Chapter One
Diary
The train was passing through some small and unfamiliar towns, disappearing into the void of the waning day. The autumn music was noisy, absurd and yet sad, intertwining with the doleful sounds of the moving train. The melody reminded him of a wistful violin; the sounds clung to each other as if trying to linger on this earth. Sunrays rushed about the sky, searching for a narrow hole to peep through the heavy clouds. The small towns were slowly aging. They stooped under the pressure of the hovering sky. Day was giving way to early autumn twilight.
He sat by the window, watching with sadness the fading colors of the autumn day and trying to recall his father’s stories about his childhood, youth, and the small town where he was born. Every time the train sang its road song, reminiscent of Beethoven’s music, the sounds of the autumn violin, would fall silent, causing some distant memories to come alive. They were just colorful shreds that he could not glue together because some important parts were missing, those that he had never asked his father about or had simply forgotten.
And then he thought about his mother whom he had never known. He imagined the outline of her face on the window glass, the familiar and yet so very unfamiliar face of the woman who had given him the gift of life. The evening fog thickened and took away her image, leaving him with his own reflection. He felt distressed with some unexplainable premonition as if something were about to happen. And yet how could he know that this cold rainy day would change his life forever?
* * * * *
Early on the evening of October 5th, 2003, a Philadelphia-New York local train pulled into the station. It came to a complete halt, decelerating and producing a muffled, metallic clangor, interrupting the sounds of the autumn music. As soon as the doors opened, impatient passengers squeezed through the exit and then, pushing and bumping into each other in their haste, spilled onto the platform. A tall, strikingly handsome man, smartly dressed in a striped Armani suit with a starched white shirt and a blue tie, was the last one to leave the train. He paused for a minute irresolutely, meditating and deeply inhaling the damp air, and then, with his rather resilient, boyish gait, hurried to the exit. Obviously, nobody was waiting for him, and he did not expect anybody to be there to greet him.
He strolled leisurely along the platform, attracting attention by his conspicuous, immaculate appearance, dignified bearing and the way he carried his head proudly above the crowd. Although he was not particularly waiting for anybody, he looked around several times before he stopped and sank down heavily on the station’s iron bench, as if he did not know what to do next, and he simply wanted to think and relax. The man placed his light raincoat and suitcase next to him on the bench and glanced over the crowd. For some time he watched with amusement the bustle of the crowded station while his well-tanned face expressed deep curiosity about the city people racing purposefully back and forth. He enjoyed this aimless time immensely, observing the life seething around him, when his eyes met those of a pudgy, middle-aged man dressed in an ill-fitting business suit.
The stranger stopped, examining him through his tinted glasses until his face showed some kind of astonishment. He was probably the kind of loquacious, friendly man who simply out of curiosity would pester strangers with queer questions or would unexpectedly break in on a conversation.
“Sorry for intruding, but I hope I am not mistaken. Are you Alexander Gold, the famous artist? Your name leapt out at me today from the newspaper. Do you know that there is an article about you in the New York Times accompanied by your photograph? I recognized you right away.”
The man pulled off his glasses and stared at Alex with profound admiration. His eyes warmed when he stretched out his hand for a friendly hand-shake. Perhaps the stranger was pleasantly moved by a sudden opportunity to meet such a famous man.
Alex glanced suspiciously at the officious stranger but extended his hand, smiling shyly at such an observant art lover.
“Yes, in fact, I am Alexander Gold. By the way, do you happen to have the newspaper? I have not seen it yet. I am curious, very curious. So, it came out today, exactly two days before the opening of my exhibition. Very well, very well.”
The man, impressed by Alex’s unruffled demeanor, hastily buried his face in a fat leather briefcase, rummaging in it for the newspaper.
“Here it is. You can keep it, I have already read the article,” he proclaimed and with an awkward promptness gave Alex the newspaper.
The man was searching for something else to say. However, noticing that the artist didn’t express any interest in continuing their conversation, he bowed and scraped before Alex as if trying to show him his deep respect.
“Good luck with the opening,” wished the stranger and, ramming on his hat, rushed away.
