Read The Complete Stories Online
Authors: Bernard Malamud
The Complete Stories (76 page)
They then shook hands. Albert, still assailed by doubts, stepped into the corridor. He felt he did not, in essence, trust the rabbi; and suspected that Rabbi Lifschitz knew it and did not, in essence, trust him.
Rifkele, panting like a cow for a bull, let him out the front door, perfectly.
In the subway, Albert figured he would call it an investment in experience and see what came of it. Education costs money, but how else can you get it? He pictured the crown, as he had seen it, established on the rabbi’s head, and then seemed to remember that as he had stared at the man’s shifty face in the mirror the thickened lid of his right eye had slowly dropped into a full wink. Did he recall this in truth, or was he seeing in his mind’s eye and transposing into the past something that had happened just before he left the house? What does he mean by his wink?—not only is he a fake but he kids you? Uneasy once more, the teacher clearly remembered, when he was staring into the rabbi’s fish eyes in the glass, after which they had lit in visionary light, that he had fought a hunger to sleep; and the next thing there’s the sight of the old boy, as though on the television screen, wearing this high-hat magic crown.
Albert, rising, cried, “Hypnosis! The bastard magician hypnotized me! He never did produce a silver crown, it’s out of my imagination—I’ve been suckered!”
He was outraged by the knavery, hypocrisy, fat nerve of Rabbi Jonas Lifschitz. The concept of a curative crown, if he had ever for a moment believed in it, crumbled in his brain and all he could think of were 986 blackbirds flying in the sky. As three curious passengers watched, Albert bolted out of the car at the next stop, rushed up the stairs, hurried across the street, then cooled his impatient heels for twenty-two minutes till the next train clattered into the station, and he rode back to the stop near the rabbi’s house. Though he banged with both fists on the door, kicked at it, “rang” the useless bell until his thumb was blistered, the boxlike wooden house, including dilapidated synagogue store, was dark, monumentally starkly still, like a gigantic, slightly tilted tombstone in a vast graveyard; and in the end unable to arouse a soul, the teacher, long past midnight, had to head home.
He awoke next morning cursing the rabbi and his own stupidity for having got involved with a faith healer. This is what happens when a man—even for a minute—surrenders his true beliefs. There are less punishing ways to help the dying. Albert considered calling the cops but had no receipt and did not want to appear that much a fool. He was tempted, for the first time in six years of teaching, to phone in sick; then take a cab to the rabbi’s house and demand the return of his cash. The thought agitated him. On the other hand, suppose Rabbi Lifschitz was seriously at work assembling the crown with his helper; on which, let’s say, after he had bought the silver and paid the retired jeweler for his work, he made, let’s say, a hundred bucks clear profit—not so very much; and there really was a silver crown, and the rabbi sincerely and religiously believed it would reverse the course of his father’s illness? Although nervously disturbed by his suspicions, Albert felt he had better not get the police into the act too soon, because the crown wasn’t promised—didn’t the old gent say—until before the Sabbath, which gave him till sunset tonight.
If he produces the thing by then, I have no case against him even if it’s a piece of junk. So I better wait. But what a dope I was to order the $986 job instead of the $401. On that decision alone I lost $585.
After a distracted day’s work Albert taxied to the rabbi’s house and tried to rouse him, even hallooing at the blank windows facing the street; but either nobody was home or they were both hiding, the rabbi under the broken sofa, Rifkele trying to shove her bulk under a bathtub. Albert decided to wait them out. Soon the old boy would have to leave
the house to step into the shul on Friday night. He would speak to him, warn him to come clean. But the sun set; dusk settled on the earth; and though the autumn stars and a sliver of moon gleamed in the sky, the house was dark, shades drawn; and no Rabbi Lifschitz emerged. Lights had gone on in the little shul, candles were lit. It occurred to Albert, with chagrin, that the rabbi might be already worshipping; he might all this time have been in the synagogue.
the house to step into the shul on Friday night. He would speak to him, warn him to come clean. But the sun set; dusk settled on the earth; and though the autumn stars and a sliver of moon gleamed in the sky, the house was dark, shades drawn; and no Rabbi Lifschitz emerged. Lights had gone on in the little shul, candles were lit. It occurred to Albert, with chagrin, that the rabbi might be already worshipping; he might all this time have been in the synagogue.
