An Ermine in Czernopol (34 page)

“Usher Brill!” he said, his voice sounding like a child's, in a register from his head, and began to giggle. “The
bokher
!”

In the dark passageway Brill grabbed the young man by the sleeve. “As I live, I didn't know a thing about this,” he said. “Just a few years back he was still a lively man …”

“It really is very painful,” said Wolf. “I can remember the last time I went riding with Papa for a vigorous gallop across the fields of Klokuczka …”

“Riding!” said Usher Brill, mockingly. “On the office stool, I bet!” He pulled Wolf close to him. “Now you tell me: What's with old Paşcanu? Is he bankrupt or not?”

The eyes in front of him contained nothing but the same old melancholy. Brill was breathing heavily, almost panting.

“You are known and respected in the marketplace as a careful businessman, Herr Brill,” said Wolf von Merores after a while. “Very cautious, impressively so. You may have heard of certain government business deals. You will also have heard of some payment difficulties involving the daughter, Frau von Tildy—most unfortunate. You should not expect any personal information from me about the individual in question. After all, if I am not mistaken you know him much better than I do. In short, Herr Brill: What is it precisely that you want me to tell you?”

“Old Paşcanu is a wolf,” Brill gurgled. “A wolf is a dangerous animal.” Young Merores couldn't help chuckling. “When it comes winter, and the wolf, he sees there's nothing more to eat, he turns into a tiger.”

Wolfi Merores now smiled openly and full of kindness. “With this transformative illustration you're saying that under certain circumstances Herr Paşcanu is capable of anything … Well, Herr Brill,” he shrugged his shoulders high, “I wouldn't deny the truth of that. The daring feat, Herr Brill, the measured risk—forgive me, but in our profession, among businessmen, that seems to be the Attic salt, and one of the reasons, just
en passant
, why I have not already retired to the country. Perhaps a man of your age—forgive me, but you do belong to the younger members of my papa's generation—perhaps a man of your age, in this time of tempestuous progress, which also has great impact on the financial world, really ought to leave the reins to the younger generation in order not to be overly taxed by the complexities of technical and scientific developments and so on.”

“What do you mean,
tax
?” asked Brill. “What does any of this have to do with taxes, you
nebbokhant
?”

“‘Taxed' in the sense of burdened, not in the sense of levies and tariffs. What I meant to say was that you shouldn't have to deal with the burdens of all the new technologies, that it might be better to hand the reins over …”

“You want maybe for me to hand the reins to you snotfaces!” Father Brill roared. “You little scamps? I'd sooner have a stroke right here and now …”

“That will inevitably happen soon enough if you keep getting so excited,” said Wolf von Merores, in complete command of the situation. “You will permit me to have my secretary see you out, my time is sadly limited. Pleasure to see you, Herr Brill.”

Herr von Merores himself regaled the members of the Lawn Tennis Club with the story of this visit, much to their amusement, and word soon spread across the entire city. What Herr von Merores did not relate, but what his secretary, young Seligmann, did convey a little later, was that Baronet Wolfi himself had been very distracted while looking over the mail that Seligmann had brought him in a special pouch made of calf's leather—the Merores were proud of having remained true to the religion of their fathers and of being one of few noble families of Israelite origin in the former Imperial-Royal Monarchy, and so they also kept their leather goods kosher. At that point Wolfi had once more gone to visit his mother. Seligmann, whose secretarial duties included obtaining a signature for any document that required immediate attention, had risked the danger of provoking his employer's displeasure and followed him. There he had overheard the old lady say the following:

