“One moment, Maximilian, before we begin,” Rabbi Teitelman said. “I need a favour from you, something you can do for me, if you will.” He handed his pupil the letter from Mayor Perkins, waited while he read the invitation half-aloud, then explained, “I’ve accepted the invitation and even though I’ve never before participated in this kind of thing … I mean, being on a stage with a bishop and a priest … I think it’s clearly my duty to represent the Jewish congregation, especially since Buckner Finsterwald is apparently one of us.”
“Yes,” Maximilian responded with only mild interest.
“There’s just one problem, Maximilian,” the rabbi went on. “I’ve never heard of Mr. Buckner Finsterwald. Am I right to assume that you have?”
“Everybody in Steelton has heard of Buckner Finsterwald. We’ve got most of his books at home. One of his books is in our English course at school this year, the one about when he was growing up. It’s called Forged in Steelton: The Crucible of Boyhood. Our English teacher says it’s a masterpiece. My mom and dad think he’s terrific, too.”
“And do you agree?”
“Honest?”
“Honest.”
“I think Buckner Finsterwald stinks.”
Rabbi Teitelman’s eyebrows rose. “Really, Maximilian? Why?”
“Because he says a whole lot of really dumb things as far as I’m concerned.”
“Like what?”
“Like how his mom was always so great and wise and even though they were so poor they could only afford meat once a week, they were all happy as pigs because it was fun living in one room behind their dry-cleaning shop, a lot of stuff like that.”
“And you don’t believe Mr. Finsterwald?” the rabbi asked.
“Nobody in his right mind would enjoy being poor and hungry all the time and living in a sardine can, which is the way he described their home. And I don’t believe his mom never blew her cool when his father brought a family of Italian immigrants home for supper one Friday night, without warning her in advance, and the whole gang, the Finsterwalds and the Italians, shared one tiny little chicken.”
Rabbi Teitelman fought back an impulse to laugh. “I see a side to you, Mr. Glick, that I never knew existed. You, my friend, are a cynic.”
“What’s a cynic?”
“A cynic is a person who refuses to look at the world through rose-coloured glasses.”
Maximilian smiled. He hadn’t known before that he was a cynic and the description did not displease him. “Well,” he offered, “wouldn’t you be a cynic if you read what Finsterwald wrote about how to keep Jewishness alive in our times?”
“Try me. What did Mr. Finsterwald write?”
“He says that if he had his way he’d manufacture aerosol cans filled with chicken soup. Then Jews could spray Jewishness around their houses, the way they do with air fresheners. I mean, is that weird, or is that weird!”
The rabbi managed a straight face. “Not only is it weird, think what it would do to the earth’s ozone layer! Anyway, Maximilian, ours is not to reason why, ours is but to do and die. So I want you to do me a favour. The ceremony takes place in less than two weeks and that doesn’t give me much time to bone up on Buckner Finsterwald. I wonder if you could do some of the research for me … maybe get me one or two of his books from the library so I can skim through them … get some kind of feel for the man and his background. Do you think you could manage that?”
“I can tell you one thing now about his background that
I heard,” Maximilian said with a sly smile.
“Good. Tell me.”
“Well, every time he comes to town, which isn’t often now that he’s such a big shot, he goes through this phony thing of telling everybody to call him ‘Bucky,’ not ‘Buckner,’ which is supposed to make everybody think he’s a real friendly down-to-earth guy, right? But when he was here a couple of years ago, he made a speech at the synagogue and afterward a lot of people asked him to sign his autograph and he refused except if they handed him one of his books to sign. I mean, he wouldn’t even sign copies of the program. My grandmother and my mom had one of their famous fights over it. My grandmother said old Finsterwald was a prize snob and then my mother said she didn’t blame him because that’s how writers make their living, selling books, not giving free autographs. My mother said the trouble with people was that they always want something for nothing. Then my grandmother got really sore and said she always paid her own way in this world. And then they had an awful fight, so awful they started saying things to each other in Yiddish.”