The teacher entered the long, brightly lit store. On yellow folding chairs scattered around the room sat a dozen men holding worn prayer books, praying. The rabbi, A. Marcus, a middle-aged man with a high voice and a short reddish beard, was dovening at the Ark, his back to the congregation.
As Albert entered and embarrassedly searched from face to face, the congregants stared at him. The old rabbi was not among them. Disappointed, the teacher withdrew.
A man sitting by the door touched his sleeve.
“Stay awhile and read with us.”
“Excuse me, I’d like to but I’m looking for a friend.”
“Look,” said the man, “maybe you’ll find him.”
Albert waited across the street under a chestnut tree losing its leaves. He waited patiently—till tomorrow if he had to.
Shortly after nine the lights went out in the synagogue and the last of the worshippers left for home. The red-bearded rabbi then emerged with his key in his hand to lock the store door.
“Excuse me, rabbi,” said Albert, approaching. “Are you acquainted with Rabbi Jonas Lifschitz, who lives upstairs with his daughter Rifkele—if she is his daughter?”
“He used to come here,” said the rabbi with a small smile, “but since he retired he prefers a big synagogue on Mosholu Parkway, a palace.”
“Will he be home soon, do you think?”
“Maybe in an hour. It’s Shabbat, he must walk.”
“Do you—ah—happen to know anything about his work on silver crowns?”
“What kind of silver crowns?”
“To assist the sick, the dying?”
“No,” said the rabbi, locking the shul door, pocketing the key, and hurrying away.
The teacher, eating his heart, waited under the chestnut tree till past midnight, all the while urging himself to give up and go home, but unable to unstick the glue of his frustration and rage. Then shortly before
1 a.m. he saw some shadows moving and two people drifting up the shadow-encrusted street. One was the old rabbi, in a new caftan and snappy black Homburg, walking tiredly. Rifkele, in sexy yellow mini, exposing to above the big-bone knees her legs like poles, walked lightly behind him, stopping to strike her ears with her hands. A long white shawl, pulled short on the right shoulder, hung down to her left shoe.
1 a.m. he saw some shadows moving and two people drifting up the shadow-encrusted street. One was the old rabbi, in a new caftan and snappy black Homburg, walking tiredly. Rifkele, in sexy yellow mini, exposing to above the big-bone knees her legs like poles, walked lightly behind him, stopping to strike her ears with her hands. A long white shawl, pulled short on the right shoulder, hung down to her left shoe.
“On my income their glad rags.”
Rifkele chanted a long “Boooo” and slapped both ears with her pudgy hands to keep from hearing it.
They toiled up the ill-lit narrow staircase, the teacher trailing them.
“I came to see my crown,” he told the pale, astonished rabbi, in the front room.
“The crown,” the rabbi said haughtily, “is already finished. Go home and wait, your father will soon get better.”
“I called the hospital before leaving my apartment, there’s been no improvement.”
“How can you expect so soon improvement if the doctors themselves don’t know what is the sickness? You must give the crown a little more time. God Himself has trouble to understand human sickness.”
“I came to see the thing I paid for.”
“I showed you already, you saw before you ordered.”
“That was an image of a facsimile, maybe, or something of the sort. I insist on seeing the real thing, for which I paid close to one thousand smackers.”
“Listen, Mr. Gans,” said the rabbi patiently, “there are some things we are allowed to see which He lets us see them. Sometimes I wish He didn’t let us. There are other things we are not allowed to see —Moses knew this—and one is God’s face, and another is the real crown that He makes and blesses it. A miracle is a miracle, this is God’s business.”
“Don’t you see it?”
“Not with my eyes.”
“I don’t believe a word of it, you faker, two-bit magician.”
“The crown is a real crown. If you think there is magic, it is on account those people that they insist to see it—we try to give them an idea. For those who believe, there is no magic.