“I'm telling you, the whole thing is a shameless rumor that old rogue Paşcanu leaked out so that people would think he still has some kind of deal with the government, so that under cover of that rumor he can make some lousy proposals. Why is old Brill interested in him? It's not for any contracts with the army—please, not with the goods he carries! I can tell you what he's after, and it's the same thing young Brill is after, too, namely some kind of measly commission and that's all. If I'm not mistaken, he'll want to sell the leftover jewelry he has lying around, otherwise why would he need Perko? By the way, you could give him a nod so he would show you first—there might be something for me there. Of course only the really clear stones … Go ahead and fix him up with young Brill, so he can be a
shlattenshammes
for old Paşcanu just like his
tateh
. Something like that isn't to be mentioned in the same breath with the likes of us, that's child's play. Don't rack your brains about the other business—I'm telling you, the delegation from the army has to do with Tildy, that
meshuggener
, according to what Constantin Tarangolian whispered to me yesterday in confidence. Evidently, Petrescu wants to conduct a purge so to make all the officers swear allegiance to the nationalist program. But under no circumstances will Constantin allow that; he says Petrescu can twist and turn as much as he wants as far as he's concerned, he can clean up the cavalry like the Augean stables and purge people like Turturiuk, but he can't start anything like that, or the prefect will undermine him. So you don't need to let yourself get mixed up in what young Brill says or break your skull over why the old man suddenly wanted to see Papa, not when I have information straight from the horse's mouth. Because what could those two possibly have with old Paşcanu? Listen to me. Especially seeing as Perko is getting mixed up as well. If they start talking about building border fortifications, then I'll let you know in time to send out feelers to the right people. All that's going on now is that the nationalists want Petrescu as minister of war so they can get their clutches on the army. That's why the whole business with Tildy is good for them, yes, but also not good for them, because it's still too early. That's why Constantin says he's dead set against the whole business—because where is he going to wind up if a scandal happens here, with more minorities than natives? He'll do what he can to see that Petrescu chokes on the whole business, and that they make the man disappear, so our prefect can go on working here in
dulcie jubilo
without their pestering him with things like that. So go ahead and let the Brills gather the crumbs from under old Paşcanu's table: by our standards it can only be a bagatelle of no import whatsoever, and it's more than likely that all anyone is going to wind up with is a crick in the neck from that old
ganef
of a sheepherder. With such a
punim
as he wears day in and day out, and nothing but debts front and back, I'm sure he can run around a long time playing the army supplier. Papa always said that the man was quick to grab the best bits of whatever deals they made together, but one day even he will have gone to the well once too often, especially if he's already starting to dump his load of jewels on the market. So don't work yourself up into a lather over that. Just make sure you're on time for dinner with Lily Fokschaner, you jail-breaker, you.”

Against his usual custom, Seligmann, who had chanced to overhear the entire speech when he stood at the door (his knocking had gone unnoticed), felt obliged to share this information with Bubi Brill, who had been his friend since childhood. He was, furthermore, attached to Bubi's sister, Riffke; in fact, the two of them were discussing certain common intentions. Bubi listened carefully to what the secretary told him, and then answered: “That is outstanding! So my old man was so scared he wouldn't touch that deal with a ten-foot pole, you should have seen him running around the house and biting his fingernails because he was so scared it hurt. But what's the risk if old Paşcanu wants some security for the stone he's entrusting, that's understandable. I'll just sign over a few drafts in his name. And if he's under pressure, so much the better: then I can talk to him about all the expenses, and so on. That the whole thing is just a maneuver on his part was clear to me from the beginning, the moment I heard about this business from Mama. Wolfi Merores isn't the only Jew with a mother. What do I care how he's going to pay for the other stone? I'll be setting the whole thing in motion here once and for all. I'll take a commission from the gentlemen in Amsterdam, that's enough for me, I don't need one from him as well. And if he does shell out—look, he's capable of anything, what with the connections he still has, just between you and me—well, all the better. Then he'll pay me as well, you'll see. And Perko, I hear, is one interesting character, yes?

Bubi Brill had half a year's leisure to ruminate on that, since Herr Perko had helped him cross the border—and at least as far as he managed to get. Bubi didn't really have cause to complain about him.

“On the contrary!” he explained later. “When they grabbed me at the customs checkpoint, he very honorably intervened, until they told him they would take him in as well if he didn't shut up. So to this day I don't know where that little case really disappeared to, assuming one of the customs officials didn't take it. It's odd: I know Effi Perko quite well by sight, from Schorodok's place. I was just never able to introduce myself, because I was usually with gentlemen from the regiment, and now all of a sudden I'm supposed to believe the man stole my luggage, while all he had to do was wait until I came back and then he could have snatched both stones at once if he'd wanted to. Psychologically speaking, the whole thing is a mystery to me.”

