< Apart From Love: Chapter 19 >

Nothing Surrendered

I cannot make up my mind whether it has been a mistake, I mean, just standing there in confusion, facing her, saying nothing—when in fact, in spite of what she may think, I had it: I had the words right there, at the tip of my tongue, to tell Anita how desperately I want her.

There is no need, no need, no need to torture myself. This woman is not for me. No, I repeat, not for me. I am lucky, so lucky I have managed restrain myself, somehow, and   bite my lips. Nothing has been said; nothing surrendered.

Still, even now, I am choking back tears, determined to deny the pain. I know all the reasons in the world to keep silent. The least of them is gossip.

I can just imagine my aunt, who was waiting for Anita down there, at street level, keeping herself under the landing, well out of my sight. She must have been stretching her winkled neck, tilting her head in my direction as far as it would go, with the ears perked up, already guessing the whisper of a forbidden affair, and her nose raised, sniffing a scandal in the making, eager to share her suspicions with anyone who would listen. How, then, could I speak, with the old woman there, ready to capture that which I was about to say, and then spin it on, and spread vicious rumors?  

Still, gossip is definitely the least of my worries. No matter who was lurking there, trying to listen in, I would have dared not only speak to Anita, but even cry out—as if it could bring her back—Stop! Don’t go like that. Don’t you leave me!

Yes, I want to believe that I would have done it—if not for that other thing. What else can I call it but treachery?

Indeed, I feel like a traitor. Anita is married to my father; what’s more, she carries his child. I should look away when she is around me. I should guard myself against her. I should guard my sanity. What it is that she does to charm me so, I do not really know; but the more I ache for her—the heavier my sense of guilt. I wonder, can he sense something of what I am going through?

Last night I thought I caught him, glancing at me with a strange look, with something like pity playing there, in his eyes. I could have attacked him right then, at that very moment. Oh, if only he knew!

Perhaps then he would cast me aside and curse, even disown me. He would tell me I am no longer a son to him; not his flesh and blood anymore. Believe me, I do not wish to betray my dad. I keep telling myself that I cannot prove my virility by robbing him of his.

Still, I am afraid of the demon in me, afraid of what it may do if I lose control, if find myself overcome, suddenly, by a wild impulse. I pray I shall never reach this point, because then I may be tempted to take her, even by force—or else, kill him, so he cannot have her, no one can. And then... I do not even know. I may kill myself, out of shock and failure and despair, and most of all, out of remorse.

For now, I am glad I still have a grip over myself. Nothing has been said; nothing surrendered. So I try to tolerate the pangs of conscience, and at the same time, try to blame my father for everything. Oh yes, I argue with him constantly in my mind, because really, what was he thinking? How could he replace my mom, by bringing a girl in here, a girl who is a year younger than me?

Seriously now, how could it be my fault, when I was not the one creating an impossible situation—perhaps even a dangerous one—but instead, found myself stumbling, somehow, into it? Hell, how difficult was it for the old man to see that his actions would complicate things, wreck them beyond repair, not only for himself—but for all of us?

I mean, how dare he take a sexy redhead to his bed, in our home, and then call me to come back, to live here with both of them, in a cramped space, together, like three monkeys rattling a cage? Why, anyone would tell you: This is a zoo, really! I must find an escape—or else, very soon, I shall go crazy, utterly, hopelessly crazy. You do not need a fortune teller to figure this thing out, do you?

The nip in the air, and the sound of rustling must have conspired together to rouse a feeling of anxiety in me. I pass my gaze across the landing, where she has stood just a minute ago. Here, a bleak wind is playing with a few leaves, tossing them idly side to side, and then with one gust, hurling then over the chipped edge.

And under the landing, a narrow asphalt walkway lays aslant between the weeds. It is veined with cracks, and bordered by a hedge that in springtime, would be flowering. This being the early November, it looks rather bare.

I go inside, where the air is stagnant, and pass by the white piano, where Anita and I have played together, only an hour ago. I push the cover away from the keys, and in one bang I come down on them, making them clang—but somehow, the music has gone out of me.

Nothing has been said; nothing surrendered. Still, I should have been more careful with her. Silent I was—but not careful. So now she has taken with her that word, the word she found on my lips, unspoken. I wish she would let it go, and let the pain in my heart remain speechless.

For my own sake I should have been much more careful. Now—even in her absence—I find myself in her hands, which feels strange to me. I am surrounded—and at the same time, isolated. I am alone. I am apart from Love.

I wish she could forget that word. Maybe she has forgotten it already.

Now, instead of a sense of relief, this thought stirs something else in me: Perhaps, rage. She may be laughing at me, at this very moment, together with my aunt. Anita may be trying to coax the old woman to be on her side, and planning to charm her sisters, too, to win all of them over. She may be hatching a scheme to take my mother’s place, to be recognized by all—even by her enemies—as the new Mrs. Kaminsky, because now, with that baby in her womb, she is starting to grow into her new position, as the matron of our family.

