Marjorie Morningstar (55 page)

Read Marjorie Morningstar Online

Authors: Herman Wouk

Tags: #Coming of Age, #Fiction / Jewish, #Jewish, #Fiction / Coming Of Age, #Fiction, #Literary, #Classics, #Fiction / Classics, #Fiction / Literary

BOOK: Marjorie Morningstar
5.7Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

The judge began glancing at his watch when the dessert came. After finishing his second
cup of tea, he deliberately removed his skullcap, folded it on top of his napkin,
and cleared his throat. The gesture and the single sound were enough to make all the
guests stop eating and drinking, and turn their faces toward him.

“My dear Rose and Arnold, Mrs. Ehrmann and I certainly regret that we have to leave
this warm and lovely family circle, and these beautiful ceremonies, and this marvelous
food, and go to a dull political dinner, the kind of thing I have to do almost every
night in the week, but I can’t—”

“It’s perfectly all right, Judge,” Mrs. Morgenstern said, not quite realizing that
this was a preamble rather than conversation.

The judge rolled over her smoothly with a smile, “—but I can’t, I say, leave this
sumptuous, and may I say sacred, table without a word of appreciation.” Noel slumped.
His eyes dulled, and his face was so morose that Marjorie was afraid others would
notice. But all eyes were on the judge. “Come what may tonight,” Judge Ehrmann said,
“I’ve eaten Rose Morgenstern’s food. And I’m even more grateful for the spiritual
food I’ve received tonight. Mrs. Ehrmann and I aren’t religious people in any formal
sense, I’m afraid, but I trust in all our actions we’ve always showed ourselves good
Jews at heart. You see, we’re both descended from the old German families who have
pretty well dropped all that. Sitting here tonight, I asked myself, were my grandfathers
really so wise? Twentieth-century psychology has some very complimentary things to
say, you know, about the power of symbol and ceremony over the conduct of men. And
I wonder whether it isn’t going to turn out that these old-time rabbis knew best.
The marvelous warmth and intimacy of your ceremonies tonight! Even the little family
quarrel only made things more lively. It gave the evening—well, tang. I was going
to say bite, but I’d better not.” He paused skillfully for the laugh. “The little
Hagada, with its awkward English and quaint old woodcuts, has been a revelation to
me. I’ve suddenly realized, all over again, that I’m part of a tradition and culture
that go back four thousand years. I’ve realized that it was we Jews, after all, with
the immortal story of the Exodus from Egypt, who gave the world the concept of the
holiness of freedom—”

“Oh lawks a mercy me,” Noel muttered.

“Shut up,” Marjorie whispered angrily.

“But somehow,” the judge said, “your seder has done more than even that for me. Somehow
I’ve almost seen the Exodus come alive tonight. While you’ve chanted the Hebrew, which
regrettably I don’t understand, I’ve closed my eyes and seen the great hordes of Israel,
with the majestic gray-bearded giant, Moses, at their head, marching forth from the
granite gates of Rameses into desert sands by the light of the full moon….” Judge
Ehrmann proceeded in this vein for perhaps ten minutes, drawing a vivid picture of
the Exodus and then the revelation on Sinai. The relatives sat spellbound. Marjorie,
for all of Noel’s sarcastic mutterings, was thrilled and amazed. Noel had described
his father as a ridiculous windbag; but actually, though his language was flowery
and his manner magisterial, the judge had eloquence and humor. Describing the Israelites
heaping their ornaments before Aaron for the making of the golden calf, he said, “Earrings,
finger rings, ankle rings, nose rings, gold, gold, in a clinking, tumbling, mounting
pile! Just picture it! They stripped themselves bare! They gave away their last treasures
for this folly, this golden calf, these impoverished Israelites with the light of
Sinai still on their faces!—And to this day, my friends, a Jew, no matter how poor,
will always dig up ten dollars for a pinochle game.” The relatives roared, and the
older men nudged each other and winked. The judge sat quietly, waiting for the laugh
to die, his eyes alert, his face serious, the pulse in his neck throbbing, and Marjorie
was forcibly struck by his resemblance to his son. Noel, too, never laughed at his
own jokes, but sat solemnly, timing his pauses to the laughter of his hearers. The
deep-set clever blue eyes were identical in the two men, now that the judge’s were
roused into vigor. The gap of age, and Noel’s smooth handsomeness and mass of blond
hair, could not hide the fact that he was, after all, his father’s son.

And as Noel sat sunk low in his chair, staring at a wine stain on the tablecloth,
and slowly crumbling a hill of matzo crumbs over it while his father talked, Marjorie
could see him sitting so at his father’s table from perhaps his thirteenth year onward,
sullenly enduring eclipse. One thing was obvious: at a table where Judge Ehrmann dominated,
there were no other attractions.

