When We Danced on Water (13 page)

Chapter 24

T
hese past weeks have been strange for him. He has been full of restless energy that he had hoped to channel into some new choreography, but he cannot settle on any music and the moves in his mind are muddled, too. No clear ideas come to him. And then there was the letter from Margot, a letter like none other in their correspondence. He has read and reread it many times but for the time being has penned no response.

Teodor—

How glorious to rediscover hope (and perhaps love?) at your age, our age! How exquisite to move beyond the dictates of youth and beauty to something so much richer, or, if we will not delude ourselves, a late-blooming find far more cherished than any gifts received in youth. In my own great old age I have become skeptical of youth's exuberance—the postulant enamored of Christ, the artist pouring herself onto one canvas after another, the breathlessness of a girl who mistakes snaking limbs and sweaty loins for love—and appreciative of the pleasantly rich surprises of twilight.

Just yesterday, for example, Sister Agnes asked me to accompany her past the vegetable gardens to the small shed where most of our gardening tools are stored. Together we rounded the shed, stealthy and quiet, and she pointed to a low branch in the rare flowering dogwood tree there, where a family of hummingbirds had built an elaborate home for themselves. A mother and her chicks peered at us from within while another bird—which Agnes informed me was a second mature female—hovered just outside the opening, aloft with concern and what seemed to be a sense of duty. We stood watching, Agnes and I, arms round one another, for quite some time, and there was such beauty in those moments, such tranquillity, such a sense of rightness that I tremble at the mere memory of them, saddened only not to be living and reliving them as I write this (though writing is of course a form of reliving). Agnes's troublesome left eye did not twitch and my own flighty heart was still. As a young woman I could never have appreciated the simple pleasure of it all—the angle of the sun cutting through the branches, the whirring bird, the warmth of Agnes's work-roughened hands, the smell of mulching leaves and the rotting wood of the shed—would, in fact, have chided myself for taking time for such earthly distractions instead of praying harder or studying another text—but now, old and stunned by life's daily miracles, I could appreciate the very beingness of everything I was experiencing.

Teodor, I think I am writing this simply to say: allow it. No matter what comes of it or what does not. We must grab these gifts of grace with two hands and pull them close.

—Your loving sister

He has been seeing Vivi with regularity, and he looks forward to their evenings out. She is warm when they are together, but she has become singularly preoccupied with this project she is working on, about which she has been unwilling to divulge a single word. A friend of a friend of hers offered his gallery space for ten days between several scheduled exhibitions and so she has been working maniacally to finish on time. This past week she has not come to work at the coffee bar even once. The days seem longer than ever to him.

He has explained to her that due to a late-running Tel Aviv Ballet board of directors meeting he will arrive at the opening of her exhibit toward the end rather than the beginning of the evening. He returns from the studio, showers, has a light meal with Nelly (whom he invited but, as always, she declined) and changes his clothes several times before phoning for a taxi to the gallery.

Aware of the energy and devotion that Vivi has invested in her project, Teo has reached the decision to be gentle in his criticism. While he does not expect to love what he sees, he also does not wish to discourage her. In the taxi, he practices several lines that will not compromise his integrity and will allow her the praise she so desperately needs.
What an accomplishment
, he says to himself.
What a stunning use of color. You have absolutely outdone yourself.

The taxi pulls up to the address on the invitation and both Teo and the driver stare at the door in disbelief. In the middle of a street filled with auto repair shops it seems deserted. While there are cars parked up and down the street, the doorway itself is lit by a single bare bulb, and no light can be seen within. But a small sign for the gallery, nearly invisible, stands by a potted plant, so Teo alights from the taxi and makes his way carefully into the building.

Within, another sign leads him down a twisting corridor, at the end of which he sees light and hears noise. The tiny steps he has been taking, for fear of tripping in the gloom, expand and quicken. Several paces before the doorway, he stops. Like a dancer approaching the stage, he prepares himself: he stabilizes his breathing, pulls his neck higher and shoulders lower, extends his hands and wiggles his fingers. He gives his head a slow turn in one direction and then the other. He pulls his stomach in, pushes back his pelvis. Just as he has finished righting himself, he hears music from within, familiar music. He turns his head so that his good ear, the right, will catch it more clearly. He hums along for a second, unable to give it a name, but steps forward anyway into the room.

