My Name Is Asher Lev (34 page)

It was almost ten-thirty when I got back to the apartment. I called the gallery and asked for Anna Schaerfer. She came on the phone immediately.

“Hello, Asher Lev,” she said. “How is my Brooklyn prodigy?”

“Fine.”

“Fine? Only fine?”

“On a day like today, fine is a good thing to be.”

“Where are you now?”

“In Brooklyn.”

“Come to the gallery.”

“Today?”

“Yes. We have business together.”

“Are the pictures hung?”

“We will begin to hang them tomorrow.”

“I was thinking about the crucifixions.”

“Yes? What were you thinking?”

“I was—thinking.”

“The crucifixions have been sold, Asher Lev.”

“Sold?” I felt a coldness move through me.

“Yes.”

“To whom?”

She told me.

I leaned heavily against the wall.

“We will open with much of the show sold, Asher Lev. My Brazilian industrialist has been in to see me. The Munich nightclub owner is coming Sunday afternoon. There will be a splendid opening this Sunday with many red labels already on pictures.”

I said nothing.

“Hello,” she said. “Are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“You have nothing to say?”

“I’ll see you this afternoon if the subways are running.”

“Good,” she said.

“Anna, are you still using ‘Brooklyn prodigy’ in your publicity?”

“This will be the last time.”

“I never liked it.”

“The very last time,” she said.

“How is Jacob Kahn?”

“He has had major surgery on his stomach. But he is recovering. Still, there are days when he is not certain he will reach ninety. Come at about three o’clock, Asher. Yes? I will have time to talk to you.”

I hung up the phone and went into my room and lay on the bed. I felt tired. I lay very still, trying to look into the week. It seemed a bleak menacing tunnel. I thought I would get off the bed then and go to the desk and do a drawing. But I was tired and found I could not get up. I lay in bed with my eyes closed and thought of the dark tunnel of the coming days. Then I thought of Jacob Kahn, and again I wondered: Do we all get
old and sick so quickly? Then there is almost no time left at all. Suddenly I was very tired. A moment later, I fell asleep.

He came to me then, my mythic ancestor, through the tall moist trees of his Russian master’s forest, old, bent with grief, his hand trembling on the cane that supported his wasted frame. His beard was white and wild and his eyes were ash gray in the dark hollow sockets of his head. He opened his mouth to speak. His lips were parched and his teeth were black. Do you hear the pain carried on the wind? It is the cry of wasted lives. Who dares add to that cry? Who dares drain the world of its light? My Asher, my precious Asher, will you and I walk together now through the centuries? He smiled sadly and beckoned to me and disappeared into the trees.

I woke in a trembling sweat and felt hot and dizzy. I lay still on the bed. When I woke again, it was close to two o’clock. I had some coffee and came outside. I felt the air as an icy shock on my burning face. I took the subway to Manhattan.

I remember the train was cold and damp and filthy with wet dirt. People stared sullenly at the blackened floors, looking defeated by the snow-choked day. I remember a blind man playing an accordion and tapping his way through the train. I stared at my reflection in the train window. Come, journey with me through the centuries, my eyes said. One learns to walk decades. I remember the coins clinking in the blind man’s metal cup. I gave him a coin. Thank you, sir. God bless you, sir. I looked at myself in the window. Red hair, dark eyes, red beard, fisherman’s cap. We will journey through the centuries. Will you need a cane, Asher Lev?

I got off the train and climbed the stairs to the street. It was cold and wet and gray. A bitter wind blew against the tall buildings. I walked along Madison Avenue, peering into the windows of galleries. Pop art. Zombie art. Garish. Cold. Non-art. Du-champ’s
Fountain
overflowing onto the world. I came off the
street and took the elevator to the fourth floor. There was Anna Schaeffer, dressed in a dark-blue woolen dress, white beads, earrings, her face powdered and old and elegant. She came toward me exultingly, holding out both her hands. She kissed my cheek.

“Asher Lev, welcome, welcome. Give me your coat. You look pale. It is a bad day for a subway ride. Can I give you a coffee? John, a coffee in a paper cup, black with no sugar. We are packing away Rader’s pieces. It was a fine show. Come into the back away from the madness, and we will talk.”

