by Joan Dempsey
“You are like head waiter,” Ludka said over her shoulder, as Izaac retreated into the kitchen to refresh their drinks. To Stanley she said conspiratorially, “I can get used to pampering.”
“You are used to pampering! Sixty years you’re used to it!”
Ludka flapped a hand toward the kitchen and laughed. Stanley smiled. Ludka watched him admire the abstract Kantor hanging over the mantel.
“When we are dead, the Baldwin Museum will have best collection of Polish contemporary art in America.”
“You should see the back coat closet,” said Izaac as he carried in a tray and passed around the drinks. “Hasn’t seen a coat in thirty years. We rotate a fair number of the pieces almost every month. Keeps our senses sharp.”
Stanley stepped up onto the stone hearth next to Izaac, and peered more closely at the painting.
“We leave this one here more often than not, don’t we, kochanie? Tadeusz Kantor, 1960, one of Ludka’s favorites.”
“We have also 1959 Kantor. More open, chaotic, but also flatter, good for summer light. And still with its darkness. Always we are drawn to darkness.”
“The stuff I sell is mostly popular seascapes and impressionist knockoffs—all by decent enough painters but mostly just thrown-together stuff I know I can move.” Stanley shrugged, and smiled over his shoulder at Ludka. “It’s a living. But then I saw your book on Polish art, and now this …” He gestured toward the Kantor. “Now I’m thinking about a whole new direction.”
Izaac talked more about the Kantor, and Ludka let the vodka tonic do its warming work. The men’s banter fell into the background, and she settled more heavily into her wing chair. From behind, Stanley’s stance was exactly like Oskar’s, weight on his left leg, right leg forward and turned out like a dancer’s, head slightly cocked. For one dizzying moment, as Izaac and Stanley fell silent and gazed together at the painting, Ludka felt time conflate. It seemed Oskar had been in her life all along, as she had been in his; he had written of her, sketched her, and inadvertently sent his grandson to close a circle that had yawned open for decades. Her throat began to ache, and it took a moment before she realized with some alarm that her cheekbones were warm and wet. She roughly swiped at them with the back of her wrist, straightened her spine, and furiously maneuvered herself to the edge of the chair, slopping the drink over her hand and onto her skirt. She rose, took a healthy swallow of vodka to bolster herself, and then tried to ignore the way the tumbler wobbled as she lowered it to the side table.
“Come and take art tour, then. We start upstairs.”
“I’ll do some more pampering,” said Izaac. “Take your time.” He disappeared into the kitchen.
Ludka hauled herself by the handrail up the dark, narrow staircase, placing both feet on one step before taking the next. She went up six and told Stanley to turn around.
“Best vantage for Musialowicz. Glory to the Fallen, from his Sacrum series. 2001.”
Stanley made an appreciative sound, which endeared him to her further. The piece was more sculpture than painting, six feet tall, two-and-a-half feet wide, oil on assembled wood. At its center rose a narrow icon of charred wood with a knobby top for a head and a barely discernible visage carved into it. For the first year they owned it, Ludka would sit on the stairs and stare for so long she’d forget whether she’d been going up or going down and she’d have to call to Izaac to spot her so her stiff hips and sleeping feet wouldn’t betray her. Now she glanced at it only on her way down, standing for brief moments as she landed on each stair.
Once a year they held the open house for the university’s art students, and otherwise there was never much occasion for a tour, so showing Stanley around the upstairs gave Ludka renewed perspective; they owned a truly impressive collection: Jan Lebenstein, Aleksander Kobzdej, Teresa Pagowska, Jerzy Duda-Gracz, Wlodzimeirz Ksiazek.
“And how about the portrait?” Stanley stood in the bedroom door.
“It is nothing of value. The artist is unknown.”
“I like the way she’s checking over her shoulder, though. Is this the only thing you’ve got that isn’t abstract? I mean, you’ve kind of got a thing for abstraction.”
“Only she caught the fancy long ago and now she is like family, or sometimes like wallpaper.”
When Ludka considered the portrait, she saw it for only a moment before she pictured the hidden Chopin; it was tricky to talk about when she gave tours. Most people didn’t linger long, anxious instead to see what they thought of as the more valuable pieces, and Ludka always felt a complex combination of shame, fear, and excitement as they stood in front of her darkest secret, no one the wiser. Even now, as Stanley leaned closer, head and shoulders angled over the bureau, bulging stomach pressed against its edge, she felt these things, along with something resembling pride; she’d protected this masterpiece all these years, and here it was, hiding in plain sight.
“It’s a lot smaller than most of your other stuff, and with such a deep frame. Funny.”
Ludka wondered again if Oskar had written of the Chopin, and for one alarming moment she thought Stanley might reach out and pluck the painting from the wall. She noticed her heartbeat.
“She fits the space, that is all. Come. Eugeniusz Zak is next.”
To her relief, Stanley retreated without further comment. She carefully closed the door behind him, felt the thunk of the thumb latch engage, and steered his attention to the end of the hall.
“Here is Boy with a Landscape in the Background. Every time, I catch breath. So you see, Stanley, not all abstract.”
