The History of Love (39 page)

What do you know,
I said.
My favorite name.

I said, “I was named after every girl in a book called
The History of Love
.”

I said, I wrot
e that book.

“Oh,” I said. “I’m serious. It’s a real book.”

I played along. I said: I could
n’t be more serious.

I didn’t know what to say. He was so old. Maybe he was joking or maybe he was confused. To make conversation I said, “Are you a writer?”

He said, “In a manner of speaking.”

I asked the name of his books. He said
The History of Love
was one, and
Words for Everything
was another.

“That’s strange,” I said. “Maybe there are two books called
The History of Love
.”

He didn’t say anything. His eyes were shining.

“The one I’m talking about was written by Zvi Litvinoff,” I said. “He wrote it in Spanish. My father gave it to my mother when they first met. Then my father died, and she put it away until about eight months ago, when someone wrote asking her to translate it. Now she only has a few chapters left. In
The History of Love
I’m talking about there’s a chapter called ‘The Age of Silence,’ and one called ‘The Birth of Feelings,’ and one called—”

The oldest man in the world laughed.

He said, “What are you telling me, that you were in love with Zvi, too? It wasn’t enough that you loved me, and then you loved me and Bruno, and then you loved only Bruno, and then you loved neither Bruno nor me?”

I was starting to feel nervous. Maybe he was crazy. Or just lonely.

It was getting dark out.

I said, “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

I saw that I’d frightened her. I knew it was too late to argue. Sixty years had passed.

I said,
Forgive me
.
Tell me which parts you liked. What about “The Age of Glass”? I wanted to make you laugh.

Her eyes widened.

Also to cry.

Now she looked frightened and surprised.

And then it dawned on me.

It seemed impossible.

And yet.

What if the things I believed were possible were really impossible, and the things I believed were impossible were really not?

For example.

What if the girl sitting next to me on this bench was real?

What if she was named Alma, after my Alma?

What if my book hadn’t been lost in a flood at all?

What if—

A man walked past.

Excuse me
, I called to him.

Yes?
he said.

Is someone sitting next to me?

The man looked confused.

I don’t understand
, he said.

Neither do I
, I said.
Would you mind answering the question?

Is someone sitting next to you?
he said.

That’s what I’m asking.

And he said,
Yes.

So I said,
Is it a girl, fifteen, possibly sixteen, then again she could be a mature fourteen?

He laughed and said,
Yes.

Yes as in the opposite of no?

As in the opposite of no,
he said.

Thank you
, I said.

He walked away.

I turned to her.

It was true. She was familiar. And yet. She didn’t look very much like my Alma, now that I really looked. She was much taller, for one thing. And her hair was black. She had a gap between her front teeth.

Who is Bruno?
she asked.

I studied her face. I tried to think of the answer.

Talk about invisible
, I said.

To her expression of fright and surprise was now added confusion.

But who is he?

He’s the friend I didn’t have.

She looked at me, waiting.

H
e’s the greatest character I ever wrote.

She said nothing. I was afraid she was going to get up and leave me. I couldn’t think of anything else to say. So I told her the truth.

He’s dead.

It hurt to say it. And yet. There was so much more.

He died on a July day in 1941.

I waited for her to stand and walk away. But. She remained there, unblinking.

I’d gone so far.

I thought, Why not a little farther?

And another thing
.

I had her attention. It was a joy to behold. She waited, listening.

I had a son who never knew I existed
.

A pigeon flapped up into the sky. I said,

His name was Isaac.

And then I realized that I’d been searching for the wrong person.

I looked into the eyes of the oldest man in the world for a boy who fell in love when was he was ten.

I said, “Were you ever in love with a girl named Alma?”

He was silent. His lips trembled. I thought he hadn’t understood, so I asked him again. “Were you ever in love with a girl named Alma Mereminski?”

He reached out his hand. He tapped me twice on the arm. I knew he was trying to tell me something, but I didn’t know what.

I said, “Were you ever in love with a girl named Alma Mereminski who left for America?”

His eyes filled with tears, he tapped my arm twice, then twice again.

I said, “The son you think didn’t know you existed, was his name Isaac Moritz?”

I felt my heart surge. I thought: I’ve lived this long. Please. A little longer won’t kill me. I wanted to say her name aloud, it would have given me joy to call, because I knew that in some small way it was my love that named her. And yet. I couldn’t speak. I was afraid I’d choose the wrong sentence. She said,
The son you think didn’t know—
I tapped her twice. Then twice again. She reached for my hand. With my other I tapped her twice. She squeezed my fingers. I tapped her twice. She put her head on my shoulder. I tapped her twice. She put one arm around me. I tapped her twice. She put both arms around me and hugged me. I stopped tapping.

Alma,
I said.

She said,
Yes.

Alma,
I said again.

She said,
Yes.

Alma
, I said.

She tapped me twice.

THE DEATH OF LEOPOLD GURSKY

Leopold Gursky started dying on August 18, 1920.

He died learning to walk.

He died standing at the blackboard.

And once, also, carrying a heavy tray.

He died practicing a new way to sign his name.

Opening a window.

Washing his genitals in the bath.

He died alone, because he was too embarrassed to phone anyone.

Or he died thinking about Alma.

Or when he chose not to.

Really, there isn’t much to say.

He was a great writer.

He fell in love.

It was his life.

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