The Music of Us (Still Life with Memories Book 3) Read online

  Oh God, I thought. After living in such elegant surroundings she would not stay in my father’s apartment for long. As a soldier I could not provide for such extravagance.

  “Take off your jacket,” said Natasha.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Give it to me.”

  I did.

  She took the leather jacket, laid it by her side, found the pocket, took out the little notebook, and started inserting a long, perfumed envelope into it.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  And she said, “Just something I wrote. I want you to have it. Something to remember me by when you go back to London.”

  I dropped to one knee at the side of the bed and raised my eyes to her, watching her long fingers as they smoothed over the flap of the envelope to make sure it was sealed.

  “Let me read it, then,” I said.

  “Oh no, Lenny. Not now.”

  “At least, give me a little hint, Natashinka. Tell me what it’s all about.”

  She blushed. Then she touched her cheek, trying to calm herself down, because now she was blushing over having blushed before. Meanwhile I noticed the silky fabric of her camisole. The edge of it came into view briefly, peeping out under the scarlet bow, right here at the lip of her sweater blouse. Then it disappeared.

  At last she said, “It’s a page from my diary. It’s where I record my thoughts.”

  “Is it about last night?”

  “Oh no. It’s about the first time we met.”

  I was moved, and told her so. Her eyes widened as I took the notebook out of the pocket of my jacket and opened it to look at the envelope. On the back side of it there were only two letters, N for Natasha, L for Lenny. They were drawn together in a fancy pen stroke. I touched my lips to it and put the envelope back in place without losing a beat and without trying to pry it open.

  “I shall save it for later,” I said.

  “And for always,” said she.

  “Yes,” I promised. “For always.”

  Natasha smiled, bouncing happily between one pillow and another. Wave after wave, her hair unfurled around face, her neck. She turned over to lie on her belly, swinging her feet back and forth in the air.

  “Here, I brought you a little something,” I said, presenting the chocolate box I had bought for her.

  She found it charming. I opened it. Inside were Liliput confections in red, pink, green, and black, each one hand-made: whipped, rolled, filled and ornamented. We looked at each other, wishing to surrender to temptation and at the same time trying to resist it, because at first glance, these sweets were too precious to eat. But this craving was stronger than both of us, and the only question was, would she yield to it before I did?

  And another thing: how long could I hold myself back from making love to her?

  Natasha leaned closer to me with a playful glint in her eye and reached over to pick a miniature chocolate ball, which she let melt on her tongue. She gave away a little moan, as if her delight came from the gut and couldn’t be expressed in mere words. Now I could see not only the edge of her camisole, which cast a lacy shadow over her skin, but also one of her breasts, all the way down to the hard nipple.

  Out of excitement I rose to my feet and with a single thrust, tore the comforter away. It dropped to the floor behind me. Natasha rolled away to the other side of the bed, her sweater blouse loosening off one shoulder.

  Then she came back to hold out a chocolate-covered marzipan ball before me, so I might bite into it.

  Instead I kissed her fingers, relishing the taste.

  In her pleasure she could not help but utter a little sigh and let go of the delicacy. Slightly melted, it slipped from her hand onto the sheet, leaving a dark, aromatic stain.

  “Have another one,” she murmured, eyes closed.

  “It’s you I want,” I whispered, ever so softly, in her ear.

  From there I explored her, stroke by stoke, from the long line of her neck down to her waist and around the mound of her hips, as if she were a landscape with hills and molten rock: quiet in some areas, explosive in others. When I reached the valley she erupted in a cry. I drew her into my arms, my body coming and going of its own accord. I felt her legs parting before me as I hardened, then closing together, knees rising, pressing against my groin as she tried to deny herself, deny her own arousal.

  At one point I thought of letting go of her, or at least delaying the moment of release, only to find her clinging to me anew, with a wild, desperate quiver of the flesh. And before either one of us knew what we were doing I happened across that sweet spot, where she was turning to liquid.

  I could not even recall, later, if I had unzipped her skirt or if she had done it herself. All I knew was that after all these months of being away, imagining her touch, feeling our first kiss fade away into a distant memory, at last here we were, listening in rapture to the rhythms of her breath and mine, hearing our cry of ecstasy, our soaring heartbeat, and finding ourselves lost in the tender joy of joining into one.

  When she fell asleep I rose from her bed, put on my leather jacket, picked the comforter from the floor and covered her up to her ears. Then I left the room, closing the door with a soft thud behind me.

  Downstairs, as I headed out of the elevator, the space looked deserted, which was a strange thing considering all the lights burning in the huge chandelier and all that glitz everywhere, as if there should have been a grand party. At the reception counter, a lone clerk with eyes glazing over leaned into his elbows, ready to nod off. The only thing that brought life into the place was the gramophone.

