The Border of Paradise: A Novel (2 page)

Insomnia. Wolves. Matka’s concern for me. My grades. The war had ended by then, and the atmosphere at home and school seemed perpetually on the brink of a great unraveling. No one close to us had died. My parents’ closest friends, the Pawlowskis, were childless, though apparently Mr. Pawlowski had a nephew from Long Island who lost a leg in combat, and some of the kids I knew from St. Jadwiga had lost a brother or had a brother newly, and I assumed happily, home. For us the end of the war meant that the Nowak Piano Company would return to making pianos, although whether those pianos would then find buyers was a new anxiety to be conquered. This question gave Ojciec ulcers,
which I’m sure Matka was disinclined to make worse with my disappointing report card.

But as she’d said, she did have to tell him, and he was unhappy. I’d always been decently athletic and scholastically impressive, and the new Cs and B-minuses bewildered him.

“What’s gone wrong with you?” he asked at breakfast. “It’s not a girl, is it?”

“No.”

Ojciec was a small man, not where I got my height; he was compact and had a thin flop of dark blond hair across his pate, which he managed with pomade, and wore a pair of small, round wire-rimmed glasses that were always slipping down his nose. And he was always hot—standing near my father, you could feel the energy radiating off him. He put down his fork with a clatter and said, “You’re growing up, David. It’s important that you learn to take responsibility. As you get older, the responsibilities you take on will be more than letters on a piece of paper.” He nudged my report card. “Screwing up ends up meaning losing thousands of dollars, means losing your shirt. And the older you get, the more ways there are to screw up.”

That was the end of his lecture. He pushed his plate away and stood, hurrying to ready himself for a day of factory oversight. Matka, who had been putting away dishes, walked Ojciec to the door, her hand on his back, saying nothing.

But the following week he announced that I was to attend an important meeting with him because I was growing up, and thus needed to go to the manufactory with him. He said that I needed to see how the pianos were put together because the Nowak Piano Company was a family business, and had been since my
dziadek
had passed the business to him, as Ojciec would to me; I was responsible for carrying it on as the last child of the Nowak line. I’d need to learn every aspect of the company’s operations, including how to manage the workers so that they would only go so far as to gripe about their wages and hours, but would not rebel or leave or, worse, unionize; how to recognize whether a piano was finely tuned or no better than any heap of wooden garbage thoughtlessly nailed together. I needed to understand the intricacies of
voicing.
I would watch my father negotiate with new dealers, who were cads and cheats in comparison with the men who had known my grandfather years ago, and used to
treat the Nowak name with respect, but were now out for themselves because they, too, had suffered when the war came, and shrewdness mattered more to them than decency. If I continued to “refuse to grow up,” as he obliquely referred to my slippery grades, and to behave no better than a modern-day boy without a shadow, I’d never be a capable successor. He would bring me to an important meeting in the coming week. “It will be part of your education,” my father said.

I had no say in the matter, and little understanding of what it really meant to be a Nowak son. The myth of the Nowak Piano Company—a Polish immigrant arriving in America with nothing but a Bible, a tuning fork, and a knife! The notion of an affordable, but still beautiful, piano! The immigrant’s ingenuity and his consequent success as a piano maker in an inhospitable land!—this tale was as essential to our family as the story of the birth of Christ. When it came to the modern-day workings of the company, my understanding of their importance came from my parents, who spoke of our pianos as though they, and thus we, were crucial not only to the esteemed world of music, but to America itself. I believed this not because I saw with my own eyes, on the way to the park or school, a Nowak piano in every living room window, or because of other children’s reactions upon hearing my name; I never saw such a thing, or heard any envious tones. I believed in our importance only because my parents overtly stated it all my life. And I was proud to be a Nowak, and relieved that my father still considered me the company’s heir, because it was essential that I honor my parents. It was necessary that I should have the chance to demonstrate my ambition, and to put my smarts to work as their son.

But I made sure that my children would grow up without this on their backs. They believe that the pianos in our living room state our names because they belong to us, in the way that a mother might carefully embroider a shirt label with
EMMA
or
MARK
.

Oh, Gillian, my little Artemis: you would not be surprised to hear that you are my favorite in the family. I think that became clearest when I began to teach you taxidermy, but William is fussy in
a way that you are not. I have always been proud of the way you handle yourself around blood and viscera. Do you remember the first time I had you make your own rabbit’s foot? Your delicate fingers moved with such confidence, and when your small hand wrapped around the penknife I thought,
How powerful she is!
I have always been proud of you.

Though we were well known in Greenpoint, only a few were truly in my parents’ circle. George Pawlowski was my father’s right-hand man, and had been since my
dziadek
passed on and willed the company to Ojciec. Vicky Pawlowski was by default my mother’s closest friend, though Matka never seemed quite intimate with anyone who didn’t live under her roof; and when Mrs. Pawlowski and Matka did socialize at our home, their conversations were full of halting pauses that made me squirm. But for my mother, it was clear that Mrs. Pawlowski served a crucial purpose—the woman tethered her to society. Once, and only once, did I overhear Mrs. Pawlowski’s sobs as she spoke in a roundabout way about infertility. This explained the Pawlowskis’ lack of children, and perhaps also the bond between Mrs. Pawlowski and my mother.

Mrs. Pawlowski was the first to note the Orlichs’ appearance in the neighborhood. From the beginning, she was
unconvinced,
as she put it to my mother. Their only boy, Marty, was my age, thirteen, and he began to show up in my classes, more often than not sitting next to me because of the alphabetical rows. Marty quickly became infamous for his foul mouth, which simultaneously titillated and unnerved us, his peers. He was of average height and build. He had a sharp face, with a pointy chin and nose and slashes for eyebrows, and when he smiled it was like he was leering at the world.

