PART 18
If I lie . . . just . . . so . . . on my back on the floor I can rest my ankles on the seat of one of the dining chairs. After that it takes 27 minutes until I can see the bones in my ankles. A few minutes longer and I can fall asleep. A couple of nights ago I did just that and woke up to find my husband lying next to me.
"This is . . . unusual" he says.
"I'm comfortable."
"And hey – long time no see!"
"Since eight O'clock this morning?"
"I was talking to your ankles."
"Bastard. Help me up."
........................................................................................................
My ankles have been back for a while now and he's still on the 'phone. Ivica calls twice, sometimes three times a week, doesn't always take the trouble to think about the time difference. Those 2.00 am calls go down real well. Usually he talks to Luka and then me, and two nights ago he outdid himself.
"So – you know what it is I am doing now?"
"What?"
"I'm opening packet. Taking out cigarette."
"Yes?"
"Smooth, white, fresh." I hear him inhale as he sniffs the damned thing. "Now I'm putting cigarette in my mouth. Lighting cigarette. Listen." I hear the click of the lighter. "Inhaling . . . exhaling."
"You are a very wicked old man."
"I know! Too old for 'phone sex, right, but 'phone smoking, this I can do!"
"It's kind of dirtier somehow."
"You don't tell your husband."
"I might."
"No, he don't get joke."
"Sure he would."
"I don't know."
"He would. Now 'phone drinking . . . "
"Of course! I never think of this! Next time maybe."
"Next time."
......................................................................................................
This call's different. Luka's trying to keep his cool, barely getting a word in. I hear Damir's name, there's a pause and when the conversation picks up it's calmer. In the end he sounds weary and when he puts the phone down he comes and assumes his position on the floor at my side.
"You OK?"
"Yes." Liar.
"Luka."
"Guess what my father wants to send us for Christmas."
"A horse."
"Might as well be. Guess again."
"God, Luka, I don't know."
"The piano."
"The what?"
"My mother's piano."
"You're kidding."
"I wish."
"Wow."
"Indeed. Wow."
"That's pretty generous."
"Oh, God, don't tell me you think this is a good idea."
"Well . . . "
"I don't want it."
"Why not?"
"Can you play it?"
"Well, no but – "
"Me neither."
"You learnt once."
"Last time I laid a finger on it I was 13 years old. I think she was glad I gave it up. Too painful for her to hear."
"I don't believe that."
"Believe it."
"Why does he want us to have it?"
"He's leaving the apartment in Zagreb after Christmas and there's no room for it in Vodice."
"What about Damir?"
"Doesn't want it. He was worse than me and none of the kids are interested. Damir won't budge."
I consider this for a moment. "Worse than you?"
"Yeah."
"Well . . . we have the room."
He sighs and brings his arm up and across his eyes. "I know." Another pause. "Have you any idea what it would cost to get it over here?"
"I'm guessing it won't be cheap."
"It won't even be expensive. It's out the other side of expensive. And just so it can sit and gather dust."
"Hey, maybe Thumper will surprise us." He groans then. "Luka, it obviously means a lot to him."
"I know. He was nearly crying."
"Oh, come on, call him back. Tell him I want it."
"He's sulking now."
"OK then, in a while."
"I don't want the damned thing!"
"You're being unreasonable."
"Me? I get to pay thousands of dollars to transport something I don't want and we won't use and that's unreasonable?"
"Thousands?"
"Jesus, I don't know, a lot of money."
"He won't live forever Luka."
"You don't think? He'll do it to spite me."
"Luka – "
"I don't want to talk about it." And he doesn't; he tells me he's going up to bed, but he hauls me to my feet before he goes. It occurs to me that I'll probably spend the rest of my life hearing him say he doesn't want to talk about stuff and then waiting an hour before it's safe to bully him into it. What the hell, it's not the worst thing I could spend my life doing.
......................................................................................................
He's not asleep. I know it; he knows I know it; I know he knows I know it. You keeping up here?
"You know . . . you haven't asked me what I want for my birthday."
