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Split

4/9/2014

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A close friend of mine who grew up in a war-torn country has, over the years, told me some extraordinary stories of her time there, the time she spent before her family left for America. In other conversations, she has shared details of her sister's biography, which naturally coincides in certain respects with hers, while diverging in others. I've been lucky enough, too, to meet the sister, a scientist. When we talked, she told me a little bit about her research and her career, a career which has by now taken her to several countries, on two continents.

My story "Split" owes its existence entirely to these various conversations with these two sisters--even if the fate of the story's protagonist turns out to be entirely different from theirs. And not only his fate: although his life and theirs overlap when it comes to certain external details, no resemblance of any other kind exists between him and that wonderful pair.



Picture
SPLIT

I

He had to leave. 

He had an apartment, a job. A life, of a sort. 

Nothing was missing. Nothing obvious. 

But he had to leave. 

Every day, his studio seemed smaller. His bed, his kitchen, which he never used, his paycheck--everything was shrinking. 
New York was (impossibly) shrinking. He had to leave--if for no other reason than the key, the key that hung from a silver chain around his neck.

Luka lived on the East Side, high up in the nineties. He worked in a lab at the university, investigating--it always embarrassed him, it sounded like such a cliché--rat brains. Injecting inhibitors, modifying memory. Wondering what, in rats, might be human, and what in humans could be predicted from rats. 

Sometimes, on the weekend, he went to see his parents in New Jersey. Other weekends, he went out with girls whom he met through friends at the lab. Or colleagues, at least. He wasn't sure whether he really felt that they were friends. He wasn't sure that he wanted them to be friends.

He just wanted to leave. He had to leave. He had to split.

Luka had been living in New York for fourteen years. In Queens. In Manhattan. For a year, after college, in Jersey. He’d come over with his parents, when things had gotten difficult back home, across the Atlantic. At first, expecting to go back. Then getting used to things, forgetting about going back, becoming someone else. Someone who, mostly, belonged here. 

Almost half his life, he'd been a New Yorker. Gone to high school, college, had his second, his third, girlfriend. His first, his second job. 

Every bit of clothing he wore, every pair of jeans and colored tee, was American, down to the last, Taiwanese stitch. And underneath his shirts, he always wore that very un-American, that heavy, awkward key, around his neck, on its silver chain.

How he'd ended up with it, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t know why his father didn’t have it, or his mother. He didn’t know why he was the only one who wanted to carry it around, the key that used to open that ancient, absurdly thick door, to the apartment in Dubrovnik. Before the apartment was destroyed, a week after they left.

The key made him think of his old bedroom, that he shared with his brother, made him think of the window in the living room, that looked out on the port, and of the roof, where he used to go with his first girlfriend, where he used to kiss her. The way fifteen-year-old boys kiss.

When he took it off, pulled it over his head on its chain, tossed it on top of the colored tee he'd just taken off, when he was about to make love to a woman … it made him feel guilty. 

Almost as guilty as if he'd kept it on.


II

It was a year later, when he’d been in Split for eight months, that Luka ran into Jágoda.

Split is a city of nearly 200,000, metropolitan area 400,000, on the Adriatic coast of Croatia. It is four hours north of the smaller Dubrovnik, where Luka had tried and failed to find a position. In Split, he found a job running a lab, doing very much the kind of work he'd done in New York, but for better pay, thanks to a government grant. He found an apartment, fell into the rhythm of the city, grew acclimated, re-acclimated, to the European lifestyle. When he left the sterile lab, he was greeted by the sound of children playing by the water, by scents of sea and pine and citrus. At night, crickets chirped at him through his shutters.

Sometimes, on the weekend, he travelled down the coast to Dubrovnik. His whole family had once lived there, until the war. His grandmother still did, in an apartment just on the water, with salt-specked shutters. But she wasn't the only reason he went. A month before handing in his resignation in New York, he had met a Dubrovnik girl. She was in America visiting relatives. She had a ready laugh, a lively nasal voice. She was pretty, blonde, and in less than half an hour she had won him over. She was not the least of the reasons he had handed in his resignation.

Every weekend, Luka travelled to see Jasna. Unless Jasna travelled to see Luka. Every other month, Jasna also took a week off from work, and stayed in Split, at Luka's place. They passed their time together sailing, walking, going to the movies, watching T.V. On Sundays, they ate lunch at Luka’s grandmother’s, or with Jasna’s family. They didn't talk about Luka's work, or Jasna's work. They didn't talk about why he had left New York. 

It was on a Saturday morning, a sunny spring morning, just after Luka had arrived in Dubrovnik by bus to visit Jasna, that he saw Jágoda. They were coming in opposite directions down a busy sidewalk near the station. They caught eyes. They stopped, both of them, in surprise. Said hello. 

For a minute, two minutes, they talked, as if in a capsule. As if they were alone on the sidewalk. While people struggled to go around them them, busy, annoyed, hurrying to and from the station. After two minutes, Luka asked Jágoda if she'd like to talk for longer. Jágoda said she would.

