by Ruby Namdar
The sweat ran down Andrew’s neck, soaking his collar even more. His breathing grew as labored as if he were pedaling uphill, even though he was on level ground. Where was he going in this heat? What was he looking for? It would have been logical to turn right toward Fifth Avenue, stick the bicycle into the trunk of the first taxi to come along, and head for home, away from this inferno pretending to be a field of strawberries. He peered ahead, looking for a fork in the path that would lead him out of the park. A light breeze blew the burning smell, which was getting stronger all the time, in his face. From beyond a hedge came distant sounds of childish laughter, seeding his blank mind with bits and snatches of memory. A small, round pond. Little battery-operated boats. A large telescope aimed at the cornice of a luxury apartment building where a proud, stubborn pair of hawks had chosen to nest, the male shielding the female with his handsome, spotted white body.
Andrew strained to listen. The laughter seemed to be coming from nowhere, from a dimension in which ordinary space and time did not prevail. He braked, dismounted, and carefully walked the bike toward a stairway with graceful stone banisters, advancing slowly so as to preserve the delicate balance between the remembered past and the experienced present. His eyes widened in astonishment at the strange but familiar sight. It was a large metal sculpture. The cavernous curves of its sleekly cascading bronze made him think of a huge sea monster dredged from the depths. His nostrils dilated, sniffing the metallic air. He knew this place, knew it well. Years ago he had come here often with Alison. No, not with Alison. With Rachel. By the time Alison was born he was too busy, too irritable, too impatient. Something forceful, like a sneeze, was pressing on his forehead. It was Alice, Alice in Wonderland!
Andrew descended the steps slowly, his bicycle bumping down them, and reached the round space ringed with benches in which the statue stood. He circled its brown, metal mass over which laughing children swarmed like bright insects, his glance lingering on the grotesquely large head of the Mad Hatter. A swan-necked Alice, seated on a large toadstool, appeared to be listening to him while regarding the dormouse in her lap, while the White Rabbit stood looking at his watch. Had he ever read the book to Alison? Who could remember? His breath came in shallow spurts. The raging waters pressed against the dam, threatening to smash it and drag him to destruction. With his remaining strength, he fought to stave off the deluge. Tearing himself away from the statue, he gripped the handlebars and pushed the bike back up the steps. His planned escape route up Fifth Avenue was forgotten. The bitter smoke thickened as if he were getting closer and closer to the center of the fire.
27
The smell grew stronger, permeating everything. What was burning? A building? A forest? But how could that be? There were no fire engines. No one looked perturbed. No one seemed to smell smoke except him. The path curved to the right, ran around a large boulder on some grassy turf, and let him abruptly out of the park on the east sidewalk of Central Park West. Andrew stood there in a daze, gasping for breath like a drowning man washed ashore. Crowds were still flocking to the park. Taxis sped by, their off-duty roof lights showing they were taken. Andrew swallowed a sigh, wiped his sweaty forehead with a sleeve, and waited for the light to change. Tourists were gathered by the Dakota, busily photographing the John Lennon memorial plaque. He passed them indifferently and walked along 72nd Street toward Columbus Avenue against the flow of human traffic, feeling like a man in a shrinking glass cage whose walls soon would crush him. He was too exhausted to push the bicycle any farther. What should he do with the damn thing? Leave it in the street for someone to take and rid him of it? That was ridiculous. Who left bicycles in the street? A taxi! He would do anything for a taxi. Where had all the taxis gone? The smoke was killing him. The air was full of soot and ashes. A huge fire must be raging somewhere nearby; whole blocks were going up in flames. And not a fire engine or police car was in sight! Nothing! Should he stop to rest at a café, have a bite to eat? A bowl of chicken soup at Fine & Schapiro’s? Out of the question. Home, right away. He couldn’t take another minute of this goddamn street.
