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< Apart From Love: Chapter 3 >No Omelette For Meby Uvi Poznansky March 2011 |
| I
recognize then that my sleep has become as shallow as a plain puddle,
and wish I could immerse myself back in it, calm myself down, and not
pay attention to these things, one arousing unease, the other—hunger;
because at this point my eyelids are so heavy, and if I keep them shut
I can still sink back, still lose myself. I would float, like a baby in
the dark liquid of the womb. And it would feel so good, and as cool and
shady as nighttime... It must be late morning, because outside, in the garden below, the sprinkler has begun its singsong; which confused me, because it covered that other sound. Then by small, imperceptible degrees, it became nothing more than background noise, so that the voice could become clearer, and claim my full attention. So first, I can hear a tune. How shall I describe it? It is a monotonous repetition, like that of someone who knows only one song, and is committed, for no good reason whatsoever, to go on singing it. And so she goes on, and on she goes, never stopping, never growing tired—no matter how tiresome that tune may be, or how quickly it manages to drain the joy, or any remnant of anything close to pleasure, from the life of anyone around her. So I cover my ears with the pillow, with the thought of how content I would be, at long last, to sink my head into the soft material, and stick my nose deep, deep into it, breathing nothing and thereby ending this torture, ending it for good and forever. And second, I can sniff trouble. There it is: The smell of bread baking. Tinged with vanilla and honey, the scent has come in, perhaps sneaking around the door, finding its way through a crack, or puffing through the keyhole. It is forming, even now, into a channel, an invisible channel floating somehow in midair, right above me, swelling up there as if it were an extension of my nostrils. By now, my stomach is growling. I have no choice. Up, up and away flies the pillow; off come the blankets! I walk out of my room—hair uncombed, chin unshaven—and find myself waking up to hunger; or at least, to an undeniable craving. Framed by the kitchen door, standing there with her back to me, she cranks open the oven. Fume comes out of its gaping mouth, inside which lay two freshly baked loaves, shining with the gloss of egg wash, and sprinkled generously with crispy, toasted sesame seeds. With a large oven mitt, this woman—my father’s new wife—puts her hand inside, and takes hold of the baking pan. I can hear the sizzle. Now her buns tighten; one foot is rising behind the other as she pivots, bringing the loaves right under my nose. “Oh,” says Anita. “There you are. You hungry?” And without waiting for an answer she lays the pan down, and lifts one of the loaves onto a wooden cutting board. Then Anita sets it down next to the egg salad, which is heaped on a large, oval china platter, which is entirely new to me. I suppose she has gotten it recently, perhaps as a wedding gift. The platter has ruffled edges and—quite ridiculously—it stands on one leg, like a fossil of a stork. It is part of a large assortment of china bowls, in which dips and spreads are artfully presented: Garnished with chopped parsley, and decorated by thin cucumber slices and plump cherry tomatoes, they are displayed right there, on the tablecloth. And behind the table, slumped in his wheelchair, is my father. With great exuberance, Anita sets down the salt and pepper shakers, fills a glass jug up to the brim with orange juice, and another with grapefruit juice. She keeps bringing more stuff, more food to the table. Why she does it I have no idea; it is fully loaded already. Perhaps she is eager to impress him—and me as well—by showing us that she is a capable, worthy bride; or else, she likes excess. This woman may be in the habit of overdoing things. There is a fever of excitement about her, which could easily be contagious. Meanwhile she goes on humming, in a perfectly flat voice, with no pause and to no end. “Look, look, look, look, look,” she hums tediously, never actually reaching the words “at me.” Anita does it totally out of tune—to the point that the original song has gone missing, or else it is impossible to recognize—but in a cheerful manner all the same; which in a strange way, starts to make it endearing to my ears. My father listens to that dull, repetitious noise until he can take it no longer. “No more food,” he interrupts her. “And that thing, that egg salad. You know how much I detest it.” “Fine,” she says, shrugging. “How about an omelette, then?” “Sure,” I say, setting my chair across from my father, and flopping into it. He folds his arms and stares out, with deliberate focus, through the window. There is not