A throng of people and a blast of noise flatten him against the wall. They seem to be shouting, and it feels as though the whole room is looking at him. He smiles, bewildered, looking for Vivi. He does not see her but does see quite a few familiar faces, all smiling crazily at him. Dancers young and old, the studio administrator, a few colleagues. The woman who writes dance reviews for
Haaretz
. A movie star who once came to him for help with a role. They are shaking his hand, embracing him, patting his shoulder. But how did all these colleagues of his learn about Vivi's show? Through the tumult and din, he finally makes out, in its final bars, the chorus of a song being sung for him, the same one sung at nursery schools and kindergartens all around Israel for birthday girls and boys. He notices a large cake in the middle of a table of refreshments in the corner.

Once he realizes he has been duped into attending a surprise party for himself, he makes the quick decision to be gracious, though his impulse is to bolt. His mind darts wistfully to the dark taxi ride home, the end of the hubbub, but he knows he will have to bear this. Still, he wonders at Vivi. Why would she have spent so much time arranging such an event? He has always abhorred marking the passage of time, which stampedes ahead heedless of whether we are ready or not. Such commemorations are to him merely stones on our graves, reminders of our mortality, our encroaching demise. He has shunned birthdays, anniversaries of any kind—like the founding of the Tel Aviv Ballet, which his administrator insisted on fêting royally for its fiftieth in 1998—for these, more than conjuring pleasant memories, only serve to remind him how little he has accomplished, how much more there was to do and how little time is left to do it. They remind him of friends lost, opportunities botched. Where others see a string of opening nights and excellent reviews, he sees only waste and loss.

The din is nearly unbearable. If he could he would cover his ears, close his eyes, drop into a chair and wait for it all to subside. His cheeks ache from too much smiling, his forehead feels as if it will crack. Who is this man pressing his fleshy face into his own? Who is this woman with expensive jewelry and bad teeth? These are all people glimpsed once or often in the past, some intimately and some superficially, now gone old like himself, their skin blotched and sagging. He does not try to recall names or shared memories, he merely presses their hands in return, kisses their cheeks in reciprocation. He laughs at whatever they are saying, he cannot make out a word. It is all gibberish, noise.

Suddenly, at last, here is Vivi, flushed and lovely. She has taken his hands in her own, is smiling the smile he thought was for him alone. The din subsides and he can hear her, speaking only to him. “Come,” she says, “I'll show you around,” and it is only then that he notices, not two paces from where he has been standing the whole time at the entrance to the gallery, the sign: teo levin: a life in art. He stares at it for a long moment. A flashbulb pops in his face, people are gawking, smiling, someone shoves a glass of champagne into his hand. All at once he recognizes the music, the music from his dance in Berlin from the Danish ballet,
The Konservatoriet
. In a flash, the entire room comes into focus for the first time. He no longer sees the people, it is the walls that paralyze him. Here he is in black and white photographs taken recently in his studio, on the street, or at the coffee bar, as he pores over magazines or ponders his coffee; here is a polished wood statue of him, clearly it is he, poised to pirouette, every sinew properly sculpted; here he is in a charcoal etching, here is an old pair of his ballet slippers, now encrusted in a glittery work of art complete with a blown-glass bauble; here is the costume he wore in Berlin, a replica of the very bow tie; here is a monitor screening dances of his, some of them starring people standing in this very room; here is a map of north central Europe, the cities of his youth singled out, the route he journeyed from Warsaw to Copenhagen to Berlin clearly marked. There is more, so much more. She has drawn and sculpted and etched and woven and beaded and photographed his life. His voice, scratchy with time and almost unrecognizable to him, gives instructions in a ballet lesson from fifty years earlier. More original art, posters for his various ballets, artifacts, shards, objets d'art. Archaeology, his own. Finally, in the far corner, nearly hidden by a curtain, a trio of photos. He is stupefied by the shot of his parents, a portrait he has never before seen, probably snapped before he was born, his father trying to be serious beside his sparkling young bride. Then a photo of himself with Margot, probably their last, taken at the party their parents threw before he left Warsaw for Copenhagen. He marvels at the smooth skin and the eyes that knew nothing of what lay ahead. But then the third photo. It is he, young—a boy!—with a glass of champagne in his hand, still in costume, at the after-party for his dance at the Berlin Staatsoper. And there next to him, in full uniform, dashing and confident, is none other than Freddy. The face he has not glimpsed in sixty years is here, now, pressing down on him more than all the bodies and memories in this room.

