End of the Jews

by Adam Mansbach

  Mari spears a shrimp, holds it before her mouth. “Why not?”

  Why not indeed? Amalia doesn’t know whether she is rifling through her mind for an excuse or for the courage to say yes. Dancing has become a dare, and now Mari is watching her with those inscrutable dark eyes, waiting. It’s too strange to dwell on just now, but this woman is acting awfully like the girlfriend Amalia used to wish for in college: someone to throw pebbles at her window, rouse her from her bed, and drag her out of doors and into trouble.

  She leans back in her chair. “Where? Where could we go?”

  “We find somewhere.”

  They go on eating. The stew tastes even better now. Richer, as if Amalia is ingesting every bit of energy that went into its preparation, from the walk to the market to the deveining of the shrimp to the chopping of the onions. For the next few minutes, her entire consciousness of food heightens and simplifies. These morsels she now places in her mouth are what will keep her alive until she eats again, what will sustain her through the night to come. It is how soldiers in the field must feel, tearing open their ration packets: newly cognizant of the obvious.

  “I didn’t make any dessert.” Mariko is in the kitchen, opening a second bottle of wine. Amalia can’t believe they polished off the first, any more than she can understand why she agreed when Mariko suggested uncorking another. She doesn’t feel drunk. Perhaps her host drank more, but it doesn’t seem likely. If Mari consumed the lion’s share, she would be staggering by now, not dancing the bottle back into the dining room and humming. “I have some ice cream, if you want.”

  “I’m fine,” Amalia says. “You have some.”

  Mari, standing over the table and pouring, shakes her head. “Usually, I never eat this much. When Albert around, I cannot relax. Cannot digest.”

  “You’re a better woman than I, Mari.” Amalia toasts, lifting her glass. “When I can’t relax, I eat everything in sight.”

  Mari toasts back. “You very calm person, then. Else you not fit in that pretty dress. I wish I could wear.” She gestures at herself, with a looseness of limbs that is Amalia’s first indication that her host is tipsy. “I got no curves.”

  “Nonsense.” Amalia can’t help looking away, embarrassed. “You have a lovely figure.”

  “Please. I like stick figure.” Mariko stands over her, the wineglass in one hand, the other resting on her hip. “Wind start blowing, I gotta run inside.” Her cheeks are round with mirth, and when Amalia looks up, they both start to laugh. “Serious,” Mariko persists. “Every time I buy dress, they gotta take in. I tell them, I should get discount. I only buying half!”

  Five minutes later, bundled up and trudging arm in arm into the wind, Amalia realizes that she, too, is a good distance from sober. Given that and the weather and the fact that they have no idea where they’re going, she finds herself willing Mari to call the whole thing off and invite her back to the apartment to warm up. She can already hear the lie they’ll tell each other: We’ll do it another night. Amalia squints and sets her jaw and shoves the thought aside. This is why you’ve never had a real partner in crime, she remonstrates herself. You have no stomach for adventure.

  Even the Arbiters of Art have the sense to be inside now. Snowflakes are floating in the broad shafts of the streetlamps’ light, weightless as dust particles caught in a sunbeam. Amalia squeezes Mari’s arm to get her attention, then nods upward to show her. They stand and stare at it awhile, the night grown suddenly warmer, the block deserted, the wind gone. Within a minute, the snow organizes itself, stops swirling, and begins to advance in ranks, like marching infantry. Amalia turns and watches Mariko instead. Big flakes glisten in her hair; her face is wet where snow has melted, and Amalia feels the wetness on her own face, too.

  Mari turns and smiles. “Why you look at me like that, Ama?”

  She says it kindly, and this time Amalia is not abashed to be caught staring. “You know,” she ventures, unsure.

  “I know nobody looked at me like that in long time.” Mariko glances up and away.

  “Looked at you how?”

  She laughs and steps forward. More snow is landing on their faces than is falling through the space between them. “Okay, Ama, you gonna make me say it? Okay. Like you want to kiss me. Right?”

  Amalia swallows. “Yes.”

  Mari’s eyes shine through the blizzard. “So what you waiting for?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Women always wait too long.” Mariko looks left and right, then reaches up and places her palms on Amalia’s cheeks and guides Amalia’s mouth to hers.