When he rose to go, after finishing his talk with, “—and now goodbye, God bless you,
and happy Pesakh,” everybody at the table stood, crowding toward him, offering their
hands, chorusing compliments. He had a handshake and a word for everybody. He remembered
which children belonged to which parents, and mentioned them by name in making his
farewells, a feat which stunned all with delight. Mr. and Mrs. Morgenstern accompanied
the Ehrmanns to the foyer, and several of the guests followed, still exchanging jokes
with the judge. Noel’s mother, a richly dressed small wraith of a woman, with makeup
a little too pink, stopped to kiss Noel on the forehead, and then she kissed Marjorie.
“You have a lovely family, Marjorie dear, really lovely. You’re a girl to be envied.
Good night. I wish we could stay.”

Marjorie said, when she was gone, “I think your mother’s a darling. And your father’s
charming, too. Why did you paint him to me as such an idiot?”

He glanced briefly at her with a dip of the head, and a smile that was not pleasant.
“Did you believe any of that speech, by some chance?”

“I thought it was moving, I don’t care what you say.”

“Really? Just remember, dear, he’s a politician, and your house is in his district.
When will this thing be over? Can I take this off?” He reached for the skullcap.

“Well, the ceremony starts up again now, Noel, and some of the best songs come—”

“How much longer?”

“Oh, not much, not even an hour. I appreciate that you’ve been very patient—”

“Well, it’s been interesting, but frankly I do have the idea now.”

She said at once, “Noel, it’s perfectly all right if you want to leave now. Everybody
will understand.”

“I’ll settle for some more of that Palestine brandy.” He poured a stiff drink—he had
been drinking brandy steadily since the dessert—swallowed half of it, and stared at
the amber liquid. “Curious taste. Rough, not quite civilized. Primitive, potent, exotic.
Well suited to the occasion.”

The change in tone was marked when the seder resumed. The glory was departed. The
guests were all stuffed with food, and sleepy with wine and brandy, and more interested
in talking about the wonderful judge than in following the ceremony. Mr. Morgenstern
had to rap for quiet several times.

There soon ensued a lot of glancing toward Noel and Marjorie among the Family, with
winks, and nods, and whispers. Marjorie began to be uneasy. The rite that came next
was the traditional occasion for teasing sweethearts and engaged couples. Noel, oblivious,
was leafing through the Hagada in a bored way, sipping plum brandy. Even Aunt Dvosha
became lively and gay, whispering across the two vacant chairs to Uncle Shmulka. The
arch faces she made at Marjorie would have frightened an alligator. In the expectant
quiet that settled over the table, Uncle Harry said, “Okay, who opens the door this
year?”

The relatives giggled, pointing at Marjorie. Noel looked up. “What on earth—?” he
said mildly.

“This is it, Noel,” Harry said. “The door’s got to be opened, you know.” There was
more laughter.

Noel said, “For whom?”

“Elijah, the prophet Elijah. Don’t you know? Elijah comes in now and drinks his cup
of wine.”

Noel said, “Well, he’s no friend of mine, but I’ll be glad to open the door.” At the
howls of mirth that followed, he turned to Marjorie. “Was that funnier than I thought?”

“Margie and Noel open the door,” squealed Aunt Dvosha, and collapsed on the table,
laughing.

Noel said, “I begin to understand…. Well, let’s go.” He took her hand and stood amid
ribald guffaws.

Marjorie, completely scarlet-faced, said, “It means nothing at all, nothing.” They
went out to jocular shouts. “Just some nonsense about making a wish, but a boy and
a girl are supposed to go together.”

“Well,” Noel said, as she halted in the hallway. “Do we open it now?”

“No. One moment.” A chant began in the dining room. “Now. Go ahead, open the door.”

With a wry smile, Noel did so. The empty tiled outside hall, and the rows of doors,
looked strange. He glanced at her. “Damned if I didn’t feel a cool wind on my cheek.
The power of suggestion—”

“I’ve felt that wind every year since I was four,” Marjorie said.

“How long does Elijah stay?”

“Just for a minute.”

“Am I supposed to kiss you, really?”

“Not at all. Skip it, by all means.”

He kissed her lightly. He had drunk a lot of brandy; he smelled of it. In a swift
motion he had his coat out of the closet, draped over his arm. “Margie, make my excuses
to your folks, will you? I’m going out on the town with the prophet Elijah.” She stared
at him. He said, “Really, it’s best. They’re sweet people, and I’ve had a wonderful
time, the judge’s oration notwithstanding. It’s been a revelation to me, really it
has. But I think at this point I’d better run along.”

