“My father was a lawyer. He had so much money he bought his own private plane. Had a heart attack one day flying it, died when he was only forty-four.”
“Well, it is sad for one to die so young,” Poppa said, watching the chef pour the ginger-and-mustard sauce into the octagonal bowls. “But it sounds like your father died like a man, at least. In his glory, doing what he loved, no?”
“He was a real bastard, my father, excuse my language. I’ll have to be honest and say I wasn’t sorry to see him go. I loved my mother, though.”
“Well, it is not uncommon for a son to secretly despise his father, perhaps even wish him dead. It is not a requirement for a son to have affection for his father, only to respect him as the head of the household. I never questioned my father, or gave him a day of trouble. Then he died. My brothers were already out of the house, and I became a man at ten years old. When the father dies, a son must replace him with eagerness, honoring his memory but never weeping. I respected my father but perhaps did not love him . . . Anyway, it is different with the mother; a son must love his mother above all,” Poppa said.
The waitress gathered our empty soup bowls and replaced them with wooden bowls of salad with ginger dressing. Poppa had taught my mother and me to eat with chopsticks, so Peter was the only one who had requested a fork—something I knew Poppa frowned upon.
“Hitler, for instance—I have read about this, it is well documented—Hitler loved his mother. Say what you will about Hitler: he was a maniac, a tyrant, responsible for insane cruelty, genocide, war—but he loved his mother. That is why I sometimes think even Hitler had a conscience. Because he loved his mother.”
“Oh, Louie, please,” my mother said. “People are nearby.”
“So what? I am speaking the truth! The man, bad as he was, loved his mother!”
My mother gave Peter a look.
“Good and evil, what are they?” Poppa continued. “Can one say with absolute certainty that Hitler is an evil man? Can one say this
with absolute certainty
?”
“Well, I’ve read about Hitler myself,” said Peter. “Didn’t Germany represent his mother in his mind? Isn’t that the reason behind all his atrocities?”
“Yes,” Poppa said, his gold cross wagging with the force of his movements. “Exactly! That is the psychology! Hitler, for instance, loved German children. He would be seen petting the heads of little blond boys and girls.”
“Can we please change the subject?” Mommy said.
“This woman,” Poppa said, elbowing Peter.
We paused to watch the chef perform his tricks with the salt and pepper shakers. We watched him ignite the oil on the stove, causing a large fire, to the awe of the entire table. Everyone clapped.
“He’s great,” Peter said. “I always liked magic shows. I know a few card tricks but nothing fancy.”
“Personally, I have seen better. Did you see him almost drop the shaker? He is inexperienced,” said Poppa in a low voice so the chef couldn’t hear. “I have been here so many times I have seen every chef; none of these tricks are new to me. I guess to you, Peter, this is a special treat.” Poppa smiled. “Come here as often as I do and it will fail to impress. I come here so much that I have over thirty matchboxes; I have not gotten around to using them all. If I were you, Peter, I would have gone through them by now! I notice you are a big smoker. Myself . . . I like moderation . . . I smoke for relaxation, not because I am addicted. I suppose if I were in your position, home all day, with a lot of time to fill, I might develop more of a habit.” Poppa paused to sip his sake. “Anyway, as I was saying before, no one in this world is evil. Not even Hitler. Pure evil is impossible. It doesn’t exist.”
“I agree with you there, Louie,” said Peter. “It’s like a straight line in nature. A perfectly straight line can’t exist in nature. It’s impossible.”
Mommy looked horrified. “Hitler was an evil man!”
Poppa didn’t answer right away. He concentrated on picking up his sticky white rice with his chopsticks. It was a nearly impossible feat, but Poppa always managed it without spilling a grain. “You miss the point. You miss the whole point of the discussion. Do you think I am championing ignorance? Do you think I do not watch the news? Do you think I am in love with criminals? The Manson murders turned my stomach. All I am saying about Hitler is that the man loved his mother . . .”
“I am not going to talk about Hitler anymore!” my mother whisper-yelled. “This is a sick conversation. Hitler is burning in hell, quite frankly, and I don’t care to discuss him anymore in front of Margaux.”
Poppa elbowed Peter. “Do you see what I have to put up with? Day after day? This woman has a simplistic view of the world. I, on the other hand, like to dissect things. I am a thinker. This woman already has her mind made up before a conversation starts.”
