Because Read online

  is full of danger and risk;

  because right now it is spring

  and neither of us

  is married, neither has children,

  so the answer is easy —

  I clink my bottle to hers and

  let the too-sweet beer

  carry her doubts into my belly;

  because food is on the way;

  because the answer she wants

  is the one I can’t give her;

  Vienna, 2005 – Fall

  Because the room is a bench

  in the baroque square

  where I sit with my father

  and his many questions;

  because he wants to know how

  he didn’t know, how he

  could have been so blind

  to the friend he thought

  he knew so well; because some lives

  are simply unknowable,

  but how can that be true when

  truth speaks for itself?;

  because he wants to know,

  or needs to know,

  how to review the evidence

  for himself, so it starts,

  and, strangely, I am happy

  to indulge him,

  to let his questions structure

  the story, give it shape;

  because my father is a man

  who probes for clarification

  even if the details are more

  than he can stomach;

  because it’s still new to me, too,

  all this talking,

  and my father is determined

  to remain detached,

  above it, like a scientist studying

  the behaviour of a tribe,

  and he wants to show me

  he isn’t afraid

  to get his hands dirty; because

  like every scientist

  he operates from a hypothesis:

  the good family,

  the educated family, the boy

  who was taught

  right from wrong; because

  he wants to know how

  his son could let something

  like this happen to him:

  Remember when I quizzed you?

  when I told you

  if anything ever happened,

  you wouldn’t get into trouble?;

  because it still hurts him

  to think that Don

  didn’t actually value his friendship;

  because for five years

  I’d helped him believe

  nothing had happened to me,

  that Don preyed only on boys

  from broken homes,

  boys without fathers; because

  Don’s desires obviously

  weren’t limited to a demographic —

  his entire business

  depended on his friends;

  because my father

  cannot tell me he is relieved

  his youngest daughter

  was spared; because a daughter

  is safe, a father is also

  lucky; because he doesn’t yet see

  how his daughter was used

  as bait for love-sick boys,

  as were all our sisters;

  because, like most fathers, what

  he had worried about most

  was her ability to survive us:

  our wild, unchecked

  minds, our grubby hands;

  because it was a relief

  when summer ended and no one

  came home pregnant;

  Montréal, 1997 – Summer

  Because the room is an unmade

  bed scented with perfume

  and sweat and dirty sheets

  where you’ve awoken

  from a dream in which Don

  has found his way once

  again into your body; because

  once again you’ve failed

  to resist the weight of his arms

  on your chest, his anxious

  hands, his exploring mouth;

  because the moment

  he lets you go you wake up fast

  and the woman next to you

  wants to know what you were

  dreaming — it’s like you

  were drowning, she says, like you

  were stuck under water —

  and for some reason you can’t stop

  laughing, because it’s true,

  Don is like water to you,

  and so for the first time,

  you decide to tell her the truth

  if only to make it true;

  because to recount the myth

  of yourself is to destroy it:

  so you start with the image

  of a boy in a loincloth

  covered in war paint, holding

  a spear in one hand

  and a medicine staff in the other;

  because his hair

  is braided with feathers;

  because severed wings

  are strapped to his arms;

  because there are others

  in this picture, boys whose faces

  are obscured by paint,

  whose names he cannot say;

  because one of them

  holds the long, mottled feather

  of a young bald eagle,

  you know it’s his turn now —

  in this way, the myth

  is ready: we had a feather,

  only those who held it

  were allowed to speak;

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  My gratitude to the many friends who took the time to read this manuscript at various stages and offer their insights, critiques, and encouragement. There are more of you than I have space to name here. But I would be remiss not to mention the generosity, in particular, of Sara Peters, Natashia Deón, Jessica Mensch, James Mensch, Steve Hardy, Jakub Ku˘cera, and Robin Elliott, for graciously letting me bomb them with multiple early drafts and responding to each with valuable and substantial advice.

  My eternal gratitude, as well, to those readers of later drafts, whose insights and encouragement came at critical moments in the development of the book, especially Christopher Crawford, Kate Singer, Stephan Delbos, Donna Stonecipher, Michael Stein, Justin Quinn, Joshua Weiner, Stanley Plumly, Michael Collier, Keith Driver, Bradley Paul, Matthew Olzmann, Clare Banks, Michael Theune, Greig Sargent, L.S. McKee, and Ben Williams, whose questions and comments opened up new ways of thinking about the book I was trying to write.

  Francesca Bell and Jan Zikmund deserve special thanks for their great patience in reading each of my “final” drafts before I was ready to turn it in to my publisher.

  Immense gratitude to my editor, Jill Bialosky, for her insights, and for believing in this book; and to Drew Weitman, for guiding me through the publication process with patience and élan. For their early and critical endorsements: Stanley Plumly, Michael Collier, Stephanie Burt, Donna Stonecipher, Ernest Hilbert, and Joanne Diaz.

  A bow of thanks and acknowledgement to my teachers, who often went well beyond the call of duty to offer their support and encouragement as I was figuring out how to write, and whose friendship and generosity continued well past the expiration date of their responsibilities: Eleanor Mutimer, Richard Jackson, Greg O’Dea, Stanley Plumly, Joshua Weiner, Michael Collier, and Elizabeth Arnold.

  Profound thanks to Antonín Lukeš for his many years of friendship and employment, and for giving me the time I needed to complete this book, even while I was being paid to do other things.

  Finally, but always first, to my wife, Zuzana Sklenková—without your love and friendship nothing useful would have come of my life. I love you.

  Note on the Chronology: While I was usually able to recall the year and the general time of year, I could not always recall the exact month when certain events took place. Arranging the scenes by season allowed me to organize the chronology in a way that was true to memory as I recalled it, and plausible in the light of facts that I was able t
o verify later.

  Copyright © 2018 by Joshua Mensch

  All rights reserved

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