The Promise (17 page)

I went out into the hall and picked up the phone and dialed Danny’s apartment. The phone rang a long time. There was no answer. I told my father Danny was not in. He said to try until I got him. I told him I could just as easily call Danny sometime tomorrow. No, I must call Danny tonight, he said. He seemed deeply disturbed and in no mood for any suggestion that the call be delayed. I went back into my room, worked on my logic paper for a few minutes, and called Danny again. I waited a long time before I hung up the phone.

Twenty minutes later, I called him again. There was no answer. I called him after my shower, waited a quarter of an hour, called him again, waited another quarter of an hour, and called him again. I wondered if he had decided to sleep over at his father’s house that night and go to Columbia in the morning. But he had always been in his apartment on Sunday nights. He’s on another emergency, I thought.

I decided to call the treatment center. It was listed in the Brooklyn phone book. I dialed quickly and got the night watchman. He didn’t know anything about a Mr. Daniel Saunders. He would connect me with the staff member on night duty.

“Hello,” a man’s voice said.

I apologized for phoning so late at night and explained the reason for the call.

“No, there’s no emergency here tonight. Are you a friend of Dan’s?”

“Yes. My name is Reuven Malter. Do you have any idea where he might be?”

“No, I’m sorry. What did you say your name was?”

I told him.

“Well,” he said. “Isn’t that something? Do you know a boy named Michael Gordon?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Isn’t that something? I just found him wandering around the halls here and sent him off to bed. He told me you were coming to visit him soon. Isn’t that something?”

“Yes,” I said. “Thank you.”

I hung up and sat there and stared at the phone. It seemed alive. I went into my room and worked on my logic paper. It was twenty minutes to one. My father came into my room and told me he was going to bed and that I should keep trying to reach Danny. At least until one o’clock, he said.

I called Danny’s apartment again at ten minutes to one. The phone was picked up after the second ring.

“Yes?” It was Danny’s nasal voice.

“Reuven,” I said, feeling a flood of relief.

“What?”

“Reuven Malter.”

“Reuven?” There was a pause. Then, “What’s wrong?”

“Where have you been? I’ve been trying to get you for more than an hour.”

“I just got back from—” He stopped. “I just walked in the door. What’s wrong?” he said, his voice very tight.

“Michael called me tonight.”

There was silence.

“Danny?”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I heard you. Michael called you tonight.
Just a minute. Let me get my coat off.” I heard the phone scrape against something. Then, “Go ahead. Michael called you tonight.”

I told him about the phone call. He listened without interrupting me. Then he was quiet for a while.

“You did right to call me,” he said.

“You can thank my father.”

“We have to talk.”

“Go ahead,” I said.

“Not now. Not over the phone. I want to see you.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow. Tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow night is fine.”

“What time should I come over?”

I thought for a moment. “I’ll come over to you. At eight. I want to see if you’re really opening your window these days.” Then I said, “How is Michael?”

“Michael is not good,” Danny said quietly after a moment.

“I’ll see you tomorrow night at eight o’clock,” I said, and hung up the phone.

My father was standing by his bedroom door, wearing his pajamas. He nodded soberly when I told him what Danny had said, murmured good night, and went into his room.

The next day Rav Kalman called on me again. I read and explained, and he paced and listened. Occasionally he interrupted and asked me to clarify something I had said or a passage I had gone through too quickly. We fought for more than ten minutes over a difficult passage. I did not back off this time. Instead, I fought very hard, using passages from other tractates to buttress my argument and raising my voice to counter his words. I was talking loudly and excitedly and he let me go on unopposed for a moment and I saw him close his eyes and incline his head in my direction. He listened to me, his eyes closed. Then he opened his
eyes and broke into my words. From now on I would sit in the front row, he said. I would sit between Schwartz and Steinberg in the front row, and I would not have to shout to make myself heard. He spoke without sarcasm, but I felt hot with anger and embarrassment.

I did not go directly to the coat racks after class. I went up to the third floor where there was a Judaica library which I rarely used; most of the books I needed for Talmud I could find in the synagogue bookcases; the others I either owned or borrowed from my father. It was a small library, the size of two classrooms, poorly lighted and musty with the odor of old bindings and yellowing pages. Its windows were rarely open, its walls needed paint, and its four reading tables were old and scarred. To my knowledge, it contained not a single work of modern, scientific Jewish scholarship.

The librarian was a short, wrinkled old man with a white beard, a dark skullcap, and nearsighted eyes behind thick glasses. I asked him if the library kept back copies of—and I named a newspaper. No, the library did not have that newspaper, he said. But he had his own copies of that newspaper around somewhere. Which issue did I want? I told him. He went to his desk in the corner of the library and looked through a mountainous disarray of books and papers. He found it and brought it over to me. He had meant to throw it out, he said. Yes, I could have it. I thanked him and stuffed it into a pocket. Then I went over to the catalogue. The file cards on Rav Kalman were almost an eighth of an inch thick. I flipped through them quickly. All of the books listed had been published before the war, some in Warsaw, most in Vilna. With only one exception, they dealt with matters of Jewish law. The exception was a book on ethics. I made out call slips for the work on ethics and three of the books on Jewish law which I selected at random. Fifteen minutes later I came out of the building with the four books in my hands. They were old, dusty books, with cracked bindings that crumbled at the edges. I was five minutes late for my logic class.

I had never been interested enough in Rav Kalman before to want to read any of his writings. Nor had he ever mentioned any of his writings to us in class. That night on the subway ride over to Danny’s apartment I read his book on ethics.

