“The penance,” she wailed, “first the penance.”
After reflecting, he replied, “Say one hundred times each, Our Father and Hail Mary.”
“More,” Annamaria wept. “More, more. Much more.”
Gripping his knees so hard they shook she burrowed her head into his black-buttoned lap. He felt the surprised beginnings of an erection.
“In that case,” Fidelman said, shuddering a little, “better undress.”
“Only,” Annamaria said, “if you keep your vestments on.”
“Not the cassock, too clumsy.”
“At least the biretta.”
He agreed to that.
Annamaria undressed in a swoop. Her body was extraordinarily lovely, the flesh glowing. In her bed they tightly embraced. She clasped his buttocks, he cupped hers. Pumping slowly he nailed her to her cross.
1962
Suppose a Wedding
(A SCENE OF A PLAY)
MAURICE FEUER is a retired sick Jewish actor trying to influence his daughter, ADELE, in her choice of a husband. She is engaged to LEON SINGER, a young sporting-goods store owner from Newark. FEUER approves of BEN GLICKMAN, a poor beginning writer in the building—a tenement house off Second Avenue in Manhattan—who seems to share his values in life. At any rate FEUER likes him. FLORENCE FEUER, the actor’s wife, once an actress now a beautician, who has also been around and garnered her kind of wisdom, is all for LEON. On a hot mid-August day LEON has driven in from New Jersey to surprise ADELE, when she arrives home from work, and take her to dinner. As the curtain rises, LEON, while waiting for her, is playing cards with FEUER. Because of the heat the apartment door is open and people occasionally pass by in the hall.
LEON [quietly]: Rummy. This one is mine. [He puts down his cards and begins to add up the score.]
FEUER [rising and pushing back his chair, he removes his glasses and, without warning, declaims emotionally in Yiddish]: My God, you’re killing your poor father, this is what you’re doing. For your whole life I worked bitter hard to take care of you the way a father should. To feed and clothe you. To give you the best kind of education. To teach you what’s right. And so how do you pay me back? You pay me back by becoming a tramp. By living with a married man, a cheap, dirty person who has absolutely no respect for you. A bum who used you like dirt. Worse than dirt. And now when he doesn’t want you anymore and kicks you out of his bed, you come to me crying, begging I should take you back. My daughter, for what I went through with you, there’s no more forgiveness. My heart is milked of tears. It’s like a piece of rock. I don’t want to see you again in my whole life. Go, but remember, you killed your father. [He hangs his head.]
LEON [perplexed]: What’s that about?
FEUER [assuming his identity as he puts on his glasses]: Don’t you understand Yiddish?
LEON: Only some of the words.
FEUER: Tst-tst. [Sitting] It’s from a play I once played in the Second Avenue Theater, Sein Tochter’s Geliebter. I was brilliant in this part—magnificent. All the critics raved about me even though the play was schmaltz. Even The New York Times sent somebody and he wrote in his review that Maurice Feuer is not only a wonderful actor, he is also a magician. What I could do with such a lousy play was unbelievable. I made it come to life. I made it believable.
[LEON begins to deal out a new hand as FEUER goes on.]
FEUER: I also played in Greener Felder, Ghosts, The Dybbuk, The Cherry Orchard, Naches fon Kinder, Gott fon Nachoma, and Yoshe Kalb. Schwartz played Reb Melech and I played Yoshe. I was brilliant—marvelous. The play ran three years in New York, and after we played in London, Paris, Prague, and Warsaw. We also brought it for a season in South America and played it in Rio, then for sixteen weeks in Buenos Aires … [Struck by a memory FEUER falls silent.]
LEON: It’s your move.
[FEUER absently takes a card and without looking gets rid of another. LEON picks up a card, examines it carefully, then drops it among the discards.]
LEON: Your move.
(FEUER, coming back to life, looks at a card and places it on the discard pile.]
FEUER: This piece I recited to you is a father talking to his daughter. She took the wrong man and it ruined her life.
[LEON, examining his cards, has nothing to say.]
FEUER [needling a little]: You couldn’t understand it?
LEON: Only partly. Still in all, when I had to I was able to give directions in Yiddish to an old baba with a wig who I met in downtown Newark, on how to get to Brooklyn, New York.
