A Castle in Brooklyn(21)

As he sat in the back seat of the sedan, Zalman tried to focus on the scenes that unfolded before him as he stared out the window. People seemed to be rushing everywhere, mothers pulling their children along the street, an old man sweeping the sidewalk, throwing dust and litter up into the air, shopkeepers hurriedly closing their stores, the metal awnings slamming shut with a loud bang. And over all there was a muddy blackness that allowed only a sliver of moon to peek through the gathering clouds. This was the city life that he had chosen to escape, a life where daylight was something to be endured as men tied the laces of their fancy shoes and set off to work in stuffy offices, a place where the sun was just another star in a science book, the air and all of nature just another part of life, not the very reason for it.

But Zalman’s thoughts were soon diverted as Esther’s voice came floating to him from the front seat, where she sat next to Jacob. And with it, a unique floral scent he recalled: Shalimar.

“I simply cannot tell you how happy we are to see you, dear Zalman! Just wait till you hear our plans, the plans that you will very much be a part of. Jacob will tell you as soon as we get home. He has so much to tell you!”

As she turned toward him, he could see Esther’s white cheeks flushed with excitement as she pushed a strand of her coppery-color hair from her eye. Her eyes, an unusual shade of blue, twinkled with such enthusiasm that he could hardly refrain from staring at her. A joy began to churn inside him, a feeling he had never experienced before, and he didn’t quite know what to make of it. As she fixed those eyes on him now, he felt lucky to be the object of all her attention. Only once before had he seen such ethereal beauty. It was at Jacob’s wedding, as he recalled those dazzling eyes set in the porcelain, nearly angelic, face. Only then her attention had not been on him, but another, as he stood off to the side, watching. Zalman turned back to the window, and as they sped by, he watched the lights from the stores and apartment buildings flicker in the distance. And with it was the image of the farmer’s daughter.

Even if Zalman was not quite certain what lay ahead, Jacob’s enthusiasm was enough to envelop them both. He listened as Jacob sympathized with his bad luck in falling and the consequences of his accident, and he felt Jacob’s excitement at his return. He told him that on the very day he had received news of Zalman’s accident, he had obtained the deed to land, a land that before this had existed only in his dreams, a prelude to his nightmares only fifteen years earlier. Surely it was God’s hand playing a role in these circumstances. And now, here he was, not quite a rich man, but one who had started to lay the foundation for his future—and dare he say it—the house, the castle of his dreams.

Now, a month after his arrival, Zalman sat quietly listening to his friend as he once again narrated the story of Solomon, the wise king, the builder of temples. He realized that, for once, Jacob’s heart was happy, and his soul unburdened. Like his hero, he’d be a builder. But he couldn’t do it alone, he said, looking into Zalman’s eyes. No, he needed the help of his good friend Zalman. Zalman, his brother. Zalman, his architect.





NINE


Jacob


One needs to plan well before building a house. Once you have the land allocated, then you must prepare and grade the site. That being accomplished, the foundation, a secure foundation, can be begun. Then comes the framing of the house, when you can stand back and gaze up at something for the first time, even if it looks like nothing more than a box with a few oddly shaped holes. Next is the installation of the windows and doors, and the roughing and siding, and even a two-year-old can tell that it’s becoming a house. Then the professional electricians come in and do their work. Sometime after, there is another need, something important, especially if you are living on the East Coast, when each year the summers get only hotter, the winters more freezing. So heating and air-conditioning systems—fans—are essential to make sure the building is insulated and there’s drywall, underlayment, and trim. Without a doubt, now it appears to be a home, but it isn’t, not yet. No one would risk living in a space with walls yet to be painted, incomplete wiring, empty walls without counters or cabinets, unusable toilets, and sinks. No one would dare unless you were in hiding, unless you were running for your life and had no choice.

So you finish the heating and air-conditioning work, hook everything up to the water main. Now it’s a house, but it does not feel like one. Well, then, you add sturdy wood floors so toddlers can run without tripping over gaps or nails, and plush carpet or maybe a shag in a bright green or blue, and pretty Dacron curtains that flutter when you open the windows in the springtime. And voilà, you finally have a house! But you still don’t have a home. Not yet.

Jacob’s mind began to race with these thoughts the moment he signed the deed to the property where he would erect his home, no longer a dream, a whim of the imagination, but a home framed with bricks and wood. Where he could stay warm and secure while drifts of snow piled in the streets or tempestuous winds shook the trees, and while the rain formed puddles on the road or danced on the rooftop of a home for all seasons.

It took little convincing for Zalman to agree to become the architect, once again Jacob’s right-hand man. This time the new role was not in an escape, but a step toward a thing, moving toward hope. At first, Zalman balked, feeling unsure of his abilities in the trade, but Jacob had enough confidence for them both. After all, hadn’t Zalman studied the meticulously planned drawings at his father’s knee, visited the museums, office buildings, and the homes of bankers and art dealers that had sprung from the brain of one of the finest architects in all of Poland? Hadn’t he salvaged the massive books on the art and techniques of this vocation, and Zalman’s own rudimentary drawings that, though amateurish, possessed a spark that demonstrated that Zalman was indeed his father’s son? All he needed was time to review it all again, to acquaint himself with the codes at the municipal offices in Brooklyn, and he could set to work.