An Ermine in Czernopol (33 page)

Wolfi went on smiling his fine smile. “Where does the information come from, if I may ask?”

“From a reliable source. By the way, have you thought of me in regard to the person we were speaking of yesterday?”

“Effi Perko? Yes, I
have
been thinking of you. Speaking of which, what are you doing tomorrow? Why don't you come up to my office for a few minutes. Let's say at eleven. Perko will just happen to be there. It's the perfect opportunity.”

“Fine, I'll be there. Then I'll tell you more about the other business. In any case: old Paşcanu is still very active.”

“Evidently,” said Wolfi. “So, tomorrow at eleven.
Ciao
, my friend.”

They each waved a friendly goodbye, and Baronet Wolfi disappeared into the clubhouse. Bubi Brill sauntered down to the courts and soon found a game among the young people there.

By the time Wolf Baronet von Merores had changed, shaved, and combed his hair, the Chrysler was already waiting out front. His chauffeur held the door for him, then climbed behind the steering wheel and gave an impressive blast of the three-toned horn—the signal he used to inform the members of the club of the arrival and departure of their president. At the same time, the vehicle surged forward.

The splendor of the trees in the Czernopol Volksgarten was without comparison. Seated in the back of the Chrysler, he had taken off his gray homburg and set it beside him, and the summer light floated down through the treetops onto the avenues like smoke spilling from a censer, occasionally flashing in the baronet's smoothly parted black hair. Wolfi von Merores was of less than medium height, a little on the chubby side, with a delicate bone structure. He carried himself with the distinction and elegance of a businessman at the peak of his power. With a hint of dreaminess in his dark almond eyes, he peered through the raised windows of the sedan into the park, which glided past him like a tapestry, the consummate background for a princely profile, but once the vehicle reached the officers' casino and the backdrop shifted abruptly from handsomely cultivated nature to the uncivilized doings of the main street, his manicured hands reached for the paper and he spent the rest of the drive into town reading.

In Neuschul Street the Chrysler gently braked in front of the von Merores' house. Baronet Wolf, who never failed to deliver a personal word of thanks to his staff, gave his chauffeur a friendly nod: “Thanks, Kozarishchiuk. I won't be needing you before five o'clock bridge.”

He made a very lordly impression as he climbed out of the car, folded his newspaper, and stepped into his father's house, carrying his gray homburg.

The von Merores' house was well tended, with an air of patrician stability. In the nineties it had belonged to a very rich Armenian. The front rooms exhibited an Oriental sumptuousness, with mosaic floors and deep window niches. Corridors that were almost devoid of light led back to a variety of small rooms that once may have sheltered servants, or perhaps even harem wives—one never knew what kind of family arrangements prevailed among the Armenians.

A slender man who served as the Merores' secretary met Wolf in the corridor, which they referred to using the English word “hall,” took his hat, and said: “You have a visitor. Old man Brill.”

“Interesting,” said Wolf von Merores. “Anything else?”

“He wants to speak to your papa. I told him he should wait until you came. Other than that, nothing unusual.”

“Mail?”

“A few letters. I've set out everything that requires signing.”

“Thank you, Seligmann,” said Baronet Wolf. “I'm going back for a few minutes to wish Mama good morning. Then you can let Brill in to see me.”

He set off into the dark labyrinth of the rear wing. Stopping outside one of the doors, he gave a careful knock, and when he heard someone invite him in, he swept open the door and bounded lithely to his mother and, as he was well bred, kissed her hand. The old lady in her peignoir was in the process of shaping her Eton crop with a curling iron. A few experiments with bleaching agents had given her hair a somewhat violet tinge.

“You are incorrigible, Mama,” said Wolf, patting her on the hand. “How often do I have to repeat how happy I am that we can afford a hairdresser, thank God.”

“Why should I give good money to that Figaro when I can do the same thing myself? Or is it maybe for making an impression on people? I'm telling you, I don't give a damn what people say. I'll do my hair the way I want and that's that.”

