The Archivist (18 page)

As if it really were, or could be.

Last week I asked Matt what he misses when he finds himself missing me. He paused for a long time.

It’s hard to name, he said. Your presence. The way things feel when you’re home.

You didn’t always like the way things feel, I said.

He didn’t look at me. He stood at the window, staring out.

No, I didn’t, he said. You’re right. But that doesn’t matter. I still miss what’s not there.

(Not wanting to say
what’s gone.
)

How do you sleep? I asked.

(His body curved along mine, one arm under my pillow, the other crooked over my midriff, forearm between my breasts, palm cupping my collarbone; his breathing low and deep until one of his bad dreams, then shallow, faster, more urgent, his forearm pulling me closer to him, his entire body pressed hard, seeking refuge; his breathing an echo of his mother’s at the end, her ardent wheeze, that indrawn suck of air — unavailing, painful, pointless.)

I don’t sleep much, he said.

His profile at the window, a clear silhouette.

Do you want me to come home, I said.

What I want (his head turning, his eyes finally meeting mine) doesn’t matter.

If it doesn’t, what does?

I don’t know (his eyes closing), I don’t know, Judith, why do you always ask —

— because I have to know what you want. If you want me.

You know that, he said. You know that’s not it.

Then what is it, I said, tell me, look at me, look at me for Christ’s sake!

(Once again spiraling,
balance and proportion
gone.)

I can’t, he said, I can’t live like this, I can’t be with you now. In this way.

What are you saying, I asked.

I’m saying we have to be apart. You have to go through this alone. I have to wait.

The door opened. I can’t be sure what really happened next. Something gave way, I heard Matt say
wait
and it wasn’t Powell at the door but the surly one, the man I loathe, and I went for him. He must’ve had to hit me to stop me. I found myself on the floor, he must’ve thrown me there on my back and I went for his neck but he pinned my hands and I closed my eyes and felt Matt’s breath at my ear, heard his terrified voice —
for God’s sake Judith don’t, please not this! —

— but I couldn’t trust that he’d stay, that he’d help me with the Repair. And no one would redeem us. And I couldn’t go home.

February 24

Clay has increased my Miltown dosage. He denies it, and the tablets look the same, but I can tell.

In the mornings I try to write, but each poem slides into another. I read for several hours. Sometimes I absorb everything, but often it’s a struggle.

My afternoon walks seem to last longer than when I first began them. The snow on the ground is shallow and dirty, but on the trees it remains clean, undisturbed. I spend a long time standing beneath the tallest firs. Their black boughs are frosted white — it’s been so cold that the snow is no longer dust but solid, dense and crusty.

Outside, the frigid air makes me sluggish. I’m often warm indoors. I take off my sweaters and pin back my hair to get it away from my face. Sometimes I take a tepid bath to release the heat.

Clay often asks me if I’m angry, and I don’t know what to say. The question lies in Kafka’s realm. Most of what Clay says is in that realm, in fact.

However, I have managed to escape shock therapy, and I’m left more or less to myself.

Clay asked recently: But don’t you feel dislocated everywhere? And I said yes, that’s why I feel Jewish even though Len and Carol never told me much about it, only that I was a Jew like them, like Lottie and Sam.

Clay looked bored until I mentioned Lottie and Sam; then he perked up.

Isn’t it possible, he said, that your sense of dislocation derives more from that original loss than from being Jewish?

Isn’t it possible (inside me my voice was not a voice, it was a shriek of fury at this man this ego this arrogance sitting before me) that my Jewishness explains as much about me as the loss does?

Loss is internal, Clay said. A subjective emotional experience. I think that what’s internal is more relevant.

Does history mean nothing to you, I said.

It depends what kind, he said. In your case I think personal history is the most important factor. You feel dislocation as a result of your parents’ death. On some level you still cannot accept that it happened so unexpectedly, and that you were somehow exempted. You are refusing this history, which is yours. Other history — the world’s, I mean — is not so relevant. You must work on accepting your own.

That is very tidy, I said, and I’m impressed, only you seem not to notice the similarity between my own history and every other Jew’s. You seem not to notice that since the war, every Jew has been trying to accept the unacceptable, the unthinkable, every Jew is dislocated.

