Max nodded appreciatively, as if he and the rabbi were a couple of professionals trading anecdotes.
“Now then, Mr. Glick, you may or may not think much of that joke, but at the time it nearly killed me. I knew it was going to be quite impossible for me to keep a straight face in front of the whole congregation. I made it through the blowing of the shofar, thank God, and then I did the only thing I could do under the circumstances: I pretended to faint. Can you imagine what my grandfather, my father, my older brother and my uncles would do if they heard about that? There’d be a national week of mourning!”
“Do you think you’ll be a comedy writer someday,” Maximilian asked, “or will you always be a Lubavitcher rabbi?”
The rabbi shook his head slowly from side to side. “Who knows, Maximilian, what the next month, or the next day, or even the next minute will bring? There isn’t a person alive who can guarantee positively what will happen to you and me the moment I finish speaking this very sentence. In less time than it takes to blink, something happens to change a person’s life. A phone rings and a man learns he has just won a lottery and is a millionaire. On the way to collect his winnings he falls down an open sewer and breaks both legs. A person can plan and plan, but no matter how much, how carefully, you plan, there’s always that spinning wheel or that open sewer.”
“Then why bother?” Maximilian wanted to know.
“Why bother!” The question astounded the Lubavitcher.
“I’ll tell you why, Mr. Glick. Because you’re alive. Alive! You wanna lie down and die? Right here? Right now?”
“No,” Maximilian responded hastily. Not only did Maximilian not want to die, he particularly didn’t want to die on a folding wooden chair, with his last view of the world consisting of the interior of the Lubavitcher’s chambers.
“The gift of life, Mr. Glick. The gift of life! We’re not talking here about Kleenex or orange peels. You just don’t throw it away. There’s always hope, you see.”
A long sigh, at least twice his age, issued from Maximilian
Glick. “Sometimes I wonder …” he said.
Sensing his pupil’s need to speak of some inner feeling, Rabbi Teitelman made a point of saying nothing, fearing that to encourage the boy to speak freely might drive him into silence.
Hesitantly, Max looked up at the rabbi. “If I tell you a secret, Rabbi —”
“Will I promise to keep my mouth shut, is that what you want to know?” The Lubavitcher closed an imaginary zipper across his lips.
Max deliberated for a moment. Should he or shouldn’t he? Then slowly the boy’s secret began to unfold. “There’s this girl. Her name is Celia Brzjinski …” Briefly, simply, Maximilian told of his first meeting with Celia at the Blackthorns’, of their involvement with one another, an involvement that began musically and grew during social hours spent with their piano teacher and his wife. He told of long leisurely walks home, friendly arguments — he thought memorizing Canadian poetry was the stupidest thing kids had to do at school; she thought memorizing the average rainfall and temperature of places like Kenya was stupider. London was the city she most wanted to visit (thanks to Derek Blackthorn’s affectionate descriptions); Max chose Hong Kong, where the streets teemed with spies and fugitives and people filming movies about spies and fugitives. Both agreed that the world’s greatest pizza was definitely at Frank Senior’s Pizzeria and that Morton Kelly, Steelton’s foremost gourmand and food critic, was out of his skull insisting that the frozen stuff his mother bought at a supermarket had more mozzarella and pepperoni.
Rabbi Teitelman listened, nodding from time to time to indicate rapt attention. He winced a little at the thought of his pupil gorging himself on un-kosher pizza, compounding this crime by mixing dairy and meat products, but otherwise he displayed no reaction. “I don’t get it, Max,” he said when Max had finished. “What’s the big secret? I think it’s very admirable that the two of you have established — uh, what’ll we call it? — a professional working relationship.”
Maximilian dropped his eyes. And it was then that the Lubavitcher understood Maximilian Glick’s secret: he was in love.
The rabbi frowned, leaned forward, opened his desk drawer and pretended to fumble for something. In fact, his eyes were already scanning the short list of Jewish families in Steelton. By now he had learned the names thoroughly; still, he wanted to be sure. Closing the drawer, Rabbi Teitelman sat back and looked at his unhappy pupil. “I think I’m beginning to understand, Max. When your name is Glick, a girl by the name of Brzjinski is definitely from the wrong side of the tracks, even though she lives only a few blocks away. Right?”