[As they talk they continue the rummy game.]
FEUER: Adele knows Yiddish perfect. She learned when she was a little girl. She used to write me letters in Yiddish—they were brilliant. She also had a wonderful handwriting.
LEON: Maybe she’ll teach our kids.
[He is unaware of FEUER regarding him ironically.]
FEUER [trying a new tack]: Do you know something about Jewish history?
LEON [amiably]: Not very much. [Afterthought] If you’re worried about religion, don’t worry. I was bar mitzvahed.
FEUER: I’m not worried about anything. Tell me, do you know any of the big Yiddish writers—Peretz, Sholem Aleichem, Asch?
LEON: I’ve heard about them.
FEUER: Do you read serious books?
LEON: Sure, I belong to the Book Find Club.
FEUER: Why don’t you pick your own books? Why did you go to college for?
LEON: I mostly do. It’s no harm to belong to a good book club, it saves you time. [Looking at his wristwatch] What time is Adele due? It’s getting late.
FEUER: Why didn’t you telephone her so she would know you were coming? It’s not expensive to telephone.
LEON: I thought I’d give her a surprise. My brother Mortie came into Newark this morning, and he did me the favor to take over the shop so I could get away early. We keep open Wednesday nights.
FEUER [consulting an old pocket watch]: She’s late.
LEON: Rummy. I win again. [He shows his cards.]
FEUER [hiding his annoyance]: But my best roles were in Shakespeare—Shylock, der Yid, Hamlet, der Yeshiva Bucher—I was wonderful in the kaddish scene for his father, the dead king. And I also played Kaynig Lear und sein Tochter.
[Rising and again removing his glasses, he recites in English]:
“Down from the waist they are Centaurs,
Though women all above;
But to the girdle do the gods inherit,
Beneath is all the fiends’: there’s hell, there’s darkness, there is the sulphurous pit,
Burning, scalding, stench, consumption; fie, fie,
fie, pah, pah! Give me an ounce of civet, good
apothecary, to sweeten my imagination.”
[LEON, as though this were not news to him, finishes adding up the score. He shuffles the cards thoroughly as FEUER puts on his glasses and, sitting, regards him objectively.]
LEON: Another game? We’re running even now, two and two. Almost the same points.
FEUER: The last one.
LEON deals again and the game goes on.]
FEUER [after playing a card, continuing to needle]: Tell me, Leon, do you like tragedy?
LEON: Do I like it?
FEUER: Do you like to see a tragedy on the stage or read tragic books?
LEON: I can take it or leave it. Generally my nature is cheerful.
FEUER [building]: But you went to college. You’re a good businessman. Adele says you read The New York Times every day. In other words you’re an intelligent person. So answer me this question: Why do all the best writers and poets write tragedy? And why does every theater play such plays and all kinds of people pay their good money to see tragedies? Why is that?
LEON: To tell the truth, I never had occasion to give it much thought.
FEUER [a touch of malice]: Do me a favor, think about it now.
LEON [wary]: I’m not so sure I can tell you exactly, but I suppose it’s because a lot of life is like that. You realize wh
at’s what.
FEUER: What do you mean, “suppose”? Don’t you know for sure? Think what we live through every day—accidents, murders, sickness, disappointments. The thought of death alone is enough.
LEON [subdued] : I know what you mean.
FEUER [sarcasm evident]: You think you know. Do you really know the condition of human existence? Do you know what the universe means? I’m not talking about who’s dead but also about millions of people—in the millions—who live for nothing. They have nothing but poverty, disease, suffering. Or they live in a prison like the Russians. Is this your idea of a good life for everybody?
[BEN GLICKMAN appears at the doorway, looks in hungrily, sees LEON, and goes on his way upstairs. Neither of the cardplayers has noticed him.]
LEON: I wouldn’t say that.
FEUER: If you know, you know conditions and you got to do something about them. A man has to be interested to ask for change where it is necessary, to help which way he can.
LEON: I try to help. I give regularly to charity, including the United Jewish Appeal.
FEUER: This isn’t enough.
LEON: What do you do?
FEUER [laying down his cards; emotionally]: What do I do? I suffer for those who suffer. My heart bleeds for all the injustice in this world.
