Davita's Harp (6 page)

“A vast and ugly city,” he said one night over supper. “The heart of decaying capitalist power. A city without hope and without compassion.”

“Capitalism and compassion are incompatible,” my mother said.

“You won’t find too much compassion among my New England Episcopalians,” my father said. “Except for my sister Sarah, and a few others.”

At times that week I woke in the night and put on my glasses and went into the living room where Jakob Daw slept. By the light of the street lamps I could make out dimly his straight dark hair and pale features. I would stand there, staring at him, entranced in a way I could not understand. One night I woke and went into the living room and he was not there. I heard voices from my parents’ bedroom. The three of them were talking quietly together; I could not make out their words. Two nights later I was awakened by a loud, piercing cry, a single brief scream that ended in a choking sob. I rushed into the living room and saw Jakob Daw sitting up on the studio couch, his knees drawn up to his chin, his eyes wide, his hands over his ears. “Ah, you cannot do this!” he cried. “How can you think to do such a thing?”

My mother was suddenly in the room. “Ilana, go back to your bed immediately,” she said to me in a voice I did not recognize.

In the morning I thought it had all been another of my bad dreams and did not talk of it with anyone.

One night my father went alone to a meeting in a section in Philadelphia called Strawberry Mansion. I woke to go to the living
room and Jakob Daw was not there. His clothes were on the chair near the studio couch. I went quietly through the hallway to my parents’ bedroom and saw him through the partly open door. He was sitting at my father’s desk. On the wall above the desk was the framed picture of the horses on the red-sand beach on Prince Edward Island. I saw them galloping against the wind, manes flying, sand spraying out behind their thundering hooves. Jakob Daw had on spectacles rimmed in silver metal. Somewhere in the room with him was my mother, but I could not see her. Jakob Daw was writing with a black fountain pen. The only light in the room came from the desk lamp; it bathed his features in soft lights and shadows. He sat bent over the desk, writing. He turned his head slightly. The spectacles flared; his dark eyes burned.

I went quietly back to my room.

That image of Jakob Daw writing, his face bathed in warm lights and shadows, his glasses flaring, his eyes burning—it lingered in memory. I fell asleep with that image fixed in my mind. A picture. An idea. Jakob Daw writing.

The following day Jakob Daw and my father went to an evening meeting in Brooklyn. Then they began to travel to places outside the city. I heard names like Newark, Jersey City, Long Island, Baltimore, Washington, D.C., Philadelphia, Wilmington.

One night I lay in bed reading another book about Spain that my father had brought home for me. Someone tapped on my door. It was Jakob Daw.

He stood hesitantly in the doorway. “May I come in?”

I sat up in my bed and put down the book. “Yes.”

He came slowly into the room and sat down in the chair near the head of the bed. The light of my reading lamp fell upon his pale, almost feminine features, bathing them in lights and shadows. Beyond him the room was a blur of dim and shapeless forms.

He asked with a quiet, apologetic smile, “Did I interrupt your reading? I am sorry. What book is it?”

“It’s about the Spanish people and their cities and also their castles, especially the castle called the Alhambra.”

“The Alhambra. A beautiful castle.” He hesitated, looking down at his hands, which lay limply on his knees. “Well, I thought I might, that is if you are interested, I might, well, tell you a story.” He gazed at me hesitantly, the apologetic smile still on his lips. “Are you interested?”

Yes, I was very interested.

The smile widened. “Good,” he said. “Good.” He peered at me a moment, then looked down at his hands. He raised his eyes and looked at me directly. “The story is about a bird,” he said. “A little bird with black feathers and short wings and a small red spot under each of its large dark eyes. Are you ready, Ilana Davita? Here is my story.

“The bird woke one day from a long deep sleep and found himself in a strange land. How had he come to this land? From where had he flown? The bird could not remember. It was a beautiful land—lovely soft green hills and leafy trees and dew on the flowers and grass and cooling breezes and the sun always shining but never too hot and at night a full moon and a gentle wind. There were animals in the land and they were like animals everywhere, peaceful when left alone, hunting and killing only for food. The people of the land lived in small groups that were often at war with one another. Some people were cruel; others were kind. They were like people you meet everywhere. But the land itself was like no land the bird had ever seen or imagined. It seemed enchanted, a magical land, filled with crystal lakes and fields of wheat and corn, with rolling sunlit meadows and deep forests—and music. A soft haunting music could be heard everywhere. It seemed to come from the earth itself, a low enthralling tinkle of sound, like joyous bells far off beyond the blue hills, beyond the green meadows, far, far away. Music.

