Apart From Love (47 page)

Once these fragments came into my possession (as no one else would claim them) I found myself obligated to review and arrange them, as best I could, into a coherent whole.
 

I aimed to do it in such a way as would benefit his survivors, or more precisely, those he had named in his latest will: his older son, Mr. Benjamin Kaminsky, twenty-eight years of age, born to him by his first wife; and his younger son, Nathan Kaminsky Junior, one month old, born to him by his second wife in April of this year.
 

My conversations with the author were infrequent at best. The last time I saw him was three days prior to his being found lifeless.

We talked strictly about routine matters of law, as they related to his investments and his will. Thus I must admit that he never shared with me his ideas about the art of writing, nor did he mention that his attention (aside from work) was focused on recording certain sounds, capturing certain objects (such as
The White Piano
) in words, and furthermore, preserving certain events (or as he would say, certain ‘moments in time’) on paper. Which in later days, would prove crucial in piecing together what lead, eventually, to his untimely death.
 

Therefore, I have no way of knowing what final form (if any) the author envisioned for these fragments, and in which order he would have presented them, had he lived to finish the task. Perhaps he knew, somehow, that his days were numbered, which would explain certain morbid phrases (such as
Dead Man’s Fingers
) which he had incorporated into his latest fiction.
 

In trying to fill his place, I regarded myself as more than merely the editor of that which he had left behind. I regarded myself, truly, as its
custodian
. Thus I found myself engaged in an editorial guesswork, which to me, was as thrilling as it was confusing.
 

My dedication to the task was unusual. It surprised even me. I must have been studying these fragments far too long (perhaps to the verge of obsession) and thus, being utterly exhausted, I can no longer see the whole. Which (I confess) leaves me puzzled.
 

In spite of this, the text (such as it stands, at this point) must see the light of day, so that you, the reader, with your power of observation and your unbiased judgement, may assist me at some point in the future, and contribute much needed, fresh insight.

On the morning just preceding his last day, the author called me with instructions to set up a special fund, under my care, for the purpose of paying the rent for his place of residence for the next couple of months. Regretfully, his family (such as it was) dispersed soon after, and the key was entrusted to my keeping.
 

Therefore I decided to use this opportunity, sad as it was, to examine the various compartments of his desk (its drawers and file cabinet, and elsewhere). For no apparent reason, the notion that something was amiss happened to cross my mind. Thus I managed to convince myself that my curiosity was purely professional.
 

After a few hours of sifting through an incredible mess, which by no means could have been typical of him, I finally gave up. Old bills, out of date address books and crumpled shopping lists were all scrambled together in front of me. One of the drawers, the so-called a secret drawer, showed marks of a knife cutting into its locking mechanism. I closed the drawers, utterly in disgust, and got up from the desk, thinking the search was futile. It was over with, done. That was when the pile of notebooks on the floor suddenly caught my eye.

I still go back there from time to time, unlock the door and sit at the kitchen table, and reflect on what I have learned. I ponder what seems so suggestive in his fiction, and ask myself if this is what really happened. I still entertain some hope (which is waning, gradually) to find additional notes, which might have been concealed by the author (or perhaps, his survivors), and which might provide me with more clues on how to join the fragments.
 

If I talk to myself, an echo answers from the walls.
 

I like to believe that the author would have approved of my editorial decisions, or at the very least, that he would not have been entirely skeptical of some of them. Also I hope he would find my publishing the text here, in this book, beneficial for his survivors. God willing, it may become a source of income for them (for I would take no part of the reward). In addition, the book is a memoir of sorts, or more precisely, it will become that, in time. In a long time.

As far as I can tell, this ‘preservation of time’ (as he would say) was recorded, originally, on a number of audiotapes (most of which have not been recovered, so far).
 

Without giving away the story I can say only this: for the most part there were two distinct voices (a male and a female) each of whom was about to reveal certain facts about the author, and about each other. With startling honesty, they relayed their memories, and their most intimate desires, right there on audiotape. They did it without shame. And rarely, if ever, did they take into account that he, the author, would (at some point) listen in on their discourse.

Which eventually, he did.
 

Thus, by his handwriting, these voices were conveyed (for lack of a better word) to paper. At what cost to his sanity the author carried on this task, I have no way of guessing. The disclosure of intimacy between the two characters, or even the suggestion of it, must have caused him immeasurable pain.
 

For the first time in his life he, the so-called
Keeper of Secrets
, unravelled the secrets of others—and found himself betrayed.
 

At times I wonder: did he really have the guts to listen to the entirety of their confession? Or did he stop mid-stream, finding himself unable to go on?
 

How could he possibly reconcile his role as an author, all-knowing and remote, with his direct role in their lives? It seems that he was determined to hover from above, to observe events as they unfold, and to steer himself away, clear out of intimacy, out of danger—and yet, he could not help but wade straight into it.