“Rifkele,” the rabbi said hurriedly, “bring to Papa my book of letters.”
She left the room, after a while, a little in fright, her eyes evasive; and returned in ten minutes, after flushing the toilet, in a shapeless long
flannel nightgown, carrying a large yellowed notebook whose loose pages were thickly interleaved with old correspondence.
flannel nightgown, carrying a large yellowed notebook whose loose pages were thickly interleaved with old correspondence.
“Testimonials,” said the rabbi.
Turning several loose pages, with trembling hand he extracted a letter and read it aloud, his voice husky with emotion.
“‘Dear Rabbi Lifschitz: Since the miraculous recovery of my mother, Mrs. Max Cohen, from her recent illness, my impulse is to cover your bare feet with kisses. Your crown worked wonders and I am recommending it to all my friends. Yours truly and sincerely, (Mrs.) Esther Polatnik.’
“This is a college teacher.”
He read another. “‘Dear Rabbi Lifschitz, Your $986 crown totally and completely cured my father of cancer of the pancreas, with serious complications of the lungs, after nothing else had worked. Never before have I believed in miraculous occurrences, but from now on I will have less doubts. My thanks to you and God. Most sincerely, Daniel Schwartz.’
“A lawyer,” said the rabbi.
He offered the book to Albert. “Look yourself, Mr. Gans, hundreds of letters.”
Albert wouldn’t touch it.
“There’s only one thing I want to look at, Rabbi Lifschitz, and it’s not a book of useless testimonials. I want to see my father’s silver crown.
“This is impossible. I already explained to you why I can’t do this. God’s word is God’s law.”
“So if it’s the law you’re citing, either I see the crown in the next five minutes or the first thing tomorrow morning I’m reporting you and your activities to the Bronx County District Attorney.”
“Boooo-ooo,” sang Rifkele, banging her ears.
“Shut up!” Albert said.
“Have respect,” cried the rabbi. “Grubber yung!”
“I will swear out a complaint and the D.A. will shut you down, the whole freaking plant, if you don’t at once return the $986 you swindled me out of.”
The rabbi wavered in his tracks. “Is this the way to talk to a rabbi of God?”
“A thief is a thief.”
Rifkele blubbered, squealed.
“Sha,” the rabbi thickly whispered to Albert, clasping and unclasping his gray hands. “You’ll frighten the neighbors. Listen to me, Mr.
Gans, you saw with your eyes what it looks like the real crown. I give you my word that nobody of my whole clientele ever saw this before. I showed you for your father’s sake so you would tell me to make the crown which will save him. Don’t spoil now the miracle.”
Gans, you saw with your eyes what it looks like the real crown. I give you my word that nobody of my whole clientele ever saw this before. I showed you for your father’s sake so you would tell me to make the crown which will save him. Don’t spoil now the miracle.”
“Miracle,” Albert bellowed, “it’s a freaking fake magic, with an idiot girl for a come-on and hypnotic mirrors. I was mesmerized, suckered by you.”
“Be kind,” begged the rabbi, tottering as he wandered amid empty chairs. “Be merciful to an old man. Think of my poor child. Think of your father who loves you.”
“He hates me, the son of a bitch, I hope he croaks.”
In an explosion of silence the girl slobbered in fright.
“Aha,” cried the wild-eyed rabbi, pointing a finger at God in heaven. “Murderer,” he cried, aghast.
Moaning, father and daughter rushed into each other’s arms, as Albert, wearing a massive, spike-laden headache, rushed down the booming stairs.
An hour later the elder Gans shut his eyes and expired.
1972
M
ax Adler, passing through the city in November, had telephoned his old professor of architecture, Clem Harris, and was at once cordially invited to dinner that night at his house in Hempstead to meet some good friends and his young wife, Karla.
ax Adler, passing through the city in November, had telephoned his old professor of architecture, Clem Harris, and was at once cordially invited to dinner that night at his house in Hempstead to meet some good friends and his young wife, Karla.