She said faintly, “It’s probably an excellent idea. Goodbye.”

“I’ll call you,” he said. He looked at the empty air in the hall. “Elijah, wait for
baby!”

The door closed.

Chapter 28.
IMOGENE

She didn’t become uneasy until three days had gone by without a call from him. It
wasn’t possible this time, somehow, to telephone him in the free-and-easy way she
was growing used to; not after his abrupt departure from the seder. She wasn’t really
angry about it; he had on the whole behaved well during a very trying evening, she
thought, and the outcome might have been far worse; still, his manner of leaving had
been a rebuff of a sort, and the next move had to come from him.

It was only on the fourth morning that she woke wondering whether she had misjudged
him, after all; whether he was actually a shallow snob, capable of thinking less of
her because she had poor relatives, and a few strange ones like Aunt Dvosha and the
Sapersteens.

It was a relief when the phone rang at ten after eleven, the time he almost always,
for some reason, chose to call her from the office. “Miss Morgenstern? One moment,
please.” It was the cold correct voice of the Paramount switchboard operator.

“Hello? Marjorie? How are you?”

“Why—why hello, Mr. Rothmore… Sam… I’m fine, thank you—gosh, what a surprise!”

“Hope I didn’t wake you up—”

“Oh no, good Lord, what do you think of me? I’ve been up for hours—”

“Thought you might have acquired the habits of our no-good friend, a little bit. Where
is he, by the way, do you know?”

“Isn’t he at the office?”

“Hasn’t been here for three days, and his phone doesn’t answer.”

Marjorie said with impulsive alarm, “He must be sick.”

“Have you seen him or heard from him in the past three days?”

“Monday night was the last I saw him.”

“Is that so? Well, Tuesday morning he didn’t show up. I don’t think he’s sick. I sent
a messenger down to his apartment yesterday. Place was dark. No answer to the bell.
He’s off somewhere, nobody knows where.”

“Why Sam, it’s—it’s very strange that he’d just go off, without telling your office.”

“Goddamn strange,” Rothmore said sadly. “Goddamn strange. Margie, what are you doing
for lunch? Come down and have lunch with me.”

“Why—” She thought frantically for a moment about clothes. “Why, of course. I’d love
to, Sam.”

She immediately called Noel and let the telephone ring and ring. He had a trick, when
he didn’t want to be disturbed, of unscrewing the base of the phone and wadding up
the bell with paper. He had fixed it that way during the two weeks he had rewritten
Princess Jones
, and she had sat in his apartment laughing at the dull little angry buzz it made.
The noise was irritating, and if it went on long enough he would occasionally take
the receiver off the hook. But this time the ringing continued until it got on her
nerves, and she slammed down the receiver. She dressed quickly in an old blue suit,
making several last-minute changes of hats and costume jewelry.

She had not seen Rothmore before at his desk, in his huge main office. The desk was
immense, the wainscoting very dark, the carpeting very thick underfoot, and there
were many modern paintings richly framed on the wall. He got up slowly, holding out
his hand. The severe look he had darted from under his brows at the opening door faded
to a pleasant tired smile. “Hello. Heard from our vanished friend since I talked to
you?”

“No.”

“Messenger boy just went down and tried to kick the door in. No luck. Come with me.
I’d like to show you something.”

He led her to a small office facing out on Times Square, with two desks in it. “Noel
shares this office with another man. Here’s his desk. He left it open Monday. I had
to dig into it this morning for some correspondence that’s overdue.” One after another
he pulled out the drawers. They were overflowing with jumbled papers, books, letters,
printers’ galleys, copies of
The Hollywood Reporter
and other trade papers, office memoranda, and the rest of the debris of a desk job,
all in an unbelievably slovenly chaos. There were some half-eaten stale sandwiches
and a few empty Coca-Cola bottles. Marjorie stared, speechless. Rothmore said, “I
don’t know how he did it. Except maybe by emptying his wastebasket into the desk every
day since he’s been here—or all the wastebaskets of Paramount, more likely.” He shut
the drawers with contemptuous back-hand thrusts. “Well, I’m glad he’s been doing something
to earn his keep. The wastebaskets should be emptied, though not necessarily by story
editors.”

Other books

Dead and Loving It by MaryJanice Alongi
In The Falling Light by John L. Campbell
Desert Winter by Michael Craft
The View from the Vue by Karp, Larry
Blood and Iron by Tony Ballantyne
So Big by Edna Ferber