Alex did not open the newspaper but, still clutching it in his hand, got to his feet and made his way to the exit, hoping to catch a cab to his hotel. He managed to hustle through the growing evening crowd which slowly funneled outside the station and disappeared somewhere in the mist of the New York streets. Along with the flow of passengers, he too was eventually pushed into the street, but seeing that the line for a taxi coiled like a long snake, and the rush-hour homeward-bound crowd was too desperate, he hesitated for a moment and then, groaning with frustration, decided to walk.
The muggy evening promised to be dull, bereaving him of any expectations of spending a pleasant time in New York. The grey and damp twilight just moved into the city, sifting out over the earth through the peepholes of patchy clouds that raced hastily across the sky. The city was about to welter in haze. Windows glowed softly with smoky-red, shadowy colors, hardly visible through the dense fog. Their indistinct lights traveled along the streets from one building to another, like small firebugs flying in dark woods. The city noise, the streets—they all drowned in the sticky, foggy air, and the cold shroud of rain. Twilight, petering out behind the clouds, spread its dark wings over the city and grumbled at its unfairly short life. Finally, obscurity swallowed the earth. Alex peered into the fog, but nothing could be seen beyond its veil, as if there was nothing behind and nothing ahead of him….
* * * * *
After a long stroll through the damp city, the hotel room looked quite pleasant. It was freshly painted with a large window overlooking Manhattan. Alex put his wet coat down on the bed and strode across the room to the window. Managing to open it, he let the air ooze inside. He hoped that the fresh air would help him to ease his lingering headache and perhaps even lift a bit his crestfallen mood. The impending night thievishly crawled into the room, absorbing all the objects. Finally, everything was drowned in darkness.
Without turning on the light, Alex started unpacking his small suitcase and putting shirts in the bottom drawer of the desk. Unexpectedly, he stumbled across a small notebook pushed far to the back of the drawer. With unaccustomed curiosity, he pulled it out, put on his reading glasses and switched on the table lamp near the bed. The blurred yellow cone of light from the shaded dusty lamp fell on the pages.
The notebook did not have a cover and was speckled in a tremulous, lax handwriting. It looked like someone was in a hurry to finish one sentence in order to start on the next one. To his surprise, it was somebody’s diary written in Italian. Alex spoke five languages fluently, and Italian happened to be one of them. He gingerly flipped the pages of the notebook. One line particularly caught his attention, and he was compelled to continue reading.
“What is my life for if ugly worms eat my soul and my brains? I see and feel them elsewhere. They are like people who rummage into your soul and use your brain eating it up. I live in a state of fear…but fear of what? I don’t know. I am afraid of this powerful force…the fear, probably the fear of losing those I love. I live in a strange space surrounded by apathy and coldness. My paintings are in museums all over the world. But what would I say if anyone ever asked me what I felt when I put onto my canvases those dark colors and ugly faces distorted with fear? Am I at war with myself? I look inward and feel that my vagabond soul has left me. It flies into emptiness, nothingness; my feelings are frozen, and I am tired of striving against my fate. There is a fissure in my heart that drives me mad. The only person I can share my thoughts with is my dear friend— loneliness. How long should I continue smiling at people if all I dream about is to be left alone…in solitude with my work? I imagine that my life crashed when I had to say goodbye to her…so many years ago. Perhaps, once making a mistake, we live to regret it till the end of our miserable and lonely life….”
Alex felt chilled by these words. The man was tormented by something; maybe he was even insane. He is probably a very unhappy man, a loner; he might be, after all, a famous artist. But what is his name? Alex soliloquized. He was lost in his thoughts when the importunate and sonorous buzz of the telephone interrupted his train of thought. He flinched from this unexpected trill and picked up the phone. The male voice on the other line was unfamiliar to him. It wobbled and sounded nervous as he searched for the right words.
“Pardon me, sir, I am so sorry to disturb you, but I need to know—I mean I need your help. The fact is that I left something in your room. Do you mind if I stop by for a minute just to look? Please, sir, allow me to stop by. I will not bother you. This is something personal, something very important to me.” Then the voice choked, and he lapsed into silence, waiting for a reply to his query.
A long unpleasant pause hung in air before he repeated in a barely audible voice, “This is something very important to me. I do hope you wouldn’t mind if I drop in for a minute.” The man spoke with a slightly detectable accent.
