“A Typewriter Symphony” by Sara Aharon

He gets up when he can no longer ignore the sun forcing its way through the blinds.  He showers, wears gym shorts but no shirt over his pale torso and then brews a filtered cup of coffee. He likes his coffee strong, sweet and almost black. Stirring his coffee in a methodical fashion and much longer than needed, he’s already deep in thought. 

The night’s fast is broken with eggs scrambled in butter. He likes his bread fresh, not more than a day old, whiter than white and slathered in butter. No vegetables or fruits please. Some salt on the egg. Otherwise, his spice consumption is negligible. Sugar however, is indispensable.

After breakfast, he consumes all four morning newspapers, the deep grooves in his forehead growing deeper as he reads.

He dresses for work – a starched shirt, creased trousers, and fresh socks – and positions himself in front of the typewriter in his study.

A white sheet of paper is rolled and positioned perfectly on first attempt.

The man looks at the blank page, gazes out the window and draws in a crisp morning breath.

Slowly, he takes out a cigarette pack from his desk drawer, removes the cellophane wrap. The first of four packs he will smoke that day. His eyes are fixated on the page as he raps the pack on the palm of his hand.  Flicking the lid open, he removes the foil and taps up the bottom part of the pack. A single cigarette offers itself up and he picks it out with his lips.

The cigarette hangs patiently at the corner of his mouth while he looks intently at the white paper. It stares back. Defiant.

He lowers his eyes to where words are rustling between the keys, ready. His hands rest tense on the keyboard, eager to catch as many as he can.

The honks and sudden brakes of the busy street he lives on are rising up against gale-force concentration he possesses. His wife’s and daughter’s voices as they prepare their breakfast are vibrations in a distant land.

An open match box sits on the windowsill. He reaches out and picks a match from the box without taking his eyes off the paper. In one quick swipe he creates a flame and the cigarette dances on his lips and then freezes as he inhales deeply. Sulfur mixed with acrid smoke wafts above him.

The man looks out the window and frowns. Then his eyes land back on the paper. 

He lets the smoke come out slowly after each draw, forming a small cloud. Soon the room will be filled with blue smoke, and letters will be singing and swirling in the blue haze. But the first line of the day taps out quietly. Others soon follow. Every few words, a cling, and the man pulls the lever to keep up with the pages that chase each other.

Cling, clack, pull, cling, clack, pull.

The lines run faster, louder. Pages fly out, letters are dancing everywhere. Like musical notes, in a crescendo, they are making a symphony.

Don’t interrupt!

Finally, everything goes quiet.

He pushes his chair reluctantly back. The opaque air slowly clears. Echoes of a fog horn booms in his ear as the man sails out of the room, with his cargo – a brown envelope. He will deliver it to his boss, the newspaper owner and editor-in-chief and then attend a meeting. 

The man’s expected back for dinner around seven.

As the sun sets, he’ll eat his meal, catch up with his family and then very attentively watch the news on television at eight, searching for another story, another idea for an editorial or an article.

Tomorrow morning, if he does not dash out to investigate and interview, he will awaken the typewriter.

And the letters will dance again.

***

That man was my father, Ran Kislev (born Herman Wexler). A highly influential and often controversial journalist at Israel’s Haaretz Daily, he wrote critically for four decades on every possible topic.  

Sara Aharon lives in Toronto. She is the proud mother of two adult daughters. These days she makes her living as a virtual psychologist.

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