Caraliza (6 page)

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Authors: Joel Blaine Kirkpatrick

BOOK: Caraliza
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They understood perfectly what was being asked of the other, watchfulness and great care; Caraliza was starving for the sight of him now. Great care would be very difficult to give to him. He might have to be careful for them both. Neither of them knew they were running out of time, the brute would finish his current employment in just a few days. Soon, it would be very dangerous for them both, to dance such a dance, at such a loving distance.

 

Constant, dirty, heavy work, tires even the largest of men, after several days of it. Barely able to stay awake to eat his dinner, the brute left Caraliza completely alone the entire week. He was hardly more generous with any food, but just a bit less attentive at his plate than usual. She snuck a bit of sausage or potato nearly every night.

 

Coming home to the basement, so late each evening, meant it was very late before any food was cooked. Yet, he said nothing to her about it. She could do no less than wait, and he was satisfied she was too frightened to do aught but wait. He would finish what he could stay awake to eat, she could have the rest, and he did not care. He wanted his bed.
She was thankful of the weariness he brought home, but he could surely use a bath; he reeked, and it made it difficult for her to sleep. She could not do without sleep. She worked harder each day, to afford so much time seeking a smile from the shop window. If she fell behind cleaning, there would be worse for her. The brute roused himself to more brutality than she dared remember, by much less than a poorly mopped floor. She did better than she could, so she could see the boy from the shop, just one time more each day.
The next morning it was cloudy, she was terrified it might rain and the brute come thundering back in a rage. Luckily, the clouds melted away and it was time to meet her fellow at the curb. She opened the door gently and looked out to find his smile right at the top. Yousep just stood there for a moment, then spoke.

 

It happened so suddenly it frightened her.
“
Good morning. I’m Yousep,” he said, extending his hand very slightly. She must have been more surprised than she realized, his next words were a question; that much she could tell.
“
Are you all right?” He took a precious step closer, concern on his face.
She put up her hand to stop him coming down, and merely stood in the shadow. She did not lose his gaze; she held his eyes, as she desired to hold his hands, refusing to let go, should once they ever touch. He paused and did not move, but he needed to turn and cross. She needed to let him cross. So she took one step up higher to see him, and smiled a very small smile for him.
“
Ik spreek geen Engels,”
she said softly.

 

She could hardly make the words. She did not know how long it had been she had no one to speak with, she said nothing to another person, for more than a year. Her smile faded as she saw something change in his eyes. There was something fearful there, similar to the first look she had seen on his face; the look that first drew her to see him again. He stood more directly up, and his hand dropped to his side. She instantly imagined he was unhappy, would lose his interest in her now, yet, as she watched him a second longer, understanding crossed his eyes and his mouth fell open, but he did not speak.
Yousep turned, just enough to make her fearful again, however, his smile came back and he puckered his lips to whistle his way across the street. Halfway across to his shop, his voice came back to her, such an extravagant risk to be taking. He spoke loudly enough she could hear, before he moved too far away, though she did not understand.
“
You do not speak English. Oh my!”

 

Yousep trusted there was a solution to that problem, he just had not thought of it yet. He made sure to be in the window as often as he could, they were able to assure one another that smiling needed no translations. However, another predicament arose which he did not think he could solve quickly enough, how to make her understand, he would be needed in the back of the shop, nearly all day, very soon.
Papa Reisman had taken his window idea, and turned it into a desperate project he was near mad to have finished. It was going to be very hard to let her know he was only at the back, not missing, or worse, ignoring her. He found the answer to that by making sure she saw him going to the back through the alleys. That would be another difficulty; he had the use of a perfectly good back door for such a need.
“
Mr. Reisman, I believe we should clear the alley, as there will likely be items too large to safely carry through the shop, and only back out the very narrow door when the windows begin to arrive.”
“
Truly! Truly, that is a need. Can you find the time to do that, perhaps on both sides? One might be preferable to the other, we should know in advance.”
“
Yes Sir. First chance I get Sir,” which turned out to be just a few minutes later.

 

She was at the stair looking for him.
He made a great show of walking out the front door slowly, studying the cameras in the window, pausing to look important for her, dusting the window. Then he walked to the side and slipped passed the corner into the alley. He was suddenly visible to no one but her as she watched. He waved to her a very small wave, then smiled his best smile, and did exactly as he told Papa he would. He studied the alleys to make sure they would be clear enough for the lumbers and the windows, and the large tools, which would be needed in the back for the studio.
She was still looking, or perhaps had come back quickly out of curiosity, but they were sharing their glance again on the other side of the building. This time Caraliza waved the small wave.

 

They arrived at the understanding, he might not always be visible in the window; something interesting was going to take him to the back.
She let the darkness of the stair close around her again as she opened her door to begin her chores. She realized, she could not consider their contact as play any longer. He was trying very hard to help her understand, he might not be every time waiting to see her. She thought it very kind. Nothing like that had been done for her, by anyone, since she arrived at the basement. She did not even know where the basement was. No one bothered to tell her, which city became her terrible home.