“Very interesting,” the rabbi said thoughtfully. “Very interesting indeed. However, maybe we’d better stick to straight historical facts, eh, Maximilian? Maybe you can find out the exact spot in Steelton where he was born, where he was educated, where and how he got his start. Of course,” the Lubavitcher added in a cautious sing-song, “if you happen, just accidentally, say, to run across any more of those anecdotes in the course of your research … what shall we call them, human interest angles?” Max immediately brightened. “You might throw in one or two of them, just to make the sauce a little spicier, eh?”
So eager did the boy now appear to get on with this assignment that the Lubavitcher felt bound to add quickly, “Mind you, Max, my remarks have to be appropriate to an invocation, you understand. I can’t for instance say ‘Dear God, bless all of us who are assembled here to do honour to this big shot who calls himself “Bucky” but is really a prize snob.’”
For the first time since they’d met, Maximilian found himself laughing at something the Lubavitcher said. For the first time, too, Max’s afternoon lesson ran past the sacred sixty-minute mark by a full quarter-hour, a fact that didn’t seem to upset either teacher or pupil at all.
Standing by his living room window, hands clasped behind his back, the Lubavitcher rabbi watched his pupil slog through freshly fallen snow, his toqued head almost obliterated by clouds of breath. Suddenly, at the first lamppost, Maximilian turned and glanced up.
The Lubavitcher and the boy gave no sign that they saw each other, but in that blink or two of the eye, in that moment before the boy turned away, Rabbi Teitelman thought he could hear a faint whisper, the answer to his question.
Ten
In the faces of the dignitaries who marched on stage at Steelton High on the night of January fourteenth, one thing was clear: their presence here tonight was a mistake.
The tribute to Buckner Finsterwald ought to have consisted of a visit to the mayor’s office, a brief ceremony before city council, a photograph or two, thank you very much and goodbye. Instead, Mayor Perkins, inspired by some vague notion that Finsterwald’s success was due largely to his having been born and raised in a melting-pot society, had sponsored a special resolution, which Council dutifully made unanimous, that the tribute be expanded into “Steelton Community Day.”
Taking stock of the platitudes stored in the cellars of his rhetoric, the Mayor selected several vintages that went down well with consecrations and dedications. In a proclamation blended with portions of the Magna Carta and the Gettysburg Address, laced with part of a eulogy he himself had delivered years before at his predecessor’s funeral, Mayor Perkins exhorted the citizenry to reaffirm those principles that had made them strong and united: Equality, Fraternity and Humankind’s Infinite Capacity for Love.
The trouble with this exhortation was simply that it defied the basic rule of survival in Steelton. In the minds of the ordinary citizens, the social climate of the city fell into the same category as the seasonal climate: an ongoing act of God best endured with a maximum of resignation, a minimum of talk. The proposition that all people were created equal made about as much sense as a proposal to plant banana trees on the courthouse lawn. Indeed, any trumpet call to unity succeeded only in awakening people to the differences and disparities that kept them apart. It was as if an itinerant freak show had been invited to town to remind them of humanity’s infinite capacity to be privileged and unprivileged. E
ven among the mayor’s earnest councillors, the intoxication caused by his opening pronouncements soon changed to a deadly sobriety.
Still, a commitment was a commitment. Nothing to do now but see this thing through. That was the spirit very much evident among the party recruited to join Buckner Finsterwald on stage. Grim as a firing squad, they stood at attention as Miss Klemenhoog made her way, largely on foot as was her keyboard style, through two choruses of “Land of Hope and Glory” (a touch of Edwardian England that left little doubt as to who ran things in Steelton, brotherhood or no brotherhood). Amid all the patent reserve, only the smile of Buckner Finsterwald, radiating practised charm and first-rate dentistry, gave evidence that a civic celebration was under way.
To the great man himself went the only armchair on stage, placed dead centre. To his and the mayor’s immediate right sat the colleagues of the cloth — Bishop Archer, Monsignor O’Neil and Rabbi Teitelman — a trio of magpies on folding metal chairs waiting in silence for a signal to flap their wings, exchanging nothing brotherly among them but muffled coughs and periodic throat-clearings. Indeed, Finsterwald’s backstage entreaties to them to call him “Bucky” had done nothing to lubricate their relationship with each other, and Finsterwald himself, accustomed in the past to the familiar face of Rabbi Kaminsky, seemed unable to come to terms with the young rabbi now seated near him. Rabbi Teitelman had discerned, by the way Finsterwald had earlier offered his hand, that the writer wondered whether or not he’d ever get it back.
