“Where? Where?”
“Where I come from, in Lower Pereshchepena.”
“In which Pereshchepena? Where exactly is that?”
The two of them were on their feet now, eyeing each other and the Jew in the upper berth, who looked swollen-facedly back down at them.
“You never heard of Lower Pereshchepena? I assure you there is such a place. You really never heard of it? There are even two Pereshchepenas: Upper Pereshchepena and Lower Pereshchepena. I’m from Lower Pereshchepena.”
“Pleased to meet you! Why don’t you come on down? Why sit up in the sky all by yourself?”
The owner of the high rubber galoshes clambered down with a groan, and the two moved over to make room for him and fell on him like hungry locusts.
“They honestly took your own son?”
“I’ll say!”
“But tell us, old man, how did you manage it? It must have cost you a pretty penny!”
“What are you talking about? You mustn’t even mention money to them. There was a time, I admit, when they could be bought. And how they could! Oho! Jews came flocking to us from all over in those days. Everyone knew that Pereshchepena was the place for it. For the last several years, though, ever since somebody snitched — it’s just my luck it happened when it did! — they haven’t taken a cent.”
“Then how do you explain it? Someone must have pulled strings!”
“What strings? They simply decided once and for all to take every last Jew automatically.”
“You must be joking! Do you realize what you’re saying? Are you trying to pull our legs?”
“Pull your legs? Do I look like the type to you?”
All three stared hard as if trying to read each others’ faces. Since nothing was written there, however, the two Jews resumed their interrogation.
“Just a minute, now. Where did you say you were from?”
“From Pereshchepena!” The third Jew was beginning to get annoyed. “I’ve already told you three times. From Lower Pereshchepena!”
“Don’t take offense. We’ve just never heard of your city before.”
“Ha ha! Pereshchepena a city? That’s rich! Pereshchepena’s barely a town. In fact, it’s more like a village.”
“And from a place like that, you say, they took … from Pere-what? What’s it called?”
By now the Jew from Lower Pereshchepena was hopping mad.
“I’ve never seen such queer Jews in my life! Can’t you pronounce a jewish word? Pe-resh-che-pe-na! Pe-resh-che-pe-na!”
“All right, all right. Pereshchepena is Pereshchepena. Why fly off the handle?”
“Who’s flying off the handle? I just don’t like having to repeat myself ninety-nine times.”
“No offense meant. We have the exact same problem. When you said they took eighteen of you, we couldn’t believe our ears. That’s why we keep asking the same question. The truth of the matter is, we never would have imagined that in Pere … Peresh … that there was even a high school in your town.”
The Jew from Pereshchepena gave them an irritable look. “Who said anything about a high school in Pereshchepena?”
They, for their part, stared at him boggle-eyed. “But didn’t you just tell us that your own son was accepted as a student there?”
The Jew from Pereshchepena seemed about to have a fit. In the end, though, he merely got to his feet and screamed at them:
“What student? A soldier! He was taken to the army to be a soldier! A soldier, not a student, do you hear me?!”
It was already broad daylight outside. A bluish-gray light trickled through the windows of the train. Passengers were slowly waking up, stretching legs, clearing throats, rearranging bundles for the trip that lay ahead.
My three Jews had parted company. Their brief friendship was over. One had retired to a corner and was having a leisurely smoke. The second had taken a small prayer book and sat down on a front bench, where he was reciting his devotions with one eye open and one shut. The third, the irritable Jew from Lower Pereshchepena, was already having his breakfast.
It was curious to see how the three had become total strangers. Not only had they stopped speaking to each other, they no longer even looked at one another, as if they had done something shameful, something that could never be lived down …
(1909)
THE MAN FROM BUENOS AIRES
Riding a train doesn’t have to be dull if you manage to fall in with good company. You can meet up with merchants, men who know business, and then the time flies, or with people who have been around and seen a lot, intelligent men of the world who know the ropes. Such types are a pleasure to travel with. There’s always something to be learned from them. And sometimes God sends you a plain, ordinary passenger, the lively sort that likes to talk. And talk. And talk. His tongue doesn’t stop wagging for a minute. And only about himself, that’s his one and only subject.
Once I ended up traveling with such a character for quite a distance.
Our acquaintance began — how else do these things happen on a train? — with a trivial inquiry like “Do you by any chance know what station this is?” or “Excuse me, what time is it?” or “Would you perhaps have a match?” In no time at all, however, we were on as brotherly terms as if we had met in the cradle. At the first station with a few minutes’ wait, the man put his arm through mine, steered me to the buffet, and ordered two glasses of cognac without even asking if I drank, and soon after, he urged me with a wink to reach for a fork and help myself. When we were through sampling the hors d’oeuvres that every buffet has to offer, he called for two mugs of beer, so that by the time he had lit a cigar for each of us, we were the best of friends.
“I don’t mind telling you frankly and without a bit of flattery,” said my new acquaintance when we were reseated in the car, “that I liked you, believe it or not, the minute I set eyes on you. One look at you was enough to make me say, here’s someone I can have a word with! If there’s one thing I hate, it’s having to clam up like a statue when I travel. I like to talk to a fellow human being, which is why I bought a third-class ticket today, because that’s where the conversation is. Generally, though, I travel second class. Do you suppose that’s because I can’t afford to travel first? Believe me, I certainly can — and if you think that’s just talk, look at this.” And he produced from his rear pocket a wallet stuffed with bills, opened it, thumped it with his hand like a pillow, and put it back again, saying:
“Don’t worry, there’s more where that comes from!”
No matter how much I looked at him, I couldn’t for the life of me guess his age. He might have been about forty and he might have been still in his twenties. His face was round, tanned by the sun, and smooth-shaven, with no trace of whiskers or a beard; his small, beady eyes had a twinkle; and — a short, plump, good-natured, quite vivacious fellow — he cut a sharp figure of the sort I like to see in a spotless white shirt with gold buttons, a stylish necktie with a handsome pin, an elegant blue suit of English worsted, and a pair of smart, lacquered shoes. On one finger he sported a heavy gold ring with a diamond whose thousand facets glittered in the sunlight — which, if it was real, must have set him back a good five or six hundred rubles, if not a bit more than that.
There’s no one I admire more than a spiffy dresser. I like to dress well myself, and I like to see others who do. I can even tell by his clothes if a man is a decent sort or not. I know there are people who say it doesn’t mean a thing, that you can dress like a count and still be the worst sort of bounder. Tell me this, though: why, then, does everyone still try to look his best? Why does one person wear one kind of outfit and another person another? Why does the first choose a conservative tie of pearl-green silk and the second a loud red one with white polka dots? I could give you still other examples but I think that’s enough, because I don’t want to waste your time. Let’s get back to my new acquaintance and what he has to tell us.