Peter shifted in his seat. “All I know is that together the two of you have managed to produce a beautiful daughter.” He smiled at me and then looked at their faces. Mommy was frowning as she ate her zucchini and noodles; Poppa was busy lighting a cigar. “I’m trying to think of which one of you she resembles more,” Peter said, as he started to remove a King 100 from his pack. “It’s pretty close.”
“Everyone says she looks like me,” Poppa said, lighting Peter’s cigarette with his cigar. “Everyone says she has my nose. Her girl cousins all look like her. That is the look. In personality, she is very much like my sister, Nilda. Stubborn and defiant. Nilda was three years older than me. She would start fights with me and then run to my father and I would get the blame. I would be beaten for that child’s sins!” He shook his head and was silent for a moment, eating. “My older sister was never beaten a day in her life, though a sound thrashing might have solved the problem. She was cunning, like this one. I do not trust this child sitting right here. She has my sister’s blood. Capable of turning on the dime. I am trying my best to destroy this quality before it gets out of hand.”
Peter took a long, speculative drag. “Louie, of course, you would know your daughter better than I, but perhaps you’re judging her a bit harshly. Margaux is very kind and trustworthy. She looks after my foster daughter, Karen, as if she were her own sister. She does dishes and helps out in our garden.”
“I believe you,” Poppa said, putting up a hand to halt Peter. “Look, let’s pretend Judas Iscariot is sitting here at this table with us. You want to talk about evil? Betrayal is the worst form of evil. If there is someone in history who really fits the definition of evil, it is Judas Iscariot. Not Hitler. Not Charles Manson. They were just madmen. Judas kissed the cheek of Christ. Kissed him on the cheek, like a brother! Now, let me ask this: is betrayal not the worst thing you can inflict upon a person?”
“I’ll have to think about that,” Peter said, starting to eat his chicken.
“Good! You think! I like a man who thinks before he speaks! It is a rare trait!” He patted Peter on the back. “I like your company. I would like to invite you to the Belmont Stakes in June. My wife and daughter can go to the playground. You and I will make some wagers. Do you have a bookie?”
Peter shook his head.
Poppa turned to Mommy, straightened her bib, and ordered his dessert—pineapple slices. I asked for chocolate ice cream. My mother said she was trying to watch her weight. Poppa said to the young Japanese waitress, “More sake, my dear! I am in a good mood! I have had an excellent dinner! And I was served by a lovely girl; you are more beautiful than Cleopatra! I suppose you hear things like that all the time.”
The waitress giggled and walked away.
“I have a way with women,” Poppa said to Peter. “It is a gift. They fall in love with me, not knowing why.” He laughed. “I have always known how to attract women. And I am not more handsome than the next person. I just have the gift. Come, Peter, let’s have a toast. My wife cannot drink but we can have a toast. A toast to a fine dinner and to good company!”
Poppa poured the sake and offered the white flask to Peter, who didn’t reach to take it.
“What is wrong?” Poppa asked, nudging him. “This is the best wine, I guarantee it! This wine will get you the drunkest! That is why I love it!” He laughed.
“Usually, I don’t drink. Actually, I don’t ever drink, Louie. We can make the toast but I can’t drink this.”
“Well, you can make an exception.” Poppa smiled, but his eyes had soured. “We’ve had a good night. Some sake will relax you.” He paused. “Don’t worry, if you throw up in my car, I can forgive that! I can always get the upholstery cleaned! It is not like I have leather upholstery! I wish I owned a Rolls-Royce but I have to be happy with my Chevy! A seventy-nine model like my daughter!”
Peter shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t drink at all. My father was a horrible alcoholic.”
“You mean to tell me you drink nothing, not even a beer? I find it hard to believe!”
“Not everyone drinks, Louie, you know that,” Mommy said. “It’s not that unbelievable. With some people, it changes their personalities. My father was different when he was drunk.”
Peter nodded. “My father was always drunk. He beat me and my brother every other night, for nothing. Whipped us with a cat-o’-nine-tails. Then he sent us to a boys’ school where the nuns beat us. There were times when we ran away and were sent back to our father, who beat us for running away; then he sent us back to the school, where the brothers and nuns would punish runaways either by beating them silly or sometimes with even worse punishments. One kid got his head shaved for running away ten times. No matter what my brother and I did, we just couldn’t win.”
Poppa was staring into his sake cup. When he saw the waitress, he quickly ordered the check. My mother and Peter kept talking.
