Have I Got a Story for You

by Ezra Glinter

  “You aren’t going to leave me?”

  “No. How can you ask that?”

  “Because I’m afraid that you’re going to abandon me.”

  “I won’t abandon you, but you have to stop drinking. I saw it holds you back. And it may further disrupt our relations.”

  “Yes, I’ll do it, because I really love you.”

  “I will wait for you.”

  “But how can I find you. I don’t even know where you live. The only thing on your calling card is your cell-phone number. I called you maybe twenty times, yet you didn’t answer my calls.”

  “Don’t be afraid, I will find you.”

  We said goodbye. I got into the train car and stood by the window. I couldn’t take my eyes off her face, her hands, her long black hair and the short pelerine, which hung from her like a part of her body.

  “Maria, my darling,” I whispered nonstop, “I love you, I really love you . . .”

  The train jerked and departed the platform.

  IV

  IN ISRAEL ONLY my precious Melekh awaited me. When he saw me, he almost went out of his mind with joy. I spent whole days running around from one doctor to another—here tests, there consultations. My wife helped me a great deal, but she didn’t want to hear any talk about coming back home because I hadn’t stopped drinking.

  This time my dog Melekh was sent to visit my eldest daughter. The operation was long and difficult, but the surgeon said that in about six months, with God’s help, I would forget that I ever had the good disease. I was laid up in the hospital a few weeks, then I went home again. Traveling every day to Tel Aviv for work was impossible, so I began to work from home. I didn’t have that much work, only a few booklets to prepare for publication.

  One fine early morning the telephone woke me. I lifted the receiver and heard Maria’s voice.

  “Hallo. Good morning, Jan. How did you sleep?”

  We talked away an hour, about half of which we spent talking about Basilio and Koenig, as Maria took to calling Melekh.

  A few months drew out that way. Every morning: “Hallo. Good morning. How did you sleep? What’s Koenig doing?” And at the end: “Maria, I love you very much.”—“I also love you very much.” When one day she didn’t call me, simply because she didn’t have the opportunity, I almost went out of my mind, I didn’t know what to think, I called her every ten minutes, but her cell phone was silent.

  The next morning everything cleared up and Maria’s early morning “Hallo” brought me back to life. By then I knew that my lover lived in Leipzig, that she had four grown children, all of whom were married, that she herself was a divorcée, and that she had to work hard and often in order to support herself and to help the kids. Even Basilio demanded a lot of time and love.

  Four months after the operation I felt like a kid again. I gamboled with Melekh in the field, began writing more and more and drinking little by little. I wrote love poems for my Maria and drank a good, white Bordeaux, but no more than two glasses a day, as if my doctor had prescribed it. I was able to sit at home and do what I wanted. It only took me a few hours to make a booklet, but I was always able to drag it out for a few weeks. I had plenty of time to think about my Maria. For the first time in my life, I had become an almost free man. In short, I could be me, Jan Lazar, a free, happy man in love with a beautiful, picture-perfect woman, Maria Koenig. She hadn’t forgotten me, hadn’t flung me away. Instead, she woke me every morning with a faintly melodic “Hallo.” And were it not for the sorrow of not sleeping with her, I would have said that I was the happiest person in the world. And if not the absolute happiest person, then definitely the number-two person on the list, right after the pope in Rome.

  V

  AT THE VERY beginning of fall my boss suddenly called me on the phone and asked me to come to the publishing house for an important conversation. What kind of conversation, he didn’t say. I didn’t know what to think. Various idiotic thoughts swirled around in my head.

  When I got to the office, the boss was seated in a deep armchair by a tea table. It was covered with a small bottle of my beloved Martell and a dish of toast points, red roe and juicy lemon slices.

  “So, what’re you up to, Jan?” the boss asked without any hello or a shake of the hand.

  “What’s that’s supposed to mean? You know quite well that I’m working; every week I prepare a new booklet.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m asking, how do you feel?”

  “Thanks. I feel good.”

  “Well! If so, let’s make a toast and drink to your success.” Without another word, the boss slowly poured the cognac into two thin glasses.

