Dancing with Air (Still Life with Memories Book 4) Read online

  “Yes, you admire the way I play, but in truth music is the only thing for which Papa trained me.”

  “You’re too critical of yourself,” I said.

  To which she said, “No, Lenny. I’ve seen him decline, seen him lose his mind, and if—if, like him, I’ll ever lose mine—how in the world will I recover? How will I find my way, when I’ve never developed the skill to do so?”

  I lowered my head before her.

  “Never,” I said, “until now.”

  “Exactly,” said Natasha. “Until now.”

  And a moment later, blotting the corner of her eye, where a tear was forming, she whispered to me, “Come closer, Lenny, snuggle up, but never, ever let me lean on you.”

  That’s What the Heart Knows

  Chapter 6

  Until now, an ocean had separated us, and it did so in more ways than one. I could not believe my luck for having her, because Natasha belonged to a place that was far above me, a realm of dreams and of music. Just the way her Ma had told me a few weeks ago, we were, to this day, practically strangers. The moments I had spent with her were precious, but few, which was, perhaps, why she was still a riddle to me.

  I knew so little about her, about the way her mind worked. Then again, what did she know about me? Being so young, so delicate, could she relate, in any way, to the life of a marine? Would the rough ways of my existence seem vile to her? Could she bring herself, somehow, to like the things I do? Would she understand, for example, the pride I took in my motorcycle?

  To my surprise, her eyes caught fire when she brushed her fingers around the speed and fuel gages of the bike. Natasha studied the blackout headlights. She admired the body. Most of it was painted olive drab, according to military specifications, but Harley-Davidson was practical in its use of existing parts, so one of the finishes remained in it bright civilian version. In it I spotted a mirror image of the palm of her hand. Under her thumb I saw a distorted, convex reflection of the nearby twist of the River Thames and of distant ships, sailing off into the dim, murky horizon.

  Pointing at the handlebar, she asked, “What’s this for?”

  And I said, “That’s the accelerator control.”

  “And this?”

  “The brake control.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “The clutch.”

  Holding my hand for balance, Natasha hopped inside the sidecar. She propped up the cushion which I had prepared for her and sat down upon it, tucking the suitcase under her feet. The hem of her polka-dotted dress came to a rest around her ankles, but it was still fluttering, a dot here, a dot there, over the edges of the sidecar.

  Natasha glanced at my bad boy. Then, pointing at its twin cylinders, she asked, “What are these for?”

  “For the engine,” I said. “See? It has a tight angle between them, which allows it to fit in a small space. This design creates a sound which is quite unique. It’s the selling point of the Harley-Davidson brand. Here, listen now!”

  I kick-started the Harley. An exhaust note, composed of a throaty growling rattle and some popping, came out as the first cylinder fired, followed by the second one, followed by a slight pause until the first one fired again.

  “Oh wow!” she exclaimed.

  And a moment later, she said, “I couldn’t wait for you to take me for a ride. But now, now I can’t wait for something else: one of these days, Lenny, I’m going to ride this beast, all by myself!”

  “Yes, Natashinka,” I said. But inside, I found it difficult, somehow, to imagine her in my place, on the saddle. “For sure, you’re going to learn.”

  “Learn is just what I’ll do, in as many ways as I can,” she said. “I’m so scared, Lenny, and at the same time, so incredibly happy about everything that’s new, every challenge—big and small—that’s coming my way.”

  I revved up the engine. With a hum, off we went. Having caught her cartwheel hat with both hands so it would not fly off, Natasha set it down on her knees. No longer hidden under the brim of it, her eyes twinkled as she gazed, ever so intently, at me.

  At last, “I thought you’d be wearing your uniform,” she said, raising her voice over the wind.

  And I said, “The shirt is new. Like it?”

  “I do.”

  “Before my departure from America, I was outfitted with a complete civilian wardrobe, purchased from the Hecht Company in Washington, with a government clothing allowance.”

