Loves of Yulian (30 page)

People, along the sidewalk, stood watching the parade, or ignored it, going about their business. Every once in a while, someone, or two or three, from the sidewalk would join the parade and be acknowledged by the people they had joined, as though they had been expected.

I wondered whether you really had to be expected or whether anyone could join. I wondered whether I could put on my cowboy hat and gun belt and march along with the parade for a few blocks.

I didn’t have a mask, but if I tied a handkerchief around my nose and mouth, the way the crooks did in cowboy movies, people wouldn’t know who I was and might think that, maybe, I was someone who was supposed to march with them.

In my mind, I now saw myself marching in the parade with grownups in their weird costumes all around me and accepting me as one of them and all of us marching in the same direction. It would be a wonderful feeling, I was sure, and I stepped away from the window to sit in the armchair, close my eyes, and concentrate on the image.

When Mother came back from Sra. O’Brien’s she asked me whether I had watched the parade, and I said that I had. Then she asked whether I had gone downstairs in my cowboy outfit, and I assured her that I hadn’t, though I had the feeling that she no longer felt as negative about the parade and its participants as she had talking with Mr. Tuwim. In the evening, we both leaned out of the window, as the street lights cast a whole new character on the activities below.

“The music is going to be playing all night,” Mother said. “Why don’t you sleep with me. We’ll close the bedroom door, and it won’t be as loud. Irena won’t be back tonight.”

I said that the music wouldn’t bother me, and Mother said that, of course, it would, but, in the end, she agreed to let me sleep in my own bed, certain that I would regret it.

As Mother had said, and I had known it would, it took a long time for me to fall asleep, as I lay, tense with anticipation of my proposed plunge the next day. But I would have had a difficult time entertaining these thoughts with Mother’s presence beside me, even though I was sure she couldn’t read minds.

In an effort to be realistic and knowing my own self, I realized that I might, very well, not have that courage to do what I was planning. I knew that I would probably just stand there or walk along the sidewalk, without finding the nerve to make that step. But, maybe, I would find a way to, as Mr. Tuwim had said, “step out of myself.”

The next day, Mother asked whether I wanted to come to Sra. O’Brien’s with her and swim in the pool, while she worked with the senhora, but I said that I would rather watch the parade some more.

The moment I saw Mother pull away in Sra. O’Brien’s black car, I stepped away from the window to strap on my guns. I did that deliberately, lest I lose my nerve for the whole adventure. The parade hadn’t formed yet, and I expected that it would take some time before it did, but I was also aware of a need for precautions against my loss of nerve. The more prepared I was, I figured, the harder it would be to back out, if my nerve disintegrated.

Then, when there was a parade again, I forced myself out of our suite and onto the landing. I hoped that I would not encounter anyone in the elevator, and I didn’t. Then I was out on the sidewalk within a few steps of the moving stream, wondering what I should look for as an appropriate place to make my move.

A number of the revelers did wave to me, as they walked or rode by, but none seemed to be extending a definite invitation to join their ranks. And then I saw seven boys, about my own age, walking by with their arms around each other’s shoulders and singing. They weren’t in any sort of costume, except that one of them had some sort of cap on his head.

Before I realized it, I was walking along the sidewalk, keeping abreast of them. Then, one of them raised his arm and waved for me to join them. I was positive he was inviting me to join them. And then the others waved for me to join as well.

Not permitting myself to think about it, I made the few sideways steps necessary, and soon I had my arm around the shoulders of the nearest boy, and his arm was around me. I didn’t know the song they were singing, but I marched in step to their rhythm.

Then, at one corner, as though by previous plan, my companions veered out of the parade and down a side street, I, of course, right with them. We stopped in front of a store, and one of the boys went inside. He came out a few minutes later with a paper bag of candy that he proceeded to distribute among us. I got a cylindrical, chewy, chocolate something that I had never tasted before, but was delicious.

