The collected stories (37 page)

'Who's this cousin?' Mr Solomon was asking Mr Aaron.

'I'll go along with David,' I said.

Mr Solomon and Mr Aaron nodded, and 'All right, then,' said Benjamin. The women were still standing around the coffin, holding their shiny black handbags tightly against their stomachs. Mrs

SINNING WITH ANNIE

Aaron was sharing her umbrella with the Manasseh girl. Benjamin said, 'We've decided to start.'

'What about Glassman?' asked Mrs Aaron.

'He's not coming.'

The coffin rested on two beams which had been placed across the trench of the grave. Benjamin stood on the red mound of dirt lumps that had been shoveled out. We made a little circle around the coffin and listened to Benjamin read the prayers. The cover of his leather-bound siddur had sweatstains on it from being carried in the heat, black finger marks on the cover, a black patch on the spine.

He started reading slowly, but after a few verses his voice quickened to a reciting pace, a hurrying drone that emphasized only the last word before he sucked in a breath. The death chant for Abe Sassoon was being muttered to himself; this speeded rendition made it private. Jakob Sassoon, I was reading on the stone next to Benjamin, Born in Baghdad, and then Joel Solomon's whining voice, 'Dad, I hear a car.'

It was the screech of a car braking in gravel, and one after another, two doors slamming. We all heard.

Benjamin slowed down and read in a louder voice. Each of us sneaked a look down the dusty path to the entrance, but only the little boys were on the path. Two figures in black appeared, both running - one on long legs was far ahead of the other. This was Glassman, for just as I had turned to concentrate on what Benjamin was saying, he was on us. He came panting, a yarmulke in his hand, his face red, preparing to frown. We made room for him, and he fell on his knees beside the coffin, at the same time clapping the yarmulke on his head. He let out a great affronted wail. The women stopped crying and stared at him. Benjamin faltered in the verses, then continued, as Glassman hugged the coffin, knocking our black-bowed wreath askew. Now Glassman was crying pit-eously.

Benjamin stopped reading.

'Why stop now?' said Glassman angrily to Benjamin, a youthful quaver in his voice. 'You started without me - why stop now\ Go ahead, if you're in such a hurry!'

Benjamin lifted the book and read slowly.

Mrs Aaron touched Glassman's shoulder. He raised himself, slapping the dust off his knees, to stand next to her. He had an

A BURIAL AT SURABAYA

expression on his face that showed horror and pain, his lips pressed shut, his cheeks blown out, his eyes narrowed to slits, his crumpled yarmulke slightly to one side.

I listened for Benjamin but I heard Glassman, who was breathing heavily, making a thin whistling in his nose and heaving his chest up and down and nodding his head with each long breath. He was wearing a beautiful suit. With the distraction of Glassman's panting, and with his screams still ringing in my ears, I felt a sharp embarrassment that was becoming terror.

It was time to put the coffin into the grave. We lifted the ropes under each end while the beams were slid away. Glassman watched us. We lowered the coffin on the ropes and Benjamin scooped up some dirt with a spade and threw it in, and said a prayer after it. Each person took a turn with the spade, the first ones making very loud thuds with their dry dirt clods on the coffin lid, the later ones making no sound at all. Glassman, the last to throw in some dirt, burst into fresh tears as he did so. He peered down. I have heard of close relations leaping into the grave, and I was afraid that Glassman might try this, perhaps breaking his leg. He shook his head - but he was indignant rather than sorrowful. What did he expect? Javanese babus in shiny silk pajamas holding umbrellas over our heads, a gilded coffin, the hot air split by mourners' shrieks, a wise old rabbi chanting into his nest of beard, a resolute throng of relatives at the graveside, shaking their fists at death? I knew this Glassman: 'Why not try Manila or Hong Kong?' He walked back to where he had been standing, under Mrs Aaron's umbrella.

'Brothers and sisters,' said Benjamin. He spoke in Dutch, tasting each syllable separately, relishing the long words and closing his eyes as he finished a phrase. 'These are very sad days for us-'

'What's that?' Glassman's shout made me jump. 'What are you saying?'

We looked at him, then at Benjamin.

Benjamin proceeded, 'But we must remember that our brother Abraham is now in a happy-'

'Stop that!' screamed Glassman, his voice cracking.