"No."
"Want a pointer?"
"Wouldn't be a large and impractical item of furniture currently domiciled in an apartment in Zagreb would it?"
"Might be." He turns to me now.
"Why does this matter to you?"
"Your father can't . . . what else can he do, sell it? It would break his heart."
"I know."
"Yours too."
"You think?"
"Yeah."
After a long silence he says "She really wanted us to be able to play, just one of us."
"I know."
"We couldn't, either of us. I mean I could play the notes but . . . not the music. She tried not to be disappointed but – "
"She'd be proud of you now."
"I know that." There's an edge of impatience in his voice. "But still it would be a . . . . a . . . "Oh boy, when he does this, struggles for a word, trouble would be real easy to find.
"A reproach?"
"Yes. A reproach. Every time I looked at it."
"It's not."
"But – "
"It's not." Silence. "Do it for me."
"You did not just say that."
"Sure I did. What, you think I'm above a little emotional blackmail?"
"Evidently not."
"So – you'll do it? You'll call?"
"I'll think about it."
After a couple of minutes' silence I say "You ever see "Pretty Woman"?"
"What?"
"The film."
"No, I don't think so."
"We should rent it."
"Dare I ask why?"
"No."
......................................................................................................
"Why are we watching this? It's terrible."
"Shut up."
"No, I mean, you've seen the prostitutes that end up in the ER. They do not look like that and they're not going to find their millionaire any time – "
"Shut up and watch the film."
And, in due course, Richard Gere is playing random chords on the piano in the deserted restaurant and here comes Miss 44" inches of therapy in her fugly hotel bath robe and – there – she perches on the piano and he's up and at her and as their activities strike up various discords on the keyboard Luka's face is a picture.
"On my mother's piano?" he asks, at once appalled and fascinated.
"Got to get some use out of it until Thumper's old enough for lessons."
"My mother's piano?" he repeats, transfixed.
"Hey, if I know your father, it won't be the first time." He has a kind of puzzled half smile on his face.
"You really don't play fair, you know that?"
"I know that."
He looks back at the crap on the screen for a moment and then sighs. "How the hell am I going to wrap it up?"
......................................................................................................
I don't know when he was going to call Ivica but the old man beats him to it. I've just seen Susan out. She comes by every so often, Jing-Mei too. Funny, I thought I'd miss work a whole lot more than I do, but I already feel like an outsider. I understand a little better how they must have felt too, going away and having to fit in when they returned – I think it must be like being a ghost, everything familiar to you but no-one really knows you any more. Anyhow, at the sound of Ivica's voice I shake myself out of that one.
"Luka is not at home?"
"Working. He won't be back until late."
"And you? My grandchild treating you OK?"
"Depends what you mean by OK."
"Not much longer to wait, then you think this is paradise."
"I always think that support and encouragement from family and friends is so important at a time like this."
"I'm telling truth, don't have time for anything else."
"You OK? You sound a little down."
"Piano."
"Ah. Well – "
"Luka, Damir, they don't want it. I sell it."
"No."
"Yes, is a thing, just a thing. I sell it."
"Send it."
"What?"
"I talked to him. It's going to be my birthday present."
"For you? You can play?"
"No."
"So why – "
"I want it. It's family, right?"
"No. You don't have to do this."
"I know. I want to do this. It would break your heart to sell it."
"Hearts mend."
"Not always. You're an old man, you don't have time to wait for it to mend, right?"
"Is decided – I sell."
"What is it with you Kovacs? You want us to have it and now I say we will you're saying no."
"How did you talk him into it?"
"Never mind, I did it, that's all you need to know. Look, I'll do a deal with you."
"A deal?" He sounds sceptical.
"We have the piano and when this kid's old enough for lessons – I'll take them too." Where the hell did that come from?
"You're making a joke."
"I'm not. You think I can't do I?"
"I think . . . you do whatever you decide you want to do, is what I think."
"You better believe it. I mean, I took your son off your hands."
"Dirty job."
"Yeah, well, someone had to do it."
