Songs of Love & Death

I think I would do better with animals than people,

if I were not so allergic.

You have lost a great friend,

but at least you let yourself have him,

you took the risk of having a friend,

and he had you,

so you cannot ever really lose each other.

The words rolled steadily up the screen and disappeared into the night, and the stars beyond. Martin wrote on, haltingly, but never looking back.

I have not been as brave as you,

so I have no friend like that,

except you.

We cannot really know each other,

and I suppose we never will,

but I have come to think of you as a dear friend,

and I cannot bear to think of you so unhappy.

He took a deep breath here, paused just for a moment, and went on.

I am very lonely.

I have always been lonely.

It is my fault.

Do not let your grief shut you off.

It is too easy,

and it lasts too long.

Oh, Kaskia, so far away

The screen, with his last words still on it, went abruptly blank. Martin stared. The laptop was vibrating under his hands, making a sound like an old-fashioned sewing machine, or a car about to throw a rod. It stopped presently, and new words began to appear on the screen. They were like the sparkling pixel words that Kaskia had first tried before she began to absorb English, but the hand—and, somehow, the tone—were definitely not hers. Martin typed, as before, My name is Martin Gelber, and added, with a touch of defiance, I am Kaskia’s friend.

That got somebody’s attention immediately. He was answered by what came across the screen as a bellow of fury.

YOU.

Martin repeated, My name is Martin Gelber. I am a friend of Kaskia’s—

I KNOW YOU.

The laptop seemed to shiver in the face of such outrage, however faraway.

THE ONE TRIES COMMAND MY CHILD.

Martin stared at the screen in bewilderment and horror. He typed back Child? I’m talking about Kaskia!

The new voice was slower to reply this time, and not quite as accusatory.

MY CHILD. MY DAUGHTER.

Martin thought of Ivan at the supermarket. Then he typed, I didn’t know.

The voice on the laptop screen still resolved in capitals, but the tone no longer came across as menacing.

WOULD NOT. KASKIA LIKES TALK. STORIES. LIKES STORIES.

“Yes,” Martin said softly, remembering; and then typed, Yes. So then she is not a famous singer and musician?

LIKES SINGING.

Of course, he replied. The sad story about her pet dying?

DEAD. YES. OLDER SISTER’S.

Martin said, “Oh dear.”

GOOD GIRL. GOOD GIRL.

Yes, Martin typed again. Smart girl. Don’t punish, please.

The voice did not answer. Martin wrote, slowly now, Your daughter changed me. I don’t know how, or in what way. But I am different because of her. Better, perhaps—different, anyway. Tell her so.

Still no answer. Martin was no longer sure of the voice’s presence, but he asked, One other question. Every time we spoke, Kaskia and I, there was an image of the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. I thought it was a picture of her. Not?

GOOD-BYE KASKIA FRIEND.

“Good-bye,” Martin said softly. “Good-bye, Kaskia.”

The laptop went dark and still. Martin touched the One Key, but nothing happened. He had an odd feeling that nothing would again; the computer had served its purpose, at least for him. He shut it off, unplugged it, wrapped the power cord around it, and put it in a drawer.

After two cups of strong percolated coffee, he called Barry. When his cousin—hungover and grumpy, by the sound of him—answered the phone, Martin said, “Barry? Do you remember the old Prince Albert sting?”

“Prince Albert?” Barry was definitely hungover. “Say what?”

“You remember. Big fun for bored kids on rainy afternoons. Call up a smoke shop, a candy store, ask them if they’ve got Prince Albert in a can. Remember now?”

A hoarse chuckle. “Right, sure, yeah. They say yes, and we say, ‘Well, let him out right now, he can’t breathe in there!’ Then we giggle like mad, and they call us little motherfuckers and hang up. What the hell put that in your head?”

“Just Memory Lane, I guess.”

“Hey, I heard about Lorraine. That really sucks. You okay?”

“I guess. Not really sure what okay is right now. I guess so.”

“Okay means there’s better out there, lots better. Seize the weekend, like they say in Rome—old Cousin Barry’s going to hook you up with one of his Midnight Specials. Meanwhile you’re crazy free, right?”

“Crazy, anyway.” To his own surprise, Martin realized he was smiling. “We’ll see about the free part.”