a cloud in the sky, so who knows what it is that he sees out there. “No, nothing for me,” he grumbles. “This breakfast would have been so much better, don’t you think, Ben, it would have improved so much if there was nothing here at all; if instead of all this, there would be just a plain cup of coffee.” I cannot help noticing how Anita manages to ignore what he has just said. Incredibly, she does not take it as a slight. Her face shows no sign of feeling hurt. There is nothing there; nothing but freckles. By contrast, my mother would have pouted, because of all the careful planning and all the work, you know: The shopping for ingredients, and kneading the dough, and letting it rise hours in advance of the meal, and rinsing and chopping and slicing the vegetables, and squeezing the juice—in short, all that went into preparing such an elaborate breakfast, which men, mom would say, never seem to note, let alone appreciate. She was such a proud woman. I can just imagine her pursing her lips, until the line defining her mouth became rumpled, erasing itself by turning as pale as the skin around it. But instead, Anita just laughs it off. “Soon,” she tells him, “you will get your wish: Before you know it, there will be nothing left. Nothing to eat but crumbs. Don’t you wait too long” She turns the bread knife around, so that now the blade is pointed at her, and the carved wooden handle at my father. This way, it would be safe for him to take hold of it. “Here,” she says. “Cut yourself a slice.” The wheelchair creaks, tilting away in a shaky manner. “I have no appetite for it,” says my father, with a stubborn tone in his voice. “No appetite for anything, really.” She turns from him, impatiently this time. “Enough!” she says. “Snap out of it! You must get stronger. Someone needs to bring in the dough. Between the two of us, you are the bread winner, are you not?” Instead of an answer, his jaws tighten. He hangs his head with a sense of pain, even desperation, worried perhaps about his job, or his health, or both. And at once, without missing a beat, she bends over and gives him a real reason to suffer, because she elbows him right there, between his ribs; which immediately sets him straight and gets his full, undivided attention. I can sense, somehow, that she is about to play us one against the other. “Seriously now,” says Anita, pointing the bread knife at all the food, heaped so bountifully on the plates and the bowls. “What d’you think? This is all for you?” “Who, then?” “It’s for the boy,” she says, rising up and bumping her buns against me. “He’s hungry, see? Look at his eyes.” I doubt either one of them can figure out what I am about to say, because my mouth is full—but all the same I venture to spit out, “I am not a boy.” To which she just smiles. Her eyes are cast down at me, cast in the shadow of her eyelashes, so I cannot really read her—but I can recall how they looked last night: Bright, even luminous, they shone at me from the dark, that first moment I saw her, like the eyes of a cat. “Not a boy,” I swallow, and take another bite. “I am a grown man.” And she says, in a taunting tone of voice, “Now, who asked you.” “I want you,” I start telling her, and find myself having to stop, and gulp down. Then I repeat, “Really, I want you to stop this; I mean it. Call me by my name. Now, why can’t you do that.” “And I want my coffee,” my father cuts in. “Now, when am I going to get it.” “You will get it,” she says, turning on him, “when you give a little.” He says, “My God, you are in heat. Now how does that happen, in your condition? Cool off already, in front of the boy! What do you expect of me? You wanted to get married, so now we’re married. Mazel Tov! What more do you want?” “I want you to look at me,” she says, thrusting her chest out in front of her. “You haven’t been here for two weeks, since the wedding; and now that you’re here, you’re not really here. Am I even wanted here? I am a woman. I need to feel desired, and I need to be held by a man.” At this point I feel obliged to peep in, for the third time, “I am not a boy.” And she wipes her brow, saying, “My God, I am so hot. Don’t you wait too long.” With a harsh motion, Anita flings the knife on the cutting board, on the table right there between us. His mouth is mirrored in the surface of the blade, and suddenly it becomes clear to me that the oven is not the only one fuming—so is my father. He raises his eye to her, and jealousy escapes. He glares at me, and a warning shoots out. What does he want from me? There is nothing I can do. He hates me for staring at her and he hates me for trying not to stare. Now there she stands, by the counter, measuring the coarsely ground coffee, one tablespoon then another, right there, into the basket of our coffee percolator. He groans, which sounds like