After Auschwitz: A Love Story by Brenda Webster

exactly? I don’t know anymore and I used to be so good at dates.
    â€œRenzo,” Hannah taps me on the shoulder and I look up hoping she has come to kiss me, to encourage me to face my day. “Do you remember that the
studentessa
with the big eyes is coming to interview you today?”
    â€œI don’t have any students anymore.”
    â€œI know, I know, I was just joking but she certainly actslike one. You know who I mean—Ernesto’s young wife, Elena. She has a project to do a video interview.”
    â€œOh yes,” I say but really I don’t remember saying the young wife could come.
    â€œOn aging,” Hannah adds kindly. “You should change your shirt. Wear the blue pinstripe. It brings out the color of your eyes.” She goes to the closet and brings me the shirt and a fresh pair of khakis. Then leaves me to change. As though on cue, the doorbell rings just as I am zipping my pants.
    â€œI’ll get it,” Hannah calls. You go into the
salòtto.”
    I wish she wouldn’t tell me everything. I can still decide the best spot to be interviewed. I’m not that far gone. Not a child either. But she gets pleasure out of always being the one who knows.
    It turns out that the interview is to be about what is beautiful in aging. How did I ever agree to this? Probably just because I like looking at a pretty woman, especially when she is looking back at me.
    Elena is wearing a pink shirt that clings to her breasts. They are not big but sweetly shaped. I sigh and take up the paper she gives me. Instead of questions, there is just a repeated phrase: aging is beautiful because …
    â€œAge isn’t beautiful, it’s horrendous,” I say.
    â€œPlease,” she pleads, looking at me with her big eyes. Her legs are as lovely as her breasts. Tanned, shapely.
    â€œAge is beautiful,” I go on, pleased with the idea of twisting the phrase to mean its opposite, “because you look at a girl and she doesn’t see you.
    â€œAge is beautiful because you don’t remember the words of a song.
    â€œAge is beautiful because you can’t tie your shoes.
    â€œAge is beautiful because you fall and break a leg. Here I look at her and smile. My smile is still good, I think. It underlines the wry humor in my responses.
    â€œAge is beautiful because you talk and are not understood.
    â€œAge is beautiful because you fix a telephone and it doesn’t ring.” Just as I say that the phone does ring and the young wife laughs. I wish I could think of a project that would have her visiting more often. It is Lucian calling me. I tell him to call back and look back at the paper.
    â€œAge is beautiful because you piss your pants.” No. That was too much. Over the line. She grimaces, no longer amused.
    â€œBasta,”
I say. “Enough. Let’s have some tea.” Hannah, acting the part of secretary, had brought in the teapot. Reaching for it, I drop my cane. The young wife lunges towards it obviously afraid I’ll crash, but I beat her to it.
    â€œDon’t worry, my dear. I’ve got it,” I say, retrieving it awkwardly.
    My head feels heavy, as though it is determined to pull me down, while my thighs are signaling distress at having to hold me back. Poor me. Trying to ignore my pains, I suggest to the young wife that she add some photos of me as a young man. I tell her where to look for the photo album on the high shelf near the door. I’ve shown enough bravado for one day. She mounts the little step-stool gracefully and pulls it down. The photos are black and white, slipped into black corners. I motion to her to sit beside me on the white couch and together we turn the pages.
    â€œYou were so handsome,” she says.
    â€œWere?” I tease, and she blushes. God, I was a lion … baring my teeth in a seductive smile. Thick dark hair. Sex seemed to radiate from my skin. She feels it too and my transformation