Apart From Love A Novel Uvi Poznansky Apart From Love. ©2012 Uvi Poznansky. All rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review. Published by Uviart P.O. Box 3233 Santa Monica CA 90408 Website: uviart.com Email: [email protected] First Edition 2012 Printed in the United States of America The characters in this book are fictional. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Book design, cover design and cover image by Uvi Poznansky For my husband Table of Contents Chapter 1: The White Piano Chapter 2: Father And Son Chapter 3: No Omelette For Me Chapter 4: Apart From Love Chapter 5: It Is Not Too Late Chapter 6: A Promise, Aborted Chapter 7: N Over L Chapter 8: A Woman, Forgotten Chapter 9: Where Was There Chapter 10: Keeper Of Secrets Chapter 11: In My Defense Chapter 12: A Place Called Sunrise Chapter 13: She Is Looking Out The Window Chapter 14: The Family We Are Chapter 15: Go Back To Your Mama Chapter 16: My Own Voice Chapter 17: Leonard And Lana Chapter 18: The Entertainer Chapter 19: Nothing Surrendered Chapter 20: Above All, Survival Chapter 21: The Heartbeat Chapter 22: Dead Man’s Fingers Chapter 23: A Wall. A Space. A Wall Chapter 24: Only An Empty Dress Chapter 25: The Naked Bulb Chapter 26: She Deserves Better Chapter 27: A Price Would Be Paid Chapter 28: Bei Mir Bistu Shein Chapter 29: The Long Wait Chapter 30: The Source of Trouble Chapter 31: Around Me Around Him Chapter 32: No Second Look Chapter 33: Not The End Chapter 34: Am I Covered Chapter 35: Lay Me Down Chapter 36: Play. Stop. Eject Appendix 1: Editorial Notes Appendix 2: About The Story Appendix 3: About The Author Chapter 1 The White Piano As Told by Ben A bout a year ago I sifted through the contents of my suitcase, and was just about to discard a letter, which my father had written to me some time ago. Almost by accident my eye caught the line, I have no one to blame for all this but myself, which I had never noticed before, because it was written in an odd way, as if it were a secret code, almost: upside down, in the bottom margin of the page, with barely a space to allow any breathing. The words left some impression in my memory. I almost wished he were next to me, so I could not only listen to him, but also record his voice saying that. I imagined him back home, leaning over his desk, scrawling each letter with the finest of his pens with great care, as if focusing through 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 never bring myself to write back. In hindsight, that may have been a mistake. Even so, I am only too happy to agree with him: 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 young, much 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 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 a picture I have nearly forgotten: 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. 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, 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 points playfully at the picture. “See there, how tight they used to hold you?” I shrug, and she goes on, “I can almost hear them say, Don’t touch this, Ben. Don’t touch that. I can almost hear you, too, like, Don’t touch me here. Don’t touch me there. Just don’t. Don’t you dare.” And before I can say anything, she takes hold of my right hand, then my left, swings me playfully around the room, and pushes me directly to bed, with a twinkle in her eye. “So? Want a goodnight kiss?”