A squeal of tires and the smell of burned rubber rescued Andrew from the vortex of his thoughts. A taxi pulled up at the curb to let off a young couple that looked as spruce and fresh as if clipped from the cover of a fashion magazine. Leaping for the open door in defiance of both safety and good manners, Andrew clutched its handle while pleading with the driver to open the trunk. On the verge of collapse, he shoved the bicycle into the filthy baggage compartment with no thought of possible damage, banged the lid shut, and threw himself into the backseat, hoarsely croaking his address. He shut his eyes and leaned back, determined to feel and think nothing until securely home. He would never go out again.
28
The claustrophobic atmosphere assailed Andrew the moment he stepped into his apartment, depriving him of the solace he had hoped for. The air felt like a semisolid mass weighing on the parquet floor. The thick smoke had followed him inside, hanging there in heavy coils. His lungs gasped for oxygen. No, he can’t stay here! Fighting the urge to turn and run back out, he stumbled to the living room and turned on the TV without bothering to lock the door or take off his shoes. This fire must be huge! There was nothing like a national crisis or natural disaster for producing an adrenaline-rich cloud of news. He didn’t know the local New York channels. Never having taken the slightest interest in their bulletins of fires, floods, police raids, and gossipy court cases, he went nervously from one to another.
All had only the usual stale coverage of the humid heat wave. Nothing about a fire. How could that be? There was enough smoke for all of Riverside Park to have gone up in flames. Andrew turned away from the television in frustration and wandered to the bathroom. A hot shower? A cold one? Coffee? Something to eat? The sour blob of chocolate in his stomach burbled like a sewer about to overflow. He returned to the couch and lay down with his sneakered feet hanging over it to keep from scraping the leather. The TV, playing some sports channel, kept babbling away with an obscene amount of pointless information. If he had had the strength to get up, he would have turned it off or looked for something more interesting—an old-time movie, a cooking channel, or even Sesame Street.
Sesame Street! The thought of it, like a distant flash of lightning, sent a painful current of longing through him. If Ann Lee were here, she would have recorded every program for him. She would have nursed him and cured him, saved him from himself. What nonsense! That’s ridiculous. It’s hopeless. The smell of smoke was unendurable. He shut his eyes and took a breath of its overbearing stench, giving into it as if sinking into a foggy, bottomless pit. It was getting hotter and hotter. The flames licked the edges of the Temple, their long tongues profaning its purity with their alien, insolent presence. Andrew squirmed on the couch like a worm on a hook, trying to rid his mind of the fiery sight. It was dangerous to stay in this place! Loud cries for help echoed in the hollow of his skull, alarms rang frantically. Women screamed as loud as they could, begging for mercy, their voices breaking from terror. He fought to drive the raging flames back. Home, home! He mustn’t stay here. All was lost. He writhed on the couch, flailing like a drowning man fighting for breath. Sun streamed into the kitchen through the window, glinting off the puddle of milk and the half-empty bowls on the table, outdazzling the screen. Although you couldn’t see who was on it, their familiar voices gave them away: Ernie, Bert, Big Bird, Oscar the Grouch. Sesame Street! A clatter of broken dishes fills the room: Grover, playing a waiter, has slipped on the restaurant floor. The little girl laughs out loud with yelps of pure bliss. Let’s get a move on, sweetheart, the bus will be here in ten minutes and you still have to brush your teeth and hair. The sugar they put in these cereals! A warm tide was rising in him, probing his weak points, breaking through to his self’s soft core. A bittersweet sorrow surged behind his forehead. Its lava threatened to erupt and annihilate all in its way.
Andrew leaped from the couch in a fright, no longer recognizing the room
. A ghastly scarlet light glowed in the thick smoke, setting the walls apocalyptically on fire. He ran breathlessly to the window, flung it open, and leaned out. Neither light not dark. Neither day nor night. A last twilight followed by nothing. The smoke was not there. It was not outside him. It was within. It swirled all around him, getting in his eyes and choking him mercilessly. He backed away from the window, only half grasping where and who he was. Where was all the smoke coming from? Everything was full of it—his clothes, his skin, his bones, everything. It was coming from him. It was he who was on fire.