“When Jews are stupid,” commented his little brother Solly, “they are
really
stupid.”

In any case, the Trocadero once again united Bubi Brill and Effi Perko, and they remained friends.

What remained to be explained about the whole grotesque story was how old Paşcanu came to Perko in the first place, and how Bubi, instead of his father, found out about Perko's planned participation in the business.

The answer to the second question is easier than the first: Perko was never so sure as Paşcanu that old Brill would get involved in the deal. However greedy he might be, Perko didn't think the old man was that dumb. The “transaction” was “too good” and “too simple”—in fact, it stunk to high heaven. Old Brill had too much experience with Paşcanu's other business customs not to immediately suspect something and steer clear of it, no matter how much that might annoy him. But not so Bubi Brill, the youthful habitué of the Trocadero. Perko was a good judge of people; he observed them carefully—Bubi Brill, for instance, sporting with the ladies of the establishment, or enjoying the camaraderie of the officers of the cavalry regiment, in which he was allowed to serve, if not with a saber then at least with his pen, thanks to his mother's hefty contributions to Madame Turturiuk's pocket money.

So on the same morning when old Paşcanu received Brill, Perko sent his “feelers to the right people” and had Bubi Brill informed on in confidence, namely through a telephone call placed by their common friend Schorodok, proprietor of the Trocadero.

The answer to the first question—how old Paşcanu came to Perko, or vice versa—seems baffling beyond belief, unless one is able to empathize fully with the spirit of Czernopol. To wit: Perko had won the friendship and confidence of the castrato Miron, most especially in the church of St. Parachiva—through his acts of piety.

He had long ago been baptized in the Orthodox rite, and his religious fervor went so far that when he was with his friends in the Trocadero, no matter how advanced the hour, he categorically forbade any and all disrespectful allusions to religious or churchly matters. Moreover, after Paşcanu's death, he supported the
scopit
in the most generous manner, so that Gogeamite, the human mountain, whose voice was like the bright pealing of Easter bells, was granted a peaceful and carefree autumn of his life. Czernopol gained fodder for its laughter. Ephraim Perko was the hero of the day.

“I have to confess,” said Herr Tarangolian, “I can't figure out how I can hang this person at the same time I'm supposed to build him a monument. For what he did to the unfortunate Russian refugees he undoubtedly deserves to be hanged …”

“Drawn and quartered!” exclaimed Uncle Sergei. “Every single bone broken, the nails slowly pulled off and the tips of his fingers immediately dipped in vinegar …”

“Of course, you are speaking from a very pardonable emotion, my dear Sergei Nikiforich. But for the business with old Paşcanu he deserves a monument. Not because he was able to out-trick the trickster—my friend Merores had already beaten him to that, and very thoroughly. But because in one stroke of genius he was able to dupe the swindler and in so doing taught Czernopol, this most intelligent city on the planet, a lesson, by showing that the man was basically as dumb, primitive, and foolish as on the first day he climbed down out of the woods. To show Czernopol that it had been taken in by a blockhead, that it had fallen for a masquerade, a legend, the old fairy tale about ‘the chosen one'—well, that, my friends …” Herr Tarangolian muffled his voice into an ecstatic whisper; he shut his eyes appreciatively and rubbed the closed fingertips of his luxuriantly ringed hand under his Levantine nose, as if he were sniffing highly aromatic spices. “That, my friends, is magnificent. One of a kind. Brilliant.
That is something worth relishing.
”

M
EANWHILE
our appreciation for the sublime and magnificent comic spirit had yet to acquire the sophistication that Czernopol demanded. We looked at Săndrel Paşcanu's attempted diamond swindle as no more, and no less, than an adventuresome and exciting tale, made all the more colorful by the figure of the old man, who for us belonged to Tildy's retinue—one of the figures that surround the hero and provide a picturesque symbolism, like the shield bearers, unicorns, wild men, and lions on a princely coat of arms. And no matter how hard we tried, we couldn't bring ourselves to see Ephraim Perko as anything more than a scoundrel whom we would have happily and eagerly sent to his doom, if he had chanced to fall into our hands.