Alex closed the notebook, feeling suddenly guilty for reading somebody else’s diary.
“Sure, you can stop by. I will be in my room for another ten, perhaps…fifteen minutes. You are welcome to look.” Alex spoke sluggishly, trying to make every word sound clear, as if he were afraid that the man on the other end of the wire would not be able to understand him.
“I will be there in fifteen minutes. I will have the cab return to the hotel. Please, sir, wait for me, I beg of you. My name is….” The man paused again, and finally concluded, “However, it does not really matter. I’ll be there shortly. Thank you, sir, thank you so much.”
Alex hung up the phone and rushed to put the notebook back into the drawer. Then he lay on the bed, thinking about this unusual turn of events.
Who could this man be? And what was his name? Why did he suddenly change his mind about giving me his name?
Chapter Two
The Encounter
Alex was not superstitious. He was a strong, relatively down-to-earth man, but today, since early morning, when he got up to catch the train to New York, he felt that his heart was beating faster. His wife was still asleep, curled up on her right side, as always, turning her back to him. Trying not to wake her, he tiptoed to the kitchen to prepare his morning coffee.
While having breakfast, he thought about his life which was sufficiently filled and relatively happy. However, he always sought refuge in his work. Alex was the kind of a man who was greedy for books and for life, enjoying art that expressed happiness through voluptuous and vivid colors. He loved people who were picturesque and loud, with many ideas and plenty of energy because they made him feel strong and alive. He had many friends—some remained in his past, but most of the time, through, he carried all his past possessions with him into the present—all his friends and lovers. He could find time for every one of them—time consisted of small shreds of space, where he could accurately place all his relations collected over the years.
Alex used to receive about five hundred holiday greetings from his “past,” “present” and even “future” friends. In response, he had always sent postcards according to his list, always finding a warm word for every one of them. Often, his cards would come back unopened, but he had still continued sending them without even making an attempt to find out who, during the years, had disappeared from his prolific life, or why.
Although Alex considered himself a man without any prejudices, he was open to the unpredictable effects of predestination. This sudden phone call to his hotel room puzzled him, and he impatiently waited to see the author of such an unusual diary.
His ruminations were interrupted by heavy footsteps in the corridor. His thoughts went back to the notebook when he heard an abrupt knock at the door, nervous and powerful.
Alex swung the door open, and in the gloom of the corridor he could only discern the silhouette of a tall man, slowly emerging from obscurity.
“May I come in?” He had a deep husky voice which was marked by a shortness of breath.
“Please, come in.” Alex moved aside and let the man enter the room.
* * * * *
An eerie feeling of presentiment made Alex stand for a while speechless and confounded. There was something strangely familiar in the man’s imposing appearance and even his posture. The first idea that flickered into his head was that he had met him somewhere before. The man, however, did not even glance at Alex but began feverishly surveying the room.
Alex turned on the light and approached the stranger, scrutinizing him with some interest. As he was thoroughly inspecting him, the man turned to Alex and their eyes met. Alex reeled back and froze for a minute, starring in astonishment at the man. Stunned, they gaped at each other in complete disbelief, as if both had been struck by lightning—they looked liked a carbon copy of each other. The resemblance between them was striking. The man had a beard and seemed a little bit younger than Alex. His green-blue eyes gave the impression of indifference, and his whole appearance was like that of a hermit. Alex felt that he was looking at himself in the mirror—but perhaps at his own image from some years ago.
“Who are you?” The words escaped Alex, who was unpleasantly annoyed by the presence of his own mirror image.
The man hesitated for a moment, still recovering from shock, and then answered haltingly with an oblique smile, “My name is Eduardo Goldano and I am an artist. But…who are you?”
“My name is Alexander Gold, and I am also an artist.”
“Well, actually,” Mr. Goldano stumbled over his words, “it seems to me…that I do know your name. The day after tomorrow is the opening of your exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art. I read the article in today’s newspaper and saw your photo. It struck me then—the resemblance—but I didn’t linger on it. There are so many people who look alike. Don’t you think so?” He spoke as if trying to brush off the unpleasant fact that a stranger across the room was sharing such an incredible resemblance to him. Then he deliberately changed the subject.