 

That evening, after helping to close the shop as usual, Yousep walked to his curb and began to whistle his tune. Papa’s habit was to remain a few minutes behind, and he would leave when Yousep was quite a way already down the street. Strangely, that evening he was as at his clerk’s elbow, with a smile, and warming a conversation on his lips.
Yousep was a bit annoyed. It must have shown on his face. Papa only very quickly told him the work on the windows would take place the following week, there was some delay fixing the leaks in the building where the workers were currently employed. Those men would come to tear out the new windows in three or four days time. With that said, Papa suddenly remembered a bundle of papers he needed to carry home to read, and hurried back into the shop before Yousep could even reply to the news.
Relieved, Yousep quickly took up his tune with a bit of gusto, and walked briskly across to the other side of the street. Caraliza was anxiously half way up the stairs; she watched for him. He did not pause to tie his lace, or to bend and speak again, but the look on his face was one of pure joy. He was so very happy to see her and it must have made her blush. His next movement was confusing to her, she could not see what he had done, but it seemed he bent to touch the walk, and then just turned to continue home, his tune was done. She was dangerously curious to know what diverted his attention.
It was a very precious gift that she found waiting at the very top step, and she reached for it eagerly, a small notepad with a fine little pencil inside. Something she surely could hide, something easily overlooked, if not sought directly. On the very first page of the notebook, he had written a question mark, nothing more. She was to write; he would find a way to understand.
They suddenly spoke across the ocean between them.

 

Since the mean furnishings were hers to keep clean, and suffer for if there was a lack of it, she knew several places where the prized item could be kept. She could easily keep it in different places at need, all the better to hide it, if it could never be found in the same place more than a few times. She did not dare try to write anything that night. It was beginning to darken on the street. She needed to find some filth in the kitchen and threaten to actually clean it before her tormentor came back to eat. The thought of food drove the boy, the smiles, the longing, the notebook and the kindness from her mind altogether. She did not even know such a change had taken place.

 

Nothing was brought to eat. The brute was stumbling drunk instead. She cried herself to sleep on the floor next to the bed. He could not be moved to give her any room that night.
Yousep wondered all night what she might write. He wondered how he might learn what her language meant. He thought she had spoken German, but he could not be sure. Before he left the breakfast table the next morning, he involved his father in a discussion about languages. It was a natural thing to do, they spent many mornings and evenings discussing the English they were learning. He repeated the few words he heard, making them seem to be a speech overheard on the street.
“
Ik sprik gen Engel
, it sounds German enough, we have borrowed German in our own Yiddish,” His father said thoughtfully. “It could be Swede, perhaps a Dutch speech. There would needs be more of it to be sure. Was it something you heard in the shop? A customer who spoke no English perhaps?”
“
No Pape, just some speech on a street stair as I walked to the shop one morning. It caught my ear, being rather nice to hear.”
“
Aye, well, perhaps you will hear more of it, you should be on your way. Those windows are waiting to be built; the shop must be ready. Off, off! Take some bread as you go and kiss your mother.”
Yousep did both things as told and smiled, with a bite of bread in his teeth, as he walked his path from the house. He would need a book, a book to translate her speech, when he had enough written to know which speech she used.

 

He was so excited as he neared the shop street that he was almost careless and crossed his old regular path. Caraliza was not on the stair when he arrived. He paused to be sure she heard him. There was a sound at the doorway but it was rough and not cautious. He turned quickly to get to his side and the safety of his door. He saw the reflection of the man leaving the basement stair in the door glass at his nose. He had been only moments from a face-to-face meeting with a person who haunted his dreams. Was he enough man to endure that by chance? His knees told him there was still much of Yousep the shop boy at least in his legs.
Safely inside, before even threatening the shelves with a sound dusting, Yousep gathered his best rags and carefully put himself in the display to clean the great windowpane. It was very large and with enough determination, it could take him ten minutes to polish well. He was nearing that completion when he saw a delicate hand reach timidly to the top of the stair just under the rail. The notebook was gently laid and her hand disappeared.
Yousep was determined to read it at once and he would take an awful chance. He did not know where the brute was going, or if the man might not come back, but Yousep hurried from the window and set about trying to make an excuse to be outside again. He did not need one. Papa Reisman was leaving, to discuss the windows; he would be gone for an hour. Yousep only needed to wait a few more minutes and he would be across and back with her treasure in his hand.
It was an eternity for him.

 

His employer was finally around a corner down the street. But for a few wagons and a carriage team coming down, the street was empty. He scarcely took a single breath before he was back at the shop door, his fingers around the notebook. He opened it to see she traced his question mark, several times; she wanted the feel of his hand on the page. On the second small sheet, she wrote three words in a tiny careful script. He scarcely needed a book to translate. It was too close to the Yiddish he spoke, it was too close to the English he adopted.
“
Ik heb honger,”
she traced. It tore his heart to read it.
She was hungry. She was not being fed.

 

Yousep walked slowly back towards his shop door, the paper bag in his hand was now empty - he left his lunch at the top of the basement stair for her, just beside the rail. Before he reached even half way, he heard a small cry behind him in the darkness, a footstep that was taken outside that deep door. When he reached his shop he turned with tears in his eyes, his lunch was gone. Yousep realized what he meant to her now. Without him, she was going to die. He could not do this without help. Yousep the boy, still hidden somewhere inside him, was screaming in terror.
This was a new emotion that Yousep discovered in his heart; hatred for the man who tormented the girl. He also felt possessive of her, protective, much more emotion than the boy could ever know. It clouded his mood that day; it would come to cloud his judgment if he were not very careful. His most pressing need, was a book to study her speech, and to be able, in some way, to talk to her. Yousep's mind was becoming crowded, and he did not believe himself capable, but to fail, it was unthinkable.

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