  We drank the glasses, tasted the roe and toast, and the boss continued.

  “I received excellent evaluations of your participation in the Basel book fair. Thanks to you, we earned some pretty pennies.”

  I could tell that the boss was playing some sort of sick game and that he had his own pocket—and not me—in mind, but I said something else.

  “Well, if so, Mr. Bossman, then let’s drink to the success of your publishing venture. I understand that you intend to give me a bonus. Say, a couple hundred?”

  The boss almost choked on my question.

  “If there were a bonus—I would take it. Besides, who’s talking about money? Listen to me—and use your common sense this time.”

  “Good, I hear you.”

  We drank, snacked, and the boss continued:

  “Obviously you come from Europe. You know the mentality of the Europeans, you speak a lot of languages, and, to tell the truth, you really don’t have that much work here, do you? I didn’t bother you when you weren’t healthy, but now, since you are healthy again, I am officially requesting that you represent our firm at the Leipzig book fair.”

  When I heard the word “Leipzig,” my heart went cold. But at that very moment, I began my own game.

  “Forgive me, what fair?”

  “Leipzig,” the boss answered. “What, you’ve never heard of the fair? It only takes place every year.”

  “Of course I’ve heard of it. But that is one of the biggest and most lucrative book fairs in the world, and do you know how long it is? Not three days, like the Basel fair, but a couple of weeks.”

  “And your point is? We have things to display. And besides, I’m thinking about your health. The summer heat is starting here in Israel, and you’ve only just had an operation. It wouldn’t hurt you to cool down in Europe for a while.”

  “No, I can’t go away for such a long time. I have to visit doctors every week. And what will I do with my dog, with Melekh? No, I’m sorry, I can’t travel.”

  The boss considered this for a while, poured some more Martell into our glasses, and offered me his hand:

  “Good, we’ll pay for your health insurance and your dog will go back to my kids, to the village. They’ve come to love him. So, agreed?”

  “When do I have to give you my answer?”

  “What do you mean, when? Right here, right now.”

  I thought about it, scratched behind my ear, and barely said out loud:

  “Well, if your kids love my Melekh, then I agree.”

  The second the bus stopped in front of my house, I ran to the telephone, but Maria’s cell and its typical “Sorry, the desired telephone-partner is out of area. Bitte, try telephoning later,” doused me in cold water.

  Half the night I tossed and turned and couldn’t fall asleep. It felt like Maria was here somewhere, near me. I heard her voice, saw her marble shoulders, her ripe, firm breasts and long lithe legs; I felt her hot lips and quiet breath. But whenever I opened my eyes, looked out into the darkness and listened to the night sounds, I saw that the space next to me was empty and heard only Melekh’s muted, heavy breathing.

  That night Maria came no more.

  VI

  “HALLO. GOOD MORNING. How did you sleep? What’s Koenig up to?”

  “Good morning. The King is sleeping, but I am
coming to Leipzig.”

  “Very good. That makes me happy. When are you coming?”

  “The day after tomorrow.”

  “Good, we’ll meet at the train station. Have a good day and give Koenig a pet for me.”

  “And me?”

  “Doch.”

  “Regards to Basilio.”

  “I’ll pass them along. Tschüss.”

  My boss was no warmhearted man; he was a stingy pig. Always. Listen to this: because he bought me health insurance and solved the Melekh question, he immediately regretted his generosity and decided to “be economical” with the ticket. He actually did his research and found me a seat on a Saturday tourist charter for an attractive price. When I got to Leipzig, after eighteen hours bumbling around the skies and shaking in trains, I, well, you can imagine what kind of troubles I wore on my face.

  I was truly terrified of leaving the train, but the second I did so, I saw my little treasure facing me—tall, shapely, refined, elegantly dressed . . . and facing her was me—exhausted, useless, in a wrinkled suit with black bags under my eyes. I was even scared of kissing her because I knew that I would never again hear her passionate, “My darling, how I love your scent, your smell just drives me wild.”