In Croatian, Jágoda means Strawberry. Fifteen years ago, when Luka used to go out with her, when he used to kiss her, up on the roof of his apartment building, it had been an apt name. Her hair was red then, her complexion pinkish. There was a softness about her--a softness in her voice, in her manner. And a sweetness. Strawberry.

Now, her hair was darker, her skin duskier. There was a ring on her finger, Luka noticed, as they turned toward a café they both knew. He had already heard that she had gotten married.

When they arrived at the café, there was only one open table that had room for her wheelchair. It was outside, next to a stone wall covered in pink flowers that grew from a vine. Luka and Jágoda sat in the spring morning air, drinking coffee, talking about old times, about other people, themselves. Each other.

What struck him was how strong she was. Beautifully strong. That was what struck him. She was nothing like a strawberry, anymore. He found himself searching in her words for a meaning beyond anything that could reasonably be expected to have been found there.
 

Then they exchanged phone numbers, and parted.

III

When Luka got to Jasna's place, she asked why he was so late. He shrugged. Then he gave her a kiss, and wrapped her in his arms. He lifted her, lowered her so that her feet were on top of his feet, walked forward into the apartment, moving her in front of him.

But why was he so late? 

He shrugged a second time.

She had asked him three or four times, when he told her. Which led to the next question: Who was this Jágoda?

Again, he shrugged.

Who? 

An old girlfriend. 

How old? 

Old. And married. Shall we go out? His turn to ask a question.

No.

Come on.

No.

Seeing how things stood, Luka turned the T.V. on to a soccer match, and waited. After an hour, Jasna came over, blocked the T.V. set., smiled. "Luka, why don't you call up that girl and her husband, and see if they want to go out?"

He made a face.

"But why not?"

He shrugged.

She had asked him three or four times, when he picked up the phone. "Hello, Jágoda? Luka here …"

Still, the rest of the weekend, Jasna was difficult. On the phone all week, too, she was difficult. And up until Saturday night, when the two couples went out. Then she was in fine spirits. At the restaurant, the women did most of the talking, getting along perfectly, which made Luka nervous. He and the husband stayed quiet.

On the way home, he and Jasna walked along the harbor. The air smelled of fish. The crickets, together with the surf, made it sound as if the city was snoring. Jasna’s spirits were finer than ever. Just before they got back, she laughed.

"What?" asked Luka.

"Oh, nothing."

"Hmm."

They walked a few steps.

"So why is she in a wheelchair?"

He stopped walking. "Schrapnel." 

"Oh." She took his hand, bit playfully on his knuckle.

They walked a little further.

"Listen, Jasna," Luka said. "I have to go back a little earlier tomorrow."

When he returned the next afternoon to his apartment in Split, Luka found himself at loose ends. He made an omelette, watched T.V. He went and sat by the large window in his bedroom. An unfriendly row of agave cactus stretched along the sidewalk below.

As he sat, his hand found the back of his neck. He pulled at the chain there, once, twice. Then he lifted it, with its key, around, in front of his face, off of his neck. 

He held it in his hands for a long time. 

Then he put it back on.


IV

Summer was hot. The four-hour bus ride, which Luka had never minded, became irritating. Then intolerable. Sun beat in. For some reason, the drivers refused to turn on their air conditioning. Luka bought a car.

The first Saturday after he bought it, he drove to Dubrovnik, enjoying the twists and turns of the road, the clear view of the sea. When he arrived, he called Jasna, who came down from her apartment.

"Now that you own something big, like a car, you're really back for good," she said, happily. Luka grunted.

He wasn't sure he had the money for a car. He might not even have a job. In a few weeks, the year-long grant funding his lab in Split would run out. He hadn’t heard yet whether it would be renewed.

Which might be a good thing. Work in Croatia hadn't turned out to be much different from what it had been in New York. He didn't much like his coworkers at the lab. They didn't listen to him, though he was the one who went to school in America, and was supposed to be the one in charge. Meanwhile, every time he talked to his parents, they asked when he was returning to New York. His brother, too.

At the same time, Jasna was beginning to get on his nerves. She wanted to talk about the future all the time now.  She kept asking when he was moving to Dubrovnik.

That was when he got an offer from a company in Germany to run one of their labs. 

Hearing the offer on the phone, he pumped his fist in the air. 

It was just … the whole country seemed so … provincial now, after he’d been back for a whole year. His coworkers. Jasna. This idiotic superstition about unhealthy drafts, that kept people from using their air conditioners. If it weren't for his grandmother …

Then, as quickly, he became confused. He asked the Germans to give him some time to make his decision. He felt ... 

When they called a second time, he couldn't talk. He was in Dubrovnik, with Jasna. She was annoying him, complaining of feeling sick all through his visit. 

He hadn't told her about the offer from Germany.

He had told Jágoda though. He’d talked to her again, more than once, on the phone. He’d tried to see her, too, without Jasna, without her husband. 