a bubble over a flame. I can tell they have a language between them, a language without words: Anita glances back at him, he gives her a nod with his head, and in turn she secures the top, as tightly as she can, on the percolator. Her feet tap around the linoleum floor. For whom is she performing this dance, I would like to know. Anita is bare legged, buttoned up in an oversized, short sleeve cotton shirt, which probably belongs to him. It is crumpled, maybe from rolling around in her messy bed; although, judging by my father’s condition, as well as his mood, that may have been the only action she got last night. I can easily see her the way he does: Refusing to disclose any hint of her curves, his shirt hangs loosely around her. You can only guess her nipples, because even as you try to pin them down, they sway on her body, roll with every step, when she walks and when she stops, right there by the stove. And only when she turns the button, raising the heat to medium, do they mark their place, briefly, by pressing against the coarse fabric. Then, rising to a tiptoe Anita takes a peak through the clear glass knob, right there on the top of the percolator, to check if the coffee is sufficiently brewed. Her hair is gathered loosely, and coiled into a bun. Some strands have unravelled, and they are dangling around her face and over one shoulder, hemmed in by a soft, reddish fuzz. I try to imagine how it would feel to twirl that curl around my finger. The same reddish fuzz flashes, for an instant, right there, from her armpit, as she lifts her arm to pour out his coffee. Anita hands him the cup and he sets it away from him, far in the middle of the table, saying, “Go get dressed already. We will take care of things here.” “We?” I say. “Who’s we?” “You,” he says. “And I.” I rise up against him. “You?” I say. “You can barely move, and what kind of things are we talking about? I don’t know much about taking care of anything here, especially when I am hungry, and right now I am hungry, very hungry, and what about my omelette?” “And what about me? I am hungry too,” says Anita. “I have such a huge appetite this morning. And you know,” she hints at him, “there is a bun in the oven.” My father leans forward in the wheelchair and to my surprise, he wraps his arms around her waist, gathering her to his breast. She lets out a cry and lays her hands over his shoulders. Her fingers flutter around his neck, and glide down to his back; and so she stands there, embracing him. It is amazing to hear her now: By contrast to her singing, her giggling voice is full and rich. In no way can I explain it. He rests his head gently against her belly, rubbing his forehead against it. Suddenly I smell his scent on her, which makes me turn my eyes away, because I know I am the stranger here, and this moment is so private, so intimate between them. Touching her, and being touched in return, seems to bring out a change in him. “Look at you,” he says, and for the first time this morning, there is laughter bubbling up, deep down in his throat. “Now where is that bun? I cannot feel it. It is slightly flat, no? No wonder you have such a big appetite; why, it is an appetite big enough for two. So let me do this for you: Today I will make you an omelette, a big one, like you have never tasted before. Don’t say No, Anita.” “Mrs. Kaminsky,” she corrects him, playfully. “Yes, indeed, sweetheart,” he says, because it is so easy to please her. “Now go, go already, put some clothes on you, my dear, slightly pregnant Mrs. Kaminsky.” * Up to this moment no one has told me anything, in a precise and direct manner, about her pregnancy. Maybe they decided to let me figure things for myself, if I can; which makes me feel a little indignation. The entire situation is new and baffling to me. Also scary, somehow. I am ashamed to admit that I have no clue, looking at this woman, how far along she might be. She does not look pregnant, not in the slightest, does she. My father is no longer grouchy—but now I am. I am mad, really: Mad at him, mad at Anita. With burning eyes I try to pierce through her, even as she places herself, ever so slowly, deeper in his embrace. In this position I can spot, for the first time, the round line of her belly. There: Now she freezes. Anita stands still; and so does time. Then, by barely perceptible degrees, it is starting to happen: Each of her limbs softens, and then changes position—at the slightest measurable angles—until she is about to release herself, perhaps with the thought of turning, little by little, towards the door. She seems so vulnerable. With a penetrating gaze, I imagine laying my hands on that shirt, which hangs so loosely around her. I strip her of that thing, and cast it aside. In my mind she is bathed in morning light, and naked. I imagine seeing clear