The History of Love

  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

  echad

  The taste of raw sugar cane

  shtayim

  The dirt streets in Tel Aviv when Israel was still a new country, and beyond them the fields of wild cyclamen

  shalosh

  The rock he threw at a boy’s head who bullied his older brother, gaining him respect among the other kids

  arba

  Buying chickens with his father at the moshav, and watching their legs move after their necks were cut

  hamesh

  The sound of cards being shuffled by his mother and her friends when they played canasta on Saturday nights after Shabbat

  shesh

  The Falls of Iguaçu, which he traveled to alone, at great effort and personal expense

  sheva

  The first time he saw the woman who would become his wife, my mother, reading a book on the grass of Kibbutz Yavne, wearing yellow shorts

  shmone

  The sound of cicadas at night, and also the silence

  tesha

  The smell of jasmine, hibiscus, and orange flower

  eser

  The paleness of my mother’s skin

  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 yo
u 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?

  It was turning out to be a bad day.

  “M-E-R-E-M-I-N-S-K-I,” I said to the woman behind the desk in Room 133. I thought, How could he like a girl who couldn’t do the Universal Edibility Test if her life depended on it? “M-E-R-E,” the woman said, so I said, “M-I-N-S—” thinking, She probably hasn’t ever heard of Rear Window. “M-Y-M-S,” the woman said. “No,” I said. “M-I-N-S.” “M-I-N-S,” the woman said. “K-I,” I said. And she said, “K-I.”

  An hour passed and we didn’t find any death certificate for Alma Mereminski. Another half hour passed and we still didn’t find it. Loneliness turned into depression. After two hours, the woman said she was absolutely one-hundred-percent positive there was no Alma Mereminski who died in New York City after 1948.

  That night I rented North by Northwest again and watched it for the eleventh time. Then I went to sleep.

  19. LONELY PEOPLE ARE ALWAYS UP IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT

  When I opened my eyes, Uncle Julian was standing above me. “How old are you?” he asked. “Fourteen. I’ll be fifteen next month.” “Fifteen next month,” he said, as if he were turning a math problem over in his head. “What do you want to be when you grow up?” He was still wearing his raincoat, which was soaking wet. A drop of water fell in my eye. “I don’t know.” “Come on, there must be something.” I sat up in my sleeping bag, rubbed my eye, and looked at my digital watch. There’s a button you can press to make the numbers glow. It also has a built-in compass. “It’s three-twenty-four in the morning,” I said. Bird was asleep in my bed. “I know. I was just wondering. Tell me and I promise I’ll let you go back to sleep. What do you want to be?” I thought, Someone who can survive in subzero temperatures and forage for food and build a snow cave and start a fire out of nothing. “I don’t know. Maybe a painter,” I said, to make him happy so he’d let me go back to sleep. “It’s funny,” he said. “That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”

  20. AWAKE IN THE DARK

  I thought about Misha and Luba, and my father and mother, and why Zvi Litvinoff had moved to Chile and married Rosa, instead of Alma, the one he’d really loved.

  I heard Uncle Julian cough in his sleep across the hall.

  Then I thought: Wait a minute.

  21. SHE MUST HAVE GOTTEN MARRIED!

  That was it! That’s why I hadn’t found the death certificate for Alma Mereminski. Why hadn’t I thought of it before?

  22. BEING NORMAL

  I reached under my bed and pulled out the flashlight from my survival backpack, along with the third volume of How to Survive in the Wild. When I turned the flashlight on, something caught my eye. It was stuck between the bed frame and the wall, near the floor. I slid under the bed and shone my flashlight to get a better look. It was a black-and-white composition book. On the front it said . Next to that it said PRIVATE. Once Misha told me there was no word in Russian for privacy. I opened it.

  April 9

  I have been a normal person for three days in a row. What this means is that I have not climbed on top of any buildings or written G-d’s name on anything that doesn’t belong to me or answered a perfectly normal question with a saying from the Torah. It also means I have not done anything where the answer would be NO to the question: WOULD A NORMAL PERSON DO THIS? So far it hasn’t been that hard.

  April 10

  This is the fourth day in a row that I’ve acted normal. In gym class Josh K. pinned me against the wall and asked if I thought I was a big fat genius so I told him I did not think I was a big fat genius. Because I did not want to ruin a whole normal day, I did not tell him that what I might be is the Moshiach. Also my wrist is getting better. If you want to know how I sprained it, I sprained it by climbing up on the roof because I got to Hebrew School early and the door was locked and there was a ladder attached to the side of the building. The ladder was rusty but otherwise it was not that hard. There was a big puddle of water in the middle of the roof so I decided to see what would happen if I bounced my jack ball in it and tried to catch it. It was fun! I did it about fifteen more times until I lost it when it went over the edge. Then I lay on my back and looked up at the sky. I counted three airplanes. When I got bored I decided to go down. It was harder than going up because I had to go backwards. Halfway I passed the windows of one of the classrooms. I could see Mrs. Zucker at the front so I knew it was the Daleds. (If you want to know, this year I’m a Hay.) I couldn’t hear what Mrs. Zucker was saying so I tried to read her lips. I had to lean off of the ladder very far to get a good view. I pressed my face right against the window and suddenly everyone turned to look at me so I waved and that’s when I lost my balance. I fell and Rabbi Wizner said it was a miracle that I didn’t break
anything but deep inside I knew I was safe the whole time and that G-d wouldn’t let anything happen to me because I am almost definitely a lamed vovnik.

  April 11

  Today was my fifth day of being normal. Alma says that if I were normal it would make my life easier not to mention everyone else’s life. I got to take the ace bandage off my wrist, and now it only hurts a little. It probably hurt a lot more when I broke my wrist when I was six but I don’t remember.

  I skipped ahead until I came to:

  June 27

  So far I’ve made $295.50 from selling lemon-aid. That’s 591 cups! My best customer is Mr. Goldstein who buys ten cups at one time because he’s extremely thirsty. Also Uncle Julian who tipped me 20 dollars once. Only $384.50 to go.

  June 28

  Today I almost did something not normal. I was passing a building on 4th Street and there was a plank of wood leaning against the scaffolding and no one was around and I really wanted to take it. It wouldn’t have been like regular stealing since the special thing I am building will help people and G-d wants me to build it. But I also know that if I stole it and someone found out I would get in trouble and then Alma would have to come get me and she would be angry. But I bet she won’t be angry anymore when it starts to rain and I finally tell her what the special thing is that I’ve started to build. I’ve already collected a lot of stuff for it, mostly things that people have thrown away with the garbage. One thing I need a lot of that’s hard to find is styrofoam because it floats. Right now I don’t have that much. Sometimes I worry that it will start raining before I am finished building.