The Border of Paradise: A Novel Read Free

decency. If I continued to “refuse to grow up,” as he obliquely referred to my slippery grades, and to behave no better than a modern-day boy without a shadow, I’d never be a capable successor. He would bring me to an important meeting in the coming week. “It will be part of your education,” my father said.
    I had no say in the matter, and little understanding of what it really meant to be a Nowak son. The myth of the Nowak Piano Company—a Polish immigrant arriving in America with nothing but a Bible, a tuning fork, and a knife! The notion of an affordable, but still beautiful, piano! The immigrant’s ingenuity and his consequent success as a piano maker in an inhospitable land!—this tale was as essential to our family as the story of the birth of Christ. When it came to the modern-day workings of the company, my understanding of their importance came from my parents, who spoke of our pianos as though they, and thus we, were crucial not only to the esteemed world of music, but to America itself. I believed this not because I saw with my own eyes, on the way to the park or school, a Nowak piano in every living room window, or because of other children’s reactions upon hearing my name; I never saw such a thing, or heard any envious tones. I believed in our importance only because my parents overtly stated it all my life. And I was proud to be a Nowak, and relieved that my father still considered me the company’s heir, because it was essential that I honor my parents. It was necessary that I should have the chance to demonstrate my ambition, and to put my smarts to work as their son.
    But I made sure that my children would grow up without this on their backs. They believe that the pianos in our living room state our names because they belong to us, in the way that a mother might carefully embroider a shirt label with EMMA or MARK .

    Oh, Gillian, my little Artemis: you would not be surprised to hear that you are my favorite in the family. I think that became clearest when I began to teach you taxidermy, but William is fussy ina way that you are not. I have always been proud of the way you handle yourself around blood and viscera. Do you remember the first time I had you make your own rabbit’s foot? Your delicate fingers moved with such confidence, and when your small hand wrapped around the penknife I thought, How powerful she is! I have always been proud of you.

    Though we were well known in Greenpoint, only a few were truly in my parents’ circle. George Pawlowski was my father’s right-hand man, and had been since my dziadek passed on and willed the company to Ojciec. Vicky Pawlowski was by default my mother’s closest friend, though Matka never seemed quite intimate with anyone who didn’t live under her roof; and when Mrs. Pawlowski and Matka did socialize at our home, their conversations were full of halting pauses that made me squirm. But for my mother, it was clear that Mrs. Pawlowski served a crucial purpose—the woman tethered her to society. Once, and only once, did I overhear Mrs. Pawlowski’s sobs as she spoke in a roundabout way about infertility. This explained the Pawlowskis’ lack of children, and perhaps also the bond between Mrs. Pawlowski and my mother.
    Mrs. Pawlowski was the first to note the Orlichs’ appearance in the neighborhood. From the beginning, she was unconvinced, as she put it to my mother. Their only boy, Marty, was my age, thirteen, and he began to show up in my classes, more often than not sitting next to me because of the alphabetical rows. Marty quickly became infamous for his foul mouth, which simultaneously titillated and unnerved us, his peers. He was of average height and build. He had a sharp face, with a pointy chin and nose and slashes for eyebrows, and when he smiled it was like he was leering at the world.
    At the dinner table my father said, “You know that new family, the Orlichs. Well, Benjamin stopped by the manufactory today.”
    “Oh?” Matka