The History of Love (25 page)

I was glad Misha didn’t ask me why, if Litvinoff had been so in love with Alma, he hadn’t followed her to America; why he’d gone to Chile instead and married someone named Rosa. The only reason I could think of was that he didn’t have a choice.

On the other side of the wall, Misha’s mother shouted something at his father. Misha propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at me. I thought of the time, the summer before, when we were thirteen and stood on the roof of his building, the tar soft under our feet, our tongues in each other’s mouths while he gave me a lesson in the Shklovsky school of Russian kissing. Now we’d known each other for two years, the side of my calf was touching his shins, and his stomach was against my ribs. He said, “I don’t think it’s end of world to be my girlfriend.” I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. It took seven languages to make me; it would be nice if I could have spoken just one. But I couldn’t, so he leaned down and kissed me.

10.
THEN

His tongue was in my mouth. I didn’t know if I should touch my tongue to his, or leave it off to the side so his tongue could move unconstrained by mine. Before I could decide, he took his tongue out and closed his mouth and I accidentally left my mouth open, which seemed like a mistake. I thought that might be the end of it, but then he opened his mouth again and I didn’t realize he was going to, so he ended up licking my lips. Then I opened my lips and stuck out my tongue, but it was too late because his tongue was back in his mouth. Then we got it right, sort of, opening our mouths at the same time like we were both trying to say something, and I put my hand around the back of his neck like Eva Marie Saint does to Cary Grant in the train car scene in
North by Northwest
. We rolled around a little, and his crotch sort of rubbed against my crotch, but only for a second, because then my shoulder got accidentally mashed against his accordion. There was saliva all around my mouth and it was hard to breathe. Outside the window, an airplane passed on the way to JFK. His father started to shout back at his mother. “What are they fighting about?” I asked. Misha pulled his head back. A thought crossed his face in a language I couldn’t understand. I wondered if things were going to change between us. “
Merde
,” he said. “What does that mean?” I asked, and he said, “It’s French.” He tucked a strand of my hair around my ear, and started to kiss me again. “Misha?” I whispered. “Shh,” he said, and slipped his hand under my shirt around my waist. “Don’t,” I said, and sat up. And then I said: “I like someone else.” As soon as I said it I regretted it. When it was clear there was nothing more to say, I put my sneakers on, which were filled with sand. “My mother is probably wondering where I am,” I said, which we both knew wasn’t true. When I stood, there was the sound of sand scattering.

11.
A WEEK PASSED AND MISHA AND I DIDN’T SPEAK

I studied
Edible Plants and Flowers in North America
again for old time’s sake. I went up to the roof of our house to see if I could identify any constellations, but there were too many lights, so I went back down to the backyard and practiced setting up Dad’s tent in the dark, which I did in three minutes and fifty-four seconds, beating my record by almost a minute. When I was finished, I lay down in it and tried to remember as many things as I could about Dad.

12.
MEMORIES PASSED DOWN TO ME FROM MY FATHER

13.
TWO WEEKS PASSED, MISHA AND I STILL HADN’T SPOKEN, UNCLE JULIAN HADN’T LEFT, AND IT WAS ALMOST THE END OF AUGUST

The History of Love
has thirty-nine chapters and my mother had finished another eleven since she’d sent Jacob Marcus the first ten, bringing her to a total of twenty-one. This meant she was more than halfway through and would be sending him another package soon.

I locked myself in the bathroom, the only place I could get any privacy, and tried to work on a second letter to Jacob Marcus, but everything I tried to write sounded wrong, or trite, or like a lie. Which it was.

I was sitting on the toilet with a notepad on my knees. Next to my ankle was the waste bin, and in the waste bin was a crumpled piece of paper. I took it out.
Dog, Frances?
it said.
Dog? Your words are cutting. But I suppose that’s what you intended. I am not “in love” with Flo, as you say. We’ve been colleagues for years, and she happens to be someone who cares about the things I care about. ART, Fran, remember art, which, let’s be honest, you couldn’t give a rat’s ass about anymore? You’ve made such a sport out of criticizing me that you haven’t even noticed how much you’ve changed, how you hardly bear any resemblance at all to the girl I once—
The letter broke off. I crumpled it back up carefully, and replaced it in the waste bin. I shut my eyes tightly. I thought maybe Uncle Julian wouldn’t be finishing his research on Alberto Giacometti anytime soon.

14.
THEN I HAD AN IDEA

They must record all the deaths somewhere. The births and the deaths—there must be a place, an office or a bureau somewhere in the city that keeps track of them all. There must be files. Files upon files of people who’d been born and died in New York City. Sometimes, driving along the BQE as the sun is going down, you get a view of all those thousands of gravestones as the skyline goes up in lights and the sky glows orange, and you get the weird feeling that the city’s electrical power is generated from everyone buried there.

And so I thought, Maybe they have a record of her.

15.
THE NEXT DAY WAS SUNDAY

It was raining outside, so I sat around reading
The Street of Crocodiles,
which I’d checked out of the library, and wondering if Misha was going to call. I knew I was on to something when the introduction said that the author was from a village in Poland. I thought: Either Jacob Marcus really likes Polish writers, or he’s dropping me a clue. I mean my mother.