At this moment Anita may be getting ready for that appointment, about which she refused to talk to me—but I could tell she was eager for it, which for some reason, infuriates me. What could be more urgent, more important to her than what I wanted to tell her? And how can she act as if nothing at all has happened here, between us? How can she do it? How, how dare she ignore me? Heartless woman! I hate Love; I do.

I rub my hands against my temples, trying to soothe myself, thinking that Perhaps, this anguish is entirely unnecessary. There is no need to torture myself. After all, nothing has been said; nothing surrendered.

*

I pace around the walls, in and out of one room, then another. In my bedroom I spot the aquarium—the one grandma gave me, a long time ago—with its faint trace close to the rim, marking the level of water that used to fill it at one time. I remember the colorful fish, which dad bought for me then. In their place, the thing now houses a pile of my old T-shirts. I try one of them on, only to find that it is too tight on me, and that it smells of dust.

In the bathroom, the air is damp, even stale. Anita’s comb lays next to the sink, with strands of red hair caught in its teeth.

On the shelf, just above it, stands my father’s shaving brush, which is spotless. Wiped dry with great care, its bristles are tipped with silver. Resting against it is an elegant leather case, which holds his cut throat razor.

It brings back a memory. As a ten years old boy I used to stand right here, leaning against this door, just as I am now. Wide-eyed I would stare in awe at my dad, watching him go through his morning ritual, which never varied, whether he would go out—when he had a job—or stay home, filling his time with writing his stories.

I can see him so vividly in my mind. First, he would soak a small towel in steaming hot water, and hold it firmly against his face, his eyes winking at me from the fogged up mirror.

Then his eyes would turn serious, as dad would go back to the business at hand: Lifting the wet brush, using it to apply shaving cream to his chin, swirling the thing around and around, until the lather had formed into stiff peaks. At this point, he would put the brush down—but not before painting the tip of my nose with a dollop of white, fluffy cream.

Then he would stretch his skin between his fingers, until it was as tight as a drum, and angle the blade to it, and go through his first pass, traveling along the grain, shaving the hair with short, rhythmic strokes, and finishing it off with long ones. At this point he would bend down and let me help, let me lather his face for him, before straightening his back, and coming back up to the mirror, to study his jawline as if exploring some exotic, heavily wooded landscape. Then with a sure hand, dad would go through his final pass—the more dangerous one, when most accidents occur—this time, traveling against the grain.

It must be late afternoon; maybe five o’clock by now. My father, I figure, is about to come back. And here I am: His flesh, his blood. I am looking directly at the mirror, wondering, Where is that boy? Is he lost? Can I still find him, hiding here, inside these eyes? And who are you, I ask myself, a traitor?

In this spot, I am nowhere. And nowhere is a hard place to escape. So after a while I start wondering, What now? What shall I do? Now that I am home, where can I go?

I have no will. I have no curiosity.

Of its own, my finger is passing with barely a touch along the blade until suddenly, catching on a spot, it halts. Rust, perhaps. I raise my hand over to the light, careful not to tighten my hold over the thing. A cold shine can be seen in intervals, shooting up and down between my fingers along the metallic handle. I can sense the edge.

I can see my wrist, a vein twisting through it with a hard pulse. I can see the delicate lines, guessing their way across the skin. How frail is life. Better close your eyes. Close your eyes, I say. Do it.

I close my eyes and with a light, effortless relief, my thoughts are lifted, flying away from the moment. They are lifted, turning over the edge, cutting up and away, heading for a far, far time in the past.

I have no will. I have no curiosity. What now, I ask. What if I have no blood. What if I am no longer here?

All of a sudden I imagine I hear voices on the other side, which makes me hurry up and with a shaky hand, lock the bathroom door. I glance at the mirror, seeing nothing. Nothing but murky glass.

And it is at that moment that someone gives a knock, and a strong jerk to the handle, and cries my name, “Ben? Open up! Please, Ben, open up!”

I freeze, feeling too numb, too indifferent to even think of an answer, because I may have spent hours here, in this stuffy place, and who the hell cares? I, for one, do not care about anything and anybody. Really, I do not. Damn it all! I am free of emotion, and so should everyone be, in a perfect life. I have no pity, I tell myself, no pity for anyone—least of all for me.

For a while, the noise! It agitates me. Then—silence. So I hang my head, and I am not really listening, not hearing a thing, not giving a damn.

Then in a blink, tears well in my eyes, which is when the door bursts open, and dad is there, throwing his arms around me. Despite my resistance, he hugs me, and without saying a single word, he pulls me out of there—not before taking a moment to do something which to you, may seem dull—but to me, it is truly special:

Loosening his embrace, dad stretches out his right hand, and lathers his brush. Then, with a quick touch, he paints the tip of my nose—just like he used to do back then, in the old times—with a dollop of soft, fluffy cream; which turns me for an instant, as if by magic, into that long lost boy of years ago.  

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