  But an aristocrat remains always an aristocrat. Maria gave me a kiss on the cheek and immediately suggested, “Hallo, if you want, we can go straight to my friend’s. She’s off traveling for a few weeks, and she left me the keys to her apartment. You will bathe and then we’ll go eat. Your fair won’t run away from you.”

  It was almost noon when I woke the next day. There was no Maria near me, and instead of her cat Basilio, there was a note on my chest this time. “Hallo, my darling. That was a wonderful night. You can find the keys for the apartment and a light breakfast in the kitchen. I love you very much. Until later. Yours, Maria.”

  The whole day was spent dealing with the displays and books from our publisher, but by nighttime everything was ready for the opening ceremonies—and I ran to the apartment to wait for Maria because her cell didn’t answer my calls.

  Maria came about a half-hour later and immediately “rejoiced” me with the news that we had been invited to a dinner at the Chinese consulate.

  “Therefore, my darling, go, wash, dress and let’s go. I had a hard day and I’m very hungry.”

  At the dinner I sat like my seat was made of nails. Eating with chopsticks wasn’t something I could do, and it was impossible to make out any of the Noodle-German the Chinese spoke. That whole night I didn’t feel any better than I did after my trip from Tel Aviv to Leipzig via Istanbul, Prague, Munich, and Fulda. The dinner was important to Maria because she was gathering materials for a big article about the Chinese diaspora in Germany. At about midnight we left the consulate and drove to the apartment. But Maria didn’t come inside.

  “My darling, I’m tired. I must get some sleep. I’ve had a hard day. We’ll see each other tomorrow. Sleep well.”

  And she drove away. I was left alone in a foreign city, in a foreign apartment, in the middle of a foreign night.

  The same thing repeated itself the next day, only this time we were invited by a group of students from Kosovo. I spent four days in Leipzig getting to know all the local diasporas—except the Jewish one. I didn’t go to a dinner at the Russian-Jewish community center. I simply refused.

  “Maria, I don’t cook any worse than any of these Greek restaurants, Spanish restaurants, and cultural societies. Tomorrow, God willing, let’s eat here, in your friend’s apartment.”

  “Good, my love. Until tomorrow. Sleep well.”

  The next day I ran away from the book fair the second the clock struck noon. I shopped for ingredients, ground up breadcrumbs and cooked. I toiled into the night, but in the end I set an authentic Jewish table—four types of appetizers, four salads, chicken soup with egg noodles, chopped liver in sweet and sour broth and, for dessert, a cold compote of Israeli fruits. I did not set any wine on the table.

  We had a beautiful evening and an extraordinary night. In the morning I lay in bed near Maria and thought, “My God, I’ve been in Leipzig over a week and I’ve barely been with my beloved. Always in the company of immigrants. Everything’s going kosher at the fair. The publisher’s book displays interest no one; not one person has stopped to ask, ‘Where do you come from and what are you selling?’ So, why do I need to stand there like a golem?”

  “Maria,” I said to my beloved, “Maria, it’s Friday now, the weekend. You are tired and I am tired, so let’s go somewhere, get out of town.”

  “Yes.”

  VII

  “THAT IS A good idea. I have good friends who live in a village not far from Leipzig. They have a small restaurant and a couple of rooms for close friends.”

  “So let’s travel to them.”

  “Yes, my love, tomorrow we’ll travel to them.”

  In Israel, when someone tells you that it isn’t far, it’s really not far, a couple of minutes by foot. But in Germany . . . well . . . it took a good couple of hours to get to the village that Maria said wasn’t far, but I didn’t have any regrets. We were alone, and that made it a holiday. It was a whole twenty-four hours of rest and godly love. We strolled in the forest, ate tasty meals, slept in a giant country bed, and whispered nonstop:

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too, very much.”

  By noon the next day we were back in Leipzig. Maria went straight to some sort of important meeting, and I hung out in the pavilion of the book fair counting flies.

  I could barely wait any longer. At the lunch break I beat it straight to the nearest beer cellar and drank a few steins of cold beer. Only then did things start to feel easier.

