Five Seasons (42 page)

A
T NINE THAT EVENING
a taxi brought them to a baroque apartment building in a middle-class suburb, where a stocky guard met them at the door and took them up to the second floor in a dark elevator. Stepping into a vestibule wallpapered with a forest of gold trees and faded green leaves, they waited for their guide to unlock a door and usher them into an ornate drawing room in which stood a grand piano covered with musical scores. Large windows looked out on a dimly lit park; on the leather chairs and sofa lay piles of newspapers, magazines, and office files; shelves of books and Judaica lined the walls; and the overall jumble was such that Molkho cast a worried glance at his plump Goldilocks while their guide vanished down a hallway to look for Mr. Shimoni, who proved to be a tall, thin, sallow, bald man in his sixties, dressed in a silk bathrobe and high slippers and with a cultivated air. Sucking on a cough drop, he shook their hands formally, the blue veins bulging in his broad, intellectual brow. Yes, he's even sicker than I thought, decided Molkho, begging pardon for the late-hour intrusion. Mr. Shimoni waved off the apology and sank into a leather armchair, imperiously dismissing the silent guard while inviting his guests to sit down. “Well, then, this is the Miss Zand that I wrote you about,” began Molkho, removing some Hebrew newspapers from a chair and pointing to his rabbit, who teetered on her high heels in a dress slightly creased from her suitcase. “She was processed by you in Vienna nearly a year ago on her way from Russia to Israel. I understand you don't see many new faces these days, so perhaps you even remember her.”

If he took umbrage, the official gave no sign. Smiling faintly at Miss Zand, who, bright with excitement, was settling into a chair, he began questioning her in a fluent Russian that he evidently kept handy for such occasions. She answered him solemnly, her stiff curls shaking with each emphatic bob of her head. “Then you don't remember her?” interrupted Molkho, feeling left out. “What difference does it make?” replied Mr. Shimoni brusquely, barely glancing in his direction. “They're only here for a day or two; their train pulls in from Russia in the morning, and by the next evening they're on a plane to Israel.” “Well,” said Molkho, discouraged by the patronizing tone, “she wants to go back. She's been in Israel nine months and doesn't like it. You don't like it, do you?” he asked her while Mr. Shimoni stared ironically at the floor. Suspicious at the sudden switch to Hebrew, which no longer seemed quite so amusing, she looked from one man to the other. “Where in Israel did she live?” asked Shimoni, using his divide-and-conquer technique to repeat the question in Russian without waiting for Molkho to answer. Sitting on the edge of her chair, Miss Zand replied to all his queries, pulling out a packet of letters from her handbag and even showing him one from her old place of employment in the Soviet Union declaring its readiness to take her back.

“In Israel she was unemployed,” put in Molkho, refusing to be excluded. It was his duty, he felt, if only to his mother-in-law, to serve as the little Russian's counsel. “She was enrolled in an intensive Hebrew course, though you can see that she didn't learn a word.” “But no one at the embassy will take her back,” snapped Mr. Shimoni with sudden irritation. “You're just wasting your time!” Molkho knew this was true, but startled to hear it put so baldly, he began zealously defending a faith he didn't share—namely, that if the Jewish Agency would return Miss Zand's exit visa and give her a letter stating that she had only left the Soviet Union to accompany her old mother to Vienna, all would be well. “But what good will that do?” scoffed Shimoni. “The Finns say it will give her back her refugee status,” answered Molkho. “A lot the Finns know!” jeered the official, putting on his glasses to read the Russian's letters while continuing his interrogation.