On the way home in the Chevy, Peter and Poppa started talking again, this time about art. But I could tell Poppa didn’t have the same spirit as before, and so I worried. When Poppa arrived at Peter’s, he got out of the car, shook his hand, and said that we would all have to do this again very soon. But once Poppa got back into the car, he said, “That man is strange. I didn’t know what to expect of him, but all I know is that I
never
want to be in the company of such a person again. What kind of a man refuses a cup of quality wine at a nice dinner that is the treat of someone else? What kind of manners does he have? He used me. That man used me to pay for his dinner.”
“Louie, you insisted on treating.”
“He didn’t even offer money when the check came.”
“That’s because you said ahead of time that you were treating.”
“But when the bill came, he was still supposed to offer to pay for himself. Or offer to treat us. At the very least the tip!”
“He couldn’t afford it, Louie. Simple as that. They are poor, Louie. I don’t think you understand that.”
“I know that! That is no secret!” Poppa said. “I have no problem with paying! But there are certain things that are expected when one goes to dinner. Of course
I
paid. I am not a cheapskate.”
“You’re just mad because he wouldn’t drink with you.”
“I do not trust a man who cannot take one single drink! Fine, he doesn’t want to be drunk, good! I don’t want him sick in my car! Fine, but one drink!”
“Maybe he’s afraid of being out of control,” Mommy said. “Alcohol changes people. I respect him for not drinking.”
“Oh, you respect him! The saint!” Poppa said. He was hunting for a parking space, but didn’t seem to be looking too hard. This was the third time he had circled our block and the second time he had driven right past a space, not even seeing it. I noticed that the space was now taken. “Someone should give him a trophy!”
“You’re drunk, Louie! You shouldn’t even be driving! You almost hit that parked car!”
“These streets are too narrow! Listen, you want to drive? I will pull over. I will shut off the car.”
“You know I don’t drive! Just pay attention, please! I don’t want Margaux dead because you’re not paying attention!”
“Why didn’t you tell me that the man was strange? I would have stopped you from going there a long time ago. Well, it is not too late. I want you to start breaking away from this man and his family.”
I sat up straight in the backseat, my heart pounding. I was afraid to say anything. I was afraid to be silent.
Mommy gave him an incredulous look. “You would actually punish your daughter for an insult against you? What you
saw
as an insult? You would actually hurt Margaux to get back at him?”
Poppa laughed. “Oh yes, that is it, I just want to hurt
her
.
I
am protecting her. There’s something very wrong with that man, I can tell. He can fool you at first because he is a good conversationalist. He has charisma, let’s say. I was under his spell, too, at first. I thought: this is an intelligent man. This is a man of opinion. This is a man who knows about the world. He knew a lot about art, for instance. You heard him just before he left; he was quoting Renoir: too many artists spend time going to bed with beautiful women, rather than painting them. Good quote. I had a good laugh.” He paused. “But then he tells me Renoir is one of his favorites. Over the greats: Matisse, Picasso. Renoir is no innovator: he painted flowers and babies. I dislike Impressionist art. This Peter—he likes—what was it?” He paused again. “Norman Rockwell. He likes Norman Rockwell. That is not a true artist. He painted the insides of doctors’ waiting rooms. This Peter, this Peter, he can talk well, but you can tell he is not really educated. He is a manipulator. That is why I don’t like him. Let’s say he is about as real as his false teeth.” Poppa laughed. “What kind of person has his teeth pulled in his fifties?”
“Now you’re just being cruel,” said Mommy. “You are just drunk and you’re being nasty. Maybe that’s why Peter doesn’t drink. Drinking brings out the worst in people.”
“Honesty is cruelty, sure it is,” Poppa said, finally pulling up to parallel park in a space three blocks away from the house. “You can tell a lot about a man by how he cares for his appearance. A man who knows he has done right and has a clean conscience takes good care of his nails, his teeth. He respects himself and wishes his body to last forever. He smokes a cigar or cigarette occasionally but does not chain-smoke like that man. That man is self-destructive. The way he eats—he barely ate! He ate very little of his chicken and his noodles; did not touch his zucchini or watercress! Instead of caring for his teeth, he allows them to fall to ruin. He is a veteran. The veterans’ hospital would have paid for what he needed, a root canal, whatever. This man will be dead in ten years, I guarantee it. His mother had a stroke, his father a heart attack. Yet he does not watch his smoking. I can tell that he is unhealthy; he probably has high cholesterol.”