What Is All This? (53 page)

He awoke an hour later. At his feet were the
Times
and
Tribune
with the Help-Wanted sections on top, which his mother must have put there during his last nap. He kicked them to the floor. “Who needs you?” he said, and shut his eyes and tried to get back to sleep.

Monday, Mr. Silverman left for work, calling Max, through his bedroom door, a hopeless mental case and wishing on him a multitude of the worst Yiddish curses. Mrs. Silverman, too distraught to say anything, went about her morning household chores. But around noon, with all the rooms dusted, carpets swept, scrubbed and mopped with pine disinfectant, she could no longer restrain herself. She barged into his room with a shriek, waking him.

“Get up, you bum, before I call the police.”

He pulled the covers over his head. His mouth felt parched and sour. He'd brush his teeth soon as she gave up and left the room.

“I said to get up, you dirty loafer, or I swear I'll throw you out of the house myself. Don't think I can't, because I can. Max, do you hear me? Get up this instant.”

He turned over on his back, sneezed, said “Excuse me,” and reached to the night table for a cigarette and matchbook. He lit up, shut his eyes, and exhaled.

“All right,” she said, dusting the top of his dresser with her hand, “you're not going to listen to ne, so I'll try this. How long you going to make us suffer this way?”

“Until the recession ends.”

“What do you mean ‘the recession ends'? Talk sense.”

“Okay; I just don't know.”

“You just don't know what? I'm listening. I'm your mother and it's natural I'm interested in what you have to say.”

“I'm telling you, I don't know. But something wonderful will come from all this, something that'll benefit all of us. You might not realize it yet, but you've got a great social reformer on your hands.”

“Does that mean you're not leaving today?”

“I don't think so.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Like I say: I'm not quite sure.”

“You mean never, then, don't you?”

“I don't know; it's difficult to judge.”

“Well, just tell me so I'll know better than to have my friends and family come over and see our disgrace. Next week? A month? A year? Just so I know, Max.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe what? Listen, you're thirty, so act like thirty. For fifteen years you felt like working. I did too before I had you, and your father for his whole life. So why all of a sudden you feel you can't get up and get work? Believe me, if that's what you really think, then all I can say is you're a freeloader and a bum.”

“I'm sorry, honestly I am.” He took another drag and stared at the ceiling fixture.

That smoke,” she said, waving her hands in front of her. “You're blowing it in my face, you know?

“I wasn't trying to. I was blowing it towards the door, but maybe a breeze caught it.”

“Breeze, nothing. Stop smoking so early and get up. Enough's enough.”

He watched her stack his coins into neat columns on the dresser, then pick up the newspapers off the floor and fold them.

“Your father wanted to know where the papers were this morning. He hadn't finished them. He paid for them, you know.”

“You probably put them there yourself when I was asleep.”

There?” she said, pointing down. “On the floor like a slob?”

“Anyway, tell him there's nothing in them, so he didn't miss anything.”

That's for him to decide. For you, sure you say there's nothing, but there's plenty in them, plenty of good jobs.”

She put the newspapers on a chair and began carpet-sweeping the small round rug in the middle of the floor.

He felt hungry, but couldn't leave his bed while his mother was still in the room. She'd yell that if he could get up for his stomach then he could just as easily get up to make money for his food. He decided to light another cigarette. There was almost no pleasure in the world like smoking, he thought. It always took his mind off anything unpleasant. He might even be able to drive her out of the room if he blew more smoke in her direction. He reached over to the night table and fingered blindly through the cigarette pack. It was empty. He propped himself up and opened the night table drawers, but there were no cigarettes there, either.

“You take my butts, Ma?”

“Why, did you ever see me smoke?” she said, continuing to sweep the rug. “You do, like there's no tomorrow.”

“But I'm sure I had them there; a couple of packs.”

“News to me.”

It was useless trying to talk to her. Always the same line; never a decent, understanding word. He got out of bed and rummaged through the top dresser drawer, but all he found there were three mangled packs, an empty carton, and some matchbooks. Next he searched all the kitchen shelves, where his mother usually hid the cigarettes she'd stolen from him when she thought he was smoking too much. She never dumped them, though, since she hated throwing out anything that at one time cost money and could still be used.

He sat down at the kitchen table with a coffee and prune Danish in front of him. He figured he'd looked at every possible hiding place, even picking through the garbage can under the sink on the theory that she'd really lost control of herself today and thrown away the cigarettes she'd taken from him. But wasn't he acting like a perfect idiot? Because how long had it been since his last smoke? Twenty minutes? So what the hell was he getting so worked up about? All he had to do was think the situation out, just as he had when something unusual came up at the store that Mr. Winston wasn't around to handle, and the crisis would be over.