Benjamin glanced into the partially filled grave. He looked up and bit on a word which, displaying his teeth, he showed Glassman on the tip of his tongue. 'Home,' he said in Dutch, 'he is home now. And someday-'

SINNING WITH ANNIE

'What the hell is going on here?' Glassman asked Mrs Aaron. 'This is a bloody mockery. I won't have him talking in that language.'

'Ben,' said Morris. 'Maybe you should-'

'And someday,' Benjamin continued, more rapidly, 'we will join our brother. Joyfully, yes, our hearts full-'

'No!' Glassman broke away from Mrs Aaron, who reached for him. He vaulted the grave and his hands were on Benjamin's throat. Mr Lang snatched at Glassman's arms, I yanked on his collar; it took five of us to pull him away. He kicked out, catching me on the shin with the sharp heel of his fancy buckled boot. 'You!' he shouted at Benjamin. 'What are you saying?'

Benjamin clasped his hands and tried to finish: 'We should not mourn our brother - we should be glad he is at peace -'

'Let me goV yelled Glassman, struggling.

'- enjoying the rewards of a virtuous life and hard work and let us all say a silent prayer for him.'

We released Glassman and bowed our heads, praying silently. Glassman was surprised at his sudden freedom and then enraged by our silence. A yellow and gray bird with a head like the top of a claw hammer flew past.

'Shame on you,' said Glassman while we prayed. 'You should be ashamed of yourselves. What kind of people are you?' He went on in this vein, in his British accent, accusing us of savagery, looking quite comical with his jacket twisted around and his yarmulke slipping off and the knot of his tie pulled down and made small.

Benjamin signaled to some workmen to fill the hole. These three men in faded clothes had been standing under the eaves of the crematorium and had seen the whole business. They smiled as they ambled out of the shade, squinting and ducking as they entered the bright sunlight, and holding their spades ready.

Glassman, leaning, held each woman's shoulders and kissed her cheek. He left with Morris.

'What does it matter?' Benjamin said, when we were in the car and driving back to town. 'It's his own fault for being late. Bleddy mockery." He snorted. 'I wonder what they do in Hong Kong.'

'The next problem,' Mr Aaron said - he hadn't been listening to Benjamin - 'is where does he stay?'

It wasn't a problem. Glassman was on the evening flight to Djakarta. The rest of us stayed just where we were, and no one said that young man's name again.

JUNGLE BELLS

his stay. A visit of any length will necessitate the boring of a well, and the budget-minded traveler will want to allow for this additional expense. Years of privation have left their mark on the settlers, who tend to give the impression of truculence - an impression that is only confirmed by long acquaintance. Unaccustomed to strangers, and somewhat outside the mainstream of the tourist boom that has brought modernity to his distant neighbors, the Polvano is inclined to be brusque, except toward visitors who are thoroughly fluent in colloquial Welsh. More than usual care should be exercised in entering a farmhouse unannounced, and no one ought to expect a clear set of directions to the downtown area and hotel (Residential Penrhyndeudraeth) . Well stocked with some of the better Fuegian vintages, the restaurant, sumptuous by Polvo's standards, is nearly always shut. There is limitless scope in the hills for the spelunker.

Once the haunt of Patagonian giants, who are said to have been numerous in the region and to account for early maps bearing the reference 'Regio Gigantum,' Polvo has seen these natives dwindle in number as well as in size over the years, until by mid-century there was but one. That he was hunted for sport is part of Polvo's rich folklore. What remains of his small earthen hut may still be seen, though not every traveler will wish to make the two-day journey, as it can only be accomplished on foot. (Stout shoes a must.) Those who do (and the jaunt is a welcome relief from the odor of sheep-dip and uncured hides, which casts a blight on the otherwise attractive town) will glimpse herds of roving guanacos and, smeared on rocks, odd fingerprint markings reputed to be 10,000 years old. The trip to the gravesites of the early settlers takes slightly longer, at just under a week, and is to be recommended for the hardy. Those who manage it are rewarded by the simple grandeur of three solitary markers, shaped not unlike hubcaps, earved from local stone and hearing indistinct inscriptions in the Welsh

language. Round about this tiny necropolis an impressive desolation soothes the eve ot the tootsore traveler.

Municipal buildings in Polvo include the Central Jail, the Founders' Orphanage, the C arding House, and the Methodist Chapel.