[LEON is silently studying his cards.]
FEUER [picking up his hand, speaking quietly though still with a purpose]: Do you ever think what happens to you—inside your soul, when you see a tragic play, for instance Shakespeare?
LEON [suddenly recalling]: I feel a catharsis through pity and terror.
FEUER [after a pause]: Don’t quote me your college books. A writer writes tragedy so people don’t forget that they are human. He shows us the conditions that exist. He organizes for us the meaning of our lives so it is clear to our eyes. That’s why he writes it, that’s why we play it. My best roles were tragic roles. I enjoyed them the most though I was also marvelous in comedy. “Leid macht auch lachen.” [He laughs dramatically, then quietly draws a card and lays down his hand triumphantly. ] Rummy!
LEON: You win. [He begins to tot up the score.] I guess I owe you exactly fifty-one cents. [Taking out his change purse, he puts down two quarters and a penny and gently pushes the money toward FEUER’s side of the table.]
FEUER [casually; ignoring the money]: So how is the baseball situation now, Leon?
LEON [bites]: I think the Yanks and Dodgers are leading as usual. [Catching on] I’m afraid I’m not following the situation very closely, Mr. Feuer.
FEUER: If you don’t follow it, what do you talk about to your sporting-goods customers?
LEON [patiently]: Different things, though not necessarily sports. People are people—they talk about a lot of things. [He slides the three coins a bit farther forward.] You better put this away, Mr. Feuer.
FEUER: I’m not worried about the money. I play because I like to play. [A thought strikes him.] You know the story about the famous rabbi and the rich man? He was rich and a miser. The rabbi took him to the window and said, “What do you see, tell me?” The rich man looked and he said, “I see the street, what else should I see?” “What’s in the street?” “What’s in the street?” said the rich Jew, “people—they’re walking in the street.” Then the rabbi took him to a mirror in the room and he said, “What do you see now?” “What do I see now?” said the rich man. “Naturally I see myself, of course.” “Aha,” said the rabbi. “You’ll notice in the window is glass, and there is also glass in the mirror. But the glass in the mirror has silver painted on the back, and once there’s the silver you stop seeing everybody else and you see only yourself.”
LEON [still patient]: The way I look at it is this: Rummy is a game of chance. If you play for cash the loser pays with cash and the winner accepts with good grace. [Again he slides the coins toward FEUER.]
FEUER [pushing them back]: Please don’t tell me about manners. About manners I knew before you were born.
LEON: Mr. Feuer, if you want to insult me, there are better ways.
FEUER: Why should I insult you?
LEON: Please don’t think I am a dope. It’s as plain as anyone’s nose that you don’t like me, though I wish I knew why.
FEUER: I’ll tell you why if you’ll kindly tell me what you are living for. What is your philosophy of life?
LEON: I live because I’m alive.
FEUER: Good, but what do you want from your life? That’s also important.
LEON [beginning to show irritation]: That’s my business. Listen, Mr. Feuer, don’t think I am so dense that I don’t understand the reasons for this inquisition you gave me. You pretend you are cordial but it’s for the purpose of needling me. I’m not so dense that I don’t know what you’re insinuating—that I’m not interested in the right things and also that I’m money-conscious. But that’s all a camouflage. You have some pretty strong prejudices and that’s why you’re annoyed that Adele is going to marry me.
FEUER: That’s a father’s privilege.
LEON: I guess you have no respect for your daughter’s judgment.
FEUER: I have plenty of respect, but she isn’t your type. I don’t say you’re a bad person, but you aren’t the right man for her.
LEON: Who’s the right man?
FEUER: More an artistic type. Like her own nature.
LEON: That’s just what I figured you would say, and if you’ll excuse me, it’s a batty point of view. A man is a man, not a profession. I’ve worked darn hard all my life for everything I have. I got myself a decent education which I paid for myself, even if it isn’t a B.A. education. No matter what you think, if you look around, the world doesn’t run on art. What it runs on I’m not going to argue with you but I’ll say this: At the least you ought to respect me if for no other reason than because your daughter does. Just because I’m no long-hair writer doesn’t make me unworthy of her, or for that matter, it doesn’t make Adele unworthy of me. [Rising] Someday I hope you’ll wake up to the facts of life. [FLORENCE FEUER appears on the stairs and momentarily pauses when she hears voices.] People aren’t the same as their businesses. I am not what I sell. And even if I happened to sell irradiated toilet seats, I still wouldn’t worship them. I would use them for the purpose that they are intended.