He called Mr. Shalita at the candy store two blocks away, asking him—practically commanding him in his new, deep authoritative voice—to send over a carton of Camels, a cold Pepsi, bag of pretzels and the latest racing car magazines. Mr. Shalita said he couldn't make deliveries till the boy got out of school—some three hours from now. Max said That's sure a strange way of conducting a business,” and politely canceled the order. He next called the one neighborhood supermarket, and when the person who answered said she couldn't take phone orders unless the customer had a charge account, he slammed down the receiver. His mother, he saw was now in the living room, grinning into the mirror she was wiping with some liquid from a spray bottle, though the mirror was as clean as anyone could get it.

“Hey, Ma,” he said, “you know the name of that grocery on Tremont?”

“What do you need in a grocery we haven't got here?”

“Come on, you know the one. The store next to the Spotless Cleaners.”

“Spotless, I know, but no other store next to it.”

She knew all right. Maybe if he asked her nicely she'd order the carton from Mr. Shalita. That old guy would do anything for her, even lock the store and deliver the goods himself. But she'd only refuse and call him a nicotine addict and cigarette fiend. Forget the cigarettes and just read and sleep the next three hours, then phone Mr. Shalita and have him send the kid over with the order.

He went back to bed. That was the way to work things out: easily, decisively, using the brains God blessed you with. One day he'd look back at all this and have a fat laugh over it. He'd be sitting at some fancy poker table with a few business friends, and after winning a good-sized pot he'd tell them about this crazy smoking incident. It'd be a story to joke about with people who had the minds and experiences to understand. Didn't Einstein laugh with the world about the time he flunked an important math exam? And what about Bernard Baruch, who bundled an easy stock market deal just a short time before he made off with his first million-dollar killing. Both of them laughing up a storm about the worst failure to hit them before they decided to really become somebody. “And the same with me with my cigarette urge,” he'd tell his cronies, as he picked up his second fantastic pot with four-of-a-kind—all kings.

He got out of bed a half-hour later and quickly showered, shaved, cleaned his teeth and brushed his hair. By the time he got back to his room the floor had been mopped, the bed stripped, his two pillows hung over the fire escape railing, and the place felt like an icebox from the airing his mother was giving it. All of it to create a symbol of sorts, he realized, but he could care less; he was only interested in dressing and collecting his wallet and change off the dresser and getting to the cigarette machine at the corner luncheonette. He stuck a tie and a waxpaper-wrapped schnecken and paper napkin into his overcoat pocket and, eyes down, walked past his mother as he left the apartment. He didn't want her pumping him for answers he was in no mood to give. When he reached the second-story landing, she yelled down the stairway from two flights above “Max? I'm having your father bring home a silver-tip roast for supper, so you'll try and be back by six?” He kept walking. When he got to the ground floor, she yelled “And don't bring home the
Post
tonight, even if you buy it. Your father always gets it, and you know how he hates seeing two of the same papers in the House. Max, you still there? If you are: best of luck.”

“Must we go now?”

The man nodded.

“Since I'd much rather stay here.”

“So, stay.”

“Now please be sweet to me, Hank.”

“So, come. Because what do you want me to say? ‘Of course, my dear, I want you to accompany me. What would a jaunt be without you?'”

“It's just I've always loved these small outdoorsy cafés—having nothing but strong black coffee, and maybe a dessert, and soaking up the afternoon sun. Oh, well.” She stood up, brushing crumbs off her lap. “Look!” and she pointed to the cobblestone street when a motorbike drove past—a goggled priest arched over the handlebars like a racer, an attaché case strapped to the luggage rack.

But Hank was fingering through a palmful of several countries' coins.

“Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could transfer this exact setting to the heart of New York?”

“You'd still have lunch at the Brasserie three to four times a week.”

“No, I wouldn't. We've nothing as quiet and quaint as this.”

“Jes hold it there for a second, ladies and gents,” and he put his hand over his eyes and waved the other in front of him: his tent-show swami routine. “I see a woman seated…at a restaurant table…why, it's Mrs. Patricia Lincoln Kahn. Dressed to her pretty eye teeth in authentic suede and fur and now blotting her lips on a cloth napkin after consuming a five-dollar omelet.”

“I don't think they run them that high.”

Then a five-dollar cottage cheese salad topped with an enormous prune. Now there's a mouth-watering image if I ever created one. Enough. Bill's paid with all sorts of denominations. What the hell, it's one continent and they're among friends. Let's go.”

“Which direction?”

“Let's see…Left, then another left to the river street and after a while through this cruddy old alley, which the guidebook refers to as ancient and historic. Till we get to the Drosselgasse—that main drag before, where we hit the third bierkellar up the street. I think it's called the
die
or
das
Rheinlander or something.”

“Very original, since we're practically floating on that river.”

The Chinese have been known as ingenious though unfathomable people for ages.”

