The words have left some impression in my memory. I imagined him leaning over his desk, scrawling each letter with the finest of his pens, under a thick magnifying glass. The writing was truly minute, as if he had hated giving away even the slightest hint to a riddle I should have been able to solve on my own. I detested him for that. And so, thinking him unable to open his heart to me, I could not bring myself to write back.

In hindsight, that may have been a mistake. I should have been curious to find out more, because this was the one time in his life he was ready to admit guilt. Even so, I am only too happy to concur: The blame for what happened in our family is his. Entirely his. If not for his actions ten years ago, I would never have run away to Firenze, to Rome, to Tel Aviv. And if not for his actions a couple of weeks ago, this frantic call for me to come back and see him would never have been made.

And so I find myself standing here, on the threshold of where I grew up, feeling utterly awkward. I knock, and a stranger opens the door. The first thing that comes to mind: What is she doing here? The second thing: She is too young. Too young for him. The third: Her hair. Red.  

I try not to stare—but to my astonishment, this girl with the kittenish eyes seems to be my age, so much younger than I have previously expected. Her name is the one thing I know for sure: Anita. She moves fast, and with a slight sway of the hips, just like my mother, which makes me want to forget, for a moment, that she is not.

She lays a hand on my suitcase, and without turning to me to ask permission, she drags the thing—as if it were a wounded hostage—into what used to be my room. I walk in behind her, captivated, at each step, by folds playing across her tight, short skirt.

“There,” says Anita.

And she kicks the thing to the corner of the room, shoving it along the way from side to side to make it fit, somehow, under the shelf, where some of my old childhood knickknacks are still on display.

And there, half hidden behind my old baseball mitt, is a flimsy metal frame with a dusty glass, under which is the one image I missed, the one I used to like the most: A picture of my family from ages ago. Here is me, a ten years old boy smiling timidly, with a metal brace shining across the front teeth. Here is dad, hugging me with his right hand, and mom, hugging me with her left. At this moment, the ring on her finger happens to catch the light. Their cheeks nearly touch, because they were such a perfect fit; or so I thought.   

Meanwhile, Anita turns on her heels to ask me, “You tired?”

“No,” I feel compelled to lie, because who is she to ask me anything.

“OK, Ben, fine,” she says, shrugging. “Want some warm milk or something, before bed?”

To which I say, “What, you think I’m a baby?”

With one swift step Anita is right here beside me, which takes me entirely by surprise. With no shame whatsoever, she looks me up and down and bursts out laughing, a deep, throaty kind of a laugh.

“You? A baby? Oh, no,” she says. “Definitely not that. What are you, twenty-five now?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“Your father told me so much about you.”

“Really? He did?”

“I feel like I know you already,” she remarks, pointing at the picture. “See there, how tightly they used to hold you? I can almost hear them say: Don’t touch this, Ben. Don’t touch that.”

“Maybe they did, to let me know what’s forbidden.”

“You kidding? For a boy, everything’s forbidden! I can almost hear you, too, like, Don’t touch me here. Don’t touch me there. Don’t you dare.”

And before I can say anything, she takes hold of my right hand, then my left, swings me around the room playfully, and pushes me directly to bed, asking me with a twinkle in her eye, “So? How about a goodnight kiss?”

“No,” I say, because who is she to play mother to me.

“You sure?” she says, which is when I sense for the first time that she may be lonely here, in our old apartment, surrounded by these yellowing pictures, besieged by forgotten history, which belongs to others. She must be lonely as only a new bride can be, with my father out there in the hospital.

“Sure, I’m sure,” I say, with an unsure voice.

“You look awful tired, lying there,” she says. “Don’t fall asleep with your clothes on.”

“What do you care?” I say. “And oh, by the way, Mazel Tov... So sorry, I totally forgot, I ought to congratulate you.”

But she does not seem to mind what I say, or for that matter, what I do not, and I know it, because a second later her lips are on me—on my forehead, really—moist and soft, and her hair brushes my face, it is fragrant, and this is like no goodnight kiss I have ever felt before. So I close my eyes and breath her in, wishing, suddenly, for more.

Anita spreads the blanket over me and it comes down heavy, heavy enough not only to stop me from shivering—but also to fix me in place, straighten my limbs for me and then, iron out every fold on my skin. I am home, the same home I was in such a hurry to leave ten years ago, before my parents divorced.

I turn over to the wall, and immediately turn back, trying to catch her scent, which Anita has left here, carelessly, before halting there, by the light switch, which makes me wonder: Will she stay—or will she go? With a click she turns off the light, and then closes the door on her way out.

I find it hard, you see, to be hostile to her, or to blame her for the accident, because at first glance she looks innocent, almost, and because her fragrance is so potent, to the point of making it known that she is in heat, and because this place, where I grew up, seems to play tricks on my mind.

