tongue flopped from his half-opened mouth. Andrew stared at him, hypnotized by the large, purple tongue. It was so ghastly that he couldn’t stop looking at it. How much tongue could fit into one mouth? Where had the man kept it all the years of his youth? Was there such a thing as a buried tongue, like a buried penis? Surgeons had to cut a ligament to get it to drop and be bigger. He had read about that somewhere, perhaps at the cardiologist’s.

  The woman stirred and rose from the bench, jostling the heavy, lifeless body in the wheelchair. Brusquely, she wiped the man’s drooling tongue with her bare palm and then, without bothering to wipe it off, she gripped the wheelchair’s handles and began strenuously pushing its heavy load away from Andrew. Still mesmerized, it was all he could do to keep from turning around to follow the old man, who was having a second, ugly infancy that brought no parent joy. Andrew thought bitterly of the annual visi
t to Walter’s grave. Jamila would remain standing by the car at a tactful distance while Andrew and Ethel approached the sunken headstone overrun by the frostbitten grass. A cold wind would blow through the trees, ruffling Ethel’s thinning gray hair as she sat in her wheelchair, staring with empty eyes that showed no awareness of where she was. Andrew would stand behind her, his hands on the rubber-coated handles, gazing at the distant hills between two evergreens that framed the view. She, too, would die soon. She didn’t have much time left. And he? How much did he have? Not that much. Thirty or thirty-five years—forty with luck. He, too, would grow gross and mammalian, his body an old ruin. Would his tongue stick out, too? Andrew slid his tongue awkwardly around his mouth, experimenting to see how far it would extend. It barely passed the line of his teeth. But suppose the surgeons cut its ligaments. Would it suddenly flop out, frighteningly purple, and hang down to his chin? How did the old man not choke on such a tongue, how could he breathe?

  Enough! He couldn’t stand here all day thinking thoughts that led nowhere. It was so humid. Who could live in a city like this? It was impossible to breathe. A taxi. He had to find a taxi. An air-conditioned one. It had to have air-conditioning.

  10

  Andrew threw himself into a cab that screeched to a stop, cutting off cars that honked in an irritable chorus, and slammed the door behind him like a man on the run. The taxi started up Broadway with a lurch, heading north. Why had he hailed it? Where was he going? All he had wanted was something to eat. The driver, an impassive Sikh in a blue turban, seemed unfazed by the lack of a destination. Andrew leaned back against the soft headrest, his eyes on the neatly tucked-in turban. It was spotless, immaculate, its sky blue, reinforced by the breezy chill of the air conditioner, creating a fragile, lustrous illusion that Andrew surrendered to eagerly despite its unreality. Rich oceanic grays and vivid maritime blues filled the taxi. The mist rolled in from the sea, shrouding the horizon with a dreamlike glow. Those happy, blissful days on the Cape! In mid-July, the sea bass season would begin. The restaurants would display special menus with bass as the entrée, vying to see who could come up with the most original recipe: charred bass with stir-fried vegetables, bass in a buttery white wine sauce on a bed of saffron risotto, bass baked in Atlantic sea salt with garden herbs. He and Linda, great believers in local traditions, never missed marking the occasion. They invited friends, all bringing intriguing wines and frosty six-packs of beer, for great, merry fish feasts. Andrew would go to the fishermen’s wharf and buy a huge fillet of sea bass, which he roasted in a marinade of olive oil, rosemary, and lemon juice and served with great fanfare at the large porch table looking out on the sea. The sun is going down now. It’s already past eight, late enough for a sunset dinner before the mosquitoes come out. A low sun gilds the clouds hanging over the sea and glints in the windows of the houses across the bay. The sailboats, back at anchor, rock gently on the rippling water, their tightly folded sails swaying like hammocks. The clink of glasses. The merry chime of knives and forks. A metal ice bucket, wine and beer peeking out from it like flowers from a vase. Steamed baby potatoes in butter. Fresh tomatoes, a green salad, three flavors of ice cream. Children frolicking on the lawn, their cries of joy rebounding from the gray rafters of the porch. Dogs chasing imaginary rabbits through the bushes, returning filthy with their tongues out, drunk with the bliss of being alive. Andrew swayed excitedly in his seat, feeling the bliss of it. Fish. Yes, fish! A light, summery food, the food of the life-lover. He would have a fish meal at Barney Greengrass the Sturgeon King’s.

  The driver was as unruffled by Andrew’s sudden command to take him to Amsterdam and 86th Street as he had been by his silence until now. He nodded acquiescently, worked his way into the left lane, and made a U-turn, heading downtown on Broadway, turning left at 86th, and dropping Andrew off on the west corner of Amsterdam by the entrance to Barney Greengrass’s famous restaurant. Andrew, calmed by the cool quiet of the taxi’s backseat, felt his appetite restored. Barney Greengrass’s had never lost its charm for him. He liked the rough, familiar manners of the waiters, the brownish-gray Formica tables that hadn’t been changed in years, and the logo of Poseidon that seemed less a Greek god and more like a brawny Lower East Side Jewish gangster from the 1920s. The ancient wallpaper with its grimy lilac bushes and large-wheeled carriages occupied by elegant passengers added a vintage touch that justified, at least partially, the sky-high prices. He paid the driver, tipping him generously, and stepped briskly, or so he thought, out of the cab, seeking to make the transition between one air-conditioned space and the next as rapid as possible.