  The same record was spinning around on it, playing,

  Dark or light, I always knew

  In my whole world there’s no one else but you

  Whether you’re here or there

  Baby, you’re the one for whom I care

  I pine for you day and night

  Yours Forever I’m Going to Be

  Chapter 21

  Until my departure three weeks later I had little chance to see Natasha, because of her busy schedule, which took her away from the city and out of my reach. I stayed at Uncle Shmeel’s place, and she called me there every evening just to chat and to tell me about her performance the night before, which often included Beethoven's Fifth. It reminded me that I was yet to listen to her playing it in concert.

  There was so much to learn about who she was, which I found inspiring. I was happy just to hear her voice and said nothing, not a word about how badly I missed her. After all I didn’t want to make our separation more difficult than it had to be.

  Uncle Shmeel was quick to sense my mood. Having left the room during my phone conversations with her, which was his way of giving us a sense of privacy, he would come back in later to play his clarinet for me.

  Yours forever where ever I go

  I’m faithful to you, never forget

  From the moment we met, so long ago

  Still aching for you, don’t leave just yet

  Say you’ll return, no one knows when

  But I’ll keep you in my thoughts

  Hold me close, kiss me again

  Yours forever I’m going to be

  Where ever you are just think of me

  As for Natasha moving into my father’s apartment, her Ma had taken care of it, with her usual manner of efficiency and with no need, thank you very much, for my help. Feeling dejected I spent my days doing little of anything, except writing.

  By now I had made up my mind that my protagonist would be named not Ryan but Leonard. That was my given name in its fuller, more lionized form. In the context of my story it sounded somewhat pompous, which served a purpose: to separate the character from me, even though his feelings were loosely based on mine.

  Accordingly I titled the story Leonard and Lana. Little did I know that this minor literary choice would later become cause for regret. It would haunt me for the rest of my life.

  Missing Natasha started to weigh me down. With each passing d
ay I felt as if the end was coming, as if I would soon lose her. On an upbeat note I used these fears, handing them over to my character, which helped flesh him out and make the story believable, giving a ring of truth to its fiction.

  In spite of himself, Leonard knew he missed the rhythm of her breathing. He missed it terribly. He needed to hear the swish of her hair, the soft patter of her footfalls, and above all, the way she talked.

  He wondered what Lana knew about him, having studied him so diligently from the beginning. Then he wondered if he, in turn, knew anything about her. Who she was, the inner language of her thoughts. For the first time in twelve months, he wondered if her dreams played out in a heavy Russian accent.

  One morning I caught Uncle Shmeel reading my first draft. Tears welled in his eyes, which surprised me. It was the best reward I could expect, to touch another soul.

  “Don’t mind me,” he said, wiping his face and sniffling a bit. “I’m just an old man with a soft spot at heart. Call me a romantic!”

  “You’re biased, Uncle Shmeel—”

  “Maybe so—”

  “I’m not much of a writer, but I am a hell of a catalyst.”

  “You, my boy, have a gift! I’m sure that others will agree with me. What you’ve written here awakens so many feelings, and they overwhelm me, especially now, because of my old girlfriend, Pearl.”

  “Why, what happened?”

  “As you may recall, she’s been waiting for a wedding ring for the last ten years—or maybe it was eleven, who’s counting—and along the way she’s been spoiling me rotten with one gift after another, simply to pave the way to the altar, until at long last she’s run out of patience and left me, without any advance warning, mind you, and why? For no better reason than getting a marriage proposal from some younger fool.”

  I gave him a little pat on the back to show sympathy, which turned out to be the wrong thing to do, because now he started sobbing.

  I stood there not knowing what to say.

  Finally, in an effort to shift the conversation to practical matters, I said, “Listen, Uncle Shmeel. I’m leaving for London tomorrow. Anything I can do right now to help you around here? Just say the word!”

  Between one whimper and another he pointed at the burnt-out light bulb in the kitchen.

  I asked for a ladder, which he did not have.

  “The other day,” he said, “I climbed from the chair to the table, and I tried to reach up, which wasn’t easy for me, and somehow I managed to screw it, I mean, I screwed that light bulb almost all the way in, at which time I got tired, too tired to finish the job, because really, how long can an old man keep holding his hands up in the air?”

  I hopped on top of the table and tightened the thing.

  “There,” I said, jumping down. “It’s done.”

  “I’m so proud of you,” he said, beaming at me through the tears. “You can do anything!”

  I shrugged. “It’s a simple thing, Uncle Shmeel. Anyone could’ve done it.”

  “It’s a question of style,” he said. “You did it the same way you wrote that story.”

  “How so?”

  “With a surprising twist at the end.”

  For the rest of the day he would not stop raving about my skills. His unrelenting enthusiasm flattered me and at the same time, made me uneasy. I did not think my writing deserved such praise and felt compelled to examine each paragraph, each sentence. I refined a phrase here, a phrase there, and searched for simpler, more direct words, to achieve a stronger impact.

  By dawn, the story was seven pages long. I knew it was quite amateurish, but on a whim decided to send it to a literary magazine.

  It was the morning of my flight. There was no time to figure out the requirements regarding the format of literary submissions. Instead of typing it double-spaced I wrote my manuscript longhand, in my usual handwriting: with minute letters and barely a space to allow any breathing.

