Job (19 page)

“Yesterday, Mr. Singer, I was, as you know, at a concert.” Mendel's heart skipped a beat. He leaned back and took a sip, so as to keep himself alive. “Well,” Frisch went on, “I've heard a lot of music, but there's never been anything like this before! Thirty-two musicians, you understand, and almost all of them from our region. And they played Jewish melodies, you understand? It warms the heart, I wept, the whole audience wept. At the end they played ‘Menuchim's Song,' Mr. Singer, you know it from the gramophone. A beautiful song, isn't it?”

What does he want? thought Mendel. “Yes, yes, a beautiful song.”

“During the intermission I go to the musicians. It's crowded. Everyone's pushing to the musicians. This person and that finds a friend, and I do too, Mr. Singer, I do too.”

Frisch paused. People entered the shop, the bell rang shrilly.

“I find,” said Mr. Frisch, “but drink, Mr. Singer! I find my cousin by blood, Berkovich from Kovno. The son of my uncle. And we kiss. And we talk. And suddenly Berkovich says: Do you know here an old man named Mendel Singer?”

Frisch waited again. But Mendel Singer didn't move. He took note of the fact that a certain Berkovich had asked after an old Mendel Singer.

“Yes,” said Frisch, “I answered him that I know a Mendel Singer from Zuchnow. That's the one, said Berkovich. Our conductor is a great composer, still young and a genius, he wrote most of the pieces we play. His name is Alexei Kossak, and he is also from Zuchnow.”

“Kossak?” Mendel repeated. “My wife was born a Kossak. He is a relative!”

“Yes,” said Frisch, “and it seems that Kossak is looking for you. He probably wants to tell you something. And I am supposed to ask you whether you want to hear it. Either you can go to his hotel or I will write Berkovich your address.”

Mendel felt light and heavy at the same time. He drank the raspberry soda, leaned back and said: “I thank you, Mr. Frisch. But it is not so important. This Kossak will tell me all the sad things I already know. And besides – I want to tell you the truth: I've already been meaning to consult with you. Your brother has a ship ticket agency, right? I want to go home, to Zuchnow. It is no longer Russia, the world has changed. What does a ship ticket
cost these days? And what sorts of papers do I need? Talk to your brother, but don't tell anyone else.”

“I'll inquire,” replied Frisch. “But you certainly don't have enough money. And at your age! Maybe this Kossak will tell you something! Maybe he'll take you with him! He's only staying for a short time in New York! Shall I give Berkovich your address? Because, if I know you, you won't go to the hotel!”

“No,” said Mendel, “I won't go. Write to him if you wish.”

He rose.

Frisch pushed him back into the chair. “One moment,” he said, “Mr. Singer, I've brought along the program. Here is the picture of this Kossak.” And he pulled from his breast pocket a large program, unfolded it and held it before Mendel's eyes.

“A good-looking young man,” said Mendel. He gazed at the photograph. Even though the picture was worn, the paper dirty, and the portrait seemed to dissolve into a hundred thousand tiny molecules, it came alive from the program before Mendel's eyes. He wanted to give it back immediately, but he kept it and stared at it. Broad and white was the forehead under the black of the hair, like a smooth sunlit stone. The eyes were large and bright. They looked straight at Mendel Singer, he could no longer free himself from them. They made him joyful and light, Mendel believed. He saw their intelligence shining. They were at once old and young. They knew everything, the world was reflected in them. Mendel Singer felt as if he himself became younger at the sight of those
eyes, he became a youth, he knew nothing at all. He had to learn everything from those eyes. He has already seen them, dreamed them, as a small boy. Years ago, when he began to study the Bible, they were the eyes of the prophets. Men to whom God himself has spoken have those eyes. They know everything, they reveal nothing, the light is in them.

For a long time Mendel looked at the picture. Then he said: “I will take it home with me, if you permit, Mr. Frisch.” And he folded up the paper and left. He went around the corner, unfolded the program, looked at it and pocketed it again. A long time seemed to have passed since the hour he entered the ice cream parlor. The few thousand years that shone in Kossak's eyes lay between, and the years since Mendel had still been so young that he had been able to imagine the faces of prophets. He wanted to turn around, ask about the concert hall where the orchestra played and go there. But he felt ashamed. He entered the Skovronneks' shop and told them that a relative of his wife's was looking for him in America. He had given Frisch permission to pass on his address.