through the skin, that fair, translucent skin of her belly. I wonder then if it is as freckled as the tip of her nose. Then I lose control over my fantasy: Somehow, it takes an unexpected turn. Eyes closed, I immerse in darkness, the deep, dense darkness of her flesh, which is moist and marbled, here and there, by blood vessels. I find myself floating inside; and the pulse, which at first was but a faint echo in my ears, is now becoming more pronounced, as if—even without knowing where I am headed—I must be getting there. I lose myself, blindly and completely, in the beating of that sound; and it is then that finally, I arrive. The void is here, encased by a slippery, glistening lining, which is streaked by tiny veins all around me. A swoosh can be heard, and I sink into the wave, sensing that something new, strange, even menacing is beginning to take shape here, in these lukewarm waters; something for which I am still struggling to find a name. A cell? No, not as simple as that. A threat, I say to myself, a new threat for me. I open my eyes and at once, fear awakens in me. No, not just fear—but something more severe, something like a rage, a murderous rage. Right now it is a vague emotion, still without form. I do not even want to know at whom it is aimed; but I recognize that it is fueled, in part, by desire. It turns me white with anguish, as if I have just walked through glass, shattering it; or let my fingers spread open, dropping an egg to the floor, or a fossil, the fragile fossil of a fetus. I move the knife away from me and—trying to avoid any rush moves—I turn to take a look at Anita: Her outline is framed, for an instant, by the kitchen door. The next instant she is gone. It is then that I ask myself, with great agitation, What is it? What has happened here, to grip me in such agony, such panic, even? And I hesitate to give myself an answer, because it makes no sense to come out and say it—but all the same, this I know: That cell floating inside, in the dark liquid of her womb, and constantly growing, constantly multiplying with such vigor, such aggressiveness, will soon become me. I mean, a copy of me: Perhaps even better than me, because at this point I am already worn out. I am not a boy anymore, which is something that by now, I have learned to regret. At twenty-seven years old I am unsure, somehow, of my own direction, my own purpose in life. For fear of looking like a complete failure, I cannot tell anyone about this—least of all my father. I have no one, really; no one to whom I can turn. In an effort to regain my calm I tell myself, Don’t be stupid. You have nothing, absolutely not a thing to worry about. You sense danger where there is none. What is the threat in that nothing-of-a-cell, that insignificant matter which, by now, is probably no bigger than a sesame seed, or a grain of salt? And as soon as I hear me say, Don’t be stupid, I remember being six years old, remember having the same sense of panic, and trying to calm myself in the same way, when mom went to the hospital, saying, “Be a good boy for daddy, and how would you like me to bring you something, a little surprise?” I remember that she came back empty-handed, and laid in bed many days, with eyes red and swollen with tears. And then—when she finally got up, and by accident she saw the baby carriage, my old baby carriage which dad had fixed up and cleaned and polished, and from which he had removed all the rusty spots—then she turned away and went back to her bedroom; and there I saw her, folded up on the bed, as if there was a great pain in her. I gaze at my father, trying not to think about his new wife, this woman, Anita, who managed to displace my mother; trying not to cringe with the expectation—no, the certainty—that so will this new, fresh copy of myself. My brother. My rival. Once born, he will displace me, in my dad’s arms and in his heart. “So, can you help me, Ben?” I look at the direction of the voice, surprised to see the wheelchair at the other end of the kitchen. “So, can you get me a bowl?” asks my father; and having asked it, and then having to repeat the question once or twice, he seems equally surprised, as he studies the blankness of my stare. I do not lift a finger. In my mind I can already see him—or rather, the ghost of him—walking down the street behind a baby carriage, so the whole world can see this newborn and adore him. And I ask myself, What is my place in that picture. Where the hell am I. By now, my father has managed to maneuver around the counter, in the direction of the refrigerator. Out of its open door, he gets out a carton of eggs. Then he turns his head over his shoulder, asking, “So, Ben, how many for you?” “Never mind,” I tell him. “I lost my appetite. No omelette for me.” |
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