In my weakness I feel, all of a sudden, like a child, a man-child gazing at the light, the pencil of light rolling in right there, under the door.

*

So there I lie, staring at the ceiling, where shadows are flickering, as if they were trapped here from a time gone by. I remember the voices seeping through the wall from the direction of my parents’ bedroom.

Mom said, “What’s the matter, Lenny?”

And dad said, “Oh nothing, dear.”

There was a long silence, after which mom said, “Are you having a thing again?”

And dad said, “What thing?”

And she says, “You know exactly what I am talking about.”

In place of an answer he tries to hush her, saying, “The walls are thin, dear. The neighbors, they may hear you. And the boy, he’s barely asleep—”

“Don’t you hush me now, Lenny! I want an answer from you. I want the truth.”

“Please, Natasha, not that again.”

“Yes or no, Lenny! Are you having an affair?”

“No, dear, but even if I did, you know well enough that it would mean nothing to me.”

“Who is she, this time?”

“You,” he said, turning serious now. “You are the woman I adore.” 

He did. He admired her—but at the same time, dad seemed to believe that a man was entitled to have some fun on the side. After all it was she, mom, who encouraged him to leave the apartment every evening when her students came in for piano lessons, which was why he started idling around, and spending so much time at some ice cream shop, way down the street, where that girl, who stood behind the counter with her two scoops on top, was only too happy to serve him.

So mom ended up throwing her ring at him. It rolled away—perhaps under the sofa, perhaps elsewhere—and never recovered, because it reminded each one of us of that time, and of being hurt.

Not long after that, they divorced. I dropped out of school and travelled away. And that girl moved in with my father right away. Incredibly she looked like a younger version of mom, in every respect but one: Anita was a simple girl, even vulgar, and with no high school diploma. In short, she was what my father must have needed at the time: A real change. Someone who would look up to him.

Nearly ten years down the road, Anita told him she was pregnant, which brings us to the time of the disaster; which can also be described—if you care to celebrate it—as a wedding.

I check my watch: Nine minutes past midnight.

Tired as I am, the closest I can come to sleep is tossing and turning, which makes something rustle there, in the back pocket of my bluejeans. I draw out the envelope, which my aunt handed me only an hour ago, on the way from the airport.

“Here, Ben, this is for you,” she said in a low, secretive voice, which I took to mean that we should avoid talking right now about what was inside.

I nodded back in vague gratitude, hoping, really hoping it was money, and why not? I was nearly broke, because of buying the flight ticket to LA on such a short notice.

Meanwhile, aunt Hadassa pulled a small mirror from her purse and nudged her puffy, white hair. It was build up and tilted, somehow, over the eyebrows, which were painted in impossibly high arches.

The cab came to a stop. I got out.

“You look so much skinnier now,” she sighed, her bulging eyes afloat, suddenly, in tears. “No one to take care of you, I’m sure. Quick, give an old woman a hug! My, my, look at your cheeks! I cannot even bring myself to give you a good pinch! You know, in 1939, when I lived in Paris there was such a shortage of food—”

It was the wrong moment to tell her that I had heard that story before, so I just wrapped my arms around her, taking in the smell of bad teeth, hair spray and chicken soup. It was mildly nauseous, so I straightened my back, stuck the envelope in my back pocket, yanked out my suitcase and waved goodbye.

The cab, with aunt Hadassa blowing a kiss in it, trailed away into the night.

*

Seventeen minutes past midnight. The pencil of light has just turned charcoal.

I am troubled by the fact that the envelope, which I hold here, between my fingers, seems too thin to contain what I hoped it did. Finding myself in a pinch I press my fingers eagerly along the sides, feeling the papers bending inside, barely giving a rustle.

For a second I prick up my ears, thinking I have just heard Anita’s footfalls outside my door. She must be as restless here as I am. Then, all is quite again, so I get up, fumble in the dark to turn the desk lamp on, then tear the thing open, only to find my hope dashed. Inside, there is nothing but words.

I try to shake off the thought of aunt Hadassa’s voice breathing in my ear, and her pen scratching the paper:

Dear Ben,

I’m afraid you may see this letter as an exercise in spreading gossip, which I insist, is not my intent at all, but as rumors go, this woman, Anita, is known to be nothing but trouble, so I must warn you: Stay away from her. You would thank me later. No matter what you say, have no doubt: I would give up my right arm for you, dear.

I told your father the same thing, and much good has it done me.

I am saying all this not only because she disinvited me from that wedding. In my time, women were decent enough to think twice before taking someone else’s husband. Sex was far from being a necessity, and I can promise you that becoming an old maid never killed anyone.

At any rate, you would be right to doubt some of what I am going to include here, because of course you cannot believe everything people tell you, but answer me this: Why would they make it up? There must be some truth in it anyway, which I strive to find as best I can.