"Want another?"
"Dirty job?"
"Another of my sons."
"Damir?"
"Only other one I have. I think."
"He's misbehaving, huh?"
"Too big for his shoes."
"Boots."
"What?"
"Too big for his boots."
"Oh, OK, boots. Thinks he can tell me what to do."
"Runs in the family."
"Me? You mean me?"
"Of course I mean you. Luka knows better."
"But you love me very much."
"You're growing on me."
"Of course, deal means I have to live to see you do it."
"Luka figures you'll live forever to spite him."
"Could be he's right."
"I kinda hope so."
"You and baby, you can play duet at my funeral."
"You want "Chopsticks" at your funeral?"
"Chopsticks?"
"It's a – never mind." There's a pause.
"Abby . . . "
"It's OK. I love the damned piano already." Another silence and I hear him take a deep breath.
"So . . . you want that 'phone drink now?"
"You know what, I don't believe I do."
"Chicken."
"Go boil your head, old man."
......................................................................................................
You're wondering what the point of all this is, right? Well come on, pay attention! Don't you see what I did there? I made a promise to an old man on the other side of the world over a collection of strings and keys and pedals and I made a plan. A plan for the future.
I'm getting good at this. My past isn't a deafening roar any more, blocking out everything else, it's an echo, just an echo. And my future, well that's not the cross between an assault course and a ghost train it used to be.
On our walls are paintings by Luka's father; in our house will be the piano Luka's mom played; that's where the past should be – decorating your walls and reflecting family photos and making you smile, and making your life brighter and filling your future with scales and arpeggios and whatever it is that piano lessons do, whatever it was that Luka's mom heard her boys do, except it will be this child doing it, joining up the past and the present and the future. For a minute there I'm so happy I could cry. I don't, cry I mean, because well, I just don't but there it is, one of those "You know what this is? You recognise this? This is happy" moments.
Grow up, leave home, get a job, get married, get rich, get drunk, get laid, get whatever.
That's not a plan.
Me and piano lessons with my kid. That's a plan.
If I lie . . . just . . . so . . . on my back on the floor I can rest my ankles on the seat of one of the dining chairs. After that it takes 27 minutes until I can see the bones in my ankles. A few minutes longer and I can fall asleep. A couple of nights ago I did just that and woke up to find my husband lying next to me.
"This is . . . unusual" he says.
"I'm comfortable."
"And hey – long time no see!"
"Since eight O'clock this morning?"
"I was talking to your ankles."
"Bastard. Help me up."
........................................................................................................
My ankles have been back for a while now and he's still on the 'phone. Ivica calls twice, sometimes three times a week, doesn't always take the trouble to think about the time difference. Those 2.00 am calls go down real well. Usually he talks to Luka and then me, and two nights ago he outdid himself.
"So – you know what it is I am doing now?"
"What?"
"I'm opening packet. Taking out cigarette."
"Yes?"
"Smooth, white, fresh." I hear him inhale as he sniffs the damned thing. "Now I'm putting cigarette in my mouth. Lighting cigarette. Listen." I hear the click of the lighter. "Inhaling . . . exhaling."
"You are a very wicked old man."
"I know! Too old for 'phone sex, right, but 'phone smoking, this I can do!"
"It's kind of dirtier somehow."
"You don't tell your husband."
"I might."
"No, he don't get joke."
"Sure he would."
"I don't know."
"He would. Now 'phone drinking . . . "
"Of course! I never think of this! Next time maybe."
"Next time."
......................................................................................................
This call's different. Luka's trying to keep his cool, barely getting a word in. I hear Damir's name, there's a pause and when the conversation picks up it's calmer. In the end he sounds weary and when he puts the phone down he comes and assumes his position on the floor at my side.
"You OK?"
"Yes." Liar.
"Luka."
"Guess what my father wants to send us for Christmas."
"A horse."
"Might as well be. Guess again."
"God, Luka, I don't know."
"The piano."
"The what?"
"My mother's piano."
"You're kidding."
"I wish."
"Wow."
