This question, I’m afraid, touched on a
sensitive nerve. My father had pressed hard on me to achieve his dream:
becoming a lawyer. Naturally there was no saying no to him. So before
graduating from high school I had told him that I had registered at the
university and would be majoring in Law, according to his wishes—but somehow I
had neglected to mention that the closest I had ever come to registering was
flipping through an outdated course catalog, while sitting on the toilet and
dreaming about something else.

Being drafted the next year was a lucky
thing. It had saved me from having to admit to him that I had lied. I had
looked forward to military service. Not only had it promised travel, fun, and
adventure but also relieved me of the old man’s constant nagging.

So, what was I planning to make of
myself? That was the question I thought I had escaped answering—until now.

I glanced at Natasha, hoping she can,
somehow, get me out of this uneasy spot in the interrogation, but all I could
spot in her eyes was a flash of curiosity. She, too, wanted to hear what I
might say. I recalled her first letter, in which she had written, “I enjoyed
your stories and would love to read more of them. Your words touched something
in me… You, Lenny, you should become a writer.”

Well, I thought, how hard can that be?
And expecting to make an impression on both of them I said, “I’m going to be a
writer.”

“No, really,” said Mrs. Horowitz.

“Really!”

“Have you even been published?”

“No—”

“Of course not. Have you written
anything worth reading?

“Well, not yet, but—”

“You interested in drama? Comedy? Some
other genre?”

On a whim I said, “Drama.”

“Why drama?”

“Because,” I said, “drama is like comedy
but without the jokes.”

Mrs. Horowitz was far from amused. She
gave me a severe look. “I suppose,” she said, “that your jokes are nothing to
write home about.”

“Telling them is a dangerous
proposition,” I said, with a shrug. “If no one laughs at the punch line, that’s
the end of the story.”

She said nothing. Instead she took a
deep breath, perhaps to control a sense of contempt, so that—except for the
vein pulsing at the side of her forehead, under the elaborately teased hair—it
would not overtake her.

“So,” I went on to say, “drama is
safer.”

“Listen here, Dostoyevsky,” she said.
“Let me tell you: the last thing my daughter needs is to be involved with a
would-be writer.”

I gasped as Natasha cried, “Mama!”

Which did nothing to slow Mrs. Horowitz
down. “In every family,” she said, “one genius is enough, no, on second
thought, it’s more than enough. Two are a recipe for disaster, because they’ll
end up starving to death and blaming each other for it.”

I thought of saying that having died of
starvation would not leave these geniuses enough juice for exchanging
accusations, as there could be no pointing fingers from beyond the grave, but
to be on the safe side I decided not to offer my opinion on the subject.

Mrs. Horowitz went on. “As long as I’m
here, Natasha can rest assured that I’ll sacrifice myself not only to advance
her career and her fame but also to put food on the table and provide for
shelter overhead. But I won’t live forever—”

“Ma, please—”

“So now,” said Mrs. Horowitz, “what are
your intentions, may I ask, regarding my daughter?”

Surprised that she leveled this question
at me, which she did before I even had a real opportunity to have a conversation
with Natasha, I said, “Mrs. Horowitz, let me assure you about my intentions.
They’re utterly serious—”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she said,
waving her hand at me. “I’m not going to allow Natasha to marry anyone coming
off the street, even if he arrived in a luxury car, especially not someone who
has some vague dreams of writing drama for no better reason than he’s no good
at jokes.”

Before I could answer that no one had
been discussing marriage yet, and it was much too early to bring up the subject
now, “Mama,” said the girl, in her most stubborn tone, “I can make up my own
mind, thank you very much.”

With that, Natasha sat down at her
piano, raised her hands over the keys, and with great gusto, pounded them till
the upside-down skyline of Manhattan trembled in the polished surface.

Mrs. Horowitz marched off to the
kitchen, leaving us alone at long last.

“Play for me, Natasha,” I said.

She turned her eyes to me, and the green
light in them flickered into a smile.

“What kind of music d’you like?” she
asked.

To which I said, “I’d like to know what
you like.”

“My favorite is The Symphony No. 5 in C
minor by Ludwig van Beethoven,” she said, “but this is not the right moment for
it. I know! I’ll play a special song for you. Papa used to sing it to me, when
I was little.”

The first notes came softly, tugging at
my heart. They brought back long-forgotten Yiddish words, in the voice of my
mother. “Bei mir bist du shein,” she sang to me. “Bei mir host du chein. Bei
mir bist du alles oif di velt.”

Natasha closed her eyes, surrendering
herself to the music. She started swaying slightly as she played and from time
to time, tipped her head backwards, letting it wash over her face, her lips.
Fascinated I found myself drawing nearer. By the rosy blush that spread up her
cheeks I knew that she could sense my closeness.

In her soft, velvety voice, she started
singing, “To me you are beautiful, to me you have grace, to me you are
everything in the world.”

From the direction of the kitchen, her
Ma chimed in, singing, “I’ve tried to explain, bei mir bist du schoen.”

With the last notes still hovering in
midair, she swung her knees around the piano bench and lifted her face to me. I
raised her to her feet and gathered her to my heart. Then, as she wrapped her
arms around my shoulders, I felt the heat awakening from within, rising
recklessly in both of us.

Drawing me to her, Natasha leaned
backwards over the piano. To the last vibrations dying in its belly I bent over
her, over the reflection of the skyline of New York, which rippled in reverse
across the polished, black surface around us, and I kissed her.

Uvi Poznansky: