Basic Black with Pearls Page 5

  I lifted my face to his face; I took his hands in mine; he raised his eyes heavenward.

  – You have been sent to be with me at the end. It is you who will forgive me.

  Through my mind went a rush of responses. I was ready to point out that what he had done was natural and human, understandable and therefore forgivable; that he needed absolution from no one. I wanted to exhort him to forgive himself and forget, yet I knew that my arguments were useless: logic had nothing to do with his pain: the source of his anguish was beyond understanding: reason had nothing to do with his plight. Stay, stay, he was saying, I must hear words of forgiveness from someone. But he was not looking at me; his vision was elsewhere. In retrospect now, I think, that if he had not turned his back on me, if he had not turned to the wall, I might have stayed, for his sorrow made my agitations seem frivolous. But he had released me. He was facing the wall, wringing his hands, rocking in prayer, and from his throat, seemingly without breath, I heard Kaddish, the Aramaic ritual prayer for the dead, now clear, now lost in murmur, beginning with those terrible and necessary first two words, Yisgadal V’yiskadash. Simply, silently, briefly, I watched the figure in his communion with the dead. There was nothing for me to say. I had to leave.

  Descending the dark, steep stairs I kept seeing the man’s tragic face before me as an afterimage. If only I could write! I had the time; the many hours of waiting might well be spent in writing. I would buy a notebook and keep a pen in its spiral spine. When Coenraad and I are together, words are not necessary, yet the silence which can be so eloquent between us is unnerving when I am alone. Come to think of it, I have not been without imagination. I saved stories to entertain him with, and what didn’t actually happen, I invented. He was astounded: Where do you meet such people? He worried that I was involved with them, not realizing that most of my characters were imagined, and the rest speculated upon. I always tried to be amusing. When he laughed or made love, Coenraad revealed himself to be a man of undisguised joy.

  If I could write, where would I begin? Perhaps I could weave a story around some item in a newspaper. There, at the corner of Dundas, displayed behind a wire mesh in a padlocked box, was the Toronto Daily Star. In the left-hand column, which was edged with a black border, was a heading, Murder or Suicide?

  – When Lewis B. Martindale came home Sunday night, he found his wife standing on a chair with a rope around her neck.

  – I’m going to kill myself and you can’t stop me, she said.

  – Let me help you, he said, and kicked the chair from under her.

  – I watched her die without regret, he said when questioned.

  A writer would speculate on the circumstances that led to the wife’s desperation and the husband’s uninterest. No. I don’t think I have the necessary objectivity to elaborate on such a piece of news.

  Perhaps I ought to try my hand at fiction. I would have to be careful: for me the power of the written word is so great that there would be the danger of my believing what I imagined. And were it to be a love story, the hero would be Coenraad. Therein lay another problem: since Coenraad was always in disguise, in order to authenticate him, fictionally speaking, I would have to reveal him in his essential characteristics. I was not certain I wanted to do that. It was no use pretending that I could tell anyone else’s story, so I might have to tell my own. For that I must rely entirely on memory.

  In the midst of all this high resolve I realized that I am not permitted to put anything down on paper. That is the rule. There must be no papers, documents, letters, notes, journals or diaries that would expose our love affair.

  At the very least, I should carry a pocket tape recorder for impressions and reflections. Or conversations overheard, as this one in the ward . . .

  – How could you say such a thing!

  – What . . . what did I say?

  – You said, Every cell in your body has your name on it.

  – It’s true.

  – Your tone of voice was insulting. You also said . . .

  – Yes, yes, I know what I said. I tell you it does not matter what I say: that roses stink, that I will kill myself, that he is a man without pity. Words have nothing to do with him; he hears only a heavenly chorus singing his praises.

  – He is so patient with you.

  – Indifference is often mistaken for patience.

  – He comes to see you every night.

  – The weight of all that indifference!

  – I thought I saw his right shoulder twitch.