“It's not on account of the people, Mama, please. Only, you'll burn the tips of your pretty hair. And the money you save on that you spend anyway on sweets you shouldn't be eating . So it's really on account of your liver. Emancipation is fine and good, but one has to consider one's health.” He smiled and kissed the tips of her fingers. “Papa is doing well?” he asked.

“From what I hear he is.”

“Now, there's a striking example of tender marital affection, by God, Mama,” laughed Baronet Wolf. “That really makes me want to attend to your wishes.”

“Stop it, you rascal. Papa is happy when I leave him alone, assuming that he'd even recognize me if I went in there. My behavior is only out of consideration, you impudent rascal. Actually, you should take it as an example not to marry too old. Look, you're almost forty. If you keep waiting another few years you shouldn't be surprised if you wind up with a young wife when you're seventy-five.”

“Can we change the subject, Mama,” said Baronet Wolf with cheerful tenderness. “You know there's no sense in trying to convince me. You know what my heart says.”

“
Nebekh
,” replied the old lady. “You make me sick with your sentimentalities, by God. Take my advice and put it out of your head. And you better be on time for dinner tonight. The Fokschaners are coming.”

“With daughter, I presume?”

“Don't be difficult. She has twenty million—at least.”

“If you need a new fur, Mama, all you have to do is tell me. You don't have to work so hard to earn it, Frau Marthe Schwerdtlein!”

Mama Memores playfully threatened to whack him with the hot curling iron, and Wolf once again laughed and kissed her rings.

“Don't be late, you cheeky thing!” she called after him as he hurried off.

In the hallway he paused in front of a dark mirror and carefully brushed his hair, then stepped into the study, where Usher Brill was waiting, visibly impatient.

“Please excuse my tardiness, Herr Brill,” said Wolf von Merores kindly. “We weren't expecting you. May I offer you some cognac? My sympathies concerning the incidents last night, by the way. They should really take more energetic action. Kavalla cigar?”

Usher Brill observed him thoughtfully. “A fine
yingl
you've turned out, Leibish,” he said. “Manners like a count.” He rocked his pale reddish head. “That's an unusual development with young people these days. But don't go to any trouble on my account. I'd like to speak with Hirsh Merores.”

“I'm sorry, Herr Brill,” said Wolf. “You know that Papa hasn't been receiving anyone for years.”

“And what is that? Too fine for everybody?” asked Brill. “Or does he have gout?”

“Papa has completely withdrawn from the world—it's been some time now, Herr Brill. Please take the feelings of an old man into consideration. He is given almost exclusively to pious thoughts.”

“That's quite a trick, with his career,” said Usher Brill.

“We don't hide the fact that thanks to my aged father's business acumen we have attained a certain wealth and standing,” said Wolf with dignity. “So it's all the more praiseworthy if my old papa, following the faith of our fathers, expresses thanks for the blessings that have been bestowed upon us in such abundance. I assume that in an analogous case you, Herr Brill, would expect your son to exhibit the same respect for your feelings as I feel for my father's. He's a friend of mine, by the way. A very sympathetic young man.”

“I can imagine you'd like that lout,” said Brill, bitterly. “My whole life I've dreamt of having competitors that easy.”

“I wouldn't know in what branch we might compete, Herr Brill,” answered Wolf, not without a tinge of irony.

“Jews are always competitors, by God,” Brill sighed heavily.

“Nobody is tougher than your own people. And toughest of all are your own children.”

“How may I be of service?” asked Wolf von Merores, slightly irritated but controlled.

“I want to speak with Hirsh Leib, not with you, you jackass. It's information I need. This isn't a matter for little boys still wet behind the ears.”

“As I said, I'm very sorry,” stated Wolf patiently. “Papa isn't receiving. Incidentally, I've been familiar with the running of all the businesses for years now. Of course I don't have the experience of my revered father. Nonetheless, I am in a position to offer information that is at least more up to date. What is it about, Herr Brill?”

Brill looked long and thoughtfully at young Merores, who withstood his gaze casually and calmly, with just a hint of old, knowing melancholy in his almond-shaped eyes.

