Call Me Brooklyn Read online

  Call Me

  Brooklyn

  Eduardo Lago

  Translated by

  Ernesto Mestre-Reed

  DALKEY ARCHIVE PRESS

  CHAMPAIGN / LONDON / DUBLIN

  CONTENTS

  One

  FENNERS POINT

  Two

  DEAUVILLE

  Three

  ABE LEWIS

  Four

  BROOKLYN HEIGHTS

  Five

  ZADIE

  Six

  BEN’S ARCHIVE

  Seven

  THE DEATH NOTEBOOK

  Eight

  DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU’RE DATING?

  Nine

  UMBERTO PIETRI

  Ten

  DIALOGUE OF THE DEAD

  Eleven

  CONEY ISLAND

  Twelve NÉSTOR

  Thirteen

  THE AVENGING ANGEL (FRAGMENTS OF BROOKLYN)

  Fourteen

  RETURN TO FENNERS POINT

  Fifteen

  CALL ME BROOKLYN

  EPILOGUE

  One

  FENNERS POINT

  “The dead exist only in us.”

  MARCEL PROUST

  On reaching Fenners Point, the county road makes a sharp turn to the west, inching away from the coast toward Deauville. At the height of the curve, on the seaside, is a metal plaque that reads:

  DANISH CEMETERY

  Underneath it, a green arrow points to the beginning of a path that leads into a pine grove. Some two hundred yards in, the woods open to a clearing overlooking an endless swath of the Atlantic. The coastline rises to vertiginous heights at Fenners Point. There, two strips of land jut out into the water, forming an ominously shaped enclosure. Within its walls, the surf ceaselessly pounds against an archipelago of black reefs. This strange feature of the shore has come to be known as the Devil’s Pitchfork.

  The best place from which to appreciate Fenners Point and its surroundings is the northern end of a tunnel carved through solid stone on the edge of the shore: Along the coastline, a series of gigantic vaults recede into the distance. At intervals, the ceilings seem on the verge of collapsing into the void. Below, amid the jagged rocks that the joint labor of time and the waves have ripped away from the shore, there’s a narrow beach of white sand, inaccessible by land or sea. When night falls, a web of lights alerts ships to the dangers off Fenners Point. It was only after these lights were put up that the fateful history of shipwrecks that haunted the memory of the residents near the Devil’s Pitchfork came to a stop.

  When I began to put Gal Ackerman’s papers in order, I came across an article published in the Deauville Gazette on June 7, 1965. It says:

  BEACONS INSTALLED OFF

  DEAUVILLE COAST

  Last Friday, a system of light signals was installed at the so-called Devil’s Pitchfork. Given the perennially dangerous conditions of the sea at Fenners Point, the work had to be delayed repeatedly, until the weather allowed. Shortly before noon on June 4, two helicopters from Linden Grove Naval Base made a visual inspection. Hovering in the air, not far from the reach of the waves, ropes were let out from the aircrafts. Two men carrying precision instruments climbed down.

  I smiled. It was just as well the article didn’t have a byline. To me, the identity of the author was self-evident.

  With remarkable speed, the men anchored some twenty steel bars to the surface of the tallest rocks. Each of the beacons is topped with a light that can be activated by a radio signal. Maintenance workers from the county’s engineering services observed the installation from official vehicles parked along the road. After a little more than half an hour, during which the sound of the helicopter blades echoing off the stone walls mixed with the roar of the waves, the ropes were lifted, and taking in their human cargo, the aircrafts rattled away along the coastline. Ever since then, when darkness falls, the reefs take on an eerie appearance. With this often-delayed task accomplished, the authorities hope to provide the county coastline with a more adequate level of safety . . .