[FLORENCE enters the apartment.]
FEUER: Whatever you sell or don’t sell, if Adele marries somebody she don’t love, she’ll regret it.
FLORENCE [gasping]: Feuer—for God’s sake! Leon, don’t believe him—
LEON [to FLORENCE]: Hello, Mrs. Feuer. When Adele comes home, tell her I’ll be back to take her out to dinner.
[He leaves with dignity. FLORENCE sits down in the chair LEON has just occupied and slowly removes her shoes. For a minute she sits there not saying a word. FEUER is silent, too, then goes to the sink and pours himself a long glass of water. He stands there drinking thirstily.]
FLORENCE [with weary bitterness]: What’s the matter, Feuer, aren’t you satisfied with all your miseries? What do you want from this poor girl’s life? Do you hate her?
FEUER [coolly]: I’m doing her a favor.
FLORENCE: To ruin her life?
FEUER: To save it. This boy means well but he’s a first-class mediocrity. I’m convinced for sure now.
FLORENCE [wearily patient]: Are you blind? Take your eyes in your hand and look again. How can you stay in the same room with Leon and not see what a fine person he is? The trouble is you’re jealous.
FEUER: If I wasn’t jealous of Maurice Schwartz why should I be jealous of Leon Singer?
FLORENCE: Why did you insult him for nothing?
FEUER: Who insulted him?
FLORENCE: You did. Why did he leave with his face so red? FEUER: What am I, a diagnostician? All I asked him was a few honest questions. It’s a father’s privilege.
FLORENCE: I can imagine what you asked him.
FEUER: I asked him what he lived for. I asked him what’s his philosophy, if any. I have a right to know.
; FLORENCE: Why don’t you ask yourself and leave him alone?
FEUER: I didn’t ask him anything I don’t ask myself.
FLORENCE: Please leave him alone. Adele picked him, not you. She’s marrying him, not you. Leave them alone before you start a calamity.
FEUER: My opinion is she don’t love him.
FLORENCE: Are you crazy? Who told you such a thing?
FEUER: She’s not in love, she thinks she is.
FLORENCE: What are you now, a fortune-teller?-Miss Lonelyhearts? Have you loved so well that you know all about it?
FEUER: How well I loved I know. I also know her and I know she doesn’t really love him.
FLORENCE: And I know you encouraged this boy upstairs to come here on his night off. Don’t think I don’t know you asked her to go out with him.
FEUER: She didn’t go because he didn’t ask. But yesterday he called her to go for a walk tonight, and she said yes.
FLORENCE [rising]: Oh, my God. [She cracks her knuckles on her breasts.] Does Leon know?
FEUER: Who cares if he knows?
FLORENCE [angrily]: Feuer, if you break up this engagement I will leave you. Cook your own vegetables.
[FEUER glares at her.]
FLORENCE: You ought to be ashamed to do this to her. What can she get from a poor writer without a steady job—even without a college education that you talk so much about—who writes all day without success?
FEUER: First you learn your art, then you have success. Someday he’ll be a first-class writer.
FLORENCE: How do you know?
FEUER: He read me a story—it was brilliant.
FLORENCE: One story don’t mean a thing.
FEUER: One is all I need.
FLORENCE [intensely]: What can a starving writer give her? A decent home? Can he afford to have children? Will he consider her first when she needs him, or his egotism? I want her to have a future, not a cold-water flat with a poor man.
FEUER: Maybe he won’t be rich but he’ll have a rich life. With him she could have a real excitement in her life—not a middle-class existence where the real pleasure is to go shopping for something you don’t need. Don’t underestimate Ben Glickman. I talked to him many times and I know his nature. This is a passionate man—how many are left in the world? He doesn’t tell me what he has suffered but I can see in his eyes. He knows what life means and he knows what’s real. He’ll be good for Adele. He will understand her and love her like she needs to be loved.
The Complete Stories Page 37