  “No wonder you look different.”

  “Do I?”

  In place of an answer, she blushed.

  Her thrill at everything, every little thing she saw around her on the dock, was refreshing to me—but it seemed to have vanished quite quickly. First, Natasha slumped in her seat. Then I was surprised to hear her subduing a yawn. Clearly, she could not help herself. Oh, how tired she must have been! No, more than just tired—overcome, that’s the right word, overcome by exhaustion from the long, harrowing journey across the Atlantic.

  It was late. The sun started to fade beyond yellowing clouds. The upside down image of Tower Bridge had already sunk into the shadows, and—as if by an invisible hand—the glitter had been blotted out from the waves.

  When we turned out of the Port of London, I said, “Oh, I forgot to ask: Did they give you an address? A particular place to stay?”

  Natasha said something, but even at this close range I could barely catch it. So I asked again, then glanced at her—only to realize that she was listening not to me, but to some thought, some dream that played out inside her mind. She was beginning to nod off.

  “No matter,” I said. “I’ll take you to my place.”

  ❋

  The city darkened and just as fast, traffic became light. Other drivers might find driving difficult at this hour, because of the blackout, but I knew my way to the London Detachment well enough to brag—which I did quite often—that I could probably get there with no major incidents, blindfolded.

  Known as the American Embassy Annex, it resided a short distance from Hyde Park and the vibrant West End, in a non-military facility on Grosvenor Square, which was nicknamed ‘Eisenhower Platz’ after Supreme Allied Commander Dwight D. Eisenhower.

  Along the way there I kept thinking about the little I knew about her plans. The USO, for which she volunteered to perform, amounted to the biggest enterprise American show business had ever tackled, aiming to provide morale-boosting services for American troops. I recalled watching a short film about their work, featuring actor Ronald Reagan.

  Some scenes in that documentary had shown soldiers jumping for joy at the opportunity to shower in canteens, which caused the Army to complain, “This can’t be good for morale, it implies that there are no showers for soldiers in military camps.”

  This job, that Natasha had committed to, was not without danger. In February, just a few months ago, I had read that a plane carrying a troupe had crashed outside Lisbon, killing actress Tamara Drasin and severely injuring Broadway singer Jane Froman.

  What arrangements had the USO made for her? Had her shows been scheduled? Would a Grand Piano be carried along on the tour, just for her? Where would she stay? When would she rehearse? How would she get to where she needs to be? And where, in this new life of hers, would I fit in?

  I said to myself, stop it! Stop confusing yourself with more questions. The only thing that’s for certain is what the heart knows. Love, and nothing more.

  Meanwhile, Grosvenor Square came into view.

  “Look, Natasha, isn’t it beautiful?” I asked, pointing at the impressive buildings on the sides of it. Their architecture was all about formality, uniformity, and historical grandeur, which failed, at this moment, to impress her.

  I brought the bike to a stop and dismounted.

  Natasha tried to stretch out of her sleep. She must have been bone-tired. Barely did she notice the central garden, which permitted long views across the expanse of it.

  “No matter,” I said, gently kissing her brow. “It’s too gloomy
, right now, to see anything in detail. C’mon, Natasha, let’s go.”

  Yawning, “What?” she cast a heavy-eyed look around her, barely seeing a thing.

  I lifted her suitcase and helped her out of the sidecar. Then, wrapping my arm around her shoulders, I swept her in the direction of the entrance. Just before we reached it, I saw something stir. In a flash, a figure separated from the shadows.

  With a slight trace of an accent, which sounded a bit like German to me, the man said, “You’ve got your hands full, don’t you? Need help?”

  “No,” I said, startled, for some reason, by his eyes.

  Even in the failing light I thought I could spot a watery-blue glint in them. Their expression, oddly enough, seemed—oh, how should I put it?—too eager, perhaps, too interested in me, in us.

  And that voice, where had I heard it before? It sounded familiar, but I could not place it in my mind.