  I have returned many times to Fenners Point, driving alone up the road that leads to the cliffs. And I have to say that the eeriest view is not the lights that twinkle on the reefs at night. In the clearing between the pine woods and the shore there is a small cemetery surrounded by a stone wall. To go in, all you have to do is push open the wrought-iron gate. Inside is an abandoned chapel with a handful of gravestones scattered in front of it. All save one are anonymous, adorned with nothing but crosses carved on the surface of the marble. Next to the door of the chapel, there is a plaque that reads:

  IN MEMORIAM

  On May 19, 1919, the freighter Bornholm of the Royal Danish Navy crashed into the reefs at Fenners Point. Only thirteen bodies, which could not be identified, were recovered. The others rest forever at the bottom of the sea. Say a prayer for their souls.

  Consulate General of Denmark

  New York City,

  September 21, 1919

  MARINE CEMETERY

  “To gaze and gaze upon the gods’ repose!”

  PAUL VALÉRY

  Brooklyn Heights, April 17, 1992

  Yesterday morning we buried Gal. It had to be that way, like in one of his favorite poems, in a cemetery by the sea swept at all hours by the wind, where the cawing of the seagulls mingles with the incessant murmur of the water. His grave overlooks the magnificent and often roiling Atlantic, although just yesterday it was calm, with the flat blue of the ocean stretching out to the horizon. Everything makes sense; Gal had found the place he was destined to rest forever, alone. “Danish Cemetery” said the sign that he had seen countless times as he passed through Fenners Point by bus on the way to Deauville to see Louise Lamarque. One day, driving by with her, he told her to pull over when he saw the sign. They went together down the dirt road that crosses through the pine grove until they reached an esplanade at the very edge of the cliff. The cemetery was there, a tiny place hidden from human sight. Louise explained to me much later that it had begun as a resting place for the remains of a group of shipwrecked Danish seamen, the crew of a merchant ship carrying a cargo of wheat. Gal never told her that he liked the idea of ending up buried there, but when Frank called Louise with the news of Gal’s death, the first thing that came into her head was that they needed to bury him in Fenners Point. Frank loved the idea. Gal had spoken to him about the Danish Cemetery more than once. Thanks to his connections, in less than forty-eight hours the gallego had managed to secure a permit for the burial. Only Gal’s closest friends attended, although later in the afternoon many others stopped by the Oakland. Gal Ackerman didn’t have any family. His father Ben died in ‘66, his mother Lucia Hollander in ‘79. Nadia Orlov didn’t show up, of course. They’d lost track of her years before, and no one knew if she was dead or alive, although those of us who knew Gal felt something akin to her presence throughout the whole ceremony. As Frank said, if she was still out there, sooner or later she’d hear the news. The burial was very simple, as Gal would have wanted it. No one prayed for him, unless the racket of the seagulls flying above our heads was some sort of prayer. Louise read a few lines from a Valéry poem, and that was it. After the workers hired by Víctor had covered the coffin with earth and set up the gravestone, the motorcade returned to Brooklyn Heights. Frank posted a note on the door of the Oakland announcing to its patrons that there would be an open bar in memory of Gal Ackerman that night. People kept arriving into the wee hours of the morning. Gal would have loved it, just as I’m sure he’ll appreciate resting forever at Fenners Point, by the edge of a cliff, in the company of a few Danish seamen, all good drinkers no doubt, as if he had never truly left the Oakland.