At the dinner table my father said, “You know that new family, the Orlichs. Well, Benjamin stopped by the manufactory today.”

“Oh?” Matka said.

“Yes. It was shocking what a ridiculous little man he revealed himself to be. He introduced himself, briefly. Apparently he’s an accountant, and the whole family is from Chicago. He came to ask if he could buy a baby grand for
three-fourths
the price.”

“Three-fourths? What on earth would make him think you’d say yes?”

“I said something to that effect. He said, ‘Because our sons are in the same class.’ As if this made us family. David, do you know his son?”

“Yes,” I said.

“And what do you make of him?”

“Marty? I don’t know him well. He gets in trouble a lot with the nuns, I guess. He’s stellar in Latin.”

“Well,” Ojciec said, sawing into a pork chop, “if he’s anything like his father, I’d say you’d best stay away from him. It would be one thing if Mr. Orlich were merely foolish, but I could tell from ten paces that the man has a temper. Though he knew better than to duke it out with me.” He shook his head. “Imagine! As if we were a charity.”

“I loathe Chicago,” Matka said. “It’s so cold there in the winter.”

“Whenever a new family moves in, it’s like a roll of the dice,” said Ojciec.

Yes, it was a roll of the dice, or can we say it was Fate that brought the dysfunctional Orlich clan to Greenpoint. It was Fate that the Orlichs should have a daughter, too, named Marianne, whom I would love, and still do love, with my utterly fallible—my utterly human—heart that is still beating.

The first time I saw the Orlichs as a family was at Christmas. Our little clan—at first just Daisy and I, then with William and, later, Gillian—has had a number of Christmases, but the sort of Christmases I had as a boy were nothing like the ones we’ve enjoyed. These were loud affairs. Crowded. Upward of eighty people were invited to the Pawlowskis’ Christmas party on a yearly basis, and everyone who was invited came. It was a lavish show for George and Vicky Pawlowski, especially for Mrs. Pawlowski, who used her pent-up maternal energy spending days decorating their home in tinsel, votive candles, glass ornaments that broke if you so much as gave them a stern look, and a gigantic tree by the staircase, which hung heavy with what she explained every year was inherited Mazowsze glass. When I was very young I saw the Pawlowski party as a family obligation and a bore, but the older I became, I sensed that there was a desperation that haunted the Pawlowskis, and this desperation came to a shrill plateau from Advent to Epiphany. The hunger for adoration, for
festivity and friends, was played out in the party itself, with too much high-pitched conversation and people posturing, and the tension dissipating only when all hosts and guests had imbibed a healthy amount of booze.

On that particular Christmas we were the Pawlowskis’ first guests, and Mrs. Pawlowski immediately descended upon Matka as I drifted into the sitting room.

“We invited the Orlichs,” Mrs. Pawlowski said.

“Oh? Are you friendly with Caroline?” Matka asked, and there was a tinkling of wineglasses in the kitchen.

“No, I don’t know Caroline, and George barely knows Benjamin—I mean Bunny. They sort of invited themselves. You know how the Christmas party is our special occasion, but they approached it as though it were the ball drop. A sort of ‘come one, come all.’ I didn’t know how to say no. I didn’t want to be impolite. I fear it will be strange for everyone else, though. No one really knows them. No one in our circle, I mean.”

My mother said, “So many people are coming, though. It won’t make a difference.”

“Caroline basically
insisted
that her daughter sing at the party. She flat-out assumed that we would want to hear her sing. So now her daughter is going to sing ‘O Holy Night,’ I think.”

“I love that song.”

“I do, too. It’s my favorite carol. When done well, it makes me cry. I honestly shed tears, real ones. But you should have heard her, Francine. She said, ‘Well, Marianne is an excellent singer, and she’d be honored if you had her perform at your party.’ I was so shocked! Really—inviting yourself to a party, and then inviting your daughter to perform, too? It was like she’d heard about the party for
years
and finally decided that it was high time they make the list. Before I could figure out what to say, she said, ‘She does a
truly
beautiful “O Holy Night.” She’ll be so pleased.’ And by then it was too late, they were as good as invited by George himself.”

“Goodness.”

“Maybe they won’t show,” Mrs. Pawlowski said. “Maybe they’ll get in a horrible car accident. Did I just say that? I’ve been drinking wine all day, just sipping while cooking, and I don’t know what I’m saying anymore. But we’ve known each other forever, haven’t we? You won’t tell anyone?”

The doorbell sounded. “Oh,” Mrs. Pawlowski said, and went down the hall. She peered through the peephole, and then she opened the door for the Orlichs. Coming in was balding Mr. Orlich, who had absurdly round cheeks, and Mrs. Orlich, who held the wine. There was Marty, who was now taller than I was, although I would be quite lanky and nearing six feet by the end of senior year, and he had on a lumpy red-and-white-striped wool hat that I presumed a relative had knit for him.

But Marianne. That moment in the sitting room was the first time that I found myself paying any attention to a girl, let alone a girl slipping into the shape of a woman. If I was neurotic about stuffed animals as a child, as an adolescent I was even more neurotic about girls, who seemed not quite human to me. Yet here she was, a sylphlike fourteen-year-old, wearing a red angora sweater with a matching skirt and low heels with girlish white stockings, and there was her startlingly white-blond hair, which had a slight wave to it, and here was a broad smile that spanned her round face. I invented none of that; that is exactly how Marianne looked that day when she walked into the Pawlowskis’ house.