My sources, whose names I am not going to divulge, were amazed at this woman right from the start, when they peeked in, expecting to find your mom there, even though it was nearly a week after that ill-advised divorce. Instead, they discovered Anita: She was standing there, on the balcony, next to his tape recorder, biting into an apple, and wearing not a stitch of clothing—with the possible exception of a little red bow in her piggy tail.

The same sources tell me now what an incredible amount of attention she gave, just a month ago, to shaping every detail of her crowning moment, when she, the new Mrs. Kaminsky, would make her grand entrance, appearing openly at long last—for all to see—with your father.

Mind you, there was to be no rabbi, no chuppah, no stomping of the glass, even. Instead, she came up with a what you might call a whimsical notion, the notion of flying with him in a hot air balloon, and then landing, somehow, in a clearing amidst the guests. Your father decided to indulge her, so arrangements, I hear, were soon made—despite his fear of heights which, for some reason, he neglected to mention. 

The poor dear! He was saved, that fateful day, from boarding the craft; saved, thank God, on account of a blunder, an honest mistake by the owner of the hot air balloon, who—according to hearsay, which I usually disregard—ended up losing his license, due to the fact he had overloaded the basket, a week earlier, with thirty kids, more or less. (The balloon had come dangerously close to tipping over when the wind whipped up, sending it adrift: First south, heading to San diego, and then across the border, past Tijuana, and farther down, deep into the inner parts of Mexico.)  

It was at the last minute, then, that Anita had to come up with something new, which she considered splendid and sophisticated and stylish, and above all, suitable for a grand entrance. Your father tried, in vain, to suggest this idea and that; in response to which she said, No, this is not classy enough, and No, that is not classy enough either—until her eyes fell, of all things, on the piano: Your mom’s piano!

It is at reading that last sentence that in alarm, I leap up to my feet.

My mom’s piano is dear to me. It is an exquisite grand piano, with ornately carved decorations, designed for some royal palace. My father bought it for her just after their honeymoon. That was the time she still entertained hope, a great hope to become a distinguished concert pianist, because after all, she came from a long line of musicians:

Her great grandfather was the famous Abraham Horowitz, who graduated from the Kiev Conservatory at the turn of the century. He rose to stardom rapidly, and toured every large city in Russia, where he was often paid with bread, butter and chocolate, rather than money, because these were tough times. Of his three sons, only one survived.

Joseph Horowitz aspired to become a violin player, but his hand was damaged for life during the pogrom in Odessa. So instead he became a music teacher, and developed a method, a unique method to memorize long passages of music, by practicing it back to front.

His son Benjamin Horowitz, who became a conductor, took that method one step further. Instead of the traditional way of playing through the passage repeatedly, you would commit it to memory, or rather to your subconscious mind, by means of performing it every night before falling asleep—without holding the instrument in your hands.

He was a notorious spendthrift, and the only inheritance he left his daughter Natasha was his impossible dream, the dream of rising to stardom.

So mom prepared herself for a promising career of a struggling musician. Dad  fell in love with her in a concert. He clapped so hard after her performance that their eyes met. After the marriage he had to attend recordings and rehearsal sessions and to watch her practice, plan programs, and cope with acoustics, conductors, and orchestras. For him this was no easy task, because mom had great ambitions, which were matched by equally great disappointments.

And then I was born. Mom gave up her recitals, and instead started giving piano lessons. Slowly, her dreams started to fade. The family moved to this apartment. Here, the piano occupied half the space of the living room. The other half turned, eventually, into clutter:

It housed my clunky baby stroller and my rusty tricycle—because who knows, maybe we would need it someday—as well as an out-of-date encyclopedia, which was incomplete because one of the volumes was missing, and disorderly stacks of notebooks and sheet music, which leaned against the walls.

The piano towered over everything: It seemed so massive, so out of place that you had to squeeze around it, or else crawl underneath the belly of the thing. But when mom played it, all that did not matter: The walls vanished and so did the clutter, because it was so riveting to watch her.

You could see her long, delicate fingers as they went flying over the keys, to the point of turning, magically, into a blur. Her hands became transparent, and her ring, I remember, turned into a glow. She was air, she was music! And even when she stopped playing, those strings inside were still reverberating. 

Twenty-two minutes to one.

At this instant, standing here over the pages, the creased pages of my aunt’s letter, I remember that sound, and it can—even now, so many years later—take my breath away: The sweet, intricate sound of harmony. It was with this sound playing softly in the back of my mind that I went back to reading:

As I told you, Ben, tongues were wagging all over town, saying that the last thing Anita was interested in was music; nor was it harmony.

What impressed her was the polished surface, the ebony color, the ivory white keys and the brushed black keys, all of which could, surely, serve as the classiest, most perfect backdrop for the grand entrance at her wedding. This was the most perfect instrument she could imagine, by which she could finally beat her enemy: Your mother. By a strange reversal, your mom’s own signature piece would now be used against her.