  THE DELIVERY

  Fenners Point, April 14, 1994


  Gal, do you recognize the date of your death? April 14. The anniversary of the proclamation of the Spanish Republic. Knowing you, I doubt it was a coincidence. It was exactly the type of joke you always liked to play, convinced that nobody else would get it. But you can’t fool me. It’s been two years now. Just in case, I’ve chosen exactly the same day to bring you Brooklyn, that way I can laugh along with you. You were one of a kind; when you died, a whole species disappeared with you. The truth is that it’s difficult for me to accept that you’re no longer among the living. Every time I set foot in the Oakland, my heart sinks realizing I’m not going to see you there sitting at one of the tables. You talked about death so much, wrote about it so much, and now you’re there on the other side as well. I had never lost anyone close to me, and didn’t know how to deal with it. You used to say that the dead don’t depart completely, that in some fashion they remain among us. But the hard truth of the matter, for me, is that you’re not here. You’ve left forever, Gal, anything else is meaningless. Yes, yes. I know you too well, you don’t even have to say it. I didn’t spend all that time putting your writing together not to pick a few things up. Just now, I hear your voice crisp and clear, mocking me: If that’s what you believe, what the hell are you doing here standing on my grave, talking to me as if you were convinced that your words could somehow reach me? All right, you win, but that doesn’t change the fact that today, on the 14th of April, it’s been two years since your death, and the anniversary of the Second Republic in Spain seems like a perfect date to bring you your book. Yes, yes, I’ve finished it. Here’s your novel, Gal, Brooklyn. I’ll leave it here in the niche that Louise asked Frank to carve in the gravestone. Like they say the Egyptians did, so it keeps you company in death. Forgive the cliché, but when I saw it from far away as I came in, alone and facing all the others, your gravestone made me think of a blank page. It is the only one without a cross. I like that very much—no epitaph, only your initials and two years, as if the inscription were just a watermark on a sheet of paper:

  GA

  1937–1992

  It was a foregone conclusion, you had to come to the same end as the characters in your novel. Now that I’ve finished it, I don’t have a clue what I’m going to do with my life. I’ve realized that the time has come for a change of scenery. I’ve become a little bit like you, not comfortable anywhere. I don’t know why, but every now and then I’m overcome by such a sense of panic that the only way to stop it is to run away. For the moment, I’m still in Brooklyn (in your studio), but that can’t last long. Although who knows. For people like us, there comes a time when it’s no longer possible to continue fleeing. It happened to Louise Lamarque with her brownstone in Chelsea. She’s been there for more than twenty years, talking to her dead, like you used to do. Although painting keeps her together, which is what should have happened to you with Brooklyn. You know, aside from Frank, she’s the only other person who’s seen a copy. Three readers. Not bad. You never said it in so many words, but I know you didn’t much care about being read, so long as the right people read you.

  Louise. I owe my friendship with her to you. It was your absence that brought us closer. We met the day you were buried. You’d spoken to me about her so much that having her right there in front of me made me shudder. She was exactly as I had imagined her: an older woman, tall, elegant, mysterious. That day she wore a very simple black dress, her face hidden behind a veil. So you’re Néstor, she said when Frank introduced us, holding her hand out to me and lifting her veil. Her face was slashed with wrinkles, her eyes steely. There wasn’t time to say much more. She’d arrived extremely late to the funeral parlor, and Frank had been impatient because the limousines were supposed to have headed out to Fenners Point by then. You’ll have time later, he said, and accompanied her into the chapel so she could have a moment alone with you before they closed the coffin.

  It was a perfect day, sunny and warm with a light breeze. After the ceremony ended and we were leaving the cemetery, she asked me to sit next to her on the ride back. The two of us were alone in the enormous interior of the limousine. In front, separated from us by a pane of tinted glass, were Frank Otero and Víctor Báez. At first, we went a long time without saying anything. The cliffs were to the left of the road, and our eyes involuntary drifted toward the sea. Every once in a while, the trees obstructed the view of the ocean. When the road finally pulled away from the coast, Louise looked forward and without lifting her veil said in a very soft voice:

  It’s not that it took me by surprise. We all knew that it was going to happen at any moment, but I just don’t have the strength for this anymore. I’m too old to withstand such blows. How many dead do you have?

  I wasn’t sure what she meant, so I didn’t respond.

  Three for me, she continued. That’s not a lot, but it’s not really a matter of numbers. It’s how hard it is to put up with their absence as time passes. Three, not counting my mother. She died when I was only a few months old, and I have no memories of her. The first death that really affected me was my father’s, when I was fourteen. I almost lost my mind. Are your parents still alive?

  I answered yes, and she nodded.