  “The suitcase,” he said, “it sure seems heavy. Let me give you a hand.”

  “No,” I stressed. “I’ll manage.”

  “Will you?” he asked. “The girl, she’s drowsy. Keep your hands on her.”

  “She’s just fine, thank you.”

  And with that I went in, carrying her over the threshold. Doing so I lost sight of him and promptly forgot all about that voice of his, until much later.

  ❋

  Up in my room I offered her a cup of water. She took a small sip and set it down. I unbuttoned the back of her dress, which slipped to the floor. Natasha stepped out of her shoes and sat upon the edge of the bed, a red curl slinking off her shoulder and over the hook and eye closures of her bra.

  I brushed my lips over her earlobe, all the way around to the back of her neck, at which point I felt her shivering.

  “You cold?” I said.

  Natasha shook her head, no. Then she pressed her hands against her temples, eyes closed. “Oh, I feel as if everything is swimming around me,” she said. “This isn’t my cabin, right?”

  “No, it isn’t,” said I. “Lay down, sweetheart, you must be exhausted.”

  I tucked her under the blanket and turned on the radio, hoping for something romantic, something that might revive her and at the same time, set the mood for love.

  There, there it was:

  Being with you feels so right

  Darling, hold me tight

  Morning, midday, or night

  Don’t leave me again

  I need you here, that’s plain

  Every day, every month of the year

  Love can’t be denied

  Let me be by your side

  Morning, midday, or night

  Her eyes flickered open, but in spite of the faint smile, there was a sense of confusion in them.

  “Where am I?” she asked.

  And I said, “In my place.”

  “Is it time?”

  “Time for what?”

  “To play.”

  It took me a little while to figure out that she was talking about music, about having to perform, not about us.

  “No,” I said. “It’s not time, not yet.”

  “Oh good,” said Natasha. “’Cause really, I don’t think I’m ready. They said they can’t promise a Grand Piano on the tour, so would I agree to use some other instrument, any kind of instrument, perhaps an accordion on one performance, and on another—a mini-piano of one kind or another. And Lenny, can you believe it? I said yes—”

  “Don’t even worry about it,” I said, “not right now.”

  She raised herself up on her elbows, looking utterly pale, and went into a burst of sentences. “I’m told,” she said, “that we’re going to play every night, I mean, every night in a different place, so I need to be ready to improvise, which is not my strongpoint. Sometimes, the troops may be ankle deep in mud, huddled under their ponchos in a pouring rain, and we’re going to play before them on an uncovered stage. So all of us, soldiers and performers alike, may be rain-soaked. Other times we’re going to play in a hospital ward, before not more than a score of wounded soldiers. You’ve seen me perform, seen me command a concert hall that has the best acoustics, but now... Now I’m not sure what to expect. I’m faint-hearted, Lenny, and I hate myself for it, hate my doubts. ‘Hate’ may be too strong a word—I can see that you’re quite surprised by it—but what I mean is, I’m passionate about trying to rise above my fears, somehow, and find courage in myself.”

  I was just about to say something soothing, when Natasha went on. “I’m not sure if I can do this,” she admitted. “Oh, Lenny, can you imagine me, playing before audiences spreading from my very feet to far up a hillside, with some of the soldiers sitting in the trees?”

  “It’s going to be fine,” I promised. “And now, now get some sleep, sweetie—”

  “But where, where am I?” she said, thrashing around on the bed, glancing at the ceiling, gazing at the dark corners with a bewildered look in her eyes.

  I gathered her into my arms and felt her body soften, slowly, into mine.

  “You are,” I whispered, “where you belong.”

  I had no idea if she caught the words, but at the sound of my voice, her muscles relaxed. Soon after, her breathing became regular.

  I lay awake by her side, aroused by the silky touch of her skin, holding my breath as I listened to hers. She was falling deeper and deeper away from me, into slumber.