She spoke of her husband’s respect for Adler. “He says about you something he doesn’t often say about his former students—that you deserve your success. Didn’t you win an AIA national medal about two years out of graduate school?”
“Not a medal,” Adler explained, pleased. “It was an Honor Award certificate for a house I designed.”
Adler, at the time of the dinner party, was a loose-fleshed heavy man who dressed with conservative carelessness and weighed 210.
“That’s what I mean.” She laughed in embarrassment and he imagined that she often laughed in embarrassment. She was strongbodied and plain, in an elegant way, and wore her brown hair pulled back in a twist. He thought she was twenty-five or -six. She had on a short green dress with sandals, and her sturdy legs and thighs were well formed. Adler, when she asked, said he was thirty-two, and Karla remarked it was a fine age for a man. He knew her husband’s age was twice his. She was direct and witty, with a certain tensity of expression, and she told him almost at once that friendship meant a lot to her.
It was during dinner that Karla Harris let Adler know about the note in his pocket. They were six at the table in the large woodpaneled
dining room, with a bay window containing a pebbled bed of chrysanthemums and begonias. Besides the hosts there was a middle-aged couple, the Ralph Lewins—he was a colleague of Harris’s at the Columbia University School of Architecture; and maybe to balance off Adler, Harris’s secretary, Shirley Fisher, had been invited, a thin-ankled, wet-eyed divorcee in a long bright-blue skirt, who talked and drank liberally. Harris, pouring wine liberally from a bottle in a basket, sat at the head of the broad neat table, opposite Karla, who was on the qui vive to see that everything went as it should; from time to time her husband smiled his encouragement.
dining room, with a bay window containing a pebbled bed of chrysanthemums and begonias. Besides the hosts there was a middle-aged couple, the Ralph Lewins—he was a colleague of Harris’s at the Columbia University School of Architecture; and maybe to balance off Adler, Harris’s secretary, Shirley Fisher, had been invited, a thin-ankled, wet-eyed divorcee in a long bright-blue skirt, who talked and drank liberally. Harris, pouring wine liberally from a bottle in a basket, sat at the head of the broad neat table, opposite Karla, who was on the qui vive to see that everything went as it should; from time to time her husband smiled his encouragement.
Max Adler sat on her right, facing Lewin across the table, and on his right was Mrs. Lewin, a small luminous-faced, listening person. Karla, when Harris was ladling turtle soup into bowls out of a handsome tureen, and the conversation was lively, leaned imperceptibly close to Adler and whispered, “If you like surprises, feel in your left pocket when you can,” and though he wasn’t sure at once was the proper time, when she left the room to get the rolls that had almost burned, he casually reached into his suit-coat pocket and felt a folded slip of paper which, after a minute, he smoothed out and read in his palm.
If anybody at the table had noticed that Adler’s head was momentarily lowered and wondered whether he was privately saying grace, or maybe studying his wristwatch with a view to catching an early train back to the city, it occurred to him he wouldn’t have worried; he was politely reading the lady’s note, had initiated nothing. The slip of yellow lined paper, in small printed handwriting, said simply, “Why do we all think we
should
be happy, that it’s one of the necessary conditions of life?” and for a while Adler, who took questions of this sort seriously, didn’t know what to say in reply.
should
be happy, that it’s one of the necessary conditions of life?” and for a while Adler, who took questions of this sort seriously, didn’t know what to say in reply.
She could quite easily have asked her question while they were having cocktails on the enclosed porch and he would have done his best with it; but she had seemed concerned about the dinner and had been in and out of the kitchen many times; dealing also with the girl sitter who was putting the children to bed, really too busy to sustain a conversation with any of her guests. Yet since she hadn’t orally asked her question, Adler felt he had to respect the fact that she had found it necessary to write it out on paper and slip into his pocket. If this was the way she was moved to express herself, he thought he ought to answer with a note. He glanced at her husband, aged but still vigorous since he had seen him last, who was at the moment listening attentively to Shirley. Adler excused himself—he said to get his glasses—to scribble a note on a memo pad; and when he returned,
though he wasn’t comfortable in pretense, he covertly passed the paper to her, grazing her warm bare thigh, though he hadn’t intended to, then feeling her narrow fingers, as he touched them, close on the note.
though he wasn’t comfortable in pretense, he covertly passed the paper to her, grazing her warm bare thigh, though he hadn’t intended to, then feeling her narrow fingers, as he touched them, close on the note.