  The moment their lips meet, Amalia wants to cry. The softness of a woman is so familiar, and yet such a revelation. With a man, there is always something hard behind the gentleness: a force real or imagined, a drive he may slow or suppress but which is always beating in the depths. Mariko’s kiss is the first of Amalia’s life that feels like an act of lovemaking in itself, the first to take place wholly in the present. There is such freedom, such safety, in the absence of that unnegotiable male energy. Through their jackets, she can feel Mari’s breasts pressing against her own, imagine the beating of her heart. Amalia pulls Mari to her, unafraid of being grateful, needy, weak or strong.

  Tristan shoulders the door closed behind him, takes two steps, and drops his luggage on the hotel bed. The mattress jiggles, settles. He flicks open the latches of his ancient suitcase and unfolds a brown Brooks Brothers suit, lays the pants over the back of a chair and hangs the jacket in the bathroom to unwrinkle when he showers. Albert and the band are bunked two to a room three floors below, but Tristan is up here by himself on the Jewish Congress of America’s dollar. The lousy bastards didn’t even spring for a suite.

  He flops onto the bed and stares at the gift basket on the desk for ten minutes before he can muster up the interest to walk over and unwrap it. He pokes through the assortment of California fruit, notes the absence of macadamia nuts with disappointment, and scowls at the bottle of dessert wine, then takes the card back to bed together with a kiwi he intends to play with, not consume.

  The message Tristan extracts from the envelope is all the more infuriating because it is written not in the familiar hand of the sender but the buoyant block letters of some dictation-taking hotel-store employee:

  Old Man,

  I trust your flight was comfortable and this note finds you well. First off, congratulations on the splendid honor. No one deserves it more. If you feel up to a drink before dinner, ring me in room 718. Otherwise, I shall see you at the ceremony.

  Ciao,

  P.P.

  P.S. I’ve taken the liberty of reserving us a noon tee time tomorrow. You have no prior obligations, I hope?

  Tristan reads it twice, then flicks his wrist and watches the card sail across the room and hit the wall. He should have known that Pendergast, the great friend of the Jews, was behind this Man of the Year business somehow. Good old Peter: too impressed with himself to stop and wonder whether a favor is worth doing, or to keep one a secret. God forbid Tristan should believe he’s won on merit. Better that Pendergast, the Puritan Pilgrim, make clear to his former pupil and greatest discovery that life’s prizes continue to rain down upon him only because Lady Pete is still fluttering around up there on winged golden sandals, seeding the clouds.

  Tristan turns onto his side, stares at the drawn drapes, and wonders what he’ll say to the smug phony. How ridiculous that Pendergast is even here, that he holds any sway at all with this organization. Who votes on next year’s winner, the Daughters of the American Revolution? Tristan mashes his feet into his shoes. He’s not going to get any rest until he’s spoken to the man.

  A DO NOT Disturb sign dangles from the doorknob of room 718, but Tristan knocks anyway, three short raps. The thought of breaking up Pendergast’s nap is rather appealing, but Peter comes to the door clad in a white shirt and a Windsor tie, hair slicked back, healthy and tanned—tanned! It is December and Pendergast lives in goddamned Massachusetts.


  “The Man of the Year!” he crows, clapping Tristan on the back. “Wonderful to see you, dear boy, wonderful to see you.” Tristan is ushered into a room identical to his, except that manuscript pages are strewn over the desk instead of California oranges, and two pressed suits and a garment bag hang in the open closet. By the time Tristan completes his survey of the premises, Peter is in the bathroom, running the water. He returns with a freshly rinsed glass in each hand.

  “How about a drink? I’ve got a bottle here somewhere. So, does noon tomorrow work? It was the latest decent time they had.” The scotch is located. Peter sets the glasses on the desk and pours them three fingers apiece, hefts his drink to eye level and winks. “Always a bad idea to book an early golf game for a man who’s being honored the night before.”

  Tristan takes his glass from the table and holds it at his waist. “What did you do, Peter? Did you make them give me this award?”