  At first, I didn’t understand what had happened. I denied the evidence. I couldn’t accept that my father had abandoned me. When after a long time I was finally able to come to terms with it, something changed in me. How do I explain it? I had been suffering for over a year and, suddenly, without my noticing it, the pain had transformed into something else. Rage, fury, I’m not quite sure what . . . if it wasn’t hatred, it sure felt a lot like it. I wanted to make him pay for having left my side.

  Then she lifted her veil, and for the second time I was able to look at her face. Her eyes were a clear blue, strangely cold. She took out a pack of Camels from her purse and held it out to me.

  Do you smoke?

  I said no, but she didn’t budge. It took me a few seconds to react. I grabbed the pack and found a plastic lighter inside. I pulled out a cigarette, handed it to her, and lit it. Louise lowered the window a crack and, letting out a mouthful of smoke, she asked me in an almost inaudible voice:

  Am I talking too much?

  I shook my head.

  The next death was even worse. I don’t know if Gal ever told you about Marguerite. She was my companion for more than ten years . . .

  Even though it was practically impossible to smoke the cigarette down any further, Louise took one last drag before she tossed it through the slit in the window. The butt seemed to strike some invisible wall, leaving behind a trail of sparks in the air. She put the pack of cigarettes back in her purse and lowered the veil. Her fingertips were yellow from nicotine.

  Gal was my best friend, if not the only one. My one true friend, I mean. We had known each other for almost thirty years . . . She clicked her tongue, making a face that I didn’t quite know how to interpret. His death is a sign, I’m sure of it. I feel as if the scales have been thrown out of balance forever.

  A long silence ensued, broken by Frank as he lowered the glass partition. He announced that we were almost arriving and asked Louise if she wanted to have a drink with us at the Oakland. She replied that she wanted to be alone, so Otero told Víctor to drive her to Manhattan. As we were saying good-bye, she held my hand tightly:

  Come by my studio at dusk some day, she said. I think we have a lot to talk about. Although you wouldn’t know it by today, I assure you that I’m a good listener.

  She emphasized her words with a burst of dry laughter. It was the first time I had heard her laugh. There was something strangely familiar about it.

  Ever since, I’ve visited her Chelsea brownstone regularly. She almost always has guests over: art collectors, critics, musicians, poets, and, above all, young artists who have a deep admiration for her work. Eventually, her assistant Jacques finds a way to get everyone out of the house and leave us alone. I usually talk about the work I’ve finished during the day, just as I used to do with you. S
he is so talented that it’s hard to believe it took the world so long to recognize it. But what’s most astonishing is her indifference to all of it. She couldn’t care less what anybody thinks about her. Jacques says that she’s always been like that. The first time I went to see her, one of her guests, a very young sculptor, said something in French that I didn’t quite get, although I understood enough to realize that it was about her fame. Louise let out a burst of laughter identical to the one that had escaped from her when we had said good-bye after returning from Fenners Point. Louise’s laugh is solemn, deep, just like her voice—the laugh of a smoker. She pressed her cigarette butt on the ashtray and repeated the young man’s words, as he watched for her reaction anxiously. Right then, I suddenly understood what attracted you to each other, Gal. Louise mocks the things that most people worry about, just like you used to. She doesn’t give a damn that at the end of her life she’s mobbed by this attention that she never once sought out in the first place. Both of you despised the ways of the world equally. That’s why she said that your death had thrown off the scales. You left her all alone, Gal.

  When she doesn’t feel like talking, she suggests that we take tea in her library. Watching her wrinkled face, seeing her light one unfiltered Camel with the butt of another, I’ve learned to recognize in her the same inner strength that you had. I don’t know what to call it. It’s not disdain or indifference, but rather a kind of dignity that she uses to defend herself from I don’t know what. I had seen this same strength in you many times, strange but positive, charged with an almost violent vitality. Both of you needed to be near danger, although she’s much less vulnerable than you were. When Louise feels cornered, she turns in on herself; you, on the other hand, drove yourself crazy, and you wouldn’t settle down until you had managed to hurt yourself, the worse the better.