  – It doesn’t twitch for me.

  Nothing can be concealed from Coenraad: the tapes would be discovered. Nor would I be able to convince him that my tapes would be an innocent diversion, simply a means of putting in time. It was in a motel on a highway outside Hamilton, New York, that I first broached the matter of having a small microphone to speak into when he is not with me. I had been alone for four days, unable to leave the motel. All around were overgrown fields closed off with barbed wire. There was only the highway and nothing to see but the neon motel sign and a few cars parked in front of doors. There was nothing to read except my copy of the Geographic with its article on the Finger Lakes. This did not fire my imagination. Coenraad said if I were to use a tape recorder he would never be able to trust me again. It was then he brought out his pocket tape recorder, found a tiny cassette under some shirts to insert into it. I heard a woman’s gasps and the small screams that occur during that stage of lovemaking when her body claims its pleasures.

  – Who, me?

  – Listen . . .

  – I don’t remember . . . when?

  – The first time. All the time.

  – How do I know that’s me.

  – It’s you. I don’t sleep with anyone else.

  When I stopped for a red light, a gambler’s excitement seized me. If I were lucky, Coenraad would be waiting at Elm Place, only four blocks now along Spadina. Probability beckoned. I was reminded of the time I felt compelled to open a gate in a tiny garden in Kyoto. In that garden, three stepping stones and green moss on one side of the gate were the same as three stepping stones and green moss on the other. Still, I opened the gate and went through to the other side as if adventure awaited me.

  Elm Place now was spelled out on a white metal plate on a post, in black letters in English and in Chinese. I reflected that my husband would be no more enamored of the resplendent Lucky Dragon on the corner than he had been of the Workmen’s Labor League it replaced, the latter having been a pinochle-playing retreat for tired men whom Zbigniew accused of communist subversion, whereas I thought the only danger to society was in a slight redundancy in the name. Two blocks down, Elm Place crossed Kensington Avenue where once, when I was nine, I searched for the statue of Peter Pan. The old narrow houses still stood, separated only by painted drainpipes, but what had been parlors, inviolate, smelling of camphor and wax, never used except for weddings and funerals — these had been broken into and converted into stores. The tiny lawns were gone, their space taken up with crates of fruit and vegetables and barrels of pickles and herring. Guardians in heavy sweaters and thick boots stood out on the sidewalks. I saw their bare hands were blue with cold as they put money in the left pocket and made change out of the right pocket.

  Number Forty was a bakery. Bread and rolls had been tossed onto an oilcloth-covered incline and had accumulated at the window’s outer edges. As I opened the door, a bell was touched off: a superfluous summons: a woman was already waiting behind the counter. She was seated on a high stool, hunched over a newspaper spread out on the glass counter. One hand hovered over a large brass cash register; her other hand held a corner of the newspaper, ready to turn the page. She was taking her time acknowledging my presence. Finally she raised her head, gave me a quick glance and said, You’re back, and continued reading. Perhaps she did know me, we were about the same age, although her face was more lined than mi
ne and her hands work-worn. We might even have gone to Ryerson Public School at the same time.

  I circled the small store, pretending to be making up my mind, all the while edging towards the rear, where I had seen a doorway screened off by a faded red velvet drape. Even though her eyes never left the newspaper, I sensed the woman was taking my measure. I wished I had on a printed rayon dress with a clean printed cotton apron over it, as she was wearing. I regretted being dressed in my black dress, the tailored tweed coat, the pearls. If you have grown up in these streets it is the act of a traitor to return smelling of expensive perfume and sporting the costume of another class. It isn’t going away that causes resentment: after all, out of sight, out of mind. But once out of sight, I should stay out of sight. It is an unwritten law. Not only can you not go home again, you must not come home again. I took my time, going from kaiser rolls to onion buns, picking them out of wire baskets, pinching them as is the custom, keeping some and discarding others. One by one she brushed aside my selection with her forearm. Without looking up she knew when I had finished. She stopped reading, took a paper bag from under the counter, threw in the rolls, all the while shaking her head in what seemed to be disapproval. At what I had chosen? Still not looking at me she asked,

  – What else?