The first time he asked, she said she was busy. 

The second time, she hesitated, then said the same thing.

Finally, the fifth time, when she heard his voice over the phone, she just said, "Look, why don't you stop calling?"

But he didn't want to stop. He wanted to talk to her again. And again.

It was funny. It wasn't that he had thought of her that often, when he was living in New York. Maybe just … somewhere, in the back of his mind.

They had never said goodbye properly, that was the problem. Unless it was just that he had never apologized properly. He had never really apologized at all. He hadn't had a chance.

Poor Jágoda was smarter than he was. She hadn't wanted to go up on the roof that night. She'd begged him not to go. Everybody said it was dangerous, being in a place like that.

He didn't care. He wanted to go. He wanted to kiss her, up there, in the middle of all the danger. It would be too perfect. He didn't believe anything could hurt them. He didn't believe it.

And he hadn't meant, after that first, faraway explosion happened, to be so much quicker than her. It was just that the view from the neighboring roof was so much better. And the view from the next building on, better still. He was meters ahead of her, when the second explosion occurred.

The next day, when his father decided that, if the building next to theirs had been hit, they'd better leave at once, she was still in the hospital. Still in the hospital, still unconscious. 

And he was fine.

V

The third time the Germans called, Luka had just been trying to reach the grant people. Today was decision day for the renewal of his lab, or was supposed to be. But he hadn't heard a thing. 

He asked the Germans if he could call them back in an hour. Tried the grant people again, without success. Left a second message. Started jingling the key and its chain, which he now found in his hand.

It was simple, really. 

Either he put the chain away in a drawer now, and didn't take it out. Left it behind. Or he called Jágoda again. Simple.

Jingle.

It was stupid. She had told him not to call. 

And what if she hadn't told him? Even then, wasn't it just something … empty, and dead?

Jingle.

But it could be something new, and alive. It could be. If--  

The phone rang. 

"Luka?" 

It was Jasna.

"What's up?" he answered.  "You sound--"

"I thought you would be wondering, because I was wondering, you know, since I was nauseated."

"Hmm?"

"So I decided to take a pregnancy test--"

"What?"

"Yeah, and so I took it just now, and--"

“And?”

"And--"


VI

He couldn't reach the end. The numbers wouldn't work. 

His chest itched, too. It itched on that spot where it always itched. And he was tired. He'd been working all day. 

He was working again now, after rushing through dinner. It was something extra, something he’d brought home from the lab. As always, the Germans were pushing him, pushing him. 

He squinted at the screen, turned to look over his shoulder at the rest of the apartment. The boy was playing a video game, loudly, on the T.V. The girl was crying, Jasna was shouting at both of them to keep it down. He put his fingers in his ears, to help him concentrate. 

He was relieved when the phone rang. “Hello?” 

But he couldn't hear any reply.

“Wait a minute, all right?” 

Something incomprehensible came back at him.

Luka walked through the apartment. He walked past the children, past all the noise. He held up the phone toward Jasna in explanation, opened the door, went outside, into the winter air.

“All right, sorry. Hello?” 

Snow was falling.

“Luka? Jágoda.”

“Jágoda!”

The wind blew into Luka’s face.

“Jágoda. How in the world are you?”

“I'm … all right. And you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Good,” said Jágoda. “I'm fine, too.”

“Good.”

There was a pause. Or at least, Luka didn’t hear anything. The falling snow seemed to muffle the connection to wherever Jágoda was calling from. Just as it muffled the sounds outside, and blurred the lights of the cold, northern city. 

Then the sound returned: “Luka, are you there?”

“Yes.”

“Listen,” she said. “I’ve just gotten divorced--”








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The Fallen Cone

4/1/2014

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The "Fallen Cone," like "The Pencils," is a short story I wrote a few years ago. I was inspired to write it by two quite unexceptional experiences: a conversation with a neighbor on an airplane trip, and a visit to a beach near where I grew up. As I wrote, it seemed that two distinct styles were called for, each appropriate to a particular emotional environment. These styles, if they are indeed distinguishable, will be found in succession.

After writing the story, I entered it in the 2009 Sean O'Faolain International Short Story Competition. There, in the wilds of Ireland, it fought past its competitor-stories with sufficient bravery and determination to earn a commendation. Since then, it has been enjoying a well-earned retirement. I have disturbed it now in the hope that you will enjoy becoming acquainted with it.

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The Fallen Cone

When she was young, she lived near the shore of a very beautiful lake.

It was an almond-shaped lake, longer than the eye could measure, and so wide across that the far shore was barely visible--like a slight thickening or heightening of the horizon. The bottom lay not far down, which made the lake's surface turbulent, a mass of waves which, in the winter, and even into the spring, were a steely grey--to the girl's young eye, a cruel grey. 