And so the piano was transported, at great pain and, so they tell me, at great expense. It was placed on a special platform, and the whole apparatus prepared to be wheeled, at exactly the right moment, from behind a curtain.

It would go right onto the center stage of the wedding hall. Everything was rehearsed that day, and carefully timed: Fog machines were placed discretely between the white, tapered legs, ready to emit clouds of dense vapors, so the scene can become mysterious. The top was polished to perfection; and as the right moment approached, Anita mounted it, striking this pose, then that—until finally relaxing into one that she must have considered graceful, yet seductive:

To avoid distractions, this woman wore no ornament other than her cleavage.  Leaning back on her elbow, she let the strap fall away to reveal the full curve of her shoulder. There she laid, one leg crossed over the other with the knee bent, right in front of the plump, rosy breast.

She examined the view in her hand mirror, from here, from there, and enhanced the pose even further, by scooping up her gown, draping the folds—just so—and then, pointing the high heel directly at the surface.

Your father who—as you know—had never played an instrument in his life, was made to sit on the bench next to the piano, facing her. I had warned him against playing the fool, but then who can blame him. My, my, the poor dear must have been in the stupor of love. Men are liable to make mistakes at such moments.

He was instructed to play—or at least, pretend to do so—by throwing his hands dramatically into the air, in accordance with a song, which would be played by a hired musician, somewhere in the back, behind the scenes. The song would open with the unforgettable words, “Look into my eyes; and would go on to promise, You will see, what you mean to me...”  

From what I hear, a hush fell among the guests when, emerging from a cloud of smoke, the piano became visible on stage. There was only a slight squeal, escaping from the wheels under the platform—but that was covered, tactfully, by the song.

“Search your heart,” it pleaded. “Search your soul; and when you find me there, you will search no more...”

Your father, as I said, had a fear of heights. I am told that he seemed a bit uneasy at the edge of the stage. Behind his back, down below, there were faint sounds of waiters moving swiftly around the tables, setting china plates around the flower arrangements. The place was buzzing with whispers, which may have distracted him.

At one point he rubbed his eyes, and seemed itchy, for some reason, to take off his glasses. Most of the time, his hands flailed in the air, following the music dutifully, just as instructed. But then—when a puff of smoke suddenly burst under him—he stopped waving altogether and instead, started clearing his throat.

Accounts of what happened next seem to be conflicting, because some of my sources tried to guess what was actually said. So from this point on I am going to give you the best approximation of the dialogue. Make of it what you will:

Stop that, said Anita, and she said it, somehow, without moving her lips. To which he said, What? And she said, Not now! Don’t cough! And from the corner of her mouth she hissed, Just smile, dear! Smile! And he tried, as best he could, to do what she asked, and managed to cough up a smile, which is not an easy thing to do, especially when all those guests are staring at you.

She said, What kind of a smile was that? Stop it! Which slipped up, somehow, from the tight space between her teeth. And she went on to cry, Look at me! Look at me now! Straight into my eyes! Which he did try, really: He tried it while rubbing his eyes and popping them and saying, Where? Where? I cannot see a thing... Damn smoke!

A whisper of this entire exchange could be heard over the music—but luckily, only by the those closest to the stage. The rest of the guests were swept away by the song, which brought everyone to tears, most of all Anita, because you see, it was so very touching.

And they nearly missed the point, right there at the end, when your father pushed back his bench in a sharp, and some say rebellious motion. He wiped the fog, quite irritably, from his lenses, and stood there for a second, a breath away from the ledge. Perhaps he did not see it.

Then, to the sound of “Everything I do, I do it for you,” he fell headlong into the crowd.

It is here that I turn the lamp off and step back from the desk, resisting an urge to crumple the letter.

Much of it, especially the sentences describing Anita, I cannot judge at all. As to the sentences describing my father, they seem out of character with the way I know him. The fact that he agreed, or at least, did not disagree to play the fool seems strange to me. And the fact that he fell off the stage seems terribly stranger. What was he trying to do, kill himself?

All this, I figure, may be nothing but wild speculation—except for the one fact: My father did end up being injured. Severely injured. A few days later I received an urgent call from someone in Santa Monica Hospital, who said I should come and see him at once.

Which is why I am standing here, in what used to be my room, counting and recounting the crooked blinds, the shadows twisting out of them, so slowly, and the hours remaining until the break of dawn.

Seven minutes to one.

And now, out of everything I have read, the only words I wish to retain come from an older letter, a letter with a minute handwriting, which is no longer in my hands. The words are at odds with everything I thought I knew about my father, and at the moment they go turning, swirling in my mind, making no sense whatsoever, because if this is a secret code, I cannot find a way to crack it.

I have no one to blame for all this but myself.