“Your art differs dramatically from mine. It is happy and colorful. You might be a happy man, Mr. Gold,” Eduardo said with a great deal of obvious brusqueness as his eyes continued to search the room, apparently eager to find his object and get out of there as soon as possible.
The word “dramatically” somehow disturbed Alex. He always tried to avoid that word, using it only under the most extreme circumstances. Alex glared at Eduardo for some time, scrambling to remember if he had ever seen any of his work before…but in vain.
“Actually, your name sounds familiar to me too, but I can’t recall having seen any of your paintings. How strange it is that we are both artists,” Alex said, his voice still lingering on every word. “I can hardly get over the fact that such encounters may happen when you least expect them. Did you notice that we look almost like twins?”
Eduardo stared back at him, puzzled. “Yes, I have already mentioned to you that I did notice the incredible resemblance in our appearances, and even our last names have the same root ‘gold.’ But how could we be related? I live in Italy, and I was born in Austria after the war. How old are you?”
“I am going to be sixty-one, and I was born in Russia during the war. Look,” Alex interrupted himself, searching for the right words, “I have just arrived and, honestly, I’m starving.”
At that, Alex suddenly had an idea. He turned sharply to Eduardo. “Would you like to join me for dinner so we can continue our conversation? You forgot your notebook in a lower drawer. I saw it there. Anyway, what do you think about having dinner together, perhaps downstairs?”
And without waiting for his response, Alex began to pull on his jacket.
“I am tired to the bone, and I was planning to leave New York today. By the way, I have already given up my room.”
“So, I should imagine,” Alex smirked, realizing that he now occupied that very same room.
Hesitating for a minute, Eduardo added, “You know, I have always had a certain penchant for solving mysteries. Our encounter seems to me like a portent of destiny.” Moments passed before Eduardo continued, “But perhaps there is some significance to our encounter…or even some mysterious sign.”
He bent over the drawer and pulled out the notebook. Alex listened to Eduardo very attentively.
“I hope you did not read it. Usually, I put down all my thoughts on paper whenever I feel like talking to a friend.” Eduardo’s faltering laugh made an unpleasant impression on Alex, but Eduardo had already moved to the door, inviting Alex to follow him.
And it was only then Alex paid close attention to the man’s manner, which seemed insolent, out of sync with his rather sloppy attire of old frayed jeans and a threadbare blue sweater. This observation, along with the passages from his diary, made Alex think that the man was probably in a state of despondency, and yet he had this scarcely tangible charm that only increased Alex’ curiosity….
* * * * *
On the way to the restaurant, they rode the elevator in silence, scarcely finding words—each one was engrossed in his own thoughts. To their surprise, the restaurant was almost empty at the dinner hour. The subdued misty lights of the chandeliers reflected in the mirrors, adding to the whole interior an eerie sensation of unreality. The walls were painted in a dark red color. Flickering candles were burning on every table, casting yellow, almost magical shadows around them. Instantly, such an enchanting setting created a delightful atmosphere of intimacy that disposed them to a heart-to-heart conversation.
They both noted the expression of bewilderment on the waiter’s face when he ushered them to their table. The situation began to amuse both of them. They exchanged conspiratorial glances and smiled at each other. Somehow, to his own surprise, Alex began feeling a certain affinity with this stranger that he couldn’t yet explain even to himself. His natural curiosity about people’s lives made him start the conversation first.
“Well, Eduardo, how much time do you have in New York? When does your plane leave?”
Eduardo wagged his head. “When am I leaving?” He questioned himself pensively. “Hmm….I hope, soon. You probably realize—I have already missed my plane. Well, to tell you the truth, I have never liked New York, anyway. Every time I visit this city, I am always flummoxed by its meaningless vanity. To me, it’s just a faceless crowd where I feel so very lonely. The city colors look washed-out, as if they are bathed in dust or smoke, like today, for example. So, every time I am in New York, I have a desire to disappear, vanish—maybe because I prefer the clear colors of Rome to the washed-out colors of New-York or, let’s say, perhaps clarity to uncertainty. Yes, yes, I always prefer clarity,” he repeated, avoiding Alex’ puzzled eyes and then explained, “In New York I feel somehow sinking into a cold solitude, drowning in its heavy mug. As an artist, I prefer the natural colors of nature. I am probably only an uncurious and selfish observer of an unintelligible and unfriendly throng of strangers in this city, foreign to me after all.”