To the left of Perkins and Finsterwald, pressing more pounds per square inch into her folding chair than it was designed to support, sat Gabriella Gabor-Mindesz, Honourary Chair of Steelton’s Arts and Letters Society and recent widow of Tomas Gabor-Mindesz, the lumber baron. Childless and sole heir to her husband’s fortune, Mrs. Gabor-Mindesz rattled about in a three-storey stone mansion on Pine Hill referred to as “City Hall” by neighbours who resented its overpowering presence. In the mahogany panelled drawing room of “City Hall” the mistress of the house presided over meetings of the Arts and Letters Society, as well as intimate chamber recitals and poetry readings.
Despite her own massive dimensions (some locals referred to her as “City Hall”) she had been the star, before the Second World War, of a light opera company in Budapest. Though well into her sixties now, she comported herself as if all the world were still at her feet. Recognizing friends and beneficiaries in the audience, she dipped her bleached coiffure regally in their direction or waved a hand bedecked with enough diamonds to blind the sun. In memory of her husband, whose skull was fatally disarranged by an irreverent sheet of plywood at one of his lumberyards, Mrs. Gabor-Mindesz had made a substantial donation toward the costs of the Buckner Finsterwald Tribute, matching the city’s contribution dollar for dollar.
To the left of Mrs. Gabor-Mindesz sat the province’s Minister of Culture, the Honourable Claxton Thye, a middle-aged politician whose current portfolio was acknowledged in government circles to be the last hundred steps to oblivion. Thye stared out into the audience. His lips moved slightly, as if from long years of habit he was conducting a head count to assess who was for him and who against. One he knew for certain to be hostile was Mayor Perkins, an opponent ever since the day Thye, then Minister of Public Works, refused to grant one cent of provincial tax money in aid of the mayor’s King-Queen Sewer Renewal Program. Apart from a perfunctory handshake backstage, the two men ignored each other.
Side by side, next to Claxton Thye, sat Drummond Quain, chairman of the steel plant’s board of directors, and Scotty DiAngelo, president of the steelworkers’ local (and skip of the champion Marconi Hall Curling Team). Only a few days earlier, after weeks of facing each other across a bargaining table, Quain had called DiAngelo a thug. DiAngelo had called Quain a pig. Now, a threatened strike less than forty-eight hours from becoming a reality, thug and pig squinted uneasily under the stage lights of the high school auditorium, each pretending to be more at home than the other in a place from which neither had managed to graduate.
Besides occupying the only armchair on stage, Buckner Finsterwald was distinguished from those seated about him by his attire. If there is such a phenomenon as a writer’s uniform, Finsterwald had refined it down to the last stitch. His jacket, shaped like a riding jacket to fit closely at the waist and flare at the side vents, was cut of chocolatey velvet, one lapel set off by a discreet yellow boutonniere. His trousers were tailored in a harmonious glen check cloth. He wore a saffron silk shirt, open at the neck, its collar turned down over the collar of his jacket. Concealing his throat was a paisley ascot tied a bit on the loose side so that it appeared to flow down into his shirt like a waterfall. Finsterwald’s hair, streaked with grey, white and silver, stood out from his head in oceanic waves that monopolized the overhead lights, as if nothing else on stage was worth illuminating. Obviously pleased at all the attention, Buckner Finsterwald made a point of turning his profile to the audience from time to time, exhibiting a long, fine nose John Barrymore might have envied. Unlike the others, who sat stiffly and self-consciously, he lounged now in his modest throne, his legs crossed to reveal slender, rather feminine ankles, hands draped elegantly over one knee, ready to be kissed at a moment’s notice.
With an air of command that had kept him in office for five successive terms, Mayor Perkins rose precisely at eight- thirty, advanced to the microphone on the lectern and coughed the cough of a chief magistrate. His stance — hands pressed behind him into the small of his broad back, balding head lowered like a bulldog’s — was remarkably Churchillian. His oratory, on the other hand, had but one virtue: predictability. His Worship considered it a great privilege and pleasure, as expected. He was both delighted and proud and yet at the same time humble, as expected. He was profoundly grateful, on behalf of the citizens of Steelton, for Mrs. Gabor-Mindesz’s generous contribution not only to this event, but to the cultural life of the city in general. Again, as expected.