Andrew turned slowly, transfixed by what he saw. Red, fearful flames raged out of control, ravenously consuming the Temple and its implements. Terrified and helpless, he stared at them, feeling the walls collapse one by one under the impact of the destruction. Broken, animal cries resounded in his ears, drowning out the crackling flames and the horrors. Who was crying like an animal—like a child—crying and crying? It’s me. There’s no one else here. It’s me. Uncontrollable sobs racked his chest, shaking him like a rag doll. His whole face trembled. The wave inside him was about to sweep all before it. His head felt light, as if he were going to faint. His muscles went slack, casting off his mind’s authority. He sank slowly to the ground with his back to the wall until he was sitting on the floor, rocking back and forth to the rhythm of his sobs. The flames engulfed him, devouring the Temple. A large, round tear rolled down a cheek that had forgotten what a tear was like. The embossments on the ceiling were melting in the heat. Their liquid gold dripped to the charred floor in burning drops. The priceless curtains were consumed by the flames. The white marble walls were turning black, their delicate veins covered by thick soot. Two new tears trickled down either side of his nose to the corners of his involuntarily trembling mouth. He blinked as if trying to call them back, but more and more coursed down his cheeks like summer rain. The upward-raised arms of the molded candelabra toppled one by one beneath the weight of their unanswered prayers.
Andrew let out a short, high-pitched wail that was cut short at once, frightened by its own sound. The tremor spread from his mouth to his upper lip and nose. The warm, salty tears at the back of his throat were forcing him to swallow in waves. His mouth opened wide, as though of its own accord. The tears ran in hot rivulets, streaking his face. He raised one shoulder and wiped them in an ancient, forgotten childhood reflex. They poured down faster, unrestrained. Through a portal in the ceiling, he saw the gates of heaven open over the great city and all seven celestial spheres come into view. Errant souls flitted like shadows from world to world, one alone bright to the point of transparency: an ancient priest, his head wrapped in a linen turban and a golden fire pan in his hand. Andrew sobbed harder, all defenses gone, his body rocking back and forth. The room was dark. The portal was gone. The last outlines of day were gathered up by the dusk. The flames subsided, flickering in the embers. Andrew remained seated on the ground, rocking. He held his face in his hands. The tears ran through his fingers as though from a bottomless well.
29
July 29, 2001
The 9th of Av, 5761
Dad? Dad?” Rachel’s hesitant voice sounded in the apartment. For a moment she stood in the doorway, nervously clutching the key she had somehow forgotten to return to its copper bowl on her last visit. Kicking off her sandals, she went to the living room, where a man and a woman were arguing noisily in a singsong Spanish. The scene that met her eyes was alarming. The TV was on, filling the apartment with the loud, melodramatic dialogue of a telenovela. The air smelled sour. Her father was sitting on the floor by one of the shut windows, pages of newspapers lying around him like autumn leaves. His head of wild hair was clasped between his knees.
“Dad, what’s wrong?” Rachel hurried to Andrew’s side. Gently, she raised his head until he was looking at her. “Are you all right? What’s going on? I’ve kept calling you. Your answering machine is full—there’s no room for more messages.”
Andrew looked at her red-eyed, as if either half-asleep or awakened from a bad dream.
“I’ve been in town for a few days staying with friends. A friend. I have so much to tell you about, Dad. You’re so thin! Are you on a diet or something?”
Rachel took Andrew’s hands in her own and helped him to his feet. He rose slowly and stiffly, like an old man. She led him to the couch, cleared it of newspapers, and sat him down. “You don’t return phone calls, you don’t answer e-mails—you honestly had me worried. What’s going on here? I’ve never seen your place look so messy. The rug is soaking wet. It’s so stuffy here! Why are all the windows closed? Have you eaten anything today?”