The only way this could be done is if the characters stole the story from the author and then ran away with it, uninterrupted. Which, of course, is just a fantasy of mine. It could never happen.

However, I digress. I tried various methods of arranging the fragments, so that out of discrete, yet disconnected moments described in them, I could, perhaps, recreate the continuity of time; that is, tell a story. A complete story.
 

In doing so I held myself back, as best I could, from the temptation of stepping into the role of the author. The task, I told myself repeatedly, was strictly one of editing. At first I attempted joining all the fragments corresponding to the male voice into one story; and likewise, all the fragments corresponding to the female voice into another. However it quickly became clear to me that (try as I may) each of the two disjointed stories seemed to be lacking, in chronological specificity, in background detail and above all, in objectivity.
 

Therefore I came up, at last, with a more complex, yet cleverer method: one of combining the two voices by alternating them (at a certain rhythm) so the story can become more mutually supported by them; and indeed, more orchestrated. Thus, it is fuller, and can be perceived as a sort of a dialogue, or better yet: a musical duet.
 

This book also serves as the highest form of complement I could pay the author, posthumously of course. When I unearthed the pile of his notebooks, and began sifting through them, I was surprised, even deeply moved by certain passages. I am not a man given to reading prose, much less poetry. However, decoding these fragments felt (to my astonishment) as if the voices came alive. Over the rustle of paper in my hands, they spoke directly, and at times almost lyrically, to me.
 

I find it necessary to write this introduction because no one else would. By the time I was prepared to ask for his assistance, the older son had already left, presumably for Europe. I am uncertain if he did so, in part, to express an objection to some of my editorial decisions—or indeed, to the task as a whole.
 

I can appreciate (but politely disagree with) his point of view. He may well be concerned with an alleged violation of his privacy (as first hinted in A Wall, A Space, A Wall). Indeed, some sensitive, even explosive family matters concerning the author, the older son, the first wife and the second wife were indadvertedly exposed here.
 

However, let me argue that in my opinion, the author regarded these matters purely as input material for his fiction.
 

Therefore, so do I.

Presently, the second wife, Mrs. Anita Kaminsky, is no longer residing in the Author’s place of residence, which has been partially emptied. The four poster bed has been removed, as was the piano. The oval, standalone mirror in the bedroom lies on the floor, in pieces. Glass shards are still strewn all the way back to the other corner. The tape recorder seems to move around the place. Sometimes it can be found under the desk, in the balcony.
 

Other times, it appears next to Beethoven’s bust.

To my knowledge, the second wife is still in town. So far (possibly because of her grief) she has refused to talk, much less write anything in his honor. I suppose that having given birth only a month or so ago, the task of commenting on the author’s life (and on this story) is somehow not the first on her list.
 

To her credit, I must report that the title was inspired by her words. When I asked her, “Any suggestions? What shall I name the book?” she shrugged at first, saying simply, “Call it anything. I don’t fucking care.” However, on her way out of my office, she stopped by the door, and just before going out of sight, threw a smile back at me, and said, “Anything.
Apart from Love
.”
 

Now, to say that Love appears sparingly in the text would be an understatement. The characters seem to avoid saying this word, quite deliberately at times, even when being consumed by its fire.
 

There are, however, three notable cases, where the phrase Apart From Love appears in the text. It takes on one meaning in the first two cases, and another meaning in the third one. This ambiguity explains, perhaps, why that phrase struck me in such a remarkable way, and why I settled, finally, on this title and no other.
 

After a while I whispered, like, “Just say something to me. Anything.” And I thought, Any other word apart from Love, ‘cause that word is diluted, and no one knows what it really means, anyway.

Anita to Lenny, in
Apart From Love

Why, why can’t you say nothing? Say any word
—
but that one, ‘cause you don’t really mean it. Nobody does. Say anything, apart from Love.

Anita to Ben, in
The Entertainer

For my own sake I should have been much more careful. Now—even in her absence—I find myself in her hands, which feels strange to me. I am surrounded—and at the same time, isolated. I am alone. I am apart from Love.

Ben, in
Nothing Surrendered

Before his passing, the author came up with temporary working titles for some of the fragments. His titles had a poetic slant to them (such as
A Woman, Forgotten,
and
A Place Called Sunrise
). They were adopted here as chapter headings, for lack of a better, more comprehensive naming scheme, for which I am still searching.

Other fragments he left nameless. In such cases I tried to invent appropriate titles. The ones I came up with can be easily recognized, as they have a down-to-earth slant to them (such as
Go Back Your Mama
, and
No Omelette For You.
) Simply numbering the fragments was deemed unsatisfactory, as I constantly shuffled and reshuffled them, in an attempt to identify a correct logical and chronological order.

Of the thirty-six fragments collected here, only one was published during the author’s lifetime. More precisely, a fragment titled
Leonard and Lana
was published as a short story some thirty-five years earlier, in a periodical that has since gone out of business. However, after its publication, it has undergone considerable changes by the author.