He had been tempted to say that happiness wasn’t something he worried about anymore—you had it or you hadn’t and why beat your brains blue when there was work to be done; but he didn’t say that. He had quickly written, “Why not?—it’s a short hard life if you don’t outfox it.”
Karla glanced at the paper in her hand, a fork in a piece of fillet of sole in the other, apparently not disappointed, her color heightened, expression neutral, a bit distant. She disappeared into the kitchen with an empty salad bowl and, when she was again seated at the table, secretly passed Adler another note: “I want you to see my babies.” Adler solemnly nodded as he pocketed the paper. She smiled vaguely as her husband, who had once more risen to refill the wineglasses, gazed at her fondly. The others were momentarily quietly eating, not, apparently, attentive. Karla returned a resemblance of her husband’s smile as Adler, wondering why she engaged him in this curious game, felt they were now related in a way he couldn’t have foreseen when he had entered the house that evening. When Harris, behind him, pouring wine into his glass, let his hand fall affectionately on his former student’s shoulder, Max, who had experienced a strong emotion on seeing his old professor after so many years, felt himself resist his touch.
Later he enjoyed talking with him over brandy in the living room; it was a spacious room, twenty-four by thirty, Adler estimated, tastefully and comfortably furnished, draped, decorated, with a glass bowl of golden chrysanthemums and Shasta daisies on the fireplace mantel and some bright modernist paintings on the wall. Karla was then in the kitchen, showing the sitter how to stack and operate the dishwasher, and Adler felt geared to anticipation, though not sure of what. He tried to suppress the feeling and to some extent succeeded. But as Clem Harris poured him a cognac he stealthily felt in his pocket and there were the two notes only.
The professor, a crisp tall man with a clipped grayish beard, faintly red, and thick gray sideburns, who wore a green blazer with an orange shirt and white bow tie, was lavish in his praise of Adler’s recent work, some slides of which the architect had sent him; and Max once more expressed gratitude for the interest Harris continued to show. He had always been a kind man and influential teacher.
“What are you into now?” Harris asked. After two brandies he
had gone back to Scotch-and-soda. His large face was flushed and he wiped his watery eyes with a pressed handkerchief. Adler had noticed how often he glanced up at the dining-room door in anticipation of his wife’s reappearance.
had gone back to Scotch-and-soda. His large face was flushed and he wiped his watery eyes with a pressed handkerchief. Adler had noticed how often he glanced up at the dining-room door in anticipation of his wife’s reappearance.
“The same project you saw in the transparencies,” Adler said. “How about you?”
“Renovating some slum units for a private low-income housing group. There’s very little money in it. It’s more or less pro bono.”
“I ought to be doing more of that myself.”
Harris, after observing Adler for a moment, asked, “Aren’t you putting on more weight, Max?”
“I eat too much,” Adler confessed.
“You ought to watch your weight. Do you still smoke like a chimney?”
“Not anymore.”
“Bully. I wish I could get Karla to cut down.”
When she reappeared his wife had brushed her hair. The green dress she had been wearing she had changed for a short crocheted strawberry mini, with white bra and half-slip showing through the weave. The warm color of the dress brought out a bloom in her face. She was an attractive woman.
“Ah, you’ve changed your dress,” her husband said.
“I spilled at least a pint of gravy on it,” Karla explained with an embarrassed laugh.
“I thought you didn’t much care for this one.”
“When did I say that?” she asked. “I do like it. I like it very much. It’s the purple one I don’t like—it’s too damn harsh.”
Harris, drinking from his glass, nodded pleasantly. Something else was on his mind. “I wish you’d get yourself more help when you need it.”
“What kind of help?” asked Karla.
“In the kitchen, of course.” His tone was affectionate, solicitous.