  Pendergast contorts his brow, laughs, takes a nip of scotch. He’s nervous, and hiding it. Tristan takes a step forward. Peter won’t register him coming closer, but it may increase his agitation. The professor has probably never been in a fight. A simple punch in the nose would catch him completely by surprise, lay him out flat, scare him half to death. Six feet of bloodied white Anglo-Saxon Protestant writhing on the hotel floor, wondering what the hell happened, and Tristan towering above, daring him to move a muscle.

  “What do you mean, make them give you this award? Who do you think I am? I’m not even Jewish.”

  No, Tristan thinks, and you never will be, no matter how many Heebs you manage to slip past the doors of your country club. Any more than you will ever know what it’s like to be black, no matter how many angry black writers you broker book deals. You will only be the man holding open the door.

  “But you did something,” Tristan says, low.

  Peter is already comfortable again. “I guested on the JCA’s board last year. They always ask one Gentile. It’s an honor.” Pendergast leans against a bureau, crosses his ankles, and draws a semicircle in the air with his drink. “One meeting, a few months ago, they asked for nominations for Man of the Year. Blockbusters is a damn fine book, an important book, so I put your name down. Did I do something wrong?”

  Tristan stares at him. Where to begin?

  “Don’t do me any more favors, Peter,” he rumbles, speaking into the glass as he lifts it to his mouth. The scotch is irritatingly excellent. Only Pendergast would order a fifteen-year-old bottle of Glenfiddich from room service.

  Peter’s drink arm dangles to his side. “What ever do you mean?”

  “It’s quite a game, isn’t it? First, you convince the goys some lucky Jew is all right, and then—and this is really where I have to hand it to you, Peter—then you have the audacity to go back and convince the Jews. Well, thanks. That’s what I’m supposed to say, isn’t it? That I can’t possibly thank you enough?”

  Tristan cuts himself off as his voice begins to climb in pitch, volume. For a long moment, Pendergast is quiet. “Tristan, I…” he starts, then gives up with a sigh and a wave of his hand. The gesture is baffling. It could mean I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can say. Or: This is too absurd to merit a response.

  “You know how the Jewish press has gone after me, Peter. What do you think it’s like to finally be offered an olive branch and then find out that it’s not real, just my guardian angel meddling again?” He sips his drink. “I knew it was something like this.”

  Pendergast stands straighter. “There were twelve of us who voted, Tristan. All I did was give your name.”

  “The WASP seal of approval. Best endorsement you can get.”

  “Ah. You’re being ridiculous.”

  “The hell I am. And as a matter of fact, Peter, I never asked for a guardian angel. Don’t you think it’s time you found a new way to feel good about yourself?”

  Pendergast drops his head and gives a little snorting laugh. “You’re unbelievable, you know that? You could just take the goddamn olive branch. But no, you’d rather find a reason not to. You’d rather attack me for trying to get you the kind of credit you bloody well deserve. I think you’re scared, Brodsky. You know the minute you accept that olive branch you won’t have the foggiest idea who the hell you are.”

  “Spare me. All right? Just spare me. You can put us on the golf course, Peter. You can get us jobs. But don’t you ever tell us who we are.”

  “Oh, it’s ‘us’ now, is it? All of a sudden you speak for the Jews, Brodsky?”

  Tristan throws back the rest of the scotch and sets the glass down. “Better me than you,” he says before he walks out of the room.

  But by that evening, there is nothing Tristan wants to say. He calls off the performance, accepts the award wordlessly, and goes back to his room.

  Sun pours through the windows, saturating everything. It’s almost noon when she wakes up, barely having slept, her breasts pressed against Mari’s back and her hand draped over Mari’s thigh, and every emotion Amalia possesses sits so close to the surface that she scarcely trusts herself to move. The slightest sweetness, the lightest touch, might summon tears. And Mariko has seen her cry enough already.

  As she lies breathing shallow, stroking Mari’s hair, Amalia has the strange and horrible thought that perhaps she is too feminine even for a woman to love—too sensitive, too vulnerable. All night, she vacillated between intuition and experience, between making love the way she wanted to, the way that felt right, and letting doubts and errant fears corral her. If she can’t be herself, then what in God’s name is the point?

  Mariko slips out from under her arm and disappears into the bathroom. Amalia opens her eyes in time to see Mari emerge, hair falling down over her tiny bee-sting breasts, a yellow sarong knotted around her waist. She heads straight for the French press.