“I know this one. My grandfather had a print of it hanging in his kitchen. He said it reminded him of the Vistula, although I always thought the background was sky, not water.”
Ludka immediately closed her eyes. She knew when she opened them she would never again see the Boy as she’d seen it all these years—a loss perhaps, or maybe a gain, but for now this uncommon moment of acute suspension between past and future, known and unknown, stasis and change. But even if she never looked again, she could not forestall time; already in her imagination she could see how Oskar would envision the water, not in place of the sky but beyond the painting’s edge, and how the boy’s defeated, exhausted posture might evoke for Oskar a sense of himself, back then. She opened her eyes. She smiled: not a loss then.
“Something smells good,” said Stanley. “Like my grandmother’s kitchen.”
“Izaac will present classic Polish meal. Only we add green salad, but the rest will maybe be like your grandmother. Beetroot soup, kielbasa with pickled cucumbers, mushroom and sauerkraut pierogi. All but the kielbasa is made from scratch, even pickles. Izaac’s retirement, you see?”
Stanley put a hand to his stomach.
“Grandmother never varied from her traditions, never even added salad. But after she died and Grandfather moved to California, he went cold turkey. Got completely onto a health kick, practically went veggie, the whole nine yards. He even got rid of Grandmother’s stash, as we called it. They had an extra room in their tiny apartment—people would kill for that space in Chelsea—and it was always chock full of food, and I’m talking a lot of food. It was like a kiosk in there, cans and boxes stacked floor to ceiling on metal shelves. You could hardly move around.”
Ludka imagined a woman standing quietly amidst the cans, steeling herself to walk back out into an untrustworthy world.
“So your grandmother was in war.”
“I guess so, yeah. I don’t know. They never talked about it. We always snuck in there and raided the jam.”
He laughed as he recounted the way he and his brother would shovel fingers full of jam into their mouths before resealing the jar and moving on to the pickles. Ludka frowned. Stanley’s face showed only the ghost of a mischievous boy’s expression, not a trace of a man’s reflective comprehension or compassion. Ludka turned abruptly for the stairs.
“Upstairs tour is over.”
She clomped onto each stair, wishing she could move
faster. Halfway down she stopped and pointed at the Musialowicz.
“Look.”
The stair behind her creaked as Stanley shifted his weight. Ludka stood for longer than she knew was comfortable. Stanley cleared his throat. She glared at the sculpture.
“Jar of jam could save life.”
“What’s that?” His voice was too loud in the narrow stairwell. Ludka continued down.
“I didn’t hear you, Ludka.”
She gripped the rail, stepped down onto the floor, and turned.
“Jar of jam.” She frowned up at his bewildered face. “Could save life.”
Stanley’s lips fell open with a tiny smacking sound, and she gave him credit for appearing aggrieved. He passed a hand over his mouth and chin, then shook his head.
“I didn’t know. How could I know? I was only a kid.”
She moved away and he followed in silence.
The kitchen was full of rich aromas, heaping platters laid out on the counter by the pass-through, food enough to feed a family of eight. Izaac was washing the pots and pans, the sleeves of his turtleneck shoved back to his feeble biceps, frothy soap encasing his wrists.
“Izaac,” said Stanley, “what can I do to help?”
Ludka was sorry Stanley had not said more, had not reflected out loud that as a grown man he should perhaps have known, or at least wondered, why his grandparents had been such hoarders. He seemed relieved to have skirted the subject as he moved to the dining room and pulled the platters from the pass-through to set them on the table. Not a mature man, then, and this was a disappointment. But of course she was not judging him fairly, this man who so closely resembled Oskar; poor Stanley didn’t stand a chance, measured against the myth of a man forged from long memory.
They had just sat down and gotten through the bustle of passing platters and filling plates when they heard the mechanical whir of the rising garage door, which could only mean Tommy, and sure enough, he and Robert came into the back hall, ushering in an eddy of frigid air.
“You’re just in time,” called Izaac.
“We didn’t realize you had company,” said Robert.
His jet-black hair was uncharacteristically mussed, his ivory complexion even paler than usual. Tommy, his back to the room, began to unwind a bulky cashmere scarf that obscured most of his face. He started to take off his coat, but Robert stopped him and gently lifted the coat from his shoulders, bit by bit, then lowered it slowly until Tommy was free. Ludka clenched her jaw and pushed back from the table.
“What’s trouble?” she said, just as Izaac said, “What is it, what is it?”
Tommy turned, and the first thing Ludka noticed was the mess of blood across his forehead. He wasn’t wearing his glasses. He gingerly touched his cheek under his left eye, and just as Ludka saw the angry gash and the swelling flesh around it, Tommy stumbled, canted toward Robert, and began to collapse with a surprising grace. Robert rushed in and grabbed at Tommy, caught hold of the front of his sweater, flung his other arm around Tommy’s back, and lowered him down to the floor, head and shoulders propped in Robert’s narrow lap.