The Chinese?” Her eyes were drawn to a third-floor window across the street, where someone's bare arms reached through the curtains and drew in the shutters. She envied the woman, who she figured was about to settle down for a nap after a heavy German lunch. She turned to Hank to tell him she'd like to go back to the hotel and take a nap, and found him staring at her.

“Spying Nazi bastard,” he said.

“Excuse me?” She pretended to look for someone behind her.

That man you were looking at in the window there. You know what I mean,” when she continued looking at him skeptically—“all of them, then. Spying's part of their precious Aryan blood.”

“Nonsense. You're just going through some Jewish paranoia phase. Besides, that man up there was a woman.”

The women were just as bad. Because did I ever describe the Dutch museum photo of these German women laughing when a Kraut soldier pulled a rabbi's beard?”

“Only a few times. But why this sudden rage at the Germans? Before, you always thought they were industrious and intellectual. And then you never even had a third to tenth cousin in Europe during the war. Both sides of your family have been in the States so long they're almost considered Yankees. What nonsense.”

“Anti-Semite.”

“Oh, please—you're really speaking to the right person. Maybe my folks a little, and certainly my grandparents, but don't look at me.”

“
Shiksa
anti-Semite. I still say it: you all are. But you can't change. It's in your precious Aryan blood also.”

“Okay. Did you leave a good tip? The waiter gave us an extra free coffee, and they usually charge for that.”

He snapped two more marks to the table. The waiter came up, took the check and the money off the table and said “
Danke schön
,” bobbing his head and smiling a bit too generously as most German waiters tend to do, Hank thought. He really couldn't take their mannerisms or food or any of their customs and places of interest for that matter. After two months of touring Europe he didn't know why they had to end up here, their first German town after boarding the excursion boat in Holland for a trip along the Rhine. Though he'd sworn to his father, who still grumbled every time he saw a German car and who couldn't even stomach clicking the shutter of Hank's Zeiss-Ikon, that he'd never set foot in Germany. It was one of his father's stipulations for giving him the money to travel. The other was that on his return to New York he join his father's law practice.

“Actually, I like Germany,” Pat was saying when they left the café and headed toward the river. “No matter what they did in the war or what your family thinks of them, this country's still pretty great.”

“What stereotypical reasons do you have for this sudden national crush? Bach? Beethoven? The great Dürer? Or maybe even the songs of the Rhinemaidens.”

“For one thing, they've been nicer to us here—just shopkeepers, waiters, our hotel clerk, even people with directions on the street—than in any country we've been to.”

“If you mean they've been sycophantic and obsequious, which someone less clever than you might take for graciousness and helpfulness—then I say yes, I agree with you, you're right.”

“Oh, stop the nonsense.”

“And please stop misusing that inadequate word.”

“But it is nonsense. I mean, try forming an opinion of your own once in a while, instead of sounding like Papa Kahn and your brother Stanley.”

He looked away. Oh Jesus, she thought, he's going to start pouting again. “I'm sorry. Hank. Let's forget it.”

“Excuse me?” he said as if he hadn't heard her. He'd stopped at a stone parapet that overlooked the river, and was watching a crowd of people walking and cycling off the excursion boat.

“Could you believe the tourists still flocking here like that?” she said, curling her arm around his. “Boy, are they ever in for a surprise.”

“Maybe they all live here.”

“Nobody lives in this dull town but waiters and bosomy barmaids.”

Then possibly because Rudesheim's a famous resort town. Say, now that can be the answer.”

“Famous? Since when? I never knew it existed till that Thomas Cook man slipped it into our itinerary.”

“And I promise never to reveal a word of that confession,” and he fingered a cross over his chest. “Now what do you say?” and he pointed to the street that would lead them to the center of town.

“Let's go back to our room. We've had plenty to drink already, and I can see you're itching to get loaded again before dinner.”

“Just one more sip with me and we'll go back to the hotel.”

“I'll drink with you later—during dinner, and I'm serious now.”

Then maybe you better drink alone at dinner,” and he took her arm out of his and walked away from her.

She caught up with him, and without saying a word they went through an alley till it opened up on the Drosselgasse, a narrow sloping street glutted with bierkellars and souvenir stands and coffee and pastry shops. She had a hard time keeping up with him, as he was anxious to get to the place he found last night in his solitary bar crawl through this section of town. Approaching the door of the Rheinlander, he stepped aside, extended his hand and bowed like one of the more fawning waiters they'd had, and let her pass him and descend the stairs. When she reached the bottom he galloped downstairs two steps at a time, tripping on the last step and falling.

“You hurt?” she said, helping him up.

“It's okay. I landed on my good shoulder for a change. It's these damn stone steps all the old bars seem to have.”

That's the third time you've fallen like that in a week, you know.”