  Behind her was a wall of shelves laden with breads.

  – What kind of bread have you got?

  – White, black, chalah, Russian black, rye, double rye, with seeds, without seeds, water bread. What do you want?

  – Give me a quarter of the Russian black.

  Just as she turned to the shelf behind her, I detected a hint of triumph on her face. She had seen through me: I had tipped my hand: only those familiar with the enormous proportions of a Russian black bread know to ask for a segment. She cut through the thick crust, leaning heavily on the long knife. I pretended to drop all pretence.

  – Listen, I said, I must find my husband. She would understand that. Maybe he rented a room here.

  – Rent? What’s to rent?

  – Upstairs; or back of the store?

  – Upstairs is an old widow, alone; in the back is my kitchen and my bedroom. She brought down a pan with brown cake. How about a nice piece honey cake?

  – Is it fresh?

  – Would I stand all day selling stale cake?

  – All right, I’ll take a slice. I want everything in plastic bags, separate.

  – Plastic is a cent a piece.

  She was forced to dump everything out on the newspaper. While she was preoccupied sorting, counting and adding, I made my way stealthily towards the curtained doorway at the rear. I had a glimpse of the interior, of a worn patterned linoleum and a dark wooden chair with the stuffing coming out of the leather seat.

  – Get away from there or I am calling the police!

  Her threat amused me. My mother used to call the police every Sunday, just after lunch, when the rest of the day stretched empty ahead. The police listened to her complaints, and to the counter-charges of the landlady, or another tenant, or from the man living with her at the time. They arrested no one. My mother heaped ancient curses upon their heads. Now the woman had left her counter and stood between me and the curtain in a stance of (familiar) outrage: legs apart, fist in the air, belly forward. At the same time she kicked a small gray cat that had ventured out beneath the drapes. What she and I both knew was that the next move was mine.

  Then I saw it, the cash register, gilded to gleam like gold. There, at the end of the counter, beside the window, was the dowager of old brass cash registers, tall, ornate, square and round at the same time, with a keyboard of numbers and dollar and cent signs. I was drawn to it as a sleeper to a recurring dream. I rang up no sale. The drawer sprang open. She’d had a good morning. I plunged my hand into every compartment. First the pennies, then the nickels, dimes and quarters, and pitched them in all directions. Many of the coins landed at her feet. The impulse to vandalize the cash register was not born of the moment: the act had been waiting for me as an instrument waits for a performer. The cat scurried back under the curtain. I glanced at her to see what she thought of all this. Her manner had changed, I felt, to one of respect. Now the paper stuff: one-dollar bills, two fives and two tens, and one twenty-dollar bill, tossed in the air like confetti. I was exhilarated.

  – Nu, are you satisfied, she asked quietly.

  – Not quite.

  – You’ve done enough, take your bread, go already.

  – Tell me if there is any one waiting for me at the back.

  – I told you . . . leave me alone.

  – I want to see for myself.

  She began to pick up the bills and straighten them one by one against the palm of her hand. She didn’t say a word and her silence sounded like this:

  What leads you to believe that I would permit you or any other customer who comes in for bread to go into the one place on earth where I can be a private person, how long do you think I would stay in business if I permitted such privileges? And my children, what kind of a mother would they say I am who cannot have a private life? And my husband, when he comes home from the factory and says what’s new and I have to tell him there were lots of customers, but nobody bought anything, they just went into the back — how long do you think he would stay with a woman like that?

  And in my disappointment, I might have replied:

  What about me, do you think I’ve come all this way, six hours on the plane, just for bread? I’ll eat the bread and then what? Nothing to show for all the trouble I’ve gone to!