“The little bird loved the land and did not like the people. He wondered why the people made war, why they were so cruel. He thought it might be a good idea to try and change them. Now, how could a little bird do that? One day as he sat on the branch of a tree in the cool green shade of overhanging leaves, he had an idea. It occurred to him that in some way it might be the music
that was the cause of the cruelties he saw. People hurt one another, killed one another, made war with one another—and instead of feeling sorrow and regret, went ahead and were soothed by the music. Perhaps if the music came to a stop; perhaps if there was no music to soothe a person who did someone harm—perhaps then the harm itself might come to be felt as intolerable and be brought to an end. And so the bird set out to discover the source of the music. He began to fly back and forth across the land, back and forth, and back and forth.”

Jakob Daw stopped. There was silence.

I asked quietly, “Did the bird find the music?”

“He is still searching.”

I thought a moment. “I don’t think I like the story.”

Jakob Daw smiled sadly and sighed. “So many people do not like my stories.”

“Mama said you’re a great writer.”

“Did she? Your mother is very kind.”

“The bird is still searching?”

“Yes.”

“Will he ever find where the music comes from?”

“I do not know.”

“Is the music a kind of magic?”

“Magic? Perhaps. Yes. It might be a kind of magic.”

“I’ve never heard a story like that before, Uncle Jakob. It doesn’t even have an ending.”

“Yes. I see. No ending. Perhaps you would like me to tell you another story.”

“Not now, Uncle Jakob. I’m tired.”

“I thought you might be.”

“Why do people read your stories if they don’t really like them?”

“I ask myself that very often. I do not know. Good night, Ilana Davita.” “Good night, Uncle Jakob.” He went quietly from the room.

I lay in my bed. What a strange story! It was a long time before I was able to sleep.

I dreamed of the bird that night, flying, flying, to find the source of the healing music and wake the world to its befouling cruelties. A little black bird flying, a small red spot beneath each of his glittering eyes. Jakob Daw’s story had been very confusing and I had not understood it. Yet I was dreaming about the little bird flying to find the source of the music. What would he do if he ever found it? Flying, flying across the blue hills and crystal lakes and sunlit meadows of my enchanted land. Flying, the magical music a warm solace. Flying.

Jakob Daw was with us for two weeks. Then he packed his bags to go away for a while to a country called Canada. He would be back in the summer, he said. He stood at the door to the apartment with me and my parents. He shook my mother’s hand, gently, and I saw pass between them a look that seemed burdened with memories. My father saw it too, and a deep pity entered his eyes. Jakob Daw bent to kiss me, and I felt his gentle shyness. It was a dry kiss, briefly delivered to my forehead. His fingers brushed my cheek. They felt hot.

I dreamed often of the little bird. I could not grasp the story; yet I kept dreaming of the bird. How strange to be so affected by a story I did not understand!

One night over supper, a week or so after Jakob Daw had left, I told the story to my parents. They did not understand it, either.

“There’s something hidden in it,” my father said. “But I don’t know what it is. I wish more of his stuff was out in English. What’s it like to read him in German?”

“Extraordinary,” my mother said.

“He’s a strange guy. Was he this way when you knew him in Vienna?”

“Yes,” said my mother. “But he wasn’t ill in Vienna. That came later.”

Flying. The little black bird flying to find the music of the world.

A letter came from Aunt Sarah. She was still in Ethiopia. My father read it to us at the kitchen table. She described the heat and the suffering of the Ethiopians and the horrible medical facilities. She prayed a great deal and read often from the Book of Psalms. It was difficult to do the work of our Lord in this dreadful land, but she was certainly trying. “And how is Ilana Davita? I must see her again and tell her more of my Maine stories.”

“Is the war in Ethiopia over?” I asked.

“Yes,” my father said, frowning.

