Jacob was right to throw him out, of course. Zalman, who had become Brutus to his Julius Caesar, deserved worse. Two days later, Esther telephoned him at his cousin’s apartment in the city. She was not angry with him, not with him and not even with Jacob who, without a word, had gone back to work the next day and the day after that. Still, Zalman felt the sense of defeat and disappointment registered in her voice. She would leave the door open the following afternoon so he could come back and collect his things. He had done as she asked, gathering a few articles of clothing from the drawers, his briefcase filled with notes and architectural drawings, and finally, stopping at the piano bench where beneath was the “Clair de Lune” song sheet inside a slender book, A Beginner’s Guide to Piano. He retrieved the booklet and stuffed it in the briefcase before shutting the door to Jacob’s castle.
It wasn’t the last he heard from her. A week after he had left their home for the last time, just as the first hints of light teased beyond the horizon, and still at his cousin’s apartment, Zalman heard a strident ring slicing through the early-morning quiet. He jumped out of bed and ran for the phone in the living room.
Her voice, so dear and unexpected, sent shivers through his skin.
“Zalman? It’s you, right? Sorry to call so early.” And then, just in case, “It’s Esther.”
“Yes. I know.”
“Look, Zalman, I’m sorry to bother you again. But I think we need to talk.” He felt his throat clenching up on him and, fearing he might drop it, held on tightly to the receiver.
Hearing no response on the other end, she continued.
“Zalman? Did you hear me? I have something to tell you, but I can’t say what I need to say over the telephone. It is—how do they put it?” For a moment she stumbled, trying to find the English word she needed. “Discreet?” She accentuated the e—“I have to be discreet. I will not take up too much of your time, I promise. Only we must be discreet, if not for us, then for Jacob. Zalman, are you still on the telephone?”
“Yes.”
“Well. So, there is a place Florrie has told me about. It’s near the school where she graduated college. Brooklyn College. Jacob would not be there. Wolfie’s—that’s it. Just like the animal. So I think maybe we meet there lunchtime. Twelve o’clock. Twelve o’clock to talk.”
“There’s nothing to say.”
“Zalman, please.” A high-pitched urgency.
“Twelve o’clock tomorrow.”
“Thank you.”
The phone clicked off.
Wolfie’s on Bedford Avenue was only steps away from the towering arch leading into the imposing square of buildings and lush greenery of the Brooklyn College campus. Summer classes were in session now, and a handful of students, the young males in their short-sleeve button-down shirts and T-shirts, and the females in flowered sundresses, all with denim knapsacks on their backs, sauntered into the air-conditioned café as escape from the sidewalks, still thick with heat.
Entering the establishment, he noticed her immediately. She was seated in the back, facing him. Looking at her now, he felt as if the air had seeped from the room. Except for the hot-pink woven cape and hair prematurely streaked with gray (had he noticed before?), she could have been mistaken for any one of the handful of students chatting and smoking within the room. She was more beautiful than he remembered.
He approached the table with a barely perceptible nod and sat down. A thirtysomething waitress with stark buck teeth, her blonde hair pulled back in a messy bun, came over immediately. Introducing herself as Jean, she scribbled their order with the nub of a pencil—a Lipton tea with lemon for Esther, and despite the tantalizing smell of juicy burgers and stacks of french fries being served at the surrounding tables, a plain black coffee for Zalman. Neither one had come to eat. Finally, her voice, familiar, light as ripples over a lake, broke the silence.
“How have you been, Zalman?”
He could feel her eyes looking at him intensely, though he was afraid to meet them with his own.
“Fine,” he said, barely above a whisper as he unraveled the table napkin, freeing the utensils.
“You look tired.”
He shrugged. He didn’t want to be here. Still, he had a question.
“How is Jacob?”
“He’s okay. What I mean to say is, he’s holding up. We’re still together if that’s what you mean. He didn’t leave me.”
“No . . . I didn’t think he would. And I didn’t want him to.”