A Castle in Brooklyn(25)
“He was close friends, shall we say, awfully close friends, with a young woman who was a singer, and of course a married woman. Well, as you can imagine, the two embarked on an affair. But nevertheless, Debussy remained good friends with the husband. I don’t recall the man’s name, nor even the woman’s. But it was actually the husband who introduced him to French writers, one of whom was Paul Verlaine, the author of the poem which gave rise to the song you were just playing. Debussy had a few scandalous affairs after that. He married twice, had a child—a daughter, I believe, who died a year after he did. This is all the stuff of gossip, I suppose, and perhaps that is why I enjoy it so much. But the music, well, the music is the real pleasure here. Don’t you agree, Esther?”
Esther listened intently to the history lesson as it had been delivered, partially in English, part in his native Polish, trying to let all that was said sink in. Finally, she could do nothing but utter, “I like the song, and I play it so often because, well, I just like it so much.”
“Well then, that’s really all that’s important, right?” he exclaimed, slapping his knee before urging her to play the song yet again. And so she did, again, and often each week, as the year when the three of them lived together in this, Jacob’s castle, drifted on. And before any of them realized it, they had lived in the house together for two years.
And now, as her fingers struck the high chords of “Clair de Lune,” Zalman could not help but feel his heart soar again into that magical place, led by the enchanting song. Listening to Esther play never failed to transport him to a feeling of contentment and peace. He had tried moving out on more than one occasion. He was now an established architect with, thanks to Jacob’s connections, numerous clients of his own. Yet he knew, and so did Jacob and Esther, that those attempts were halfhearted at best. He contributed, of course, to the upkeep of the home and had even, thanks to his farming experience, taken over the landscaping and gardening so that lilacs and gladiolus bloomed at every turn. He insisted, too, on paying rent to the couple who, though they objected at first, relented if it meant keeping their boarder and friend within the home.
Why did he do it? Why did he remain as a guest whom, despite his contributions of time and money, he knew he would forever be? Why did he stay? The question troubled him as he lay in his bed awake at night, the bed that should be occupied by a fair-skinned child, not a Polish immigrant with rapidly thinning hair and all his worldly possessions in a brown attaché case. As the first hazy rays of sun appeared over the rooftops and the shadows deepened below his eyes, Zalman in bed would turn again toward the wall. He had always been a good child who had followed the rules when he was a student at the gymnasium, an obedient son who listened to the advice of his parents, and eventually a practical man who always tried to adhere to what was rational, what was right. And he knew for a certainty after six months, after twelve, and now, that he needed to leave this house that was not his.
He stood each evening leaning against the metal pole, looking down at the scuffed shoes of the passengers as the D train rumbled through the echoing tunnel, feeling the prickle of anticipation spread beneath his skin, the realization that something was holding him back. He did not mind the long ride, the hours spent poring over drawings, the petty annoyances and frustrations, the delays and contracts rescinded, deals gone bad. He did not mind any of it because he knew that at 5:00 p.m., he would be putting his arms into the sleeves of his green cotton jacket, placing a gray hat on his head, picking up the full attaché case, and going home.
In truth, Zalman felt that he was a brother to Jacob, a member of the family. His childhood had been tainted each day by fear, the time spent on the farm, though happy, marked by the knowledge that, though appreciated, he was nothing more than another worker. But here in his home, sleeping in the bedroom next to Jacob and Esther, he felt more secure than ever. After all, didn’t they both ask him, implore him, not to leave?
Now as he listened once more to “Clair de Lune,” he closed his eyes, forgetting about his day, his aching feet, wishing only to make the moment last.
The last note played, but Esther hesitated before getting up off the bench.
“I think it was beautiful, just beautiful,” he said.
“Oh, you silly! You always say that.” She laughed, walking over and giving his shoulder a playful slap. “You are no help at all!”
He looked up at her, seeing his image reflected in her pale-blue eyes.
“I mean it,” he answered. “You play that song better than anyone I know.”
She raised an eyebrow quizzically. “Or perhaps I’m the only one you know who plays this song?”
Zalman got to his feet reluctantly.
“Is it a beef stew that I smell? Ah, the aroma! May I help you plate it?”
“Oh, no, please,” she said. “Best change your clothes first. I need to just give it another stir, and it will be ready in minutes by the time Jacob gets home.”
After running a spoon through the pot and lowering the flame, something outside the window caught her eye. She opened the latch and took a deep breath.
“I think I just saw a cardinal! Spring must really be here. Do you think we should start planting the rosebushes soon, Zalman? What do you think?”
But Zalman didn’t answer. He hadn’t heard the question, because he had been staring at the gentle waves of her auburn hair and the view of her leaning toward the window.