we talk of it now? You’re dripping from the rain. But you’re not cold. You aren’t warm either, are you? You look like a teenage rock tramp, the kind that follows famous bands around with a guitar in his hand, begging for quarters at the doorways of concert halls. Where did you get the music, the incredible, heartbreaking music—?”
He was furious.
“Spiteful tongue,” he whispered. “I’m older than you can dream. I’m older in my pain than you. I’m finer. I learnt to play this instrument to perfection before I died. I learnt it and possessed a talent for it in my living body such as you never will even understand with all your recordings and your dreams and fantasies. You were asleep when your little daughter Lily died, you doremember that, don’t you? In the hospital in Palo Alto, you actually went to sleep and—”
I put my hands up to my ears! The smell, the light, the entire hospital room of twenty years ago surrounded me. I said No!
“You revel in these accusations!” I said. My heart beat too hard, but my voice was under my command. “Why? What am I to you and you to me?”
“Ah, but I thought
you
did.”
“What? Explain?”
“I thought
you
reveled in these accusations. I thought you so accused yourself, you so gloried in it, mixing it up with fear and cringing and chills and sloth—that you were never lonely, ever, but always holding hands with some dead loved one and singing your poems of contrition in your head, keeping them around, feeding their remembrance so as not to know the truth: the music you love, you’ll never make. The feeling it wrings from your soul will never find fulfillment.”
I couldn’t answer.
He went on, emboldened.
“You so sated yourself on accusations, to use your own word, you so fed on guilt that I thought it would be nothing to drive you out of your mind, to make it so that you …” He stopped. He did more than stop. He checked himself, and stiffened.
“I’m going now,” he said. “But I’ll come when I please, you can be sure of it.”
“You have no right. Whoever sent you must take you back.” I made the Sign of the Cross.
He smiled. “Did that little prayer do you any good? Do you remember the miserable California funeral Mass of your daughter, how stiff and out of place everything was—all those clever intellectual West Coast friends forced toattend something as patently stupid as a real funeral in a real church—do you remember? And the bored, toss-it-off priest who knew you never went to his church before she died. So now you make the Sign of the Cross. Why don’t I play a hymn for you? The violin can play plainsong. It’s not common, but I can find the
Veni Creator
in your mind and play it, and we can pray together.”
“So it hasn’t done you any good,” I said, “praying to God.” I tried to make my voice strong but soft, and to mean what I said: “Nobody sent you. You wander.”
He was nonplussed.
“Get the hell out of here!”
“But you don’t mean it,” he said with a shrug, “and don’t tell me your pulse isn’t ticking like an overwound clock. You’re in tireless ecstasy to have me! Karl, Lev—your Father. You’ve met a man in me such as you’ve never seen, and I’m not even a man.”
“You’re cocky, rude and filthy,” I said. “And you are not a man. You are a ghost, and the ghost of someone young and morally uncouth and ugly!”
This hurt him. His face showed a cut much deeper than vanity.
“Yes,” he said, struggling for self-possession, “and you love me, for the music, and in spite of it.”
“That may be true,” I said coldly, nodding. “But I also think very highly of myself. As you said, you miscalculated. I was a wife twice, a mother once, an orphan perhaps. But weak, no, and bitter? Never. I lack the sense that bitterness requires …”
“Which is what?”
“One of entitlement, that things ought to have been better. It is life, that’s all, and you feed on me because
He was furious.
“Spiteful tongue,” he whispered. “I’m older than you can dream. I’m older in my pain than you. I’m finer. I learnt to play this instrument to perfection before I died. I learnt it and possessed a talent for it in my living body such as you never will even understand with all your recordings and your dreams and fantasies. You were asleep when your little daughter Lily died, you doremember that, don’t you? In the hospital in Palo Alto, you actually went to sleep and—”
I put my hands up to my ears! The smell, the light, the entire hospital room of twenty years ago surrounded me. I said No!
“You revel in these accusations!” I said. My heart beat too hard, but my voice was under my command. “Why? What am I to you and you to me?”
“Ah, but I thought
you
did.”
“What? Explain?”
“I thought
you
reveled in these accusations. I thought you so accused yourself, you so gloried in it, mixing it up with fear and cringing and chills and sloth—that you were never lonely, ever, but always holding hands with some dead loved one and singing your poems of contrition in your head, keeping them around, feeding their remembrance so as not to know the truth: the music you love, you’ll never make. The feeling it wrings from your soul will never find fulfillment.”
I couldn’t answer.
He went on, emboldened.
“You so sated yourself on accusations, to use your own word, you so fed on guilt that I thought it would be nothing to drive you out of your mind, to make it so that you …” He stopped. He did more than stop. He checked himself, and stiffened.
“I’m going now,” he said. “But I’ll come when I please, you can be sure of it.”
“You have no right. Whoever sent you must take you back.” I made the Sign of the Cross.
He smiled. “Did that little prayer do you any good? Do you remember the miserable California funeral Mass of your daughter, how stiff and out of place everything was—all those clever intellectual West Coast friends forced toattend something as patently stupid as a real funeral in a real church—do you remember? And the bored, toss-it-off priest who knew you never went to his church before she died. So now you make the Sign of the Cross. Why don’t I play a hymn for you? The violin can play plainsong. It’s not common, but I can find the
Veni Creator
in your mind and play it, and we can pray together.”
“So it hasn’t done you any good,” I said, “praying to God.” I tried to make my voice strong but soft, and to mean what I said: “Nobody sent you. You wander.”
He was nonplussed.
“Get the hell out of here!”
“But you don’t mean it,” he said with a shrug, “and don’t tell me your pulse isn’t ticking like an overwound clock. You’re in tireless ecstasy to have me! Karl, Lev—your Father. You’ve met a man in me such as you’ve never seen, and I’m not even a man.”
“You’re cocky, rude and filthy,” I said. “And you are not a man. You are a ghost, and the ghost of someone young and morally uncouth and ugly!”
This hurt him. His face showed a cut much deeper than vanity.
“Yes,” he said, struggling for self-possession, “and you love me, for the music, and in spite of it.”
“That may be true,” I said coldly, nodding. “But I also think very highly of myself. As you said, you miscalculated. I was a wife twice, a mother once, an orphan perhaps. But weak, no, and bitter? Never. I lack the sense that bitterness requires …”
“Which is what?”
“One of entitlement, that things ought to have been better. It is life, that’s all, and you feed on me because
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