He mulled over something for a moment as if choosing the right words. “Oh, yes, going back to your question. Does it really matter to you when I am leaving? Heaven knows, as I said, I have already missed my plane. I was on my way to the airport when I discovered that I had forgotten my notebook in the hotel room and phoned you.”
The waiter brought them a menu and the drinks from the bar that they had ordered.
“Do you believe in destiny?” Alex continued his questioning.
Meanwhile, Eduardo finally relaxed and, settling comfortably in the chair, sipped his drink. “I probably missed the plane because I had a presentiment of today’s meeting. As I said before, both our names have the same root—‘gold’. We and our last names are congeners, and in addition to all these odd coincidences, we are both artists. I don’t know about you, but I am actually greatly perplexed by these facts. In such a case, I should admit—I do really believe in destiny. What say you about it?”
He emptied his glass and flagged the waiter to bring another one.
Alex took out a cigar case and lit his favorite Hawaiian cigar but did not touch his drink. Drawing slowly on his cigar, he was mulling over Eduardo’s keen observation, still unable to express any emotion about such a coincidence. However, he did feel an eerie aura of fascination about Eduardo.
Finally, Alex replied, while inhaling a smoke from his strong cigar, “I have to agree with you. Of course, it’s quite odd. Such things seldom happen, indeed, but we might even be kin. Why do you think I invited you to have dinner with me? I am just as curious as you are.”
Alex pushed a cigar case across the table, inviting Eduardo to join him in a smoke as he mused over his drink. Eduardo opened the case, then instantly changed his mind and pushed it back to Alex. He shook his head in denial.
“I used to be a heavy smoker, like you, but I gave up smoking some years ago. Perhaps after I have learned from my mother about the fate of my father….” He abruptly stopped. “Anyway, I decided to get rid of such a temptation. I recommend that you do the same.”
“I am afraid I don’t have enough willpower to do so. I am following a piece of advice given by Oscar Wilde—to get rid of temptation, you have to yield to it.” Alex burst out laughing.
Puffs of heavy smoke from the strong Hawaiian cigar rose above their heads, and Eduardo began coughing. Alex put the cigar down in the ashtray and leaned back in his chair. For a moment only, they were both deeply submerged in their own ruminations, when Alex reflected.
“It just occurred to me that we should both make an attempt to look into our past. Who knows, maybe we would be able to find some common roots, some crossroads.”
“Sure enough, it might not be a bad idea at all. You could be right, maybe somewhere in the past our life-lines intersected? Let’s erase time just as we would a pencil drawing and dwell on our past. You should start first, Alex.”
Eduardo leaned forward excitedly, and Alex registered a kind of childish interest in his penetrating, aquamarine eyes.
“In this regard, allow me to tell you a story about my parents and grandparents the way I heard it from my father before he died. It might shed some light on the mystery we have encountered today. Remarkable or not, I hope this intricate narrative will be convincing enough….” He floundered for a moment and coughed, clearing his throat.
To the pleasure and surprise of both, their conversation began to take on a kind of hearty intimacy. Alex continued while Eduardo tried to maintain his customary equanimity, “I don’t know if it has anything to do with you, but, at least, we should try to find any common roots if, of course, they exist. You have to be patient with me—my story will embrace two generations of my family history. I hope I will not bore you. So, looking back into my father’s recollection, I have to say that I am amazed how different life is nowadays than it was then….”
Only then did Alex taste his wine, anticipating the furtive pleasure of relating the history of his family that he had never told anybody before, including his own wife. Finally, taking out another cigar, he puffed on it several times, and only then, sinking deeply into the chair, began his narration.
“Look, Eduardo, to be objective, and not to be too boring, I will try to tell my story in the third person. I’ll start it from the day that changed forever the lives of our generation. So it goes…. On June 22, 1941, a hot and muggy summer day was drawing to a close….”