“Tomorrow evening you will eat with us, as you do every year,” said Skovronnek. It was the first Easter evening. Mendel nodded. He would rather stay in his back room, he knew the sidelong glances of Mrs. Skovronnek and the calculating hands with which she portioned out to Mendel the soup and fish. “It is the last time,” he thought. “A year from now I will be in Zuchnow, alive or dead, preferably dead.”

He was the first guest to arrive the next evening, but the last
to sit down at the table. He came early to avoid offending Mrs. Skovronnek, he took his seat late to show that he regarded himself as the lowliest among those present. They already sat around the table: the housewife, both of Skovronnek's daughters with their husbands and children, a strange traveling music supplies salesman and Mendel. He sat at the end of the table, on which a planed board had been laid to extend it. Mendel was worried not only about the preservation of peace but also about the balance between the tabletop and its artificial extension. Mendel held the end of the board with one hand when someone had to put a plate or a tureen on it. Six thick snow-white candles burned in six silver candlesticks on the snow-white tablecloth, the starched glow of which reflected back the six flames. Like white and silver guards of equal height the candles stood before Skovronnek, the man of the house, who sat in a white robe on a white pillow, leaning on another pillow, a sinless king on a sinless throne. How long ago had it been when Mendel had reigned over the table and the feast in the same costume, in the same fashion? Today he sat bowed and beaten, in his green shimmering coat at the farthest end, the lowliest among the guests, anxious about his own humility and a pitiful support for the celebration. The Easter bread lay covered under a white napkin, a snowy hill next to the lush green of the herbs, the dark red of the beets and the bitter yellow of the horseradish root. The books with the accounts of the exodus of the Jews from Egypt lay open before each guest. Skovronnek began to sing the legend, and everyone repeated his words, caught up with him
and sang harmoniously in chorus that cozy, smiling melody, an enumeration in song of the individual miracles that were tallied again and again and yielded again and again the same qualities of God: the greatness, the goodness, the mercifulness, the grace for Israel and the wrath against Pharaoh. Even the music supplies salesman, who could not read the scripture and did not understand the customs, could not escape the melody, which with each new verse wooed, ensnared and caressed him, so that he began to hum along without knowing it. And even Mendel it made mild toward heaven, which four thousand years ago had generously bestowed joyful miracles, and it was as if, through God's love for the whole people, Mendel was almost reconciled with his own small fate. Still he didn't sing along, Mendel Singer, but his upper body swung forward and back, rocked by the singing of the others. He heard Skovronnek's grandchildren singing with high voices and remembered the voices of his own children. He still saw the helpless Menuchim on the unfamiliar raised chair at the ceremonial table. Only the father, from time to time during the singing, had cast a quick glance at his youngest and poorest son, seen the listening light in his foolish eyes and felt how the little one strove in vain to convey what sounded in him and to sing what he heard. It was the only evening in the year when Menuchim wore a new coat, like his brothers, and the white collar of the shirt with the brick red pattern as a festive border around his flabby double chin. When Mendel held out the wine to him, he drank half the cup
with a greedy gulp, gasped and snorted and contorted his face in a failed attempt to laugh or to cry: who could know.

Mendel thought of that as he rocked to the singing of the others. He saw that they were already far ahead, turned a few pages and prepared to stand up, to disburden the corner of the plates so that no accident would occur when he let go. For the moment was approaching when the red goblet would be filled with wine and the door opened to let in the prophet Eliyahu. The dark red glass was already waiting, the six lights were reflected in its curve. Mrs. Skovronnek lifted her head and looked at Mendel. He stood up, shuffled to the door and opened it. Skovronnek now sang the invitation to the prophet. Mendel waited until it was over. For he didn't want to make the trip twice. Then he closed the door, sat back down, braced the supporting fist under the table board, and the singing went on.