  By nature I’m impatient—but now, let me overcome that hunger, that urge in me. I can afford to wait for just the right moment with her, can’t I? We’re together, at long last. The two of us have time, all the time in the world to get to know each other. Nothing can stand in our way.

  And I was just about to close my eyes, when all of a sudden a thought crossed my mind, making me tense with alarm.

  Get up, it hissed at me. Get up right now while there’s time, while she’s still asleep, and do something about that letter, which for a whole week you could not bring yourself to finish: the letter to the wrong girl, Lana.

  Get it done. Do it now.

  Because of You

  Chapter 7

  Unable to pull myself away from her I fell asleep by her side, only to awaken with a jolt some time later, utterly discombobulated. It was still dark. That little voice in me must have been hissing all night long, stifled, but still insistent. Now it rose to a shriek. Get up, get up and finish that letter, before she wakes up to what you’re doing.

  Natasha sighed, then called my name.

  “Here I am,” I whispered. “What is it, Sweetie?”

  She gave no answer. By her breath I knew she was fast asleep. Perhaps she saw me in her dream.

  Stealthily I slipped off the bed and walked across the wood floor, avoiding the creaking plank next to the desk. It would be the strangest thing in the world, I thought, to write to the wrong girl in the presence of the right one. But somehow, this oddity served to clear my mind and sharpen my senses, the way danger does.

  I switched on the desk lamp and turned it away from her. Then I glanced over my shoulder: Natasha did not stir, nor did she open her eyes. This was a perfect time to do my work. First, I studied the opening paragraph of my draft letter to her:

  Dear Natasha,

  My letter today may seem unusual to you. I admit, this time it is overflowing with impressions. I couldn’t help myself, because I ache for you. Oh my dearest, I miss you to the point of wanting you to know everything about me, every little thing I’m going through, because it’s so painful to be together, apart.

  With the palm of my hand I smoothed open another sheet of paper, a blank one. Did I say it was blank? Its whiteness, under the lamp, seemed to glare at me, as if to say, Well? What have you got to say?

  The writing should be tailored for a different girl, and any girl would do. Lana just happened to be available for the role, simply because I had obtained her address from her ex-boyfriend, Ryan, and because I had met her once, in passing. Now what I needed to do was simply this: sound convincing. I needed to look foo
lish enough to pour my heart out.

  I imagined myself a regular Don Juan. And with that state of mind I wrote:

  Dear Lana,

  You may wonder, perhaps, why I’m writing this letter to you. After all we’ve spent such a brief time during my visit, a couple of months ago, to New York. But I must admit, you left an impression on me. Time and again, the memory of those moments comes back to mind, especially when I’m lonely, which happens quite often, even when I’m surrounded by other girls. None of them counts, of course. I recall the conversation we had during that cab ride and wish I could continue talking to you.

  So please accept these words from a faraway man, who wants you to know everything about himself, every little thing he’s going through, because it’s so painful to live in isolation.

  The opening seemed to be writing itself. Editing was so much easier than expected, and to my relief, the rest of the letter needed only minor adjustments, nothing more complicated than replacing ‘Natasha’ by ‘Lana’ in this or that place.

  Down to the last word, there were few romantic nuances. Instead, there were made-up impressions, in which I disclosed allied troop movement, generously exaggerated so as to fool the enemy.

  Signing my name at the bottom of the page I was fairly proud of myself for this newly-composed masterpiece. My officer would surely enjoy reading it, and in their own way—laughing, perhaps, at the exploits of an overly emotional ladies’ man—so would the agents of German Intelligence.

  I made sure the ink was completely dry before putting the letter into an envelope. Stealing a glance at Natasha, who uttered another sigh in her sleep, I tucked the thing into the first place I could think of: the pocket of my jacket. Yes, I thought, in that place, it would go unnoticed.

  With that, the annoying little voice had been silenced, at last. Now, with a carefree heart, I went back to bed and scooped the sleeping girl up against my chest. The last thing I felt before dozing off was the touch of her long, slender legs twining around mine.