  He was surprised to find the place almost deserted. It brought him rudely down to earth from the mental lift he had gotten in the taxi. He had only been to the restaurant on weekends, when long, lively lines stretched in front of it, waiting patiently to be admitted to a fabled sanctuary of gourmet New York. The loud, laughing conversations at sunlit tables facing the street made Sunday brunches feel more like cultural happenings than meals in a Jewish restaurant. The weekday establishment he now saw was a less festive, more somber place. A fat man with horn-rimmed glasses and a trim beard sat in the corner talking to an older woman who appeared to be his mother. Two grim-looking, overly made-up women sat whispering in another corner. The place felt old, sleepy, and charmless. Andrew, disappointed, took a seat and waited for the bored young waiter to bring him a menu. What did he want? So the place didn’t look quite the same—why should that make him so uneasy? Was it the lighting? The air-conditioning? No, it was something else. He had never before been here by himself, had never come here just to eat. He had always had company, usually of the other sex, with whom he could share the nostalgia of a place where so many memories and longings, his own and the city’s, joined together. Where was the damn waiter? What was taking him so long? The restaurant was practically empty. What kind of service was this?

  As though reading Andrew’s mind, the elegantly unshaven waiter, a good-looking young man, finally appeared and handed him a menu. Andrew picked it up and put it down at once: its clear plastic cover was streaked with sticky grease stains that smelled faintly but stubbornly of fish. He made a face. The optimism of the taxi ride was gone, leaving him in empty solitude. He glanced around, hoping something might revive the old magic. No, it wasn’t the same. Its faux-antiqueness now just looked run-down, the shabbiness of a place whose owners were too cheap to renovate. Its nostalgia was cloying. The airy weekend alchemy that had turned gray Formica and thirty-year-old wallpaper into chic decor was missing, perhaps because its dull colors weren’t enlivened by the latest fashions on lithe, young, brightly dressed, snugly fitted bodies. Things fall apart, the center cannot hold . . . enough! Concentrate on the menu!

  Andrew cast a desultory look at the fish and seafood that were listed in no apparent order, jumbled together like a basket of baby eels. Some things he was familiar with and some he wasn’t. What should he have? Nothing on the menu appealed to him. The smoked whitefish was for those hale and hearty enough to cope with its strong, brash flavor. Some scrambled eggs or a salad? His gaze wandered off into space, lingering on the gray lilacs growing in tangled clumps between the carriages. Nostalgia was only for the healthy-minded. You had to be comfortably situated in the present to be able to smile at your longing for the past.

  The waiter, suddenly efficient, returned too quickly to take Andrew’s order. Unable to focus, he had difficulty choosing, the waiter’s impatience arousing his temporarily lulled anxiety. What should he have, for God’s sake? Smoked salmon? Eggs? A salad? He turned the menu this way and that, studying the appetizers. Smoked fish. Pickled fish. Salted fish. “Herring,” he was astounded to hear himself say. It was as if someone else were speaking. “I’ll have the herring with pumpernickel, please.”

  The waiter arched his brows. “Is that all, sir? Are you sure you don’t want something else with your herring?” The way he said “herring” could only be interpreted as disdain for the miserly customer who had o
rdered the cheapest item on the menu.

  Andrew looked up in bewilderment and shook his head. “No, thank you. For now, I’ll just have the herring. Maybe afterward . . .”

  The waiter nodded, his scorn growing as he realized how small the tip would be. Andrew watched him take the menu away. What had gotten into him? Why herring? He didn’t like briny fish. Was it too late to change the order to two scrambled eggs with whole-wheat toast? No, he wasn’t up to facing more mockery. He would eat his damn herring, pay, and leave. There was nothing else to do.

  Andrew took a sip of water from the glass in front of him and looked around again. How many times had he been in this place? Too many to remember. Two years ago he had sat here, perhaps at this very table, with an old friend who had just become his lover. He had brought her for a Sunday brunch on their first morning after sleeping together, as proud of the authenticity of the place as if he had created it. Their lunch together seemed to be taken out of the last pages of a great Jewish American novel. They saw none other than Philip Roth talking to Ted Solotaroff and a younger man, who was probably his son Ivan. They were at the table up by the window, accompanied by a surprisingly muscular old man, leaning on crutches, whose Israeli accent was too strong to misplace. Ever since then, his physical intimacy with this woman was linked in his mind to Philip Roth and the membranous texture of the eggs and the sour taste of the rye bread she had ordered. He felt his stomach turn over, whether from hunger or disgust he couldn’t say. But why be disgusted? There was nothing disgusting about her. She was nice, clean, and polite like all the rest of them.

  His feeling of loneliness was getting worse. He could feel it closing in on him like the walls of a deep pit. Ethel’s thinning gray hair ripples in the evening breeze, her unseeing eyes staring ahead. She gives no sign of knowing where she is or feeling anything. Jamila leans against the car, her heavy arms crossed on her chest, waiting patiently. The children’s cries of joy rebound from the gray rafters of the porch, mingled with the breathless barks of the dogs scampering through the low hedges. No, not here in public. He mustn’t give in to it, he mustn’t.