Scarcely a minute after Mendel had sat down, there was a knock. Everyone heard the knock, but everyone thought it was an illusion. On that evening all their friends were sitting at home, the streets of the neighborhood were empty. At that hour no visit was possible. It was surely the wind knocking. “Mendel,” said Mrs. Skovronnek, “you didn't close the door correctly.” Then there was another knock, distinct and longer. Everyone paused. The smell of the candles, the pleasure of the wine, the yellow unfamiliar light and the old melody had brought the adults and the children so close to the anticipation of a miracle that they stopped breathing
for a moment and looked at one another, helpless and pale, as if they wanted to ask whether the prophet wasn't really demanding admittance. Thus it remained silent, and no one dared move. Finally Mendel stirred. Again he pushed the plates into the middle. Again he shuffled to the door and opened it. There stood a tall stranger in the half-dark hallway, wished him a good evening and asked whether he might enter. Skovronnek rose with some difficulty from his pillows. He went to the door, observed the stranger and said: “Please!” – as he had learned to do in America. The stranger entered. He wore a dark coat, his collar was turned up, he kept his hat on his head, apparently out of reverence for the ceremony he had come upon, and because all the men there sat with covered heads.

He is a fine man, thought Skovronnek. And he unbuttoned, without saying a word, the stranger's coat. The man bowed and said: “My name is Alexei Kossak. I beg your pardon. I sincerely beg your pardon. I was told that a certain Mendel Singer from Zuchnow is staying with you. I would like to speak to him.”

“That is I,” said Mendel, approached the guest and lifted his head. His forehead reached to the stranger's shoulder. “Mr. Kossak,” Mendel went on, “I've heard about you. You are a relative.”

“Take off your coat and sit down with us at the table,” said Skovronnek.

Mrs. Skovronnek rose. Everyone pushed together. They made space for the stranger. Skovronnek's son-in-law brought another chair to the table. The stranger hung his coat on a nail and sat
down opposite Mendel. A cup of wine was set before the guest. “Don't let me hold you up,” implored Kossak, “go on praying.”

They continued. Quiet and slender the guest sat in his place. Mendel gazed at him incessantly. Tirelessly Alexei Kossak looked at Mendel Singer. Thus they sat opposite each other, enveloped by the singing of the others but separated from them.

They both found it pleasant that, because of the others, they could not yet speak to each other. Mendel sought the eyes of the stranger. If Kossak lowered them, the old man felt as if he had to implore the guest to keep them open. In that face everything was strange to Mendel Singer, only the eyes behind the rimless glasses were close to him. To them his gaze strayed again and again, as if in a homecoming to familiar lights hidden behind windows, from the foreign landscape of the thin, pale and youthful face. Thin, closed and smooth were the lips. If I were his father, thought Mendel, I would tell him: “Smile, Alexei.” Softly he pulled out of his pocket the poster, unfolded it under the table to avoid disturbing the others, and handed it to the stranger. He took it and smiled, thinly, delicately and for only a second.

The singing stopped, the feast began, Mrs. Skovronnek pushed a bowl of hot soup before the guest, and Mr. Skovronnek invited him to eat with them. The music supplies salesman began a conversation in English with Kossak, of which Mendel understood nothing at all. Then the salesman declared to everyone that Kossak was a young genius, was staying only another week in New York and would take the liberty of sending everyone here free tickets
to the concert of his orchestra. Other conversations could not start. They ate in barely festive haste to the end of the celebration, and every other bite was accompanied by a polite word from the stranger or his hosts. Mendel didn't speak. To please Mrs. Skovronnek he ate still faster than the others, so as not to cause any delays. And everyone welcomed the end of the meal and eagerly continued the singing of the miracles. Skovronnek struck an ever-faster rhythm, the women couldn't follow him. But when he came to the psalms, he changed his voice, the tempo and the melody, and so beguiling sounded the words he now sang that even Mendel, at the end of each verse, repeated “Hallelujah, hallelujah!” He shook his head so that his long beard swept over the open pages of the book and a soft rustle was audible, as if Mendel's beard wanted to participate in the prayer, because Mendel's mouth celebrated so sparingly.