Balls by Julian Tepper, Julian Page B

of Henry and the piano. Resting his arms on the instrument, in the dim brown light, he said, This isn’t any good. That isn’t any good. What do you know about good , Henry.
    The men from neighboring towns in Italy were staring at Henry. The smaller of the two, his skin was ruddy, and he looked ten years younger than his age, said, Why fight it, Henry? This is your song.
    He is right, said his Italian neighbor. This is a great song about our city.
    Do you actually think so? Henry addressed everyone in the room, his groin tender.
    We do.
    You don’t think the verses could be a little stronger?
    The man with the bourbon-wet mustache said, Orion, another bourbon for the jerk at the piano.
    What about the chorus? said Henry, his right foot pressing down on the sustain. Do you think it has enough umphh to it?
    It has umphh , said Orion, pouring him the bourbon. Setting the drink in front of Henry on the piano, he told him, You did it. Congratulations, Henry!
    Henry wasn’t convinced, but he let the subject drop. They made him play the song again. Four times Castrated New York was requested throughout the rest of the evening. At some point Orion locked the door and joined Henry at the piano, for he was an amateur pianist himself. The Italian men sang. As did the man with the bourbon-wet mustache. They went on into the early morning. And Henry did go home with the sun.

FOUR

A t noon Henry woke. Light pierced through gaps in the old wooden shades. The succinct click of heels crossing through his apartment was what had roused him from sleep, though. Paula, it was her. Last-night’s drinks were a powerful burning in his chest. He shouldn’t consume liquor till his health returned to him. Dahl wouldn’t approve. What about Henry? Did he approve?
    I don’t, he said, to himself. You have to keep your strength.
    He could hear Paula stepping gingerly through his darkened bedroom.
    Henry, she said, are you awake? Her voice was all gravel.
    I am.
    Good morning, she told him.
    She went to raise the shades. A blue light swept into the bedroom, through the window a division of fire-escapes and low-rise buildings—a perfect June day. At twenty-one Paula’s face could absorb sleepless nights and still turn out beautiful the next morning. Yes, she was beautiful, in a loose white dress, and newly showered. Henry could smell jasmine strong on her body. Her black hair was damp. She’d been quick to leave home and come here, Henry acknowledged, with satisfaction.
    How was your evening? he asked her, pulling on his bathrobe, knotting the belt.
    It was good. And yours?
    Fine, he said.
    He told himself that he wouldn’t talk about Castrated New York . He must speak of only one thing, his cancer. He said to her, Come into the kitchen. Let’s have breakfast.
    In the bright room he scrambled eggs, he made coffee, he toasted bread and took bottles of jam from the refrigerator, a carton of milk, and set them all on the table beside the plates and flatware and folded napkins which he’d likewise arranged. He even squeezed orange juice. Pouring egg yolk into a hot pan, he decided once breakfast was served he would tell her everything. That would be the right moment for it. You had to pick the one, and be right , he noted. You only had the one chance to say it the first time.
    But Paula was speaking from her seat at the small round table behind him.
    Henry, she was saying, I have to tell you something.
    A hot needling sensation burst through him. Was she going to end their relationship? Some part of him felt certain that she would. Concealing the full load of his distress, he asked her, What’s on your mind, Paula?
    Loud enough to be heard above the traffic on the street below, Paula told him, I’m leaving Monday.
    His eyes focused on her with relief. Grinning, he said, Leaving? Where to?
    Paula, her gaze calm, her hands folded, said, To Berlin.
    Berlin? Really? to Berlin?
    I’ll be staying in