Teo pushes Vivi's arm away, stumbles backward as if blasted from the photo, is righted by one of the party guests standing behind him. He teeters toward the doorway, grabs the doorpost to steady himself. He shuns all the hands and words trying to prop him up and coax him back into the room, and he flees down the dark hallway as quickly as his legs will allow, out of the building, out into the air, into a taxi that has just disgorged several more guests stunned to see the guest of honor dropping into the car, panting. “Away,” he cries to the driver, his first words since arriving. “Away! Away! Away!” Sobbing now—an old man's cry, bitter, disillusioned, disappointed, frightened—they drive aimlessly for fifteen minutes before he is able to tell the driver where he must go to take him home.

Chapter 25

T
here is a new girl at the coffee bar. Her name may be Sivan. Or Moran. She lasts only four days before she is replaced by another one. This one probably has a name, too, but no one bothers to learn it.

Vivi is busy. Her show proved to be so popular that the gallery owner extended it, then extended it again. He is in contact with several galleries in other countries that are interested in hosting it. And a number of prominent Israelis have already turned to her. They want their lives done in art as well. A new career is born.

Teo stays home. He tries writing Margot but no words flow from his pen. He dials Sofie's phone in Copenhagen but hangs up before it rings. Nelly prepares his favorite dishes; he eats less and less every day, and she grows frantic.

Vivi comes by each day, sometimes twice, and knocks at the door. Teo will not see her and will not allow Nelly to open the door. Yossi roars up once on his motorcycle, a noisy emissary, but he, too, is ignored.

Then one morning, spring comes to Tel Aviv. The winter rains, such as they were, have ended and the sun has not yet scorched the heavens dry. A bird lands on Teo's windowsill and warbles there at length, singing him a story. Teo eats a large breakfast, returns to the studio. When he sees there is a new girl instead of Vivi at the coffee bar he decides to sit there. Yossi brings him his coffee, his steamed milk, his water with ice and lemon. He asks no questions, does not say, It is nice to see you. Teo stares blank-faced at passersby in the shopping arcade, but it is good to sit at this table again. He holds his nose over the cup and inhales deeply the rich, bitter aroma.

The dancers are pleased at his return. Tomorrow he will start to push them again. Today, while it is still spring (and who knows how long that will last), he has other plans.

In the late afternoon he taxis to Vivi's apartment.

She recovers in an instant, squelching her surprise. She has moved her materials and equipment to a newly rented studio and has been working on turning the flat back into an abode. It is unusually tidy and serene, though he has never seen it otherwise.

She ushers him in. He stands in the middle of the room looking lost. He is pale, and not quite steady on his feet.

“You stole my life,” he says.

“I gave you your life,” she says.

“You took bits and pieces without asking. That's thievery.”

She shakes her head. “I'm sorry you see it that way. That wasn't my intention.”

“Why didn't you ask me?”

“Because you would never have agreed. And I knew I had to do this.”

“So you turned it into a birthday party?”

“I knew I wanted to do something special for you, for your eighty-fifth. It was a fairly simple idea when I first came up with it, but it kept growing while I worked. And then the gallery offered me space and things sort of … came together.”

“You mean they got out of hand.”

“Look, the only reason it turned into a real undertaking is that your life has been so full.”

“Don't flatter me,” he says dully.

“Hey, can we sit down? Can I pour us something to drink?”

He glares at her for a moment, but the newborn springtime floats the scent of orange blossoms in through the open window and the anger in him does not stand a chance. He collapses into the nearest armchair.

She sits facing him. Neither speaks for five minutes, ten.

He mumbles something she does not catch. “Sorry?” she says.

“I said it was good. Your show.”

“Good?”

“Excellent. It was clever. And comprehensive.”

She waits.

“It was my life, more than if someone had written a book with all the facts. Those impressions of yours told more. And you proved me wrong about dabbling in art. It turns out that you were able to use all those arts and crafts you've been teaching yourself for years, to great effect.”

She smiles wanly.

He says, “I should see it again but I don't think I can.”

“Why not?”

Now, in a rush, it is clear why he has come here. “That photograph,” he says.

“The one with you in costume, next to a German officer.”

“Yes. Where did you find it?”

“In the archives at Beit Ariella,” she says. “The photographer was a German Jew who bequeathed her life's work to the archives. I chose it because of the expression on your face, that look of absolute wonder. It's nothing like any other of your photos.”

He shakes his head slowly. “I never knew there were any photographs of us at all.”

“Us?”

“There is a piece of my personal history that you missed in your Life of Teo Levin. His name was Freddy.”

She tucks her legs under her, settles deeply into the sofa. “Tell me,” she says.

And he does.