In a moment we had rejoined the parade. Our mouths full of candy, we were not singing, but marching to the beat of some nearby musicians.

Conscious of being the only one in any sort of costume, I had pushed my hat back to hang from my neck by its strap and pulled the kerchief down to hang on my neck as well. We were now some five or six blocks from the hotel, at the limit that I had set for myself, and I knew that I would have to leave the group. But that was all right. The exhilaration that I felt from the few minutes of this experience would last me for some time. My only problem was how to make my exit, particularly since I was now in pretty much the center of the line.

Then our entire group veered away from the parade again and turned down another side street. In the middle of the street we stopped. Then the boy, who had gone into the store last time, addressed me with words I didn’t understand at first. Seeing the confusion on my face, he repeated them louder.

Now I understood that he wanted me to give him my guns.

My exhilaration turned, suddenly, into fear. I shook my head.

The other boys took up his cause, repeating his command in my ear.

I shook my head again.

I felt hands grab my arms and the boy in front of me reach for my belt buckle.

Instinctively, I raised my arms, breaking the grips on them. Then I began to run.

I heard their shouts for me to stop and the footsteps behind me. I did not dare look back, but ran as fast as I could back to the parade street.

They were still calling, and I felt a hand graze my back. But I was still running. One boy, bigger than me, was on my left now, so I angled to the right and increased the distance between us.

I was running in the opposite direction of the parade, heading back to the hotel. The bigger boy on my left seemed to have dropped back, and I, suddenly, had the certainty that I could outrun my pursuers.

Their shouts were beginning to turn into hard breathing and their footsteps grew fainter. I was now filled with a new exhilaration, far greater than what I had felt while marching. I had outrun them all.

I could no longer hear them behind me, and I knew that I could turn my head to make sure, then slow down to a walk. But it felt too good to be running. I felt as though I could run forever, maybe even rise off the sidewalk and soar through the sky.

CHAPTER XIV

I noticed that Mother had stopped smoking altogether, or, at least, when I was around. Instead, she would drum her long, red nails on the table a lot. She also seemed to hold herself extra straight, and I often saw her biting her lip now. I knew very well that she was either trying to decide whether to continue on to America or that she had already made a decision and that it was hurting her. I imagined what it would have been like if I had known, weeks in advance, that Kiki would be leaving me, and I would, probably, never see her again.

And Mother hadn’t been able to sell her diamond, which, as far as I knew, she still needed to sell for our trip to America. . . if we were going. But, in view of what she was going through, I did not mention my earlier suggestion of selling it to a jewelry store.

With Sr. Segiera very busy with his work, right now, we seemed to see more and more of the Tuwims. Sometimes, at the café, Mother would ask me to take a walk around the block, so that she could talk privately to them. I thought that those talks must comfort her, and I was happy to do my part.

One afternoon, when I was completing just such a walk and attuned my ear to hear if it was safe to return to the table, I heard Mr. Tuwim utter words I could not believe. What I heard was, “. . . for me, as a Jewish poet. . . ”

For me as a Jewish poet
—that meant that, if I had heard right, Mr. Tuwim, the famous poet, was a Jew, just like me. Of course I had heard right. He
had
said that—I was certain. He was a Jew, and he was a poet—a poet whose poems were published and sold and read by many, many people. I was amazed. That meant that, when I grew up, the things I wrote could be published and read, as well. It meant that I didn’t have to hide the fact that I was a Jew or be ashamed of it. It meant a million things. I sat down.

“Are you all right, Yulian?” I heard Mother ask, alarm in her voice. I didn’t know what I was doing, but evidently there was something in my manner that was communicating my excitement.

“I’. . . m f. . . ine,” I said.

“Did somebody do something when you were walking?”

I shook my head.

Mother put her hand on my forehead. Then she asked Mrs. Tuwim to feel my forehead as well. Mrs. Tuwim stood up and reached across Mother to feel my forehead. She found nothing amiss.