Why argue? reasoned Molkho, growing calmer. The man is right. Why take all her problems on myself? He glanced out the paneled window at the bright lights of Vienna, glimpsing the electric spark of a trolley along the tree line of the park. Mr. Shimoni's sickly pallor made him appreciate his own good health. Despite his fears that his wife's illness would turn on him once she died, a year had gone by without a single visit to the doctor. Not even to the dentist, he thought contentedly, reaching into his jacket pocket for his bifocals in order to glance at a newspaper. Yet the little Russian's musical voice held his attention. Happy to be speaking her own language, she was excitedly explaining something, now pointing to her letters and now to Molkho, as though telling the official all about him. Perhaps there's more to her than just those pretty eyes after all, he thought, resolving not to be unkind. Though he didn't understand a word, he felt he knew what she was saying. “After all,” he interrupted, eager to rejoin the conversation, “why shouldn't they take Miss Zand back? Think of the publicity it will give them.” “They don't need our publicity,” sniffed Mr. Shimoni, sucking on his cough drop like an elderly infant, his condescending expression unchanged. “And besides, even if they wanted to take her back, it's not bureaucratically possible.” He grinned, baring decayed teeth. “But why must it be Russia? If Miss Zand is prepared to go to America or Canada, that's something that might be arranged.” Molkho had no objections, but when the idea was broached to the little Russian, she so tearfully shook her head and heaved her ample bosom that her mettle rather pleased him, though it only made Shimoni crosser.

“Have you ever had such a case before?” Molkho asked. His mouth was dry from the central heating and it was beginning to dawn on him that the official, who apparently lived by himself, was not going to offer them refreshment. “One or two,” Shimoni replied. “They all come to me with their complaints as if it were my fault that they didn't like Israel.” “You see,” said Molkho with a sympathetic nod at his client, who perhaps understood more Hebrew than she let on, “she couldn't take the climate either. This past summer was an especially bad one.” And when the official merely snorted, he went on, “Why, she's more Russian than Jewish. Just look at her! The idea of her having to go through all this is absurd! And don't talk to me about a common Jewish destiny,” he added heatedly, though Mr. Shimoni had done nothing of the sort, “because there is no such thing! That's only the slogan of unhappy Jews like us who want more Jews to be unhappy with them.” Sucking bemusedly on his cough drop, Mr. Shimoni rested his long buttery fingers on the leather arms of his chair. Molkho felt unbearably thirsty. “Could you please tell me where the bathroom is?” he asked hoarsely, and Shimoni led him down a long corridor and switched on a light at the end of it.

“You have a big place here,” Molkho said. “Big?” echoed Mr. Shimoni defensively. “Why, it's huge, to say nothing of far too old! It's too much for a single person like me, but it was a bequest to the Agency from some rich Jew, and there's nothing to do about it. Tell me,” he asked Molkho, who wanted only to get into the bathroom, “did you really come all the way to Vienna just for Miss Zand?” “Yes,” Molkho said. “Her mother is an old friend of my mother-in-law's, and I'm the only other person they could turn to. I didn't want her to have to come alone, especially since she has heavy luggage, and so I offered to escort her.” “But you can't even talk to her!” objected Mr. Shimoni. “No, I can't,” conceded Molkho. “She doesn't know any English or French either. It's all terribly uncivilized, but what can I do?” “And you really think the Russians will take her?” asked Shimoni. “To tell you the truth,” answered Molkho honestly, “I don't. I told my mother-in-law that too. But we thought it best to leave no stone unturned. It was really the Finns who put her up to it.”

Mr. Shimoni's lips curled in a smile, and Molkho escaped into the bathroom, leaving the door slightly ajar. Taking off his bifocals, he turned on the faucet, bent over the sink, and gulped handfuls of cold water until he had had enough. Then, afraid to risk infection from the towels, he waited for his face to dry, threw a desultory glance at the toilet, and regarded the mirror of the medicine cabinet, his bloodshot eyes staring back at him. He had barely begun to explore the cabinet's contents when he heard the little Russian gasp. I have to help her, he shuddered, thinking warmly of her snowy throat, whose double chin was perhaps only an illusion. I mustn't be so critical. Every woman has something lovable. He turned out the light and groped his way back up the hallway, peering into the rooms leading off it, in one of which he was startled to glimpse a tiny old woman in a nightgown, crouched on a bed with her bare feet clawing the air.

He was barely noticed when he returned to the drawing room, where Shimoni, his bald, pale head between his hands, was listening intriguedly to Miss Zand, now and then grinning broadly. I must be missing a good story, mourned Molkho, collapsing into his chair, from which he took advantage of the first lull to inquire if Shimoni could lend him a Hebrew-Russian dictionary. “Hebrew-Russian?” marveled the official. “I doubt if we even have one in the office. But you can find English-Russian or French-Russian in any bookstore. Do you want to talk to her or understand her?” “Both,” answered Molkho. “It's enough to drive a person crazy. Today she disappeared without telling me, and it took me an hour to find her in some beauty parlor.” Shimoni laughed. “It's no joke,” declared Molkho, laughing too. “Please tell her to let me know where she goes.” The official translated, Molkho wagged an admonishing finger, and the little Russian giggled hotly. “Is that a promise?” he asked, smiling angrily. “Promise,” she agreed, latching on to the Hebrew word. “Promise, promise, promise.”