The book wasn’t long, and I finished it that afternoon. At five, Bird came home drenched. “It’s starting,” he said, touching the mezuzah on the kitchen door and kissing his hand. “What’s starting?” I asked. “The rain.” “It’s supposed to stop tomorrow,” I said. He poured himself a glass of orange juice, drank it down, and went back through the door, kissing a total of four mezuzahs before he reached his room.

Uncle Julian came in from his day at the museum. “Have you seen Bird’s clubhouse?” he asked, picking a banana off the counter and peeling it over the trash. “It’s rather impressive, don’t you think?”

But Monday the rain didn’t stop and Misha didn’t call, so I put my raincoat on, found an umbrella, and headed out for the New York City Municipal Archives, which, according to the internet, is where they keep the records of births and deaths.

16.
31 CHAMBERS STREET, ROOM 103

“Mereminski,” I said to the man with round black glasses behind the desk. “
M-E-R-E-M-I-N-S-K-I
.” “
M-E-R
,” the man said, writing it down. “
E-M-I-N-S-K-I
,” I said.
“I-S-K-Y
,” the man said. “No,” I said. “
M-E-R—
” “
M-E-R
,” he said.
“E-M-I-N
,” I said, and he said, “
E-Y-N
.” “No!” I said, “
E-M-I-N
.” He stared at me blankly. So I said, “Why don’t I write it for you?”

He looked at the name. Then he asked me if Alma M-E-R-E-M-I-N-S-K-I was my grandmother or great-grandmother. “Yes,” I said, because I thought it might speed up the process. “Which?” he said. “Great,” I said. He looked at me and chewed on a cuticle, then went into the back and came out with a box of microfilm. When I fed the first roll in, it got caught. I tried to get the man’s attention by waving and pointing at the tangle of film. He came over, sighed, and threaded it through. After the third roll I got the hang of it. I scrolled through all fifteen. There was no Alma Mereminski in that box, so he brought out another, and another after that. I had to go to the bathroom and on the way out I got a package of Twinkies and a Coke from the machine. The man came out and got a Snickers bar. To make conversation, I said: “Do you know anything about how to survive in the wild?” His face twitched and he pushed his glasses up his nose. “What do you mean?” “For example, do you know that almost all Arctic vegetation is edible? Except for certain mushrooms, of course.” He raised his eyebrows, so I said, “Well did you know that you can starve by just eating rabbit meat? It’s a documented fact that people who are trying to survive have died by eating too much rabbit. If you eat a lot of any kind of lean meat, like rabbit, you get, you know—Anyway, it can kill you.” The man threw out the rest of his Snickers.

Back inside, he brought out a fourth box. Two hours later my eyes hurt and I was still there. “Is it possible she died after 1948?” the man asked, visibly flustered. I told him it was possible. “Well why didn’t you say! In that case her death certificate wouldn’t be here.” “Where would it be?” “New York City Department of Health, Division of Vital Records,” he said, “125 Worth Street, Room 133. They have all the deaths after ’48.” I thought: Great.

17.
THE WORST MISTAKE MY MOTHER EVER MADE

When I got home, my mother was curled up on the couch reading a book. “What are you reading?” I asked. “Cervantes,” she said. “Cervantes?” I asked. “The most famous Spanish writer,” my mother said, turning the page. I rolled my eyes at her. Sometimes I wonder why she didn’t just marry a famous writer instead of a wilderness-loving engineer. If she had, none of this would have ever happened. Right now, at this very moment, she’d probably be sitting at the dinner table with her famous-writer husband, talking about the pros and cons of other famous writers, while making the difficult decision of who was worthy of a Posthumous Nobel.

That night I dialed Misha’s number, but hung up on the first ring.

18.
THEN IT WAS TUESDAY

It was still raining. On the way to the subway I passed the vacant lot where Bird had hung a tarp over the pile of junk that had grown to six feet tall, with trash bags and old ropes strung off the sides. A pole rose up from out of the mass, possibly waiting for a flag.

The lemonade stand was also still there, as was the sign that said LEMON-AID 50 CENTS PLEASE POUR YOURSELF (SPRAINED WRIST), followed by a new addition: ALL PROFITS GO TO CHARITY. But the table was empty, and there was no sign of Bird anywhere.

On the subway, somewhere between Carroll and Bergen, I made up my mind to call Misha and pretend nothing had happened. When I got off the train, I found a pay phone that worked and dialed his number. My heart sped up when it started to ring. His mother answered. “Hi, Mrs. Shklovsky,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Is Misha there?” I heard her call him. After what felt like a long time he picked up. “Hi,” I said. “Hi.” “How are you?” “Good.” “What are you doing?” “Reading.” “What?” “Comics.” “Ask me where I am.” “Where?” “Outside the New York City Department of Health.” “Why?” “I’m going to look for Alma Mereminski’s records.” “Still searching,” said Misha. “Yeah,” I said. There was an awkward silence. I said, “Well I was calling to see if you want to rent
Topaz
tonight.” “Can’t.” “Why?” “I have plans.” “What plans?” “I’m going to see a movie.” “With who?” “Girl I know.” My stomach turned itself inside out. “What girl?” I thought: Please don’t let it be— “Luba,” he said. “Maybe you remember, you met her once.” Of course I remembered. How can you forget a girl who is five-foot-nine, blond, and claims to be a descendant of Catherine the Great?