Judith (his tone impatient now), please try not to widen everything, to include everything. You drag in too much. We are not talking about other people. We’re talking about you.

No, I said, no we’re not. Really and truly, we’re not.

And I heard those lines from “The Waste Land”:

‘Do

You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember Nothing?’

I remember

Those are pearls that were his eyes.

April 15

Yesterday, Passover; today, Easter. I didn’t mention either holiday to Clay, and he didn’t bring them up.

On the Lower East Side, in Brooklyn, the Bronx, Jews at the seder table.
This night different from other nights
.
Next year Jerusalem
.

I had no desire to share this Passover with the other Jewish people here. Nobody here interests me much, including the Jews.

In midtown Manhattan, Fifth Avenue a blur of pastel dresses and hats, floats of white flowers. The Easter parade. Celebration of a ghost’s rising.

I once asked Matt if we could have a seder at our apartment, but he said it would make him uncomfortable. I pressed him to explain why, but he couldn’t. If you feel you must, he said. No, I said, it was just an idea. Then I’d rather we didn’t, he said, it would feel false somehow.

I remember being shocked by the word
false
, the clarity of it, the way it illumined Matt’s fear. Matt’s been terribly afraid all his life, and Christ is a cage for the fear that he knows will escape someday. His faith is like that line in Frost,
a momentary stay against confusion
…

May 20

Matthias hasn’t visited since the end of April. Powell brings weekly messages, brief notes from Hayden’s main office: Mr. Lane has called to say he’s got a bad flu. Mr. Lane has called again to say he’s still recovering from his flu.

Each note ends: He says to say
I think of you
.

Ben Webster and Art Tatum on “Night and Day” — I can hear it as if I were sitting there, across from the piano in the Bohemia, as they braid the melody, each of its lines crisscrossing, everything tangled, despair and desire inextricable.

Whether near to me or far

it’s no matter darling where you are

A third message, tonight. Mr. Lane will come with Mr. and Mrs. Rubin this weekend.

Saturday or Sunday, I asked Powell.

He shrugged gently.

May 29

Len and Carol looked the same as always, but Matt looked tired.

Are you feeling better, I asked him. Oh yes, he said, only it takes time.

Yes, I said.

Our eyes met. In the mid-afternoon light, his were a deep aquamarine. Even when he’s exhausted, his eyes remain clear, but the skin around them shows more shadows than usual. He smiled at me — a wan smile, to match his face — and I smiled back. Then our gaze faltered, broke.

How’ve you been, said Carol. You keeping busy with all these books? Christ, Lenny, will you look at this stuff on Judaism and Kabbalah? I think she’s seen the Jewish light or something, I mean this looks like some yeshiva kid’s bookshelf, doesn’t it?

Matt had moved quietly to the shelves. His fingers drifted over the books’ spines.

Where did you find these, he asked.

Sam Wiser’s bookstore, I said, the one with the occult books — Broadway at Forty-eighth Street.

Yes, he said, I know it. You ordered these by mail?

I nodded (watching Len from the corner of one eye as he poked around the room). Sam Wiser knows me now, he’s given me a tab.

Oh boy, Len said, wait’ll that bill comes in, Matt.

I’m not really in a position to complain about anybody else’s book purchases, Matt said.

Yeah, Carol piped in, that’s right, all this man ever buys is books! Take a look at his sweater, would you? I think he’s forgotten how to dress himself. When Judy comes home she’ll have to retrain you, Matt. Just like Liza Doolittle, only in reverse.

(
Home:
a low-register chord, like one of Art Tatum’s.)

So tell me what’s happening, I said.

Whadya mean, Carol said (a note of alarm in her voice, small but undisguisable).

In the world. Out there, I said.

Oh, said Len. Well, you know they found Adolf Eichmann in Argentina. Last week. Took him off to Israel.

Who did, I asked.

Israeli secret agents, said Carol. It was like a movie. A group of Nazi hunters tracked him down in some city where he had a fake name, and they stuck him on the next plane out. He’s sitting in a jail in Jerusalem, waiting to be charged.