The chapel is, in the words ot the French traveler Gaston, 'typical

ot us kmd . . . notwithstanding its window, which is open to criticism. 1 A c hristian Science Reading Room is m the planning stages,

and this will he housed in a chamber now known as the Zona

POLVO

Rosa (open most weekdays), where in former times gauchos are supposed to have gathered during the sheep-clip. (Note hook and scarred doorjamb, where, according to legend, spurs were hung.) The Mercado (market) is close by, and although Polvo's barter system is almost certain to divest the enthusiastic traveller of his wristwatch, a visit is well worth the risk. Apart from the root vegetables and the carcasses of sheep arranged sandbag-style around the dour venders, there are traditional Indian ornaments on sale, some thought to be of ancient manufacture, including penwipers, calendar holders, napkin rings, buckles, tie clasps, bookmarks, and plinths for digital clocks, all fashioned from dried cactus fiber, to which magical properties have been ascribed. Some distance from the market, but now derelict, are the shacks of quarrymen who worked the iron-ore deposit. There are few organized tours of this part of town.

Steeped in Patagonian history, Polvo nonetheless wears its antiquity lightly, and it has steadily diminished in population. The youths of the town are understandably siphoned off by the oil pipeline and the bright lights of Rio Gallegos. Consequently, the average age in Polvo is seventy-three. The petrochemical plant, promised for the next decade, ought to go some way toward altering the scope of tourism. Bird life abounds, and the sky above Polvo is frequently black with the soaring Turkey Buzzard (Cathartes aura). Polecats and skunks {Zorrillos) must also be mentioned here. The flora is tenacious but thin, and limited to scrub thorn and the cactus from which the local artifacts are made. Oblivious of the stranger's taunt about the monotony of their unremarkable surroundings, Polvanos delight in their landscape's occasional fits of natural crankishness and will walk any distance to hear the rumble of a glacier 'calving.'

In another epoch, dinosaurs must have ranged this dusty plateau and laid eggs where sheep now graze, though all have vanished without a trace. The Museo de Polvo (Polvo Museum, open Mondays) contains a plaster model of a settler's homestead, a sketch map of the Spanish advance, an authentic Welsh dresser, a collection of skins and hides, a stuffed albatross, a fusilier's epaulets, and a canoe. Murals depict Rosas's massacres (north wall) and the flood damage of 1899 (west wall). The attendant on duty wakes from time to time to remind the browser not to lean on the display cases.

Low Tide

The woman with the have-a-nice-day face in the post office they call 'Buttons'? The one that's always saying 'Can I share something with you?' and then complains about her feet, ruined by Uncle Sam, how she has to spend so much time at the counter selling stamps that she has to put cookies into her shoes for arch support? That lost her husband to a brain tumor and always asks me about Alice in an irritating way, as if I lost her to a brain tumor? With the apron?

She stuck a leaflet in my box, not to me personally, but to one of those all-purpose addresses - 'Box-Holder,' it said, and it advertised a 'Parenting Clinic,' and I said to myself: 'Parenting}' So I said to her, 'Now can I share something with you, Buttons?' and handed it back - didn't want it, didn't need it, because there is no such word and now am I going to get huge bills addressed to me as 'Box-Holder' that I have to pay - Minimum Payment and New Balance - regular as the tide, whether I like it or not? She took the leaflet back. She saw my point.

The tide was still going down as I searched my stack of mail for a word from Skip or Larry - nothing today; and still ebbing as I read the young fellow's T-shirt motto 'You Are Dealing With An Animal,' and I hurried towards his car to set him straight, but he drove off before I could say anything.

'The hell are you doing, Stanley?' I heard and turned and saw Ned Clark leaving the box lobby of the post office. 'Chasing

cars

v

'One of these T-shirts,' I said, pointing in the direction where the car had gone.

He just shook his head - could not have cared less about the way people advertise their aggression with T-shirts and bumper stickers - but who would notice in a town where the local garbage truck is lettered IRANIAN LUNCH CART?

'Anything I can do for you?' he said, as though to an invalid, and then took my arm to steer me through the parking lot.

LOW TIDE

I snatched my arm back and said, 'As a matter of fact, yes. Can you explain what "parenting" means?'

'All I know is that no one truly understands the dynamics of family life, and I suppose the best counsel is from the Bible, "Judge not less ye be judged."' And he tried to put his arm round me again. 'As for Alice and the boys - sometimes people need space.'