The Rosy Crucifixion 3 - Nexus (34 page)

Finally the day came when I was to take Mona for an outing. I was now qualified to drive alone, in Reb’s opinion. It’s one thing, however, to pass a test and quite another to have your wife put her life in your hands. Backing out of the garage made me nervous as a cat. The damned thing was too huge, too lumbering; it had too much power. I was in a sweat lest it run away with us. Every few miles I brought it to a halt—always where there was room to make a clean start!—in order to calm down. I chose the side roads whenever possible, but they always led back to the main highway. By the time we were twenty miles out I was soaked with perspiration. I had hoped to go to Bluepoint, where I had passed such marvelous vacations as a boy, but we never made it. It was just as well too, for when I did visit it later I was heart-broken; it had changed beyond all recognition.

Stretched out on the side of the road, watching the other idiots drive by, I vowed I would never drive again. Mona was delighted by my discomfiture. You’re not cut out for it, she said. I agreed. I wouldn’t even know what to do if we had a blow-out, I said.

What would you do? she asked.

Get out and walk, I replied.

Just like you, she said.

Don’t tell Reb how I feel about it, I begged. He thinks he’s doing us a great favor. I wouldn’t want to let him down.

Must we go there for dinner this evening?

Of course.

Let’s leave early then.

Easier said than done, I replied.

On the way back we had car trouble. Fortunately a truck driver came to the rescue. Then I smashed into the rear end of a beaten up jalopy, but the driver didn’t seem to mind. Then the garage—how was I to snook her into that narrow passageway? I got half-way in, changed my mind, and in backing out narrowly missed colliding with a moving van. I left it standing half on the sidewalk, half in the gutter. Fuck you! I muttered. Make it on your own!

We had only a block or two to walk. With each step away from the monster I felt more and more relieved. Happy to be trotting along all in one piece, I thanked God for having made me a mechanical dope, and perhaps a dope in other respects as well. There were the hewers of wood and the drawers of water, and there were the wizards of the mechanical age. I belonged to the age of roller skates and velocipedes. How lucky to have good arms and legs, nimble feet, a sharp appetite! I could walk to California and back, on my own two feet. As for traveling at seventy-five an hour, I could go faster than that—in dream. I could go to Mars and back in the wink of an eye, and no blow—outs…

It was our first meal with the Essens. We had never met Mrs. Essen before, nor Reb’s son and daughter. They were waiting for us, the table spread, the candles lit, the fire going, and a wonderful aroma coming from the kitchen.

Have a drink! said Reb first thing, holding out two glasses of heavy port. How was it? Did you get nervous?

Not a bit, said I. We went all they way to Blue-point.

Next time it’ll be Montauk Point. Mrs. Essen now engaged us in talk. She was a good soul, as Reb had said. Perhaps a trifle too refined. A dead area somewhere. Probably in the behind.

I noticed that she hardly ever addressed her husband. Now and then she reproved him for his rudeness or for his bad language. One could see at a glance that there was nothing between them any more.

Mona had made an impression on the two youngsters, who were in their teens. (Evidently they had never come across a type like her before.) The daughter was overweight, plain looking, and endowed with extraordinary piano legs which she did her best to hide every time she sat down. She blushed a great deal. As for the son, he was one of those precocious kids who talk too much, know too much, laugh too much, and always say the wrong thing. Full of excess energy, excitable, he was forever knocking things over or stepping on some one’s toes. A genuine pipperoo, with a mind that jumped like a kangaroo.

When I asked if he still went to synagogue he made a wry face, pinched his nostril with two fingers, and made as if pulling the chain. His mother quickly explained that they had switched to Ethical Culture. It pleased her to learn that in the past I too had frequented the meetings of this society.

Let’s have some more to drink, said Reb, obviously fed up with talk of Ethical Culture, New Thought, Baha’i and such fol de rol.

We had some more of his tawny port. It was good, but too heavy.

After dinner, he said, we’ll play for you. He meant himself and the boy. (It’ll be horrible, I thought to myself.) I asked if he was far advanced, the boy.

He’s not a Mischa Elman yet, that’s for sure. He turned to his wife. Isn’t dinner soon ready?

She rose in stately fashion, smoothed her hair back from her brow, and headed straight for the kitchen. Almost like a somnambulist.

Let’s pull up to the table, said Reb. You people must be famished.

She was a good cook, Mrs. Essen, but too lavish. There was enough food on the table for twice as many as we were. The wine was lousy. Jews seldom had a taste for good wine, I observed to myself. With the coffee and dessert came Kummel and Benedictine. Mona’s spirits rose. She loved liqueurs. Mrs. Essen, I noticed, drank nothing but water. Reb, on the other hand, had been helping himself liberally. He was slightly inebriated, I would say. His talk was thick, his gestures loose and floppy. It was good to see him thus; he was himself, at least. Mrs. Essen, of course, pretended not to be aware of his condition. But the son was delighted; he enjoyed seeing his old man make a fool of himself.

It was a rather strange, rather eerie ambiance. Now and again Mrs. Essen tried to lift the conversation to a higher level. She even brought up Henry James—her idea of a controversial subject, no doubt—but it was no go. Reb had the upper hand. He swore freely now and called the rabbi a dope. No talky-talk for him. Fisticuffs and wrastling, as he called it, was his line now. He was giving us the low-down on Benny Leonard, his idol, and excoriating Strangler Lewis, whom he loathed.

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.

Mona now rose to draw closer. Mr. Elfenbein extended his hands, as if to a dancing partner. He sized her up from head to toe, like an auctioneer. Then he said: And what did you play in last, my rose of Sharon?

The Green Cockatoo, she replied (Tic-tac-toe.)

And before that?

The Goat Song, Liliom … Saint Joan.

Stop! He put up his hand. The Dybbuk is better suited to your temperament. More gynecological. Now what was that play of Sudermann’s? No matter. Ah yes … Magda. You’re a Magda, not a Monna Vanna. I ask you, how would I look in The God of Vengeance? Am I a Scbildkraut or a Ben Ami? Give me Siberia to play, not The servant in the House! He chucked her under the chin. You remind me a little of Elissa Landi. Yes, with a touch of Nazimova perhaps. If you had more weight, you could be another Modjeska. Hedda Gabler, that’s for you. My favorite is The Wild Duck. After that The Playboy of the Western World. But not in Yiddish, God forbid!