Her uncharacteristically low-key manner, which barely concealed her worry, was reassuring enough to send Andrew, his sense of reality partially restored, to the shower. Rachel turned off the television and air conditioner, opened all the windows, collected the newspapers and trash from the floor, and ordered a light lunch from the Japanese restaurant on 112th Street and Broadway. She considered opening a bottle of white wine, thought better of it, and brewed some herbal tea. The food arrived in fifteen minutes. She took it to the kitchen, arranged it on plates, and brought it on a large tray to the coffee table, which she had cleared and wiped clean. Hair wet from the shower, Andrew sat on the couch in fresh pajamas, his white bristle of a beard making him look older than he was. Rachel sat next to him and edged the tray toward him. Although he managed to get down only a bit of solid food, he liked the miso soup and nearly finished his bowl of it.
After eating, the two of them drank tea and watched Philadelphia Story on TCM, sitting together on the couch with a blanket over their knees as if it were a winter night. Andrew watched in silence, giving no sign of whether he was following the action on the screen. Rachel did her best to appear relaxed. Although something bad, something that would have to be dealt with, had clearly happened, her instinct was not to talk about it now. When the movie was over she helped Andrew, who had barely uttered a word all evening, to the bedroom. She brought him a glass of water and a homeopathic tranquilizer that she found in the medicine chest, said good night, and went to sleep on the living-room couch. She already knew where to find the sheets, blankets, and towels.
Andrew lay in bed, his mind a blank and his half-opened eyes staring at the rhombus of light on the ceiling that came from the door left ajar by Rachel in case he needed her. He could hear her whispering on the telephone, clearing away dishes, and putting the living-room furniture back in place. The domestic, nighttime sounds evoked a mélange of childhood memories that he had no time to sort out before falling fast asleep. (The medicine was apparently more potent than its pseudoscientific label made it out to be.) At two a.m., he awoke with a loud cry. Rachel hurried to him. But he had already gone back to sleep, curled in a semi-fetal position. In the morning, he drank some coffee with a large amount of milk and ate half a fresh bagel that Rachel brought from Absolute.
Although the blankness of the night remained, his movements were more alert and less mechanical. Rachel phoned Dr. Nesselson’s office and made an emergency appointment for that same day. Andrew was too dazed and tired to resist. He talked sparingly, and Rachel didn’t press him. She went to the kitchen and spoke to someone in low tones over the phone. At midday, there was a buzz on the intercom. It was the doorman to tell “Miss Rachel” that someone had left a suitcase for her. Not wanting to leave Andrew alone even for a few minutes, she asked that it be sent up in the elevator. That afternoon they went to see Dr. Nesselson. He examined Andrew thoroughly and referred him to a colleague, a psychiatrist at Mount Sinai Hospital on the Upper East Side. Though still drowsy and apathetic, he seemed in a less hazardous state. When Rachel brought him a cappuccino from the coffee machine as they were waiting in the corridor, he made a face at its taste but drank it anyway.
A nurse ushered them into the psychiatrist’s office. Andrew was cooperative throughout the interview. The doctor’s remarks when it was over were directed mainly at Rachel. “I’ve spoken with Dr. N
esselson. Professor Cohen has obviously been through a severe psychological crisis, but its dynamics are difficult to understand. Something serious has taken place. We just don’t have the usual symptoms that would point to a psychotic episode. These things are known to happen. What makes this case so unusual is that it almost seems as if an external force took possession and let go of the patient with none of the customary traces. We don’t have an explanation for every physical and psychological phenomenon. Sometimes it’s best not to look for one but simply to concentrate on the recovery process. We see no reason to hospitalize him at this time. Our recommendation is full rest under close supervision. I’ll prescribe some medicines and would urge that they be taken regularly.” The psychiatrist was now speaking to Rachel alone, since Andrew had shut his eyes and did not appear to be listening. “I need to emphasize that these are tranquilizers and not psychiatric drugs. I think we should wait a few more days before considering anything more aggressive. I take it you’re his daughter. Can you stay with him for a while to look after him?”