To needle him, I said: And what about Redcap Wilson? (He had worked for me once as a night messenger. A deaf-mute, if I remember right.)
He brushed him off with—A third-rater, a punk.
Like Battling Nelson, I said.
Mrs. Essen intervened at this point to suggest that we withdraw to the other room, the parlor. You can talk more comfortably there, she said.
With this Sid Essen slammed his fist down hard. Why move? he shouted. Aren't we doing all right here? You want us to change the conversation, that's what. He reached for the Kummel. Here, let's have a little more, everybody. It's good, what?
Mrs. Essen and her daughter rose to clear the table. They did it silently and efficiently, as my mother and sister would have, leaving only the bottles and glasses on the table.
Reb nudged me to confide in what he thought was a whisper—Soon as she sees me enjoying myself she clamps down on me. That's women for you.
Come on, Dad, said the boy, let's get the fiddles out.
Get ‘em out, who's stopping you? shouted Reb. But don't play off key, it drives me nuts.
We adjourned to the parlor, where we spread ourselves about on sofas and easy chairs. I didn't care what they played or how. I was a bit swacked myself from all the cheap wine and the liqueurs.
While the musicians tuned up fruit cake was passed around, then walnuts and shelled pecans.
It was a duet from Haydn which they had chosen as a starter. With the opening bar they were off base. But they stuck to their guns, hoping, I suppose, that eventually they would get in step. It was horripilating, the way they hacked and sawed away. Along toward the middle the old man broke down. Damn it! he yelled, flinging his fiddle on to a chair, it sounds god-awful. We're not in form, I guess. As for you, he turned on his son, you'd better practise some more before you play for anybody.
He looked around as if searching for the bottle, but catching a grim look from his wife he slunk into an easy chair. He mumbled apologetically that he was getting rusty. Nobody said anything. He yawned loudly. Why not a game of chess? he said wearily.
Mrs. Essen spoke up. Please, not to-night!
He dragged himself to his feet, It's stuffy in here, he said. I'm taking a walk. Don't run away! I'll be back soon.
When he had gone Mrs. Essen tried to account for his unseemly conduct. He's lost interest in everything; he's alone too much. She spoke almost as if he were already deceased.
Said the son: He ought to take a vacation.
Yes, said the daughter, we're trying to get him to visit Palestine.
Why not send him to Paris? said Mona. That would liven him up.
The boy began to laugh hysterically.
What's the matter? I asked.
He laughed even harder. Then he said: If he ever got to Paris we'd never see him again.
Now, now! said the mother.
You know Dad, he'd go plumb crazy, what with all the girls, the cafe's, the...
What a way to talk! said Mrs. Essen.
You don't know him, the boy retorted. I do. He wants to live. So do I.
Why not send the two of them abroad? said Mona. The father would look after the son and the son after the father.
At this point the doorbell rang. It was a neighbor who had heard that we were visiting the Essens and had come to make our acquaintance.
This is Mr. Elfenbein, said Mrs. Essen. She didn't seem too delighted to see him.
With elbows bent and hands clasped Mr. Elfenbein came forward to greet us. His face was radiant, the perspiration was dripping from his brow.
What a privilege! he exclaimed, making a little bow, then clasping our hands and wringing them vigorously. I have heard so much about you, I hope you will pardon the invasion. Do you speak Yiddish perhaps—or Russe? He hunched his shoulders and moved his head from side to side, the eyes following like compass needles. He fixed me with a grin. Mrs. Skolsky tells me you are fond of Cantor Sirota...
I felt like a bird released from its cage. I went up to Mr. Elfenbein and gave him a good hug.
From Minsk or Pinsk? I said.
From the land of the Moabites, he replied.
He gave me a beamish look and stroked his beard. The boy put a glass of Kummel in his hand. There was a stray lock of hair on the crown of Mr. Elfenbein's baldish head; it stood up like a corkscrew. He drained the glass of Kummel and accepted a piece of fruit cake. Again he clasped his hands over his breast.
Such a pleasure, he said, to make the acquaintance of an intelligent Goy. A Goy who writes books and talks to the birds. Who reads the Russians and observes Yom Kippur. And has the sense to marry a girl from Bukovina ... a Tzigane, no less. And an actress! Where is that loafer, Sid? Is he drunk again? He looked around like a wise old owl about to hoot. Non, if a man studies all his life and then discovers that he is an idiot, is he right? The answer is Yes and No. We say in our village that a man must cultivate his own nonsense, not somebody else's. And in the Cabala it says ... But we mustn't split hairs right away. From Minsk came the mink coats and from Pinsk nothing but misery. A Jew from the Corridor is a Jew whom the devil never touches. Moishe Echt was such a Jew. My cousin, in other words. Always in trouble with the rabbi. When winter came he locked himself in the granary. He was a harness maker...
He stopped abruptly and gave me a Satanic smile, In the Book of Job, I began. I Make it Revelations, he said. It's more ectoplasmic.
Mona began to giggle. Mrs. Essen discreetly withdrew. Only the boy remained. He was making signs behind Mr. Elfenbein's back, as if ringing a telephone attached to his temple.
When you begin a new opus, Mr. Elfenbein was saying, in what language do you pray first?
In the language of our fathers, I replied instanter. Abraham, Isaac, Ezekiel, Nehemiah...
And David and Solomon, and Ruth and Esther, he chimed in.
The boy now refilled Mr. Elfenbein's glass and again he drained it in one gulp.
A fine young gangster he will grow to be, said Mr. Elfenbein, smacking his lips. Already he knows nothing from nothing. A malamed he should be—if he had his wits. Do you remember in Tried and Punished ... ?
You mean Crime and Punishment, said young Essen.
In Russian it is The Crime and its Punishment. Now take a back seat and don't make faces behind my back. I know I'm meshuggah, but this gentleman doesn't. Let him find out for himself. Isn't that so, Mr. Gentleman? He made a mock bow.
When a Jew turns from his religion, he went on, thinking of Mrs. Essen, no doubt, it's like fat turning to water. Better to become a Christian than one of these milk and water—. He cut himself short, mindful of the proprieties. A Christian is a Jew with a crucifix in his hand. He can't forget that we killed him, Jesus, who was a Jew like any other Jew, only more fanatical. To read Tolstoy you don't have to be a Christian; a Jew understands him just as well. What was good about Tolstoy was that he finally got the courage to run away from his wife ... and to give his money away. The lunatic is blessed; he doesn't care about money. Christians are only make-believe lunatics; they carry life insurance as well as beads and prayer books. A Jew doesn't walk about with the Psalms; he knows them by heart. Even when he's selling shoe laces he's humming a verse to himself. When the Gentile sings a hymn it sounds like he's making war. Onward Christian Soldiers! How does it go—? Marching as to war. Why as to? They're always making war—with a sabre in one hand and a crucifix in the other.