“The Italians think it’s over,” my mother said. “It isn’t over for the Ethiopians.”

“It’s over,” my father said with an uncharacteristic scowl. “Chalk up one more for the Fascists.”

The weather had turned very warm. I walked alone through the neighborhood now, seeing streets clearly, remembering them. I had words for most of the things I saw, and it was the words that I remembered. I began to like the streets and the people. In school a boy who sat near me in my class and whose father hated Mussolini came over to me during recess, and we played together on the bars. I liked the neighborhood and the school and the walks to the park with my mother and the scent of the river. We received no more mail from my Aunt Sarah and heard nothing from Jakob Daw.

One morning in early June, as I was washing in the bathroom, I heard our doorbell ring. My father went through the hallway and opened the door.

A man’s voice said, “Mr. Michael Chandal?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Sloane. I own this building.” “Well, hello. Come on in.”

“No, thanks. Mr. Chandal, I have to tell you that you’re in violation of the terms of your tenancy.”

“What?” my father said.

“The meetings you hold in your apartment are a gross disturbance to the peace and quiet of the other tenants. Also, I’m told you’ve taken in someone to live with you. That’s another clear violation.”

“That individual is no longer here,” my father said. I heard my mother call from the kitchen. “Michael, what is it?” “I’ll handle it, Annie,” my father called back. “I’ve got to ask you to vacate the premises,” the owner of the building said. There was a pause.

“I’ll do you this favor,” the owner of the building said. “I’ll give you thirty days. After that the sheriff will be here to evict you.”

“For Christ’s sake—”

I heard the door close.

The harp sent warm, soft, shivery music through the air.

“Capitalist son of a bitch,” my father said.

He went back along the hallway. I flushed the toilet and washed my hands and went quickly through the hallway to the kitchen, my heart pounding.

“I want to call Ezra,” my mother was saying.

“We don’t need Ezra,” my father said.

“I want to call him anyway,” my mother said.

The door harp came down. The picture of the horses on Prince Edward Island came down. My mother’s cousin appeared one evening in his dark suit and dark felt hat and spent a long time in the kitchen, talking to my parents. I helped my mother pack the large barrels and cartons. My father packed the books and magazines and papers. The apartment filled with shadows and echoes. I had bad dreams about Baba Yaga, who had somehow returned to life.

Early one morning burly men climbed the staircase and appeared at our door. Neighbors hung from windows, watching. The men grunted and sweated as they carried our furniture out of
the house and loaded it into a van. We moved across the river into the second floor of a narrow two-story brownstone house in a distant part of the city called Brooklyn.

About one week later we moved again—not with furniture and barrels, but with summer clothes, pots and pans, towels and bedding, the door harp, the picture of the horses, and some of my parents’ papers and books—to the cottage in the shore section of New York City called Sea Gate, where we had spent the past few summers. My mother had written earlier to Jakob Daw in Canada, giving him our new address in Brooklyn and inviting him to join us in the cottage. He did not reply.

The cottage—three small bedrooms, a kitchen, a small dining room, a parlor—looked out on the sand and the sea. It had a screened-in front porch and a back lawn where grass and scrub brush grew from sandy soil. From the porch I would look eastward and see Rockaway Beach in the distance to my left, and the Atlantic Ocean, and Sandy Hook almost directly before me, and Staten Island to my right. I would come out the front door onto the porch—the front of the cottage faced the beach; the rear of the cottage faced the street—and hear the song of the door harp. Then I would come down off the porch onto the dunes, skirt the wild deutzia shrubs with their white blossoms and green leaves, and walk along the smooth clean yellow-white sand of the sloping beach to the rim of the sea. And there I would often stand for long minutes, looking at the water—at the rhythmic roll and crash of the waves, at the sparkles of sunlight on the curling crests, at the rush of foaming surf. The water was dark green near the shore and deep blue along the horizon. Ships sailed in the blue distance toward the line of sea and sky, freighters moving with such ponderous slowness they seemed fixed in the water. I watched them often that summer and wondered where they were sailing. To the Austria of Jakob Daw? To defeated Ethiopia and my Aunt Sarah? To the Spain that my father and mother and I were now reading about in newspapers and books and magazines?