“Yulian,” Mother said to Mr. Tuwim, “you’re sitting next to him. Feel his forehead.”

“I’m not going to feel his forehead. He says he’s all right, you both felt nothing, what do you want me to feel?”

“He’s not right.” Mother’s face looked definitely worried, and she felt my forehead a second time.

“Leave him alone,” Mr. Tuwim said. “He’s probably just thinking about girls.”

I hadn’t been thinking about girls, but now it occurred to me that Mr. Tuwim, being a poet, might very well be able to read minds. I had better not think my beach thoughts about Irenka.

Suddenly I had a tremendous desire to get back to our suite, where I could tell Meesh about Mr. Tuwim being Jewish. He was the only one who would understand the significance of that. I had not spoken to Meesh for a while, and I felt guilty about it. But I felt too good for the guilt to dampen my spirits. Meesh and I would have a very long talk that evening.

“More ice cream for the boy,” Mr. Tuwim said to the waiter, and I realized that I had eaten all my ice cream.

“He ate all his ice cream,” Mother said, great surprise in her voice.

“A sure sign of sickness,” Mr. Tuwim said. I was proud of my understanding of sarcasm, though that word was not in my vocabulary either, and very pleased to hear the poet apply it.

I could not remember any previous time in my life when I had been eager to get to bed. But I kept visualizing Meesh sitting on the chair beside my bed, while I pulled the sheet over my head and spilled out my heart.

I had tried to be careful not to give Mother any more cause to worry about my health, but forgot what ideas my eating my supper quickly might put into Mother’s head. But I was in a hurry, and, for the first time in a long while, I had an appetite. I saw Mother fret and then realized that any visible desire to go to bed, on my part, would only confirm her suspicions. After supper I suggested that I take a walk along the street, because, walking by myself, I would be free to think about whatever I wanted. But Mother said that I couldn’t do it in the evening. She did, however, suggest that we play some Gin Rummy, which was how I, finally, spent the evening.

When I was at last in bed, with Mother behind the closed bedroom door, doing her solitaire on her pillow, and Meesh was on the chair beside my bed, I pulled the sheet over my head and proceeded to tell Meesh about Mr. Tuwim, his
Locomotive
poem, which every child I knew in Poland was familiar with, his other poems in the book, which Kiki and I didn’t think were as good as
The Locomotive,
but still very good, and the fact that he also wrote poems for grownups. And then I explained that Mr. Tuwim was a Jew, like I was and like Meesh was.

After thinking about this for a while, Meesh asked why Mr. Tuwim’s being Jewish was important, to which I responded by telling him that I hadn’t thought that Jews could be poets. Of course, Jews could write poetry, as anyone could, but nobody, except maybe other Jews, would ever read their poems. But, if a Jew like Mr. Tuwim, could write poems that everyone read and admired, that meant that, if the poems that I wrote when I grew up were good enough, everyone would read and admire them as well.

This explanation seemed to satisfy Meesh, but then, suddenly, the image of Gustavo sitting on the ground and looking up at me with his bleeding face, appeared in my mind again, and I immediately tried to wipe it out by thinking of the pleasing image of lying on the beach with Irenka. But Gustavo would not go away. Except that now I felt even more guilty for trying to ignore him, in his pain.

There was a new persistence in Gustavo’s bloody image forcing itself into my mind, that I had not known before, and I did not fall asleep for a long time. Gustavo’s face kept changing. At times it was his normal face, wet only with tears, but, at other times, it was covered with blood, though he had not fallen on his face. And then, strangest of all, I could see the black and gray bristles of a beard covering the lower part of his face.

It was then that I remembered Kiki’s old warning about going crazy from touching my genitalia, my
birdie,
as she had called it, while warning me that repeated, extracurricular contact with it would make me crazy. And I had taken the warning as a challenge and had, foolishly, darted secret, instantaneous touches with the tip of my finger under my nightshirt, tempting fate to strike me.