“I don't need any stock tips,” Brill said at last. “I need some information,
yingl
, you understand! For tips and other
shmontses
I'm smart enough myself. But confidential information is a matter for old people. I want to speak with Hirsh Leib.”

Wolf von Merores continued responding with his eyes full of old melancholy, while Brill went on: “Back then, when I was so young as you, we listened to the old people. We worked hand in hand and not against each other. The sons, they still learned from the experiences of their
tatehs.
From the old people they took the experience and put it into practice. These days the young people are quicker and brighter and more up to date than what their parents were, they're already like that while they still go caca in their nightshirt. So the old folks can just sit in their room and daven. These days they aren't worth anything anymore. The businesses are bigger and faster and everything is efficient. But for something solid, I, Usher Brill, still turn to the old people.”

Wolf von Merores got up. “Be so kind as to wait a minute, Herr Brill,” he said, before stepping out. “I'll be right back.”

After a short while he came back. “Please come with me,” he said.

They went through the dark corridor to the rearmost wing of the house. Wolf stopped outside a door and listened, his hand on the handle, for the length of a few breaths, and then carefully opened the door. “Please step inside,” he whispered into Brill's ear.

Usher Brill entered a room that was almost completely dark and crammed full with the most diverse pieces of furniture. The air was stuffy. Hirsh Leib Baronet von Merores was sitting at the end of a long table, blind, a tefillin box strapped to his forehead and a fringed tallis draped over his shoulders.

Brill couldn't help but be gentle as he approached the old man, while Wolf carefully shut the door and stood there, waiting. Hirsh Merores mumbled a quiet singsong to himself, and after the two had waited for a while in vain for the blind man to notice them, Wolf finally went up to him, placed his hand gently on the old man's shoulder, and said: “Papa, Usher Brill wants to speak to you.”

The blind man felt for the teffilin on his forehead and took it off. “Brill?” he asked, with a high-pitched, old-man's voice. “Where is Usher Brill. I'm listening!”

“
Zayt mir gezint
, Hirsh Leib Merores!” said Brill. “It's been so many years since we've seen each other.”

“Brill?” the old man piped. “Where is Brill? I'm listening!”

“Here I am, Hirsh Merores, here!” said Brill, with urgency. “Here I am, standing in front of you, after many long years, to be asking a question, one old man to another …”

“Brill!” repeated old Merores, listening to the sound of the name. “Where is Usher Brill?”

“
Nu
, where is he supposed to be if he's talking to you right here!” said Brill, already a little impatient. He looked to Wolf Merores for help, but found only the same old melancholy in the younger man's eyes.

“Here I am, Hirsh Merores,” he cried as loud as he could, “right here in front of you!”

Wolf von Merores placed a calming hand on his arm. “Please restrain yourself, Herr Brill. Papa is blind but not deaf.”

“Brill!” said old Merores, fading away. He began to sing quietly.

Usher Brill looked to Wolf Merores.

“Come on,” said Wolf. “Let's leave the old man alone.”

He placed the tefillin straps in his father's hand. “I'll just turn on a little more light, Papa,” he said tenderly, then shoved the table lamp a little nearer and switched it on—a senseless waste of electricity, Brill thought to himself, but which seemed to calm the blind man.

“Light,” he mumbled. “Yes, light.”

“What?” asked Brill, half out loud. “Is he completely …” He placed his index finger on his forehead and twisted it, as if boring inside.

Wolf signaled to Brill to walk out with him.

“God is just!” said Brill. “And not a day more than seventy years old …”

At the door he turned back one more time. Did he notice the beauty of the picture before him? The lamp with its dome-shaped shade of green silk. A flood of greenish gold, set upon by the heavy umber tones of the surrounding darkness, had taken refuge in the face of the old man, who had turned toward the light, his head angled upward as if blindly sniffing out a path, the one thing he could see, the mildly painful labor of a long search for God that is never fulfilled. His prayer shawl was draped over his shoulders, white with narrow black stripes, with folds and wrinkles that called to mind Oriental grandeur and opulence, and the curls of his white beard shone with a silken splendor.