Incredible, Len said. When Ben-Gurion made the announcement to the Knesset, the whole place was stunned. The papers said you could’ve heard a pin drop. After all these years they just couldn’t believe it. Eichmann, for God’s sake.

I looked at Matthias. His face unreadable.

The Argentine government wants Eichmann sent back, he said. They claim the Israelis violated Argentina’s sovereignty by kidnapping him.

Those Catholic bastards, Len said.

Well Lenny (Carol frowning, smelling trouble), it’s a tough call, I mean you can’t always go picking people up just like that, no extradition warrant or anything.

Oh come on, said Len. This is a war criminal, this is the last of the big Nazi murderers! The Israelis should just hang the guy. No questions asked.

Lenny, listen to what you’re saying, this is completely undemocratic.

Len’s face dark. His lighter in one hand, a cigarette in the other.

Fuck the Argentines, he said. Eichmann is Israel’s. Now we’ll see some justice.

The lighter’s flame, a quick flare; Len’s harsh indrawn breath and long exhalation. His eyes darting around, not resting on any of us.

Carol’s gaze on me for a moment, nervously.

I suspect we will, said Matt.

Will what, asked Carol.

See some justice. The Israelis will get to keep him, and they’ll give him a fair trial. They’d have to, so no one complains.

Complains about what, said Len.

About a biased judiciary in Israel.

Jesus Christ, Len said (flicking his cigarette ash on the floor).

I’m not saying it’s a sound complaint (Matt’s eyes on Carol, his voice steady), I’m just saying this is how they’ll have to handle it.

Well it’s interesting, said Len, that the Israelis have to prove how fair they are. Nobody asked that of Mr. Hitler.

Len, said Carol, we fought Hitler, we defeated him. That was better than asking him questions, wasn’t it?

Len said nothing.

I decided it was my turn.

If there were questions to be asked, I said, they should’ve been asked before war broke out. They should’ve been asked in the mid-thirties. When everyone kept silent. Even the Jews.

They all looked at me.

I looked at Matt, who looked away.

Len passed his hands over his face and rubbed his eyes.

Well, he said, if they don’t try Eichmann soon, some Israeli will get to him in jail and whack him, and that’ll be that.

Meanwhile, back on the farm (one of Carol’s favorite nonsensical segues, she knows just where to insert them), always something new — you know I got a new job, Judy? I work at Schirmers now. Best music store in the city, only I have to sell real collections now. No more sheet music. I kind of miss my old beat, but the pay sure makes up for it.

Can you imagine Carol selling classical? said Len (his big loose smile back, the Eichmann cloud dissipated for the time being). I mean, what does she know from Chopin, all that waltzy stuff?

I’m going to take music history lessons from Matt, said Carol. He doesn’t know it yet but I’ll make him my chief advisor. It’s true, I don’t know squat about the stuff I’m selling. God forbid I should have any customers as ignorant as I am, but so far they all seem to know just what they want.

Judith knows a fair bit about classical music, too, said Matt.

Oh, but not like you, said Len. Judy’s the expert on bop. You’re the one who knows the old stuff. Old music, old books.

I’ll take notes, said Carol. And Judy can send me a quiz. You know, we haven’t had a card from you in a while — you still writing?

Now and then, I said.

Letters? asked Matt.

(And I could hear in this question other questions, and I knew he wanted to know but couldn’t ask me:
has it been silenced yet, your pain, has it stopped interfering
? And I wanted to scream at him:
no, it hasn’t, and it’s yours too, it’s ours, damn you!
)

No, I said. Poems, now and then. I keep a journal, too. Not every day.

That sounds good, said Carol. As good as sending letters. I mean, for God’s sake don’t feel you have to, on our account.

I don’t, I said.

Good, said Len. Who needs such pressure?

He picked up his jacket.

You’ll be seeing us, kiddo — whatcha say, Carol, maybe in August we’ll come up again, get the hell out of Manhattan. The city’s so damn hot by then.

Yeah, said Carol, sounds good.

She pointed at Matt, looked at me.

Him you’ll see before then, I’m sure, she said.

Matt’s blue gaze on me now: love, fear, questions.

Yes, he said.