  In addition I had no idea that a stamped, self-addressed envelope should be included, so the magazine could return it to me in case it got rejected.

  No doubt, the story was imperfect, but at this point, what more could I do? For lack of time I accepted the prospects of failure. I told myself that if Moses were to come down today from mount Sinai with the Ten Commandments, he would have to spend the rest of his life trying to get them published. Compared to him, what were my chances?

  Success was elusive. I dropped the manuscript at the post office and decided not to give it another thought.

  ❋

  Up until the very last minute I was hoping that Natasha would make it to the airport. She had promised she would. I ached to hold her in my arms, to kiss her goodbye. Counting the seconds I waited, waited, waited for her, in vain.

  In later years I would learn that she did come back to New York that morning. Running through the terminal she pushed her way through the crowd, only to see the aircraft starting to pivot around the axis of its landing gear. It was still on the ground, but its nose was already being raised to effect liftoff. At first, a strong headwind reduced the ground speed, but eventually the plane managed to accelerate into a takeoff, carrying me away.

  The engine was droning. Clouds started drifting over the wings and across the glass, blocking my view of the earth, falling away.

  I took off my leather jacket and out of its pocket pulled out the envelope, the long, perfumed envelope Natasha had given me on our last date. In it she had sealed her diary entry, dating back to the first time we met.

  Looking at the letters she had drawn on the back of the envelope—N for Natasha, combined with a fancy pen stroke with L for Lenny—I remembered promising her that I would not read it immediately, but rather save it for later.

  The moment has come. I tore it open.

  Unlike the letters she had sent me at the beginning of this year, here was a conversation not with me but with herself, baring her heart to the paper without any inhibitions.

  She wrote,

  Love at first sight?

  That’s a myth, an overused figure of speech, one that signifies nothing. That’s what I thought, until tonight.

  I never believed it could happen to me. Boy was I mistaken!

  It’s late at night. Mama’s gone to bed, and I know she is angry with me. Tomorrow she will calm down into an outburst, which means that she’ll subdue her emotions just enough to be able to give me an earful.

  I can just imagine what she is going to say. “You shouldn’t be changing your program on the fly, which is quite bad in itself, and even worse because you did it without consulting me. What, am I not your Mama? Have I not taken care of you, kept you safe all these years? Where’s the respect? Where’s the gratitude? Why didn’t you say something to me ahead of time? I could have prevented you from this foolery, or at least given proper notice to the announcer, who got all confused because of you, and to the organizers, who stuck all those fliers around the auditorium to let everyone know what you were supposed to play tonight, and didn’t.”

  To which I would say, “Sorry, Ma.”

  And she would go on to tell me how lucky I am to get this opportunity to play this wonderful piece, Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 3, no less, and I shouldn’t have blown it, because other musicians, less fortunate than me, are listed as cooks and bakers, simply because there’s no authorization for a band, at this camp and everywhere else in the military, and when they manage to play music, under such lowly job titles, all they do is march about every day beating drums and stuff, merely to accompany recruits from the train to the main part of the camp.

  Then she would add that there was a chance, a slight one but all the same crucial, to meet Irving Berlin himself, as he had one of his four personal pianos delivered to Camp Upton, because of planning to write all the tunes for a musical, to be titled This is the Army. And so all in all, my performance here was vital to my career, because who knows, maybe he was sitting there, in the audience, among all those good-for-nothing low-lives in uni
form, who sleep who-knows-where with God-knows-who, so in Heaven’s name, the last thing we need is stunts like the one I pulled tonight.

  She does not understand me, and never will.

  For weeks now I cannot stop thinking of Pa and of his lost memory. I agonize over the manner of his death, because I should have done something, anything to ease it for him. I should have said goodbye or just held his hand. Instead I wasted the moment, and I can never bring it back to make it right, never. I spent it repeating over and over, hoping he would hear me, hoping desperately to be recognized, “It’s me, Pa! It’s Natasha!”

  Ma says that grief must be held back, or else it will hinder me. She says the way to fight it is by getting back into my routine, just as I did at Juliard.

  Is she right? In truth I have no idea.

  Playing would be my tribute to him, she says, because it was Pa who taught me how to listen to music, how to let others hear it.

  So that was my intention, to obey her. I never thought of changing my program, until it was my turn to step onstage.

  It was then that I laid eyes on this soldier, this strikingly handsome man, whose shoulder was bulging out, for some reason, whose shirt looked lopsided because of it, and whose name I didn’t know.

  Perhaps I never will.

  His smile was irresistible. It made me melt inside. I loved the way he came after me, with no hesitation whatsoever, which amazed me. I am trained from childhood to reflect on every note, consider every interpretation, and measure every feeling by the precision of an inner metronome.

  He’s different.

  By instinct, this I know: he would complete me.

  In his own way, which I found both crazy and adorable, he dashed onto the stage ahead of me, pretending to be my bugle boy, even though his instrument was made up of air.