“Stephanie’s cleaning up—that’s the dirty work.”
“It was a wonderful meal,” said Max.
She thanked him.
“We ought to have a maid to help at dinner parties,” Harris insisted. “Sometimes our guests barely get a look at you. I wish you’d be less a puritan about occasional luxuries. I hate for you to be too tired to enjoy your own parties.”
“I’m enjoying this.”
Max nodded.
“You know what I mean,” Harris said.
“Clem, I simply don’t like maids around at small dinner parties.”
She told Adler that Stephanie was another of Harris’s students.
“The father of us all,” she laughed.
“Stephanie needs the money,” Harris said.
Karla then asked Adler if he liked her in her crocheted dress. He said he did.
“Is it too short?”
“No,” said Max.
“I didn’t say it was,” said Harris.
The phone rang, and when he answered, it was one of his doctoral candidates. Harris, good-humoredly wiggling his fingers at Karla, talked patiently with the doctoral candidate.
Adler and Karla were sitting on a love seat facing the flowerladen fireplace, when she whispered there was a note between the pillows. He recovered it as they were talking and slipped it into his pocket.
“I’ll read it later.”
But she had left the love seat as though to give him an opportunity to read what she had written. Karla plopped herself down next to Ada Lewin on the long beige sofa along the left wall, as Ralph Lewin, sipping a brandy, listened to Clem on the phone. Shirley Fisher then drifted over to talk with the visitor. She wore a lowdraped white camisole with a slit midi and was openly flirtatious. When she crossed her legs a long thin thigh was exposed.
“Don’t older woman interest you, Mr. Adler?” Her voice was slightly husky.
“I wouldn’t call you old.”
Shirley said she was charmed but then Karla returned. Harris was still patiently on the phone. Adler decided the colors he wore went well with the paintings on the walls. When Max was his student, Harris had worn gray suits with white shirts.
“Can you spare him for five minutes, Shirley?” Karla asked. “I want Mr. Adler to see the babies.”
“Max,” said Adler.
“Wouldn’t they be sleeping now?”
“I want him to see them anyway—if he’d like to.”
Max said he would.
He had managed to glance at her note: “Don’t panic but I like you a lot.”
“Enjoy yourselves,” Shirley said, pouring herself a brandy.
“We will,” Karla said.
As they were going up the stairs Adler said, “I wouldn’t want to wake them up.”
“They’ll go right on sleeping.”
She opened the door, switching on the light. Two children slept in cribs in a large nursery room with three curtained windows. At first Adler thought they were twins, but they weren’t. One was a little girl with light-blond curls in a white crib, and the other was an infant boy in an orange crib. On the floor, in the corner, stood a circular canvas playpen strewn with dolls and wooden toys. A series of smallanimal watercolors was framed on the walls; Karla said she had done them.
“I used to do such lovely watercolors.”
Adler said they were charming.
“Not those, my watercolors from nature. I just haven’t the time to paint anymore.”
“I know what you mean.”
“You really don’t,” she said.
“This is Sara,” Karla said, standing by the white crib. “She’s two. Stevie is just eleven months. Look at those shoulders. Clem thought we ought to have them close together so they would be friends. His first wife died childless.”
“I knew her,” Adler said.
The boy, in undershirt and plastic diaper cover, lay on his side, sucking the corner of his blanket in his sleep. He resembled his father.
The little girl, asleep on her back in a flowered yellow nightgown, clutching a stuffed doll, looked like Karla.
“They’re lovely children,” Adler said.
Karla stood at the little girl’s crib. “Oh, my babies,” she said. “My little babies. My heart goes out to them.” She lowered the side of the crib and, bending, kissed Sara, who opened her eyes, stared at her mother, and was then asleep, smiling.
Karla withdrew the doll and the child released it with a sigh. Then she covered the little boy with his blanket.
“Very nice children,” Adler said.
“My lovely little babies. My babies, my babies.” Her face was tender, sad, illumined.
“Do I sound hokey?”
“I wouldn’t say so.” Max was affected by her.
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