“I wish you'd stick to counting drinks like other wives.”

“If you want,” and she laughed, brushed some dirt off his sleeves and reached up on her toes to kiss his cheek. Then she took his hand and led him into the bar.

A large party of German men and women were drinking and toasting and singing what sounded like folk songs at a long oak table. Pat liked the looks of the place—it was low, snug and woody—and wanted to sit near the group and possibly strike up a conversation with then and be invited to sing along. She had a good soprano voice, perhaps too overtrained by a private voice teacher while she was in college, but she'd still managed to get into a folk-singing trio in one of the coffee houses off campus and make some money at it. But Hank tugged on her arm, just as she was about to suggest where they sit, and made his way to a two-seater at the other end of the room—a fairly dark spot tables away from any other customers. He studied the wine list. When the waiter came over and asked in German if they were ready, he ordered the most expensive bottle of the local wine. “
Und macht
sure it's
natur
,
jawohl
?”

“
Jawohl
.” the waiter said.

“
Und kanst du
try
und
keep doze people
über
der
von singen
like
katzen und hunds
?”

The waiter, folding up the wine list and standing it back up on the table, smiled and shrugged that he could only try and do his best.

“
Jawohl, mein kapitan
, you should've said,” Hank said.

The waiter was still smiling at them as he left their table.

“You're always there with the quips,” Pat said, “—the real
bon mots
.”

“Would you have preferred my jumping up and clicking my heels at him?”

“Now who's giving out with the stereotyped impressions? Officious and snotty as a lot of them are reputed to be, although I haven't seen it, they weren't all Nazis. Like the one who's waiting on us. I mean, what is he, nineteen, twenty?—so he was barely five when the war started. And this is his country we're in. So if you still insist on deriding him, let's go back to France or somewhere and knock the Germans from there.”

“
Jawohl, meine
darlink,” and he gave her the
seig-heil
salute.

“Cut that out, Hank. That's offensive to most people here. What makes it worse, it's not even funny.”

That's because you never understood my type of humor.”

“Oh, I understand it all right. It's not like it's far out or subtle, you know.”

“Just blow it out.”

“No. I take it back. You just proved your humor is subtle.”

He was going to answer her, when the waiter brought the wine, twisted the bottle around so Hank could see the label, wrapped a towel around it and drew the cork, and poured a little wine into his glass. Then he stepped back and stood at Hank's right, looking at him.

“I believe you're supposed to sniff and sip it and then tell him it's delicious.”

“You know German better than me; you're the one with the Kraut background. Tell him to forget the stupid amenities and fill up my glass. I want to shoot the first one down, not pick at it like some fag.”

“You're awful.”

“Sure I'm awful. Because I'm in this awful country and it's making me feel awful that I'm here.”

She smiled at the waiter and said “
Mein mann hier wisht das sie fullen seine Glas voll, bitte
.”

“Ah-ha,” the waiter said, smiling as he refilled Hank's glass and then Pat's. “
Das
is
viel besser
, is not?”

“
Mucho besser
.” Hank said. He slapped the table and said in a Texas drawl “Here's mud in your eye, slowpoke,” and drank down the wine and held out his glass for the waiter to refill it.

“Oh, Jesus,” Pat said, laughing to herself and looking away.

The waiter refilled Hank's glass. “Is good,
der Wein, nicht wahr
?”

“Hank gulped down this glass also, then loudly smacked his lips.

“To tell you the dang-blasted God-awful truth, pardner, this here's just ‘trocious wine—just disgusting stuff, but what could I do? I was thirsty.”

The waiter beamed. Thank you, sir, lady.
Vielen dank
.”

“Now tell him to beat it.”

“You know he can understand some English, Hank.”

That was English? Come on, tell him to get lost. His breath's bad.”

“
Mein mann sagt vielen dank auch
,” she said, trying to keep her weak smile from appearing apologetic. “
Sie sind sehr gut zu uns und wir…wir
…appreciate it.
Versteht
appreciate?
Von der herz
,” and she touched her blouse on the left side.

“Yes,” the waiter said, looking perplexed but still smiling. “
Das herz
.” pointing to his chest. “I understand the heart very much. Thank you. Americans are very kind.” He refilled Hank's glass and moved back till he stood by the bus table, holding the bottle and ready to pour the moment one of their glasses needed refilling.

“I thought I told you to tell him to beat it.”

“He only means well. He's not busy, so I guess he thought he'd give us a little extra service.”

“But he should know better than to hover around our table—making us feel uncomfortable with his lousy groveling act.”

“I don't feel uncomfortable. And I see no reason for you getting upset.”

“Are you going to tell him or do I have to in my own way?”

“Not another commotion—please. It's not as if he should vanish because we're acting like a couple of starry-eyed honeymooners.”