In Babylon. Marcel Moring

of the test tube. ‘Are you telling me that you … that you drift off and then dream a fairy tale?’

      ‘Daydream.’

      ‘Daydream.’

      I nodded.

      ‘I’ve always wondered where you got them from. Good thing you’re not married.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Married, you know? To a woman?’

      ‘You mean that I wouldn’t make a very companionable husband.’

      ‘Companionable …’ she said. ‘No, I mean you’re just unconscious half the time.’

      ‘Where did you find this?’ I held up the bottle.

      ‘In the cellar. I spent a long time poking around. It was somewhere down at the bottom.’

      The bottle was grey with dust, but I recognized it immediately. It was the red Aloxe Corton I had once given Uncle Herman for his birthday.

      ‘The corkscrew is still in the kitchen.’

      ‘I’ll go and get it.’

      She was already at the door, when I called to her. ‘Aren’t you afraid, all by yourself?’

      ‘Of course I am, but there’s not much point in thinking about it. And I’ve just spent about half an hour alone in that cellar. I’ve already stood the test.’

      I had thought that she had been gone for five minutes. Half an hour. I had lost half an hour of my consciousness. As if someone had thrown a switch and I had disappeared from ‘now’ and sunk away into my family’s past. The line between the world of the living and the dead, I thought, is growing thinner all the time.

      When Nina returned with the corkscrew I cut the seal off the bottle and said, ‘This wine is nearly twenty years old. It might be past its best by now. The white …’ I began twisting the metal spiral into the neck. ‘… the white is renowned. One of the greatest …’ The cork was wedged in tightly. ‘… white wines. Charles the Fifth used to drink it, I’ve been told.’ It came out in one piece. Because the bottle had been lying in the rack for so long there was some deposit on the cork, but I saw no crystals. I picked up a glass and poured, the light of a candle behind the bottleneck. The wine was deep red in colour, not a trace of cloudiness. As I turned the glass around and looked at the liquid, I felt Nina’s gaze. I leaned over and sniffed. Then I took a careful sip. Somewhere in the distance a forest loomed up, with plenty of wood for chopping. I immediately thought of a story, ‘Blueberries’, by Tolstoy. Deep in the slow whirling of flavours and aromas I could clearly taste them: blueberries.

      ‘There is a God,’ I said.

      ‘N,’ she said, ‘you’re whining.’

      Uncle Herman had good taste, completely unlike his brother, though I could certainly appreciate Manny’s preference for corned beef sandwiches with mustard and dill chips and a large glass of Budweiser. The difference was, I thought, as I drank my wine, that one sense of taste had a deeper richness, and the other, a more superficial one. When you got right down to it, I thought, that was probably the difference between America and Europe. We were accustomed to the struggle to reach the depths and, once there, to seek the things we were searching for. The Americans had brought that depth to the top and created a surface that was far richer and more complex than ours. For a moment I wondered what that meant for me, a product of both these cultures.

      ‘The tape is still running.’

      ‘I’m not surprised.’

      ‘Should I throw more wood on the fire?’

      ‘Please. But be careful.’

      She got a few bits and pieces and added them to the blazing pile in the hearth.

      ‘Now,’ she said, when she was sitting down again. ‘The story.’

      ‘What would you like to hear? Everything, from the very beginning, or would you rather I choose something?’

      ‘Something about yourself, then. Don’t you think that would be appropriate?’

      ‘I don’t really play a part in the story of my family. I was there, that’s all. That’s my second talent: I’m always there.’

      ‘Then tell me where you’ve been.’

      ‘The atom bomb, for instance.’

      She looked at me, and when our eyes met I saw that a trace of fearful doubt had crept into her gaze.

      ‘I know it sounds ridiculous, but I was there at the first test explosion.’

      ‘In Japan?’

      ‘No, that wasn’t the first. In the desert, near Alamogordo, New Mexico.’

      ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Supposing … no, I believe you, but … would you please begin at the beginning?’

      ‘The problem is, you never quite know where the beginning is, in this family …’

      ‘Somewhere,’ she said, louder now. ‘Begin somewhere, anywhere, and work your way forward. Chronologically. All this jumping back and forth is driving me mad.’

      I drank my wine and tried to forget Tolstoy’s blueberries. Nina sat curled up in her chair, head bowed, the heavy red hair like a hood around her face and over her shoulders. I filled our glasses, we drained them. We smoked another cigarette. Outside, the wind grabbed hold of the shutters and ran its hands along the house looking for chinks, holes, some way to get in. It wailed and moaned like a restless spirit. Around us the darkness bowed over the glow of the flames and it was as if we were sitting in a cave: the storyteller and the last member of his tribe, waiting until the fire, and finally they, too, turned to ashes.

       A Land of Milk and Butter

      IT ALL BEGAN with Great-Great-Grand-Uncle Chaim Levi and his nephew Magnus. Uncle Chaim was a clockmaker, Magnus came walking all the way from Poland, his tool chest on his back, to build a new life for himself in the Lowlands. My great-grandfather, who was also a clockmaker, and my grandfather, the physicist, prided themselves on the fact that the men in our family, since the prehistory of clockwork, had all been people of time. Whenever my grandfather was holding forth and wanted to lend weight to his argument, he would bring up Magnus. Magnus Levi had learned the trade from Uncle Chaim, who had invented the pendulum clock, an innovation that made so little impression in seventeenth-century Lithuania that Uncle Chaim had flung it under his workbench, forgot about it, and was promptly forgotten himself. According to Uncle Herman, that pendulum clock was the first example of a familial talent to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

      Clockmakers, that’s what we were, even in the days when time was a rare commodity. Ragged tinkers who travelled from town to village and village to town, the clocks in a chest on their back, the little tools rolled up in canvas. Always on the road and always the tinkling of the bells of the wall clocks, the faint thrumming of the rods in the mantel clocks, the chickechickechick of the pocket watches. They carried time on their backs. Time travelled with them. Time was what they lived on. And for some, time was why they died. A distant ancestor once repaired a steeple clock, somewhere in the East, in a provincial capital on the edge of a Steppe. The clockwork had run riot and every few minutes you heard the sonorous chiming of the quarter hour or the rich blur of strokes that told the hour. The smith, at risk to his own life, had tried to disconnect the striking mechanism, but had got no further than muffling the sound with an old gunnysack. By the time the clockmaker arrived, he had nearly been beaten to a pulp. In the village, no one (except the deaf sexton) had slept for two days. Men, women, children, even animals had bags under their eyes and snarled and snapped at each other. Happy marriages threatened to dissolve, many women had fled to their relatives in other villages, the cows had stopped giving milk. There wasn’t a bird to be seen for miles around.

      The