  Amalia props her head against a pillow. This cannot end now with a cup of coffee, or in an hour at some restaurant where they will masquerade as friends meeting for brunch.

  “Mari,” she calls, “come home with me.” She yawns and stretches her arms over her head, then adds by way of enticement, “I’ll make you dinner.”

  Mari puts down her can of Folgers, picks her way across the clothing-littered floor, and sits down on the edge of the bed. She crosses her thighs, then reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind Amalia’s ear.

  “If I come, Ama, I just have to leave again.”

  “I know.” Amalia takes her hand. “But come.”

  “You got daughter at home. You gotta make dinner for her.”

  “I’ll send her to a friend’s,” Amalia says, knowing it’s Sunday and no parent allows it.

  “Ama, honey…” Mariko stands and looks down at her. “No. You know is a bad idea.”

  “So when…” Amalia starts, but there’s no point in asking. Mariko offers her a tissue from the nightstand and Amalia scowls, offended by the assumption that she will cry. But a moment later, it proves correct.

  “Well then, I guess it’s back to business.” She permits herself to blow her nose. Mariko hands over another few tissues, and Amalia takes them without looking up, smears them over her face, and lets her hand fall to her lap. “Back to your husband and back to mine.”

  Mari moves to stroke her hair. Amalia flinches at the touch, then consents to it.

  “What else, Ama?” Mari tilts her head, smiles. “Run away together?”

  Amalia bursts into fresh tears. “You’re making fun of me.” With every sob, a bit more of her allure melts away forever, but the thought only makes her cry harder—and besides, she deserves to be disgraced. It’s as though Mariko has been regressing her. Last night, Amalia was carefree and twenty; a few minutes ago, clumsy and fifteen. Now she is forlorn as only a five-year-old can be, in front of a woman who has no sympathy for children. Mariko—wife of a man she does not love, defender of a music she plays no part in creating—is a realist even in her passions. She offers nothing more than a few strokes of the hair as her lo
ver goes to pieces on her bed. A bed that still smells like sex, like women, like things Amalia had never done before and doubts she will ever do again. The instant she is gone, the mattress will be stripped, the sheets washed. When Albert comes home, he will lie down on fresh linens.

  “Ama.” Amalia lets go of the pillow she’s been weeping into and looks up through wide red eyes. Mari stares at her a moment, then cups a hand to Amalia’s cheek and wipes a tear away with her thumb. “Have some coffee.”

  Amalia nods, lugs herself to the table, and sits down, still naked. Mariko rummages through a drawer, puts on a top, and joins her. The seats of the chairs are made of woven rope; the cords cut into Amalia’s bare skin. They sit side by side and stare out at the street. Last night’s snow didn’t amount to much. Most of it melted when it hit the pavement, but there is still enough dusting cars and fire hydrants to bestow a little magic on the scene. Neither of them speaks. Eventually, Mariko gets up and begins washing last night’s dishes. Amalia gathers her outfit together, glancing periodically into the kitchen. Soon she is almost dressed, and Mariko still has not bothered to steal a final glance at her body.

  “You know, we still haven’t danced,” Amalia says as she buttons her sweater, loud enough to be heard over the running tap water, not at all sure why she says it. Mari smiles without looking up. Amalia crouches to hunt for her stockings.

  They kiss good-bye at the door: a real, long, tender kiss. Amalia feels the whole time as if it’s out of consolation, but when it ends and they stand staring at each other, it is Mariko who pulls Amalia back into another, harder than the first, this one both wonderful and cruel, a kiss Amalia knows must last her a long time.

  She reaches the street dizzy. Bright light and cold air shock her awake. Cafe Wha? is packed; a blond folksinger sits on a stool with his back to the entrance, strumming a guitar, and Amalia, caught up in trying to listen through the door, slips on the ice-slick pavement and has to windmill her arms to keep from falling on her ass. She recovers, stalks across the street to her car and finds it gone—towed off for being parked in front of what was, unbeknownst to her, a church. Too much to deal with right now, just too much. She hails a cab and takes it all the way home to Connecticut, a hundred-dollar ride. The cabbie comes inside and she gives him a drink of water and pays him by check. As soon as he leaves, Amalia goes to bed, pretends to have the flu, and sleeps for the better part of a week.