She felt this cruelty for the first time one cold Saturday or Sunday, when her family went out driving and, as on other drives, stopped for a short spell by the shore. Leaving the warm car, they watched, shuddering and shivering, as the waves pounded the shoreline’s coarse sand and rocks. Their vantage point stood at the edge of a municipal park, some way above the water and sand; while her older siblings pressed their faces over the cold metal railing marking the edge of the higher ground, she, not yet tall enough to do the same, held on from below with her mittened hands, gazing through her frosty glasses, her fair hair blowing in the wind.

To the left, a long wooden stairway led down from the high ground to the beach, its steps sheathed in ice. On milder days, as spring began to peek around corners, and the water turned from grey to green, the family would descend to pick up shells, examine the small, sharp stones and driftwood deposited by yesterday's wilder tides, step over tiny carcasses of dead fish. Always, on these days, on the way down the stairs and again on the way back up, the girl would turn for a moment--all of them would turn, her brother and her sister, too--and look down toward the park’s far end. There, a building stood, tiny, no more than a hut, and for now, shuttered and lifeless.

Then summer came. The parking lot by the park filled up with cars. Teenagers covered the sandy parts of the beach with towels and blankets, and tanned bodies, and played with balls, and frisbees … boys climbed on the rocks till they were halfway out into the lake … genteel older ladies strolled beneath umbrellas. In the middle of the park up above, a magnificent rose garden bloomed, in orange and pink and red, and combinations of these and other colors which resembled stripes-of-tiger and spots-of-leopard and who-knows-what-else. And at the park’s end, the windows of the little hut would one day, after interminable other days, open up, to reveal, and to serve forth unto the world, what had, it stood to reason, lain and languished all through the winter and spring imprisoned within: ice cream cones, and cups of ice cream, and ice cream sandwiches, and even ice cream bars. 

Later, in her memory, the light on those days--the summer days--was always glistening brilliantly upon the lake’s waters, transforming the shapes lying on the beach, and those walking along it, changing their consistency, into something more transparent, composed only partly of matter, but partly of light; so that they seemed to move more slowly, and more gradually, or to move only those discontinuous parts of themselves that were matter, which would then mix with the next rays of light along their path; or, in the case of those things that were not moving, to lie unmoving with greater tranquility, and less reality; while the sounds too, of radios and surf and gulls and laughter, were altered, flying quickly away into the air or over the water, and becoming a part of the glittering stillness. 

Amidst this stillness, in the foreground of her memories, walked her sister and brother--and sometimes her mother or father, or both--but especially she, herself. On those Saturdays or Sundays, or Tuesdays or Fridays or Mondays--because in the summer each day is the same--she walked along the shore, surrounded by her family, carrying in her two hands, like a crown or like a nightingale's egg, an ice cream cone, or bar or sandwich … some treasure which lent to that day, and to the whole summer, its final perfection.


And now? 

Now, she is no longer young. Now, she is closer to fifty than to forty, and it is many years since she lived near the lake.

First, there was the suburb she and her husband moved to, further away. And then the city, more than an hour’s plane ride away, where they moved two years ago. For two years, she has not been back to her childhood home. 

A week ago, however, she flew there. She got a week off from work, spent it with her father. Now, she is returning. She is at the airport. The airport's sliding doors have opened to her, she's outside, her cell phone rings, it's her husband, he's almost there. She hurries to the curb, pulling her bag behind her, looking down the line of cars for him. 

The light glares into her eyes. The day is oppressive, hot, with a whitish sky. Her glasses have already fogged up, it happened the moment she came through the sliding doors. The fog catches the glare, dazzling her. Her permed blonde hair, limp from the dry airplane, droops, damp, against her neck.

And here is her husband, shutting off the car, popping the trunk, opening the door, walking over. Gingerly, in the heat, he half-hugs her. She feels her blouse where his hand touches, her skin there is almost moist. He kisses her cheek, then stands back, wipes his own forehead. "Hot one …" 

He's wearing an orange golf shirt, one she bought for him. Even washed out by the white light, it looks garishly bright against the colorless asphalt and concrete. He bends to pick up her bag. She sees a sweat stain down his back. He stands back up. His shirt's front seems to stick out further than it did a week ago. 

She wipes her glasses against her sleeve, puts them on again. He is definitely fatter. "Been eating out?" Her voice is deliberately casual.

His pink face breaks into a grin as he lowers his eyes to his stomach. He looks guilty, and slightly foolish. "Every night."

She regrets buying him a shirt that color.


They get into the car, ramble up a ramp to the highway, speed away. Ugly, uninhabited swaths of city, separating the airport from the neighborhood where they live, spread out before them. The quiet noise of the car’s engine is drowned out by the blasting of the air conditioner.

"Good flight?" he asks.

"It was fine," she sighs. The air blasts, but the car is still hot.

"Trip good?"

"I don't know," she says. She sits quiet a moment. "I'm feeling guilty."

At first he seems not to hear her. Then he repeats, "Guilty?"

She frowns, though he can't see it. Of course she's feeling guilty. "For leaving," she explains the obvious.