“I told you we should have gone to the hospital,” said Robert. Tommy closed his eyes and nodded. Robert called out for 911, but Izaac was already on the phone in the kitchen, reciting their address. Tommy’s sweater and T-shirt had pulled out from the front of his jeans, and the sight of his pale, taut belly, finely dusted with downy blond hair, stirred a burgeoning anger in Ludka, who pulled a shawl off the back of her wing chair and held it out to Robert; she wasn’t steady enough to bend down herself, and this made her angrier.
“Where else are wounds? Who is responsible? Izaac, get a face-cloth. And warm water.”
Izaac had already thought of this, too, and instantly appeared with a clean dishrag and a bowl of warm water. Suddenly Stanley was there beside them. He took the bowl and dishrag from Izaac and kneeled.
“I’m Stanley. Long story you don’t need to hear now.” He submerged the cloth into the water, dunked it in and out a few times, then loosely wrung it out and handed it to Tommy, who pressed it against the side of his face. Stanley took the shawl from Robert and draped it over Tommy’s legs. Robert reached out and tucked Tommy’s T-shirt back into the front of his jeans, and at that Ludka averted her eyes. Robert’s own shirt—a white dress Calvin Klein he hadn’t changed out of after a long day at the law firm—was smeared and stiff with brown blood. Robert pulled the shawl up to Tommy’s ribs.
There was a sharp rap on the glass next to the back door, and Izaac hurried over, elbows jutting back. He started to pull open the door, but quickly realized he didn’t see flashing lights. He peered past the curtain through the glass alongside the door.
“Niech to szlag trafi!” he muttered. He pushed the door tight. “Have you no decency? You are trespassing here. I’m calling the police.”
“Paparazzi?” Tommy smiled weakly up at Robert.
“Channel 7,” said Izaac. “Wendy Chen. Maybe a photographer, too.”
“We’re already losing our allure,” said Tommy.
Robert shook his head and told Tommy to hush. A woman’s muffled voice called back.
“We only want to know what happened to your grandson, Mr. Attorney General. Who attacked him? Is he okay?”
Ludka pushed past Izaac and yanked hard on the door. She felt a sharp pain in her left shoulder.
“Don’t, kochanie, they’ll force their way in.”
She took the knob in both hands and slowly tugged at the door, opening it just a crack, not at all sure what she intended, knowing only that she wouldn’t cower inside. She opened the door a bit wider and stepped between it and the storm door, then closed her eyes against the sudden onslaught of light and Wendy Chen’s questions. Ludka pressed her right palm to the front of her left shoulder, covering the point of pain. Eyes closed, feeling the winter chill, tuning out the reporter, she simply stood there, jaw set, head slightly raised in what could have been construed as a haughty pose, pops of light from the photographer’s flash penetrating her eyelids. On the eleven o’clock news and in the morning paper she’d look as if she were pledging allegiance, something that would secretly please Ludka and openly please the news editors, the symbolism of liberty and justice for all not lost on any of them. Chen’s harangue began to slow as she grew unsure in the face of Ludka’s silence. Behind Ludka, Izaac kept the door from drifting open in order to shield Tommy and Robert. Even with his heart hammering and thoughts racing, Izaac had the presence of mind to admire Ludka’s stubborn protest. Leave it to his Ludka to cow the media with her unorthodox response.
Even with her eyes closed, Ludka sensed the bright light shift. The cameraman swung the camera around and angled it up the hill to the road, where the ambulance had turned into the driveway. The siren abruptly quit midscream but the lights kept flashing. Ludka opened the storm door.
“You will all move aside now and get off property.”
“Just tell us what happened, Professor. Is he okay?”
“He needs ambulance! What do you think?”
“Make way,” said Izaac, stepping around the door. “Make way, for god’s sake.”
The news crew vacated the stoop but not before they snagged a few oblique shots of Tommy and Robert on the floor. Chen lowered her mic and held open the storm door as the EMTs came through with their stretcher.
“Will you take him to Mercy?”
“Enough now.” Izaac held up his hand and closed the door.
Ludka and Izaac got home just before eleven. All the lights had been left on and the fire was out; they could feel the cool draft from the open flue. They found that Stanley, who had urged them to go ahead and he would see himself out, had cleared off the dining room table, loaded the dishwasher, and wiped down the kitchen counters.
“Mój Boże, but that’s a welcome sight. Good man, Stanley.”
Izaac took from the refrigerator a plate of sausage covered with plastic wrap. He held out the plate toward Ludka, inquiring. S
he shook her head. She rubbed her shoulder.
“Anymore I am too old for this, Izaac.”
He set the plate on the counter, unwrapped the sausage, selected one, and turned to consider her. Flyaway strands of pure white hair had come loose from her usual swept-up style, forming a haphazard halo. Aqua veins at her temples rose in sharp relief against her pale skin, and her gray-blue eyes were rimmed with red. He sometimes got unreasonably angry at her for appearing so old—only five years his senior, after all—but tonight he felt only an exhausted sort of love, and marveled not for the first time that he was still here, grateful to be with her after all these years, grateful for their independence. He took a bite of the sausage and assumed the position of pledging allegiance, mimicking her perfectly. She gave him a wan smile. He chewed and grinned.