‘Exactly,’ said Zalman.
Then Arthur rang breathlessly at the door, had in his haste already taken his coat off on the step, and to his own surprise he was still the first. ‘And I thought… I couldn’t get away from the practice. Everybody’s got a cold in this weather. And it was summer only a moment ago. Can I go and wash my hands again, Hinda?’ At work he didn’t notice the smell of carbolic on his hands, but in any different surroundings he felt as careless as if he were bothering his fellow men with private matters.
They all wanted to postpone the unpleasantness that awaited them, which was why no one wanted to sit down first. They remained standing very formally behind their chairs, and talked about all kinds of things, but not about what vexed them.
‘Have you heard anything about Ruben?’ asked Arthur.
‘He writes every week.’
‘Are things going well for him in Kolomea?’
‘He has become even more pious.’ It was impossible to tell from Zalman’s tone whether he was pleased or annoyed about this.
‘Good,’ said Arthur, and then, after a pause, again. ‘Very good.’ Like an old man, he reflected irritably, who has to keep his own company and fills his empty days with pointless scraps of language. He coughed with embarrassment, pulled out his watch, which he wore on an old-fashioned chain from his waistcoat pocket, and let the cover spring open. ‘They’re all late.’
‘There are two methods in negotiations,’ Zalman lectured. ‘Either you come first and are to some extent the balebos who determines the rules, or you keep the others waiting to demonstrate that you don’t need to be on time.’
‘This isn’t pay bargaining, Zalman!’
‘You’re right there, Frau Kamionker. In pay bargaining each side knows what it wants. Today they’ll just know what they don’t want.’
The Pomeranzes appeared next. Mimi, all in matronly black, was breathing heavily, in a reproachful way, as if it were a personal affront to her that the Kamionkers could only afford a flat on the third floor. ‘You should lose some weight,’ Arthur thought, ‘then climbing the stairs wouldn’t be so hard for you.’
Pinchas’s beard had turned greyer over the previous few weeks, but perhaps Hinda was only imagining that. He rested his hand on Désirée’s shoulder the whole time, either to bolster her courage or just to hold on to her.
Désirée had parted her hair in the middle again, which gave her the girlish appearance of someone who needed protection, and she was wearing a very plain white dress that must have been freezing for her in the street. She held herself very straight, like someone who is afraid of a fight and yet doesn’t want to show any weakness. She greeted her relatives with a certain formality — ‘Hello, Uncle Arthur, hello, Uncle Zalman’ — shook hand with each of them and avoided everyone’s eyes. ‘She’s decided not to cry,’ thought Hinda.
The new arrivals didn’t sit down yet either, and also stood behind their chairs. Désirée gripped the back of hers so firmly that her knuckles turned quite white. For a few moments no one said a word. As in the service, when the whole congregation waits for the rabbi to bring the Shema to an end.
And now, out of nowhere, Arthur couldn’t help laughing.
‘I’d like to know what’s supposed to be so funny here!’
‘I’m sorry, Aunt Mimi. But I was just thinking: we’re standing around here like…’
‘… like at a wedding sude,’ he had thought, ‘where no one is allowed to sit down before the bridal couple have taken their seats.’ And he hadn’t been able to hold back the laughter, because the comparison that presented itself to his head was so odd. This family meeting on the neutral terrain of the Kamionkers’ flat had been organised not to celebrate a chassene, but on the contrary to prevent one.
‘The Meijers will be here at any moment,’ Hinda said into the embarrassed pause. ‘Would anyone like a piece of cake in the meantime?’
No one answered. Only Mimi reached her hand out towards a plate with what was almost a gesture of longing, and quickly lowered it again.
The place where Hinda and Zalman lived wasn’t exactly a slum, but no one had ever seen a Buchet here before, let alone the latest model. The car hadn’t even come to a standstill before a group of children had gathered at the side of the road, commenting expertly on the vehicle and its occupants. When Landolt wanted to open the car door for his employers, a boy of about fourteen got in ahead of him. His knees were scraped bloody from some adventure or other, and a cigarette behind his ear demonstrated his premature masculinity. He opened the car door, dramatically pulled the cap — wherever he had learned the gesture — from his head, wedged it under his arm and held out the hand thus freed in a demanding manner. The three Meijers got out, François very correct in top hat and grey Ulster greatcoat, Mina in her usual over-sized skirt, and Alfred in a suit with such an adult cut that it made him look particularly young. Ignoring the outstretched hand, they walked through the cordon of curious faces to the front door. The disappointed tip-hunter nodded as if he had expected nothing else, and said, ‘Typical Jews — they’re all tight.’
‘Herr Meijer is a Protestant,’ said Landolt.
‘Of course,’ the boy answered and spat artfully just in front of the chauffeur’s feet. ‘And this is a horse-drawn carriage.’
With her lame leg it was hard for Mina to climb the stairs. None the less, she would have nothing of Alfred’s proffered arm. The rejection seemed to upset him, and she regretted her own inflexibility. ‘It’s not you,’ she said quickly. ‘I’ve just got used to doing things for myself.’
When at last they reached the third floor, François had already rung the bell and gone in. Mina took her son’s head between her hands — she practically had to stretch, because Alfred was already far taller than she was — drew him down to her and tried to smile encouragingly. ‘Things will go on somehow.’
‘Somehow,’ Alfred repeated. It didn’t sound convinced.
When he came into the room, Désirée gave a start as if she wanted to run towards him or away from him, but Pinchas hand still rested on her shoulder and wouldn’t let go.
They greeted one another formally and without warmth, delegates from enemy countries who are forced for diplomatic reasons to meet in a last bid for peace, even though both sides are already arming for war. Zalman was right: this was not a coffee party, it was a conference.
‘Let’s sit down,’ he said. Chair-legs scraped like gun carriages along the parquet floor.
The seating arrangement arose quite naturally: on one side the Meijers, on the other the Pomeranzes, Alfred and Désirée each flanked by their parents, just as miscreants are guarded by severe police officers in court. Désirée kept her head lowered the whole time and ran her fingernail repeatedly along a starched fold in the table-cloth. Alfred studied the mizrach panel on the opposite wall. Zalman, as master of the house and, as an experienced negotiator, moderator of the discussion, had taken his seat on the narrow side of the table by the window. Arthur was left with the seat at the opposite end of the table, with his back to the door, and unable to push his chair too far back in case anyone suddenly came in. Hinda sat down at a corner of the table, ready to get up at any moment and fetch something they’d forgotten from the kitchen.
‘Who will have a piece of cake?’ she asked.
François pushed his plate aside in a gesture of refusal, the others mutely shook their heads, and only Pinchas was polte enough to say, ‘Thank you very much, Hinda. It’s very kind of you, but… this really isn’t the moment.’