He puts a hand on her thigh. "It's all right, honey. I can get by for a--"

"No, for leaving dad."

"Oh." His hand feels stiff on her leg.

"He didn't look good, and I don't think Bob and Jean check in on him enough."

"Sorry …" he pats her thigh. "I'm sure he'll be fine, though."

He removes his hand to steer the car around a bend in the highway. 


The air inside the car is impossibly wet, it's as if the air blowing from the vents can't penetrate this other, heavier, wetter air. Her eye drifts to the clock. Five o'clock.

"What's left in the fridge?" she asks.

He clears his throat. "I don’t really know," he says. "I didn't really check, I guess."

"Well, is there anything left for dinner?"

"Oh yeah," he says brightly. "I'm pretty sure there is."


They're halfway home now, driving through an industrial area. Looked at with a fresh eye, she thinks, the city, the part of it they're driving through anyway, really is ugly. Factories, warehouses … not a human in sight. No sign of life.

"It's so hot," she says.

"Yup," he replies. "Been like this every day. Brutal." He tries to turn up the air conditioner. It's already at its highest setting.

"Let's stop for an ice cream," she suddenly exclaims. 

He replies just as quickly: "Really?" 

"Yeah." She smiles. "We can stop at the place around the corner from the Chinese place."

"Okay." He puts his hand back on her thigh. "Let's do it."


He orders an orange sherbet, two scoops, exactly the color of his shirt. She gets mint chocolate chip. The first taste is perfect, wonderfully refreshing. It's her favorite. 

Her father's, too. 

They half-lean against the hot car, standing in the little parking lot of the little ice cream shack, about a mile from home.

"I don't think he’s going to be fine," she says.

"Your dad?" He licks his sherbet. "Sure he will."

"I don’t think so." She looks down. "I don't think …"

"What?"

"I'm worried he's not going to--"

"No … come on , honey, why do you--"

"I wish we still lived closer. Why can't we live closer?"

"Well," he says, "… maybe one of these days." 

She looks up. "Really?"

"You know, it just ... depends on the company."

Some teenagers drive into the parking lot, too fast, coming within a few feet of where she is standing. She turns to glare after them, when she hears her husband say, "Oops!" She turns back. There’s a dark orange spot on the stomach of his shirt. He’s spilled his sherbet.

"What did you do?" she clicks her tongue.

"Surprised me," he whines.

She hurries up to the window of the ice cream shack, where the teenagers are standing, taking their time ordering. Now you slow down? she fumes. 

When they are done, she gets a cup of water, and dips a napkin into it, walking back to the car. She dabs at the spot on her husband’s shirt. "Cold feels good," he says. He laughs, and squirms.

"Hold still." 

She hears herself. It sounds as if she’s talking to a child. Which, practically, she is. What kind of  grown man gets a big orange stain on the big stomach of his stupid … ice-cream colored shirt? She rubs furiously. 

"Ow," he says. Then he laughs again. "Oops." 

She looks down. Somehow, she has dropped her own ice cream. She looks accusingly at her open fingers--how could they have let the cone slip?--and then back to the ground. The cone is lying on the asphalt, still intact. A few inches away lies the green ball of ice cream. 

Forward springs her husband. He retrieves ice cream and cone from where they lie, not far away from a cigarette butt and a crushed red-and-white Coke cup. In a few seconds, he has shoved the one into the other, stood back up, offered them to her. "Five-second rule," he smiles. "No harm done."

She looks at the ice cream, shakes her head. "I'm done with it."

"Aw, come on."

"I'm done with it," she turns away. Little tears have come to the corners of her eyes.

"Geez," he says, behind her. "You’re welcome." 

She takes a few wobbling steps away from the car, puts her open hand over her mouth. She bites down on the skin of one finger. Silently, she is crying.

Why is she crying? 

Can you cry from disgust?

But why would he even offer that to her? She doesn’t want any ice cream that's fallen onto the asphalt next to some nasty old cigarette. 

She doesn't want to be eating ice cream on the asphalt, period. He really ought to understand that. 

Why can't he understand that?

When she lived by the lake, they ate ice cream by the lake. That's where you eat ice cream. Not in a parking lot. 

Not like this.


A moment later, she turns back. Her husband is leaning against the car again, licking his lips, a cone in each hand. On his face is a slightly guilty, but entirely happy, expression.




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The Pencils

3/28/2014

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"The Pencils" is a short story I wrote a few years ago, not long after my most recent visit to Italy. In its subject matter, it has little to do with the kinds of things I've been posting here; in its style, it has nothing in common with my Tsimbalist novel. I hope that, either in spite of these facts or because of them, you will choose to read the story.

I should add that some previous readers hated the story's ending, while others loved it. If you feel so moved, let me know which camp, if either, you find yourself in.

And please enjoy.



Picture

The Pencils

The cathedral is ageless--unlike him. 