The gallery floor was crowded with packing crates. Sculptures were being carefully crated. Some of my canvases were already out, standing against the walls. I did not see the crucifixions.

We sat in a small back room near tall deep wooden cases stacked with canvases and talked about the cost of putting together the show, the prices she had placed on each canvas, the canvases that had been sold, prospective buyers, new collectors she had found, federal taxes, city taxes, taxes for this, and taxes for that. I would need a tax lawyer. She knew someone. I was not listening, she said. I had better listen. Was I feeling well?

“Where are the crucifixions?” I asked.

She pointed to a wooden case.

“Where will they hang?”

On the wall before the turn to the elevator. The last paintings one will see. The climax.

“I’m worried, Anna.”

“I know you are worried. But I cannot afford to indulge your worry, Asher Lev. You are now an event.”

“Those paintings are going to hurt people.”

“Yes? So?
Olympia
hurt people,
he Déjeuner sur l’Herbe
hurt people. The Impressionists hurt people. Cézanne hurt people. Picasso hurt people. What do you want me to do, Asher Lev?”

“These are people I love.”

“Asher Lev, you had better pay attention to this matter of taxes and forget for now about hurting people. Indulge your Jewish sentimentality when you return to Brooklyn.”

We talked for almost an hour. I tried to listen as she explained things. But it was difficult. On the wall before the turn to the elevator. I saw my mother and father moving toward that wall.

We were done. I got up to leave.

“Is Jacob Kahn home?”

“Yes.”

“Is he permitted visitors?”

“Yes.”

“Does he know I’m back?”

“Yes. He has seen the transparencies.”

I waited.

She smiled. “He says you are a great artist. He says the crucifixions are masterpieces. He says the second crucifixion is greater than the first. Will you go to see him?”

“Yes.”

“You will find he is changed. Let me walk with you to the elevator. Yes, you will find he is changed. No, I do not want you here when we hang the pictures. Yes, we will be working late Saturday night. Yes, you may bring your parents Saturday night. No, we are not serving kosher food at the opening. Anything else? Goodbye, Asher Lev. Be careful in the snow. Brooklyn does not produce an abundance of painter prodigies.”

I rode back home in a cold crowded subway. The ride seemed interminable. I came out of the subway station. The parkway was dark. I walked beneath the trees. The snow had frozen to ice along the branches and trunks. The ice glistened coldly in the light of the lampposts. There was a sharp wind. I looked up as I came to the apartment house and saw my mother framed in the living-room window, looking down at me. I waved to
her. She waved back and went away from the window. I took the elevator up. She was waiting for me at the elevator door.

She embraced me and held me to her tightly and cried. She was so small and slight. I felt her thin lips on my cheek. Her eyes were wet. She could not stop crying. How was I feeling? Why was I so pale? Oh, it was good to see me. They had missed me. They had thought of taking a trip to Europe in the summer to see me. “Let me look at you, my Asher. Let me look at you, my son. Why are your eyes so red? Come inside. Your father will be home soon. He went to make a report to the Rebbe on the Chicago trip.” Did I know what was taking place on campuses today all over the country? Chaos. Nihilism. The generation of the Flood. And so many young Jews were involved. Their parents had not taught them Torah. Now their heads were filled with the ideas of the sitra achra. “Why are you so pale, Asher? Is it the snow? You’re unaccustomed to so much snow, yes?”

Yes.

“Why didn’t you tell us when you were coming? You didn’t want to worry us?”

Yes.

“Would you like something hot to drink? Coffee?”

Yes.

“Did you make a lot of good paintings in Paris?”

Yes.

“It’s a lovely city, Paris, yes?”

Yes.

“Your father built a beautiful yeshiva in Paris.”

Yes.

“Will there be any nudes in your exhibition, Asher?”

No.

“Then your father will be able to come.”

I said nothing.

“Asher?”

I said nothing.

“Your father can come?”

Yes, I said. Papa can come. Of course he can come. There are no nudes. Certainly he can come.

I saw her give me a strange look. “Drink your coffee, Asher. Your hands are so cold. I worry when I see you so pale and so cold.” She sat next to me at the kitchen table, her delicately boned hands clasped together near the pot of coffee she had prepared. She watched me drink. She could not stop talking—about me, about my father’s new work with college students, about her teaching. She talked and talked in her soft voice. I was barely listening. I saw the wall in the gallery before the turn to the elevator. I saw my mother and father moving toward that wall. I saw my mythic ancestor. Come with me, my precious Asher. You and I will walk together now through the centuries, each of us for our separate deeds that unbalanced the world.