  All this time I remained perched behind the cash register while she was on her knees picking up coins. When she had a handful she rose and brought me the money, then went back and picked up some more. I was careful to put the coins and bills back in their proper compartments. I enjoyed being at the open cash register. Then, by tacit agreement, we resumed our rightful places on either side of the counter. She gave me a friendly smile.

  – Stay, stay awhile, she said. She swept crumbs off the newspaper. Is today in the paper a true story like you wouldn’t believe.

  I saw that the masthead of the paper, the Jewish Daily Forward, had not changed.

  – Tell me, I said, to show that I was no stranger to its contents, is Isaac Bashevis Singer still writing for The Forward?

  – So you can read Yiddish!

  – No, I read his books.

  – Sit, sit awhile, she urged.

  I sat where everyone sits in these bakeries — on the inside edge of the display window, first moving aside a straggling bagel. The height was comfortable; my feet were firmly on the floor. Moreover, if I stayed right here, at 40 Elm, perhaps Coenraad would find me. She read in a tone that suggested shock and wonder. Herewith the translation:

  To the Editor and readers of The Forward:

  I am a woman of seventy years, in good health, praise God, living in Buenos Aires, where I have been for the past fifty years. I have been blessed with children and grandchildren. My grandchildren beg to hear the stories, the same ones I used to tell their parents when they were young, about Poland where I grew up, about my beginnings in Argentina. Always I must be careful to stop the stories at my nineteenth birthday and go on from my twenty-first year. What happened in the time between is a dark secret I have revealed to no one, not even my late beloved husband, may he rest in peace. Throughout the years I have kept hidden what lies buried deep in my soul. Now, at the end of my life, I have a need to confess. As age takes its toll, I am afraid that one day I will blurt out the truth. That is why I write to you and to your many readers, so that the world will know what has weighed so heavily on my heart, and yet my children and their children will not suffer from that knowledge.

  In my village in Poland, called Radom, there was an outstanding Talmudic scholar who, because of his great intelligence, was considered a most desirable match for some fortunate girl
. It was understood that the eldest daughter of the richest man in town would become his bride. One day this brilliant, handsome student came to our little store to buy a schmalz herring. I was only seventeen. Even as I rolled up my sleeve to dip into the barrel, I caught him staring at my bare arm. To make the story shorter, we fell in love. A scandal! My dowry consisted of four pillowcases and, as the eldest daughter, I would someday inherit my mother’s silver candlesticks. But Avrom didn’t care, he was a modern man, who wanted to marry for love. We got married. Our future did not look good. My husband knew only what was written in the Talmud. How could he earn a living and help look after my widowed mother and my three little sisters?

  At that time, just before the First World War, many young men were leaving for America. But you had to be healthy, and Avrom wasn’t: he had spots on his lungs. So we went to Zurich instead, where the mountain air would be good for him. Not only that, but Switzerland was a haven for all who sought change of one kind or another — communists, anarchists and dadaists. For Avrom it was the perfect environment. He became a student at the University and I got a job in a watch factory. It was clean work but the hours were long. On Sundays, Avrom tried to teach me to read and write, but I was too tired to learn. Sometimes I went with him and his intellectual friends to concerts and plays. In the theatre one night, weary as I was, I became absorbed in a play called A Doll’s House. That night I wasn’t able to sleep. How could Nora leave that nice big house! How could she abandon her children to servants! For the rest of the night, Avrom tried to make me understand. She had to be free, he said. To go to work, like me? Just the same I listened attentively as Avrom explained the reasons Nora had to leave. She had to express herself as an individual. After that I began to observe the women of Zurich. They had cut their hair, they sat in cafes smoking cigarettes, they went out alone at night, they laughed a great deal. For me there was only hard work, misunderstandings and miscarriages. On my nineteenth birthday I, too, slammed a door. After the divorce, the Red Cross gave me money to go back to my family in Poland.