High up on the hill, almost atop the city, it is an easy target for wind, rain, even snow, when there is snow; yet looks exactly as it must have, if not when first built, then at least six or seven hundred years ago. (It was built eight hundred years ago--almost twenty times longer than he has been alive!--but somehow manages to remain unblemished. In his mind at least, it is indestructible.) 

Of course, the cathedral is a building, and he, only a poor human. If someone were to point out to him this essential difference, he would say, "Of course. Listen, I'm not an idiot, I know: the cathedral's a building, I'm a human." But that doesn't make the difference any easier to swallow! (One of the directors once said to him that "the rational world has borders which are all too near its capital." If he understands the idea correctly, to mean that the rational world is truly a very small place, then his attitude about the cathedral is, he thinks, an excellent example.) 

However, to be precise, it isn't the cathedral's agelessness, nor its indestructibility, that is so hard for him to swallow. What aggravates him, taunts him even, on a daily basis, is the beauty of the whole place, the beauty which he is forced to gaze at every time he comes outside (and who could stay in the bar all day? That, too, would be impossibly oppressive.)


In the first place, there is the cathedral itself, with its perfect white marble, eight graceful rosettes all around the façade, sober campanile to the left, elegantly-columned porch in front, and on top, the triangular … he doesn't know the architectural term for it … the triangular top adorned with that nearly Byzantine madonna, which, somehow, has never lost a fleck of paint. And then, the piazza spread out before it, so broad, open, even generous, welcoming. And the steps, beginning here where the piazza narrows, where he's standing ... grand in their own way, too, as they climb, dramatically, even higher up the hill. All of it so gloriously, intoxicatingly, obnoxiously gorgeous--and not despite its age, but in fact partly because of it! The hard edges of church and square and steps have been made, if anything, more beautiful with the passage of time. Whereas he, who was once undeniably beautiful, too, is already in decline. 

His hair, still long, is now a middle-aged man's long hair, not a young man's long hair. His features, perhaps still striking, are twice as wide as they used to be: now it is not his eyes but his nose that dominates his face.

Somewhere in between lies the bar: twenty years old, neither untouched by age nor unduly battered by it. Backgammon, the most elegant bar in town, the most expensive, the most advantageously placed, in the crook where piazza meets stairs (in this way, too, it is in between.) In summer, Backgammon's tables extend a good way into the piazza, introducing a modern note into the ancient setting. 

According to Roberto's estimate--and according to his little joke--half of those who go inside the cathedral to see the freschi, the frescoes, stop at his place on the way back up for rinfreschi, refreshments. (He's Backgammon's bartender.) Even today, when it's still cold, there has been a steady trickle of customers: Germans and Italians, sweating in their warm clothes as they come in to order wine or aperitivi (in the case of the Italians) or cappuccino (in the case of the Germans, who don't know, or don't care, that it's too late in the day for it.) 

Today he's been guessing which ones would stop in, and what they would order. (He's usually right.) He's dressed as always, regardless of the weather, in a dark blue blazer, of vaguely nautical cut, adorned with brass buttons. A little cool for today, a little warm for full summer. (The pencils are stuffed into the blazer's breast pocket.) He considers it more important to look the part than to be comfortable, even if he can’t always rouse himself from his more and more frequent feeling of being tired of the world, which he knows must make some impact on his appearance. He will still be gracious, he will still play captain of the ship. Even now, as a new party approaches from below, he smiles, as much as he can manage, before striding back in ahead of them.

Inside, the place looks good: the furniture is a little scratched, but the mirror behind the counter spotless and streakless, and the backgammon-board motif freshly repainted on the walls. Probably, he's still the envy of all the other bartenders in town. He has even been able to buy Backgammon, after all these years.

It was the director--the director--who gave the place its name. After he founded the film festival (who could have imagined then that the festival wouldn't run forever, that the director would one day die?) and established it in town, and bought up property, including here alongside the piazza, he opened Backgammon (a simple reason: it was his favorite game) and installed Roberto as its bartender. 

At the time, Roberto was merely one of a collection of beautiful young men the director liked to keep around him, all hoping to become movie stars. Tending bar there was to be a summer thing. 

He bought his first blazer (now there are more than twenty in his wardrobe, all nearly identical, each worn for exactly one year) made caffè and cappuccino and cocktails, hobnobbing late into the night, every night, with the several famous directors who came in after showings, and with the actors (the "other actors," as he thought of them then) and actresses (a few of whom he'd slept with--and especially one of them) and waited for his moment.

***

They are a party of five: Italian, well-off, chic … two men, three women, relationships not immediately obvious. One of the women reminds him of someone.

The men sit, the women drape expensive purses over chairs before sitting too. Dark glasses come off, gloves too, two of the women remove scarves from their heads, and--actually, the resemblance is really striking! Of course, she can't be Silvia. But she has the same almond, almost Eastern eyes, the same pointed nose, smudge of mouth, dirty blonde hair in a curly bob. She's wearing a light-colored cashmere sweater, tan slacks. When he takes their order, he can barely meet her eye. 

