The Correspondence Artist Read Free

They’d always been discreet, even after Hannah conceived a child and Tzipi took to calling him, as well, her son.

    Tzipi had been married briefly in the ’70s and she had an adult son, Asher, with whom she was very close. In fact, they were famously close – and I’d always identified with her because of that, because of my relationship with Sandro. Maybe it’s something of a cliché. Like Susan Sontag and her son. I simultaneously romanticize this model, and worry about its pathological implications. Anyway, the parallels were obvious.
    Hannah had been introduced to Tzipi as a young student. She was writing poetry and Tzipi took her under her wing. Hannah stopped writing almost immediately, and pretty soon she’d dedicated herself entirely to being with Tzipi. She moved in. A few years later she had Pitzi. I’ve seen a photograph of her pregnancy. She was so stunningly beautiful. Annie Leibovitz took a portrait of her, smiling beatifically over her perfect, soft breasts, the tendrils of her brown hair falling over her shoulders, her lovely, round belly circled by Tzipi’s unmistakably muscular and yet graceful, tanned arm. Tzipi was mostly out of the shot, obscured by Hannah’s naked glory, but you could see her pressing her face into the back of her lover’s neck.
    That was ten years ago. Hannah was 19. Tzipi was 58.
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    Sunday, March 20, 2005, 10:29 a.m.
    Subject: my bad manners
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    Tzipi, I felt so sad afterwards – for you, and for her. I hope from the bottom of my heart that things get better soon.
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    I just wanted to tell you that despite the circumstances, it was an immense pleasure to meet you and talk a little.
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    I also wanted to give you the reference for that CD of Thelonious Monk learning “I’m Getting Sentimental over You.” It’s “Monk: The Transformer.” If you can’t find it, tell me, and I’ll send it to you.

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    I survived my last break-up watching Monty Python’s Flying Circus on DVD – I recommend it.
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    I don’t know if I should ask your forgiveness for my timidity, or for being so brash as to seek you out in Tel Aviv, and get you into that mess. Then again, my guide book said that in Tel Aviv, there are two things a foreigner never needs to learn to say in Hebrew: “thank you,” and “I’m sorry.” It said the expression for “excuse me” is literally “get out of my way.” This doesn’t come so naturally to a woman like me, whose aggression is generally of the passive variety. So I’ll just say, Tzipi, sorry.
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    Yours, V
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    After Hannah stormed out of the restaurant we tried to recover, but Tzipi’s cell phone kept going off. The first two times she spoke in a hushed voice, but when it went off a third time she said, “Maybe I’d better just take you back to your hotel. She’s having a hard night.” Of course I agreed. God knows, I wouldn’t have been able to eat, anyway.
    In the car driving back, we tried to talk a little about music. Tzipi often writes about jazz, and piano improvisation is a kind of leitmotif in more than one of her novels. I told her about a fabulous CD a friend had given to Sandro of Monk learning a tune. She was intrigued. As I described it to her, I found myself reaching over and touching her arm. I knew what I was doing.
    Then we stopped at a light, and Tzipi looked up into the rearview mirror. “Oh, look at that,” she said calmly. “She’s following us.” I wrenched around and saw Hannah gripping the steering wheel of the car directly behind us. My pulse picked up again. We pulled up in front of the hotel and I thought to myself, “Maintain composure.” Tzipi and I leaned in and kissed each other on the cheek. The porter of the hotel was opening the car
door. I swung my leg out, began to step out, and suddenly felt a thud on the right side of my