It was cold and dark and an icy wind blew along Broadway and up through the narrow side street where Danny lived, a fierce wind that came off the river, which I could not see for the darkness. The house was small, three stories, red brick, and old, very old. Five worn stone stairs, a badly fitting wooden front door, a tiny overheated foyer with mailboxes, buttons, and nameplates. I pressed the button over the name Saunders. There was a loud answering buzz. I pushed open the heavy inner door and started up the steep, carpeted, narrow staircase. The door closed with a loud click. It was a little before eight o’clock. Someone inside the house was frying bacon. The staircase was poorly lighted; the carpet was worn. It was a long climb up to the third floor.

Danny was waiting for me in his doorway. He had on a dark woolen sweater and dark trousers. There was a skullcap on his head. His face was pale and he blinked at me wearily from behind his black shell-rimmed glasses.

I took off my coat and hat. Danny put them into a closet. I put on my skullcap.

“Well,” I said. “How are you?”

“I’m all right.”

“What have you got that I can thaw out with?”

“Coffee.”

“Kosher coffee?”

He smiled.

“It’s good to see you,” I said.

“Yes,” he said quietly.

“The place is different. You’ve entered the twentieth century.”

He did not say anything. He went over to his tiny kitchen and started preparing the coffee.

“I didn’t know you liked abstract art,” I said.

“I’m learning.” His back was to me. He did not turn around.

“Very nice. New linoleum. Fresh paint. Very neat. And clean. It’s a nice apartment when you keep it clean. And the window is open. Very nice. How did you like
Barefoot in Athens
?” I asked, looking at the handbill near the typewriter on the desk.

He turned then and followed my eyes to the handbill. “I liked it,” he said, very quietly.

“I take cream and two sugars,” I said.

He looked at me, then turned slowly away. I heard gas jets come to life with a tiny puff of sound.

I went over to the bookcase. It was the old bookcase I had seen in the apartment in the spring. Alongside it stood a new four-drawer gray filing cabinet. On the other side of the filing cabinet was a new bookcase. There were no books on the floor. The bookcases were filled with technical books and journals, all of them neatly arranged on the shelves. The new bookcase contained an entire set of the Talmud.

“It’s about Socrates, isn’t it?
Barefoot in Athens
.” I had gone over to his desk, which was covered with papers and books, and was looking at the handbill again.

“Yes,” I heard Danny say as if from a very long distance away.

“Which Byrd is this? Admiral Byrd?” A book on his desk had caught my eye.

I thought I saw his shoulders stiffen. He spooned sugar into the cups. “Yes. Admiral Byrd.”

“The explorer?” The book was titled
Alone
.

“Yes,” he said.

I picked up the book, then noticed the titles of the two books on which it had been placed. One was
A Philosophy of Solitude
by John Cooper Powys; the other was a fat little book of the sort published in the last century. It was called
Solitude
. The author’s name was given as Zimmerman.

I put the Byrd book back down on the desk and stood there, trying to recall something. After a moment I gave it up and crossed over to the sofa bed and sat down. It was soft and comfortable. I leaned back against the wall and looked at Danny, who was still standing in front of the sink, his back to me.

“How are you, Danny? How are you really?”

“Tired.”

“You’re always tired. Whenever I see you you’re tired.”

“It’s the occupational disease of graduate school.”

“How is your father?”

“My father is all right.”

“How is Rachel?”

“Rachel is—fine.”

“The water is boiling.”

He turned off the flames, filled the cups, brought me one, and took the other with him over to the desk. He sat down on the chair in front of the desk and did not look at me.

“It’s all right,” I said quietly.

He looked at me then and blinked his eyes.

“It’s all right,” I said again.

“No. It’s not all right.”

“There was nothing there. We were good friends. We still are friends, I think. But there was nothing there, Danny.”

“It’s wrong. There isn’t a thing that’s right about it.”

I sipped at my coffee. It was very hot.

“How does a Hasid go out on a date with a girl?” I asked.

Danny said nothing.

“We never talked about that.”

He looked away. “There are some things you don’t talk about.”

“There’s nothing people don’t talk about these days.”

“There are some things I don’t talk about.”

“Danny.”

He looked at me.

“How long is it now?”

“Since November.”

“Is it really serious?”

“Yes.”

“Very serious?”

“Yes.”

“On both sides?”

“More on her side than mine.”

“Because she’s a Gordon?”

“I don’t give a damn about her being a Gordon.”

“Your father will give a damn.”

“I’m not worried about my father. I’m worried about Michael.”

“Are you working with Michael? I thought someone called Altman is working with Michael.”

“They’re changing it. They’re going to try something else. It’s all wrong.”

“You mean it’s wrong professionally. Is that what you mean?”

“Yes.”

I drank some more coffee. It was not so hot now as before.

“You have no idea what a mess this can become.”

“No,” I said. “I have no idea about that at all.”

He drank some coffee and put the cup down on the desk next to the typewriter. The desk lamp shown on his face, bathing it in light and shadows. I saw him blink his eyes.

“You’re making better coffee these days,” I said.

“I’m learning.”

“You’re learning about a lot of things.”

“Yes,” he said.

“It’s called motivation. That’s what it’s called, isn’t it?”

He looked at me and blinked his eyes.

“You’ll be a twentieth-century man before you know it.”

“You are angry.”

“No,” I said. “I have no right to be angry. I’m not even surprised. There was nothing there.”

“All right.”

“Tell me about Michael.”

He picked up his cup, sipped some coffee, and put it back down on the desk. “Michael is very sick,” he said.