Whereas, a few minutes later, standing behind the bar, he can't take his eyes off her. Frankly, she's beautiful. And elegant. But also--bored with her companions? Every time the man next to her--her husband?--touches her arm, she makes a point of straightening her sleeve. She barely opens her mouth, looks toward the doorway, at the ceiling. They've been there twenty minutes when she stands, and approaches the bar. 

Like everyone else, she looks first at the pencils, before raising her eyes to his face. Then, she surprises him: "Can I borrow one?" A pencil, she means. And he thinks: Really?


***

They are colored. Old, some of them twenty years old. Unused, sharp as knives (almost?), packed tight like sardines. Twenty in number. And he can't remember how they first came to be there.

It wasn't long after he'd started tending bar. He had three colored pencils in his pocket. Why? Who knows. Maybe there was a reason. Maybe he was actually planning to write something, the way people did with pencils, back then. In short, there they were: red, yellow, green, tips up.

The bar had a mirror--obviously. He caught sight of himself, and--frankly--he was impressed. Not with the pencils, precisely. With their effect. That is, he looked impressive. The pencils looked like some kind of military--or, why not, naval--insignia. They were sharp, and even. They resembled teeth, it occurred to him, of a shark, for example. Of something dangerous and impressive.

He didn't want to dull them. He wouldn't use them. He'd simply leave them in his pocket (and when it was time for a new blazer? He transferred them.) Until, at some point, they almost weren't pencils anymore. Now, they were stripes, fangs, fetishes. 

Or, they were a calendar. Because before long, three pencils became five. Five became eight, eight twelve. And now, with twenty years gone by, twenty.

Naturally, whenever people order a drink, they eye them. And yet, for some reason, perhaps the brooding air beneath his smile, no-one mentions them, no-one asks about them--let alone asks to borrow them. Until now: "Can I borrow one?" And this, from her?

"Of course," he says. "What color?"


***

The first thing she draws is him. She's quite good. It looks like him, how he sees himself--only younger, perhaps, more beautiful, the way he once was. A pencil really has the power to change reality!--he thinks. He wishes he could draw.

She holds the pencil--she's chosen a red one--in her left hand (she wears a wedding ring, too, whether he's her husband or not.) Her fingers are those of a woman entering, or almost entering, middle age, skin drier than it once was, one who uses creams to make her skin look good, not young, exactly, but good. (The same goes, perhaps, for her face.) She's using a sketchpad she carries in her purse: good, thick paper. The sketch takes only a few minutes. 

As she finishes, the man--he must be her husband--comes over, glances at the sketch, then at him. "Brava," he says to her (saccharine, patronizing) and then, to Roberto, "If you’re done modeling, how about another round?" (patronizing, but definitely not saccharine.) She returns to the table with him. That's all.

But when they leave? She stays. "Go without me," she says, "I'll catch up, I want to do one more."

And suddenly they're alone in the place, separated only by the bar. She's drawing him again, another study in red, this one a profile. She leans close, examining his features, she's centimeters away, she's even breathing on his cheek. 


Quite an intimate feeling, he decides, posing as a model. 

Then--she's done. She's closing the sketchpad, wrapping her scarf around her head. Saying goodbye, thanks. And here, for you, the sketches.

"But I’ll keep this," she smiles, dropping the pencil into her purse. "Goodbye." 

And he's left alone in the bar.


***

It's with some difficulty that he wakes the next morning. Without customers, he took a few drinks himself. As he approaches the bar, the piazza is empty, the cathedral magnificent in the early morning light. Inside, he makes a coffee. He's about to take a sip, when his eye falls on the two drawings. (How could he have been so careless, leaving them on the bar?) And, they're really good. He feels handsome, and happy.

The morning is slow. It's Monday, no-one really works here on the piazza anyway. Mostly, the place is empty. Until, at eleven, she walks in.

They're all off on a drive, she explains. They wanted to visit those famous vineyards, in that famous town, nearby? Whereas she wants to draw, here. So many interesting subjects, really, cathedral, piazza ... him … if it’s all right. "Only, I forgot to bring any pencils."

But--of course it's all right. Take your pick of colors, he says. (She chooses cobalt, silver, emerald, peach.) He even brings a table and chair outside--it’s warmer today. She’s comfortable? Yes? Then, I'll be inside.

But he can see her through the doorway: a shimmering pink presence in the sunlight. He raises his eyes to one of the framed posters, high up on the wall, posters from the festival. Yes, he nods: the same pink Silvia always wore.

Later, he goes to check on her progress. He bends next to her--she asks for more colors--looks at the four drawings she's made, all of the cathedral. She's an excellent draftsman, everything's there: campanile, rosettes, madonna. Only, somehow the cathedral itself doesn't look excellent. It looks--even if only slightly--misshapen. Off-color. In the subtlest of ways, ugly. 

He feels strange, has to sit. He's blocking her view. She looks up. And he asks: "Are you doing this for me?"


***

Late Tuesday afternoon, she's back again.