As they were leaving Molkho asked again if Mr. Shimoni couldn't give them a letter to the Russian embassy certifying that Miss Zand was still a refugee. But the official was adamant. “Believe me,” he said, “any letter from me would only make things worse. She'll just have to take her chances. And what are your own plans?” “Oh, I'll stick around for a while to see what happens,” Molkho said. Shimoni nodded, loath to part with such an entertaining couple. “Well, let me know how it turns out,” he told them, first in Hebrew and then in Russian. “I feel responsible in spite of everything.” Molkho gratefully shook his hand, and Shimoni put a friendly arm around Miss Zand and steered them both toward the elevator. “What's there to do mornings in Vienna?” asked Molkho as the red arrow lit up. “All sorts of things,” said Shimoni. “What are you interested in?” “Oh, some museum or historical site,” Molkho answered. “Even one of Jewish interest,” he added patriotically. “Some old synagogue, for instance, or maybe Herzl's grave.” “Herzl's grave?” chuckled the Jewish Agency official. “Herzl's grave is in Jerusalem. Perhaps you mean Herzl's house. There's nothing but a plaque there though, and it's hardly worth the effort.” He looked smugly at Molkho, who smiled in embarrassment. “If tomorrow is as nice as today, and I don't see why it shouldn't be, I suggest you take a walk in the Vienna Woods and go to the zoo.” “The zoo?” Molkho was mortified. “Yes,” said Mr. Shimoni, “why not? The zoo here is marvelous, and you probably haven't been to one in ages. Take the number 6 or 8 trolley, and you won't regret it. Sometimes there's a military band there too. I'm sure you'll enjoy every minute.” Graciously opening the door of the groaning elevator, he saw them on their way.

I
N THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT
Molkho was awoken by a muffled shout and angry voices. He dragged himself out of bed to the sink, gulped more water while wondering why Vienna made him so thirsty, and went over to the dark window, where he drew the heavy curtain and stared down at the street below. By the locked gate of the building that he had taken for a hospital, two guards were arguing with the driver of a white car. In that case, he thought groggily, it can't be a hospital, because it wouldn't turn away an ambulance. Suddenly he remembered having dreamt about his wife. Although he had dreamt of her before, this time she was in company, sitting off to one side in a room with familiar wallpaper. The others did not know, or pretended not to know, that she was dead, so that, unaware of Molkho's presence, as if he, not she, were the ghost, she sat there perfectly content. Meanwhile, down below, the argument finally ended with the opening of the gate and the disappearance of the white car. Much to Molkho's relief, the night grew silent again.

In the morning he found his little rabbit in the lobby, pale and baggy-eyed in a conservative red woolen suit with stiff, padded shoulders. Her new curls had softened agreeably overnight, making her look rather cuddly. “How did you sleep?” he asked concernedly, repeating the question a second time in even more basic Hebrew. “Terrible,” she replied with a glum smile, the wealth of her vocabulary surprising him. “Much terrible.” Smelling alcohol as he led her to the dining room, he sat her at a table, took out a map, and showed her the location of the Soviet Embassy. As simply, though in as many ways as possible, because even if she understood only a fifth of what he said it was worth it, he reviewed their meeting with Mr. Shimoni, trying his best to sound hopeful. As a government official himself, he said, he had one bit of advice to give her: tell the Russians the truth and nothing but. Though the fact of the matter is, he thought, watching her tubbily bounce off to the buffet for another fresh roll, that if I believed they might take her, I would have made love to her last night as a parting gift from Israel. It's not as if that could have been taken as a commitment. But the chin above her white, shapely throat was double after all, and he couldn't be blamed if his wife's illness had made him suspicious of swellings. Besides which, he told himself, I happen to have high standards. In fact, they're only getting higher, which is why I'm wasting precious time on these oddballs instead of going to some dance hall and grabbing the first woman on the floor.