All Whom I Have Loved

42

In the midst of the winter storm Victor broke through the snowy siege and came to us. Two small horses harnessed to a narrow sleigh brought him, and with him, two baskets of provisions. “So long as there are people like Victor, it's worth living,” said Father, in a burst of high spirits. Victor now looked a little more practical. His round face was ruddy and appeared firmer. Though he was as short as ever, he did not look awkward. He was happy that he had been able to reach us, and Father hastened to make him a cup of coffee. I've noticed that whenever he arrives, the demons scatter for dear life and the snow lights up the room.

Father showed him the paintings. Victor stood rapt, and as he looked at each in turn, he called out, “Splendid, splendid!” He told Father that the gallery was preparing to receive the pictures. The opening would be on the first of March.

Christmas arrived, and my hopes that Mother would visit me were dashed. She informed me by telegram: to my great regret, i cannot come. I was angry and vented my anger on the sketch pad; then I tore it up. Many of my father's habits were already in me. When I reach his age my face will be unshaven and my shirt creased, and there'll be a pen stuck into my coat pocket.

Mother changed in my mind's eye. Sometimes I saw her as a Ruthenian peasant woman, like those we saw washing or beating out linen by the streams of the Prut. Mother loved watching them work, as if she were searching for what she had lost. Sometimes I saw her as I did up close in Storozynetz, with the large briefcase in her right hand, hurrying to school. But mostly I saw her as she was during her last visit to me, in the heavy coat, walking slowly, her shoulders weighed down as if by a heavy insult. I so wanted to make her happy, but I didn't know how.

When Victor left the house, the demons surrounding Father returned. Sometimes it seemed that the demons were nothing but small animals that Father bred in cages and now found it hard to part with. “They must be driven out! They belong outside and not at home!” I wanted to blurt out, but of course I didn't. There were hours when they disappeared, when they were neither seen nor felt. Then it was clear to me that they existed solely in my imagination, and if I didn't imagine them, they wouldn't exist.

Whenever I asked Father about them, a smile would come to his face, as if I had asked him about his shifting moods. Once he said, “Demons? They're everywhere. Sometimes they dress up as moneylenders, and sometimes as art critics.”

Occasionally he gave them nicknames: the red demon, the green one, the shriveled one. It was hard to know which of them were good and which wicked. Once I heard him say, “A demon is a demon.”

It was strange how there, of all places, in that large and spacious house, they managed to annoy him more than in that sooty one-room apartment in Czernowitz. I tried to ignore them, telling myself, “They aren't real.” But what was to be done? In spite of this, they seemed to appear wherever I turned. When I threw a wooden building block at them, or a spoon, they scattered in all directions. Sometimes they were so tiny that it was hard to see them, even with a steady eye. Once, Father stormed out from his studio, a rag in hand, threw open the front door, and shouted, “Get out! I don't want to see you anymore!”

One stormy, cold evening, Father explained to me that when an artist works, demons pounce on him, and he has to either ignore them or give them a good thrashing. When he spoke of them, he would emerge from his despondency and a smile would spread across his face, as if he accepted the fact that life is a continuum of unpleasantness, confusion, and malice, which nothing can change. But despite all this, life is still worth observing. Although observation changes nothing, it does divert the eye for a while.

Once, I peeked through the keyhole. The small woman was lying naked on the sofa. Father asked her something, and she answered in a mumble that sounded like a song. The sight was astonishing, and it was hard for me to tear myself away from the keyhole. I heard Father's voice. “My little demon, a bit to the right.” The small woman leaned on the cushion with her arm, and her two large breasts spilled out from her body. Although I didn't see Father, I felt that he was gazing at her with great intensity. Another time I saw him drop to his knees and kiss her foot.

The furtive sounds in the studio reminded me of my walks with Halina, and how we sat by the water. Halina looked a little like the small woman. I had never seen her breasts, but I supposed that they were as beautiful as this woman's. Not that I could see Halina anymore, except in dreams, though whenever I saw a young woman in the street I remembered her. Sometimes it seemed that soon I'd make the journey to be with her. Once, I reminded Father about Halina. Father shrugged, as if what I said was beside the point.

Suddenly Father emerged from his studio and called out in a despairing voice, “The exhibition opens on the first of March, and all I have is eight paintings.” This new worry darkened his brow. Victor did not pressure him. He said in a quiet, friendly tone, “Whatever you have will be accepted gratefully.” Father looked at him for a moment, as if not believing his own ears. Victor repeated, “There's nothing to worry about. What you've done is more than enough.”

Father clenched his jaw and shut himself away in his studio. The snow fell unceasingly, and the small woman did not come. In the evening, when Father emerged from the studio, he looked like a growling lion. He muttered to himself, and he beat away demons to his left and his right. Once, in a white-hot fury, he said, “Art critics are ghastly demons — they should be exterminated.” I did not understand what he was so angry about.

I'd already learned not to ask Father things when he's angry; there's terror in his fury. Here, too, I had seen him breaking planks. Sometimes I pictured him working in a circus, lifting heavy crates, bending iron bars, prizing chains apart, and riding on lions.