  I didn’t go back to the fair. I simply didn’t have the strength or desire. Besides, tomorrow was the closing ceremony and that night I had to travel to Munich. I bought a bottle of brandy, wine, hard cheese, and some fruits, and came home to wait for my lover Maria. By the time Maria got there, I was more than a little “tired.” Maria, on the contrary, looked more beautiful and happy than she ever had before. She was dressed in a white blouse with a long Spanish collar and in an elegant black troika. What can I tell you? . . . She immediately smelled the cheap stinking alcohol but behaved like a true aristocrat. I said foolish things; she was silent and ate fruit. Then she was finished with the fruit and she got up and wanted to go. I stopped her:

  “Maria, stay, today is my last night. I beg you, stay.”

  “No, I’m going home.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t recognize my beloved Jan. Today, you’re foreign to me. Take your hands away. Sleep well. Tomorrow I’ll call you.”

  And Maria left. I was left alone. With a half-bottle of brandywine, but without my love, Maria. Half the night I moaned like a crazy person. My head was clouded, but I felt like I was losing the best thing I had ever had in my life, that I was losing the love of a woman, the kind who appears in this world maybe once in a thousand years. I wailed and drank until I fell into the void of black sleep.

  VIII

  I CAME BACK to Israel a broken man, drunk as Lot. A week later I left work and spent whole days searching for my Maria, but her cell was silent and none of my European journalist friends had ever heard the name Maria Koenig. Most likely, she signed her articles under different noms-de-plume. I didn’t fit in anywhere. Israel grew too cramped; maybe also the world at large.

  I stopped drinking, came to my senses and found several of my old friends. They helped me get interesting work as a translator in a small transport firm. My life was back on the rails.

  On the rare nights when I slept in a hotel room, I slept with my cell phone in hand. I swear to you, not once did I get to see my magical dream through to the end. The same thing every time:

  “Herr Lazar, bitte, in an hour people will be waiting for you in this place or that.”

  “Herr Lazar, there is a vehicle waiting for you by the entrance to the hotel.”

&nbs
p; Herr Lazar come here, Herr Lazar go there. And suddenly, one fine early morning, the end:

  “Hallo. Good morning. How did you sleep?”

  “Oh, my God, Maria. Where are you?”

  “I am in Kosovo.”

  “What are you doing there?”

  “I’m gathering material on the refugees. And where are you?”

  “I am in Transnistria.”

  “Where is that?”

  “It is between Ukraine and Moldova. Maria, I love you very much.”

  “And I love you, and I want to tell you, that in about three months you are going to be a father and I will become a mother to our son.”

  The air was trapped in my throat. I broke out in tears into the receiver.

  “Hallo, Jan . . . Jan, hallo . . . hallo . . .”

  168 A light meal. Literally, “with a fork” (French).

  Boris Sandler

  1950–

  BORIS SANDLER, THE editor-in-chief of the Yiddish Forward from 1998 until 2016, is an award-winning writer of Yiddish drama, poetry, and prose.

  Born in Balti—known in Yiddish as Belts—in what is now Moldova, he attended the Music Conservatory in Kishinev where, following graduation in 1975, he played violin in the Moldovan Symphony Orchestra. In 1983 he received a graduate degree from the Maxim Gorky Literature Institute in Moscow.

  In the 1980s Sandler began writing in Yiddish for the Moscow-based journal Sovetish heymland (Soviet Homeland) and later joined the editorial board of the publication. In 1989 he created a Yiddish-language program on Moldovan State Television titled On the Jewish Street. From 1989 to 1992, Sandler was president of the Yiddish Cultural Organization of Moldova and the Yiddish editor of the bilingual journal Undzer kol (Our Voice) in Kishinev.

  In 1992, Sandler immigrated to Israel, and in 1998 to the United States, where he became editor of the Yiddish Forward. He is the author of fourteen books of poetry and fiction, and his works have been translated into Russian, English, French, German, Hebrew, and Rumanian.

  “Studies in Solfège” appeared in a collection published by Sandler in 2008 and tells the story of a young music student who undergoes a sexual awakening. It was published on the website of the Yiddish Forward on December 16, 2015, in Penshaft (Pencraft), a section dedicated to the publication of contemporary Yiddish literature.