I heard the apartment door open and close. Then I heard my father’s deep voice. “Rivkeh? Asher is home?” Then he was in the kitchen doorway, still in his dark coat, his narrow-brimmed hat tilted on the back of his head. I stood and felt his strong arms around me and his beard against my face. His beard was cold. There was the clean cold odor of the outside on his coat. “Asher,” he murmured. “How good it is to see you again. Let me look at you. How pale you are. Isn’t he pale, Rivkeh?” Then he took off his coat and hat and put on his small dark velvet skullcap. The three of us sat at the table, drinking coffee and talking. They talked of their work for Russian Jews, for Jews on college campuses, for Ladover communities in this and that country. I talked of Florence and Rome and Paris. They are nice yeshivos, aren’t they? my father asked. Yes, I said. Creation out of nothing, my father said. Yes, I said. Ah, those years when I was alone in Europe. I never thought I would survive those years. Let me look
at you again, Asher. We see the advertisements for your exhibition in the
Times.
A major exhibition. My little Asher. A major exhibition. It’s difficult for your father to hate something the world seems to value so much. Perhaps your father was wrong. Perhaps such a gift is not from the sitra achra. Why are you so pale? Are you well? There will be no nudes at this exhibition. I spoke to your Uncle Yitzchok on the phone before and he said he saw you and you told him there would be no nudes. Then your mother and I will come. No, Saturday night there is an important meeting with the Rebbe. We will come Sunday. We will see the crowds that come to see our son’s paintings.

We sat and talked into the night. From time to time, I saw my mother give me a strange look. I do not remember what time we went to bed. I could not sleep. I stared into the darkness of my room. Ribbono Shel Olom, what am I going to do? Journey with me, came the whisper from the tangle of primal trees. We must give a balance to the world.

My father left for his office very early the following morning. My mother served me breakfast. She seemed to want to tell me something but to be too embarrassed to say it. Finally, she said, “Your father asked me to talk to you, Asher.”

I looked at her.

“We know the girl’s family, Asher.”

I said nothing.

“We met them in Paris. It’s a fine family, Asher. Your father asked me to tell you that he would give you his blessing.”

“All right, Mama.”

Bright pink spots appeared on her high cheekbones. “I mention it because your father asked me to, Asher.”

“Fine, Mama.”

“Do you want more coffee?”

“No, thanks.”

“Are you all right? Why are you so pale?”

“I’m tired.”

“Is anything wrong?”

“No. Nothing is wrong.”

“With the exhibit? With anything?”

“No, Mama.”

She looked at me. Her eyes were troubled. After a moment, she said, “Will you walk with me to the subway, Asher? I have a class this morning.”

We walked together along the snow-filled parkway. It was a blue cold windless day. She took the subway to her school. I took the subway to Ninety-sixth Street and Broadway and got off and walked down toward Riverside Drive. I came into a whitestone building with a marble entrance hall and took the elevator to the sixth floor. Tanya Kahn let me in. Her short white hair was in disarray and her eyes were tired. Her face was pale and drawn. She held a Russian book in her hand. The apartment smelled strongly of medicine. On a pedestal near the door stood the small sculpture Jacob Kahn had once made of the two of us dancing with a Torah. Tanya Kahn led me into the bedroom and went out.

Jacob Kahn lay beneath a red quilt on a large double bed. His eyes were closed. His cheeks were sunken. The skin of his face and hands was sickly pale. His thick mane of hair was stark white against the white of the pillow. I looked at him and thought I could not go near him. Here are the birds and flowers, Mama. I’m making my mama well. I came up to the bed. He stirred and opened his eyes. He smiled faintly. I saw his lips move beneath the mustache.

“Asher Lev,” he said wearily. “Asher Lev. This is another of my dreams.”

“No,” I said.

“It is really Asher Lev?”

“Yes.”

“I dream a lot now. It is my present major preoccupation.” He offered me his hand. The fingers felt dry and brittle. “How have you been, Asher?”