“What we have here,” said his Worship, “is yet another example of men and women from all walks of life, pulling together to build a bigger and better community.”
Even Buckner Finsterwald unfolded his elegant hands long enough to join in the few seconds of self-congratulatory applause that filled the auditorium.
Then, on call, Bishop Archer took his place at the lectern. Eyes shut tightly, lips pursed in deep devotion, the portly Bishop besought “the Creator of us all … and I do most sincerely mean all” to bestow His eternal goodness upon those assembled. At the words, “and I do most sincerely mean all,” Bishop Archer opened his eyes and nodded ostentatiously in the direction of Buckner Finsterwald. Finsterwald returned the courtesy, bowing his head as if he’d just received a hundred-dollar tip.
Now it was Monsignor Jean-Paul O’Neil’s turn to invoke. In an odd accent, part Irish, part French-Canadian, the tall leathery priest addressed the Holy Trinity in an easy intimate manner, as if They and he had been college chums. Pausing after each couple of sentences to run a hand through his white, close-cropped hair, he seemed to be reminding Them that he was no youngster in this business either. “Father, Son and Holy Spirit,” he prayed, “grant Your blessings upon this gathering of good souls …” Then, almost as an afterthought, “without regard to race, colour or creed, of course.”
Once again Mayor Perkins stood at the lectern. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, to join in the invocation I call upon Rabbi Kalman Teitelman, spiritual leader of our good friends of Steelton’s Hebrew community, with which splendid group of public-spirited citizens our distinguished guest Buckner Finsterwald —”
Oozing good nature, Finsterwald called out “Bucky, Bucky.”
Accepting correction with similar good nature, Mayor Perkins continued, “Bucky … with which splendid group of public-spirited citizens our distinguished guest Bucky Finsterwald remains bound in heart though his travels take him far and wide.”
Up to the microphone stepped Rabbi Teitelman. From an inside pocket of his long black coat he
took a sheet of foolscap, unfolded it and laid it carefully on the lectern.
In the audience, Morris Moskover leaned across to Zelig Peikes. “What’s wrong, Peikes, can’t your man pray without notes?”
Weary from months of bearing the blame for the Lubavitcher, Peikes whispered angrily, “What do you think would’ve happened if Moses forgot to write down the Ten Commandments?”
“Life would have been a lot easier for everybody,” said the Local Sage.
Harry Zwicker, the congregation’s secretary, whispered to Peikes, “If only Kaminsky was alive tonight!”
Peikes said nothing, but in his heart he yearned for the impossible. If only he could have pressed a button, thereby transforming this misfit at the lectern into a facsimile of the late Rabbi Kaminsky. Surrounding Peikes and his fellow congregants, who sat in a pocket a few rows from the stage, was a steady hum subsiding only when the young Lubavitcher uttered his first sounds: a loud cough, a long noisy clearing of the throat.
“Mr. Mayor, Honoured Guest, M’Lord Bishop, Reverend Monsignor, Distinguished Dignitaries …”
“What’s he doing now,” Moskover demanded of Peikes, “taking the census?”
“You’re supposed to address these people by their proper titles,” Peikes explained.
“Then how come the others didn’t do it?”
“Ask them.”
“How can I ask them?”
“Become an Anglican or a Catholic,” said Peikes. “I’ll see if I can arrange it first thing tomorrow morning.”
Satisfied that at last he had everyone’s attention, Rabbi Teitelman began in a quiet voice, “I have a confession to make. With Bishop Archer, Monsignor O’Neil and finally me standing on this stage asking the Almighty to grace these proceedings, what you’ve received here tonight is at best a mixed blessing.”
From every quarter of the auditorium came laughter, every quarter, that is, except two: the stage and the embattled zone where the rabbi’s congregants sat stunned by this unexpected levity.
The Outside Chance of Maximilian Glick Page 9