"Indeed. Wow."
"That's pretty generous."
"Oh, God, don't tell me you think this is a good idea."
"Well . . . "
"I don't want it."
"Why not?"
"Can you play it?"
"Well, no but – "
"Me neither."
"You learnt once."
"Last time I laid a finger on it I was 13 years old. I think she was glad I gave it up. Too painful for her to hear."
"I don't believe that."
"Believe it."
"Why does he want us to have it?"
"He's leaving the apartment in Zagreb after Christmas and there's no room for it in Vodice."
"What about Damir?"
"Doesn't want it. He was worse than me and none of the kids are interested. Damir won't budge."
I consider this for a moment. "Worse than you?"
"Yeah."
"Well . . . we have the room."
He sighs and brings his arm up and across his eyes. "I know." Another pause. "Have you any idea what it would cost to get it over here?"
"I'm guessing it won't be cheap."
"It won't even be expensive. It's out the other side of expensive. And just so it can sit and gather dust."
"Hey, maybe Thumper will surprise us." He groans then. "Luka, it obviously means a lot to him."
"I know. He was nearly crying."
"Oh, come on, call him back. Tell him I want it."
"He's sulking now."
"OK then, in a while."
"I don't want the damned thing!"
"You're being unreasonable."
"Me? I get to pay thousands of dollars to transport something I don't want and we won't use and that's unreasonable?"
"Thousands?"
"Jesus, I don't know, a lot of money."
"He won't live forever Luka."
"You don't think? He'll do it to spite me."
"Luka – "
"I don't want to talk about it." And he doesn't; he tells me he's going up to bed, but he hauls me to my feet before he goes. It occurs to me that I'll probably spend the rest of my life hearing him say he doesn't want to talk about stuff and then waiting an hour before it's safe to bully him into it. What the hell, it's not the worst thing I could spend my life doing.
......................................................................................................
He's not asleep. I know it; he knows I know it; I know he knows I know it. You keeping up here?
"You know . . . you haven't asked me what I want for my birthday."
"No."
"Want a pointer?"
"Wouldn't be a large and impractical item of furniture currently domiciled in an apartment in Zagreb would it?"
"Might be." He turns to me now.
"Why does this matter to you?"
"Your father can't . . . what else can he do, sell it? It would break his heart."
"I know."
"Yours too."
"You think?"
"Yeah."
After a long silence he says "She really wanted us to be able to play, just one of us."
"I know."
"We couldn't, either of us. I mean I could play the notes but . . . not the music. She tried not to be disappointed but – "
"She'd be proud of you now."
"I know that." There's an edge of impatience in his voice. "But still it would be a . . . . a . . . "Oh boy, when he does this, struggles for a word, trouble would be real easy to find.
"A reproach?"
"Yes. A reproach. Every time I looked at it."
"It's not."
"But – "
"It's not." Silence. "Do it for me."
"You did not just say that."
"Sure I did. What, you think I'm above a little emotional blackmail?"
"Evidently not."
"So – you'll do it? You'll call?"
"I'll think about it."
After a couple of minutes' silence I say "You ever see "Pretty Woman"?"
"What?"
"The film."
"No, I don't think so."
"We should rent it."
"Dare I ask why?"
"No."
......................................................................................................
"Why are we watching this? It's terrible."
"Shut up."
"No, I mean, you've seen the prostitutes that end up in the ER. They do not look like that and they're not going to find their millionaire any time – "
"Shut up and watch the film."
And, in due course, Richard Gere is playing random chords on the piano in the deserted restaurant and here comes Miss 44" inches of therapy in her fugly hotel bath robe and – there – she perches on the piano and he's up and at her and as their activities strike up various discords on the keyboard Luka's face is a picture.
"On my mother's piano?" he asks, at once appalled and fascinated.
"Got to get some use out of it until Thumper's old enough for lessons."
"My mother's piano?" he repeats, transfixed.
"Hey, if I know your father, it won't be the first time." He has a kind of puzzled half smile on his face.
"You really don't play fair, you know that?"