"They went off to look for somewhere to buy truffles," she explains this time. "Real tourists." Whereas she wants to draw again--inside, if possible. 

"Why not?" he says. (And actually, he’s happy about it.)

She borrows four pencils for starters--leaving him less than ten. She goes to work, drawing the doorway, him, two old customers, a collection of grappa bottles, one particular grappa bottle. He adds up a few figures. When he looks again, she's eying the posters.

She calls out: "That's that actress, isn't it?" 

"Which?" He comes over, apprehensive.

"The one who died in the car crash--begins with an 'S'?"

"But," he stares at her, "people must tell you all the time, no? That you--"

"I'm going to draw her."

"--look like--"

"There's something compelling about her face, I think."

He's silent, baffled.

"I need crimson. And pink, of course."

At loose ends, he polishes glasses, straightens out chairs, returns grappa to the shelf, coming near only to lend her more colors, then returning to his work. Finally, she calls him over, to sit next to her: "Look."

It's a drawing of the Silvia poster. Only, there’s no Silvia in the poster--or barely. Only her hand, grasping a letter 'L,' as her head and her torso dangle out of the frame, and her feet descend the bar wall.

"She's escaping, into your bar. Do you like it?" 

Does he? He doesn't know.

"And now I want to draw the backgammon pattern. I'll need chocolate brown, and cream--oh, and yellow." He's still fixed on the drawing, as she takes the pencils from his pocket, begins a new sketch. 

But, the escaping Silvia? What is that?

Meanwhile, she's still drawing. He looks up, looks at her face, notices for the first time a little scar next to her eye. Silvia never had one ... Suddenly he grabs her arm. "Are you her?" 

"Her?" she pulls away. "Who?"

"Silvia."

"What a question!" She laughs, unkindly. "I'm me."

Again, he grasps her, this time by both shoulders. He needs to look into her eyes.

"Let me go," she cries, wrenching herself from his grasp, standing, knocking over her chair, running. He picks up the chair, goes after her. But she's already gone--leaving behind the last of the sketches: Triangles on the wall. And on one of them, a doorknob.

***

It's late. The place is closed. He's up, but he's been sleeping, with his head on the bar. Naturally, he's been dreaming about her, one of those dreams that seem, at first, like divergent versions of ordinary life. Her, here, drawing (just like today.) Him working, scrubbing at the wall. 

One of the triangles has gotten smudged. He wants to make sure the fresh paint job isn't ruined. But she calls him over, wants one more pencil. 

He pretends not to hear. He doesn't want to give it to her. I
t's his last one.

"Please," she begs.

"But can't you see," he says--and this is where the dream gets strange--"that that would be, in effect, a castration?"

She laughs: "Are you really so conventional that you think a pencil is like a--"

Then, instead of finishing the question, she surprises him. "Please," she repeats, simply and sincerely. Which is when he wakes up.

He opens his eyes. The room is bright. Its harsh light helps to drive away the dream. 
He squints at the clock, slowly stands. It's time to go home. 

Someone knocks on the half-closed shutter outside the door. He hurries over. Someone calls out. He raises the shutter. It's her. She's here, coming toward him, out of the night, she looks like the queen of the night--not the one in the movie, but a real queen, and of this actual night. Beautiful, powerful, serious, intent. 

She's taking his hand (her own is warm) leading him gracefully (she wears a dress the color of turquoise) behind the bar (he feels as if they are in a ballet) taking, not asking permission this time, a pencil, the last one--it really is--tracing one of the tall triangles on the wall, a thick line, up one side and down the other, along the bottom, done.

And now she casts aside the pencil--it disappears, beneath a table, into a dark corner, it's gone--is placing her hand against the wall, pushing, pushing, till it gives way, till the triangle opens inward, making a doorway, to--well, to where? 

To a place only she knows how to find.


***

When he wakes the next day, it's bright--the bar should already be open. He jumps up, runs to brush his teeth--his clothes are on the floor, what the hell?--splashes water on his face, looks at his reflection--two new grey hairs, one new wrinkle--and rushes to get dressed, bending for the blazer, and--but that's impossible! No pencils. 

He turns the blazer upside down, shakes it, reaches in the pocket, looks around, on the floor, all about. And sees her. 

Her. Here, in his bed. Covered by nothing, a thin, little sheet. His sheet. His bed. And he remembers …

He remembers.

He walks closer, quietly, watching her sleep. He doesn't want to wake her yet. He'll make a coffee on the stove, bring it to her. She'll like that. He turns toward the kitchen--then hears her move, and stops.

"Good morning, my little love." His voice sounds strange to him, like a melody. "Are you awake?"

"I'm awake," she says, the words coming out like little yawns. Then she sits up, the sheet falling away. "And what shall we draw today?"






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    Author

    Sasha Margolis is author of The Tsimbalist (the novel and the blog) and violinist, singer, and storyteller for the band Big Galut(e)
    He can be found on twitter as @SashaMargolis

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