"I know that."
He looks back at the crap on the screen for a moment and then sighs. "How the hell am I going to wrap it up?"
......................................................................................................
I don't know when he was going to call Ivica but the old man beats him to it. I've just seen Susan out. She comes by every so often, Jing-Mei too. Funny, I thought I'd miss work a whole lot more than I do, but I already feel like an outsider. I understand a little better how they must have felt too, going away and having to fit in when they returned – I think it must be like being a ghost, everything familiar to you but no-one really knows you any more. Anyhow, at the sound of Ivica's voice I shake myself out of that one.
"Luka is not at home?"
"Working. He won't be back until late."
"And you? My grandchild treating you OK?"
"Depends what you mean by OK."
"Not much longer to wait, then you think this is paradise."
"I always think that support and encouragement from family and friends is so important at a time like this."
"I'm telling truth, don't have time for anything else."
"You OK? You sound a little down."
"Piano."
"Ah. Well – "
"Luka, Damir, they don't want it. I sell it."
"No."
"Yes, is a thing, just a thing. I sell it."
"Send it."
"What?"
"I talked to him. It's going to be my birthday present."
"For you? You can play?"
"No."
"So why – "
"I want it. It's family, right?"
"No. You don't have to do this."
"I know. I want to do this. It would break your heart to sell it."
"Hearts mend."
"Not always. You're an old man, you don't have time to wait for it to mend, right?"
"Is decided – I sell."
"What is it with you Kovacs? You want us to have it and now I say we will you're saying no."
"How did you talk him into it?"
"Never mind, I did it, that's all you need to know. Look, I'll do a deal with you."
"A deal?" He sounds sceptical.
"We have the piano and when this kid's old enough for lessons – I'll take them too." Where the hell did that come from?
"You're making a joke."
"I'm not. You think I can't do I?"
"I think . . . you do whatever you decide you want to do, is what I think."
"You better believe it. I mean, I took your son off your hands."
"Dirty job."
"Yeah, well, someone had to do it."
"Want another?"
"Dirty job?"
"Another of my sons."
"Damir?"
"Only other one I have. I think."
"He's misbehaving, huh?"
"Too big for his shoes."
"Boots."
"What?"
"Too big for his boots."
"Oh, OK, boots. Thinks he can tell me what to do."
"Runs in the family."
"Me? You mean me?"
"Of course I mean you. Luka knows better."
"But you love me very much."
"You're growing on me."
"Of course, deal means I have to live to see you do it."
"Luka figures you'll live forever to spite him."
"Could be he's right."
"I kinda hope so."
"You and baby, you can play duet at my funeral."
"You want "Chopsticks" at your funeral?"
"Chopsticks?"
"It's a – never mind." There's a pause.
"Abby . . . "
"It's OK. I love the damned piano already." Another silence and I hear him take a deep breath.
"So . . . you want that 'phone drink now?"
"You know what, I don't believe I do."
"Chicken."
"Go boil your head, old man."
......................................................................................................
You're wondering what the point of all this is, right? Well come on, pay attention! Don't you see what I did there? I made a promise to an old man on the other side of the world over a collection of strings and keys and pedals and I made a plan. A plan for the future.
I'm getting good at this. My past isn't a deafening roar any more, blocking out everything else, it's an echo, just an echo. And my future, well that's not the cross between an assault course and a ghost train it used to be.
On our walls are paintings by Luka's father; in our house will be the piano Luka's mom played; that's where the past should be – decorating your walls and reflecting family photos and making you smile, and making your life brighter and filling your future with scales and arpeggios and whatever it is that piano lessons do, whatever it was that Luka's mom heard her boys do, except it will be this child doing it, joining up the past and the present and the future. For a minute there I'm so happy I could cry. I don't, cry I mean, because well, I just don't but there it is, one of those "You know what this is? You recognise this? This is happy" moments.
Grow up, leave home, get a job, get married, get rich, get drunk, get laid, get whatever.
That's not a plan.
Me and piano lessons with my kid. That's a plan.