Max nodded. His shoulders drooped as if he were carrying suitcases packed with troubles.
“How do the folks at home feel about this?” the rabbi asked.
“I haven’t told them. Not a peep. They’d turn into hydrogen bombs if they found out. That’s all I ever hear at home, how someday I’m going to be a brain surgeon, a judge and a famous scientist all at the same time, plus entertain thousands of friends at the piano. And I’m going to marry a Jewish girl who is also a brain surgeon, a judge, a famous scientist and entertains thousands of friends at the piano!”
“And your plans are what?” asked Rabbi Teitelman.
“To go to New York some day, Celia and I, that is, and study at Juilliard. And then … I’m not sure if it’ll be ‘The Two-Piano Team of Glick and Brzjinski’ or ‘Brzjinski and Glick.’ Which do you think sounds better?”
“Do I have to make a snap judgment?” asked the rabbi.
“No.”
“Then I’d like to think about it, Max.”
There was a long pause. “I’ve got a problem, haven’t I?” the boy said at last.
The rabbi hedged. “You’re still very young, Max.”
“I’ll be thirteen soon,” Maximilian said gravely.
Teitelman chuckled. “Thirteen! My God, Glick, I hope you haven’t neglected to make your will!” No sooner had Rabbi Teitelman uttered this quip than he knew he’d said the wrong thing at the wrong time. “I’m sorry, Max. I didn’t mean to poke fun. All I meant was … well, it’s very important for a man of twelve to keep his options open.”
“Options?”
“Your choices in life. You’re a very lucky young man, my friend. You have so much going for you: youth, good health, a family that cares deeply about you and you’re not exactly the stupidest kid I ever met, I’m forced to admit.”
“Rabbi Kaminsky’s daughter, her name was Rita, she had a lot of things going for her, too. But when she chose a husband her parents didn’t approve of, they treated her like she’d died or something.”
“I know the story of Rita Kaminsky, Max. But she was considerably older than you when all that happened.”
“But it could happen to me, too, couldn’t it? Not at twelve, maybe, but how about when I’m, say, twenty-four?”
Rabbi Teitelman studied his young pupil, pondering the most painless way to respond. “Max …” There was, he decided, no painless way. “Max, ambitions like yours can’t be hidden under mattresses, or at the back of a drawer full of socks. You make decisions and you have to live with those decisions. I only hope that you’ll remember what I said a moment ago. If you are blessed with options, you must keep them as open as possible, for as long as possible.”
Despite the Lubavitcher’s sympathetic tone, it was a cheerless response. “I’m sorry if I’ve depressed you,” said Teitelman. “There’s an old saying, Max: He who would rest on truth lies down on a bed of nails.”
“Who said that?”
“I did.”
The rabbi glanced at his watch. “Hey, Glick,” he said, “we’ve gone into overtime. One of us better get paid extra for this.”
He rose, doffed his skullcap and plunked the oversize black hat with the wide brim squarely on his head. “I’m off to Kerkorian’s for a dozen eggs,” he said. “You happen to be heading in that direction, Maximilian?” he added casually.
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br /> Wheels turned in the boy’s brain. Across an imaginary screen, “Yes” suddenly appeared. “As a matter of fact, I am.”
“Good,” said Rabbi Teitelman, “we’ll walk together.”
As the boy and the Lubavitcher rabbi slogged along at a steady pace, their winter boots plowing the slush like ships’ prows, the rabbi shivered. “Next time God calls me to a community, I hope it’s in southern California. Florida would do, too,” he said.
“Why do you say ‘next time’?” Max asked.
“Because we never know, do we? Spinning wheels and open sewers, Mr. Glick, remember?”
All the expected evening faces were on the street, their eyes darting from Max to the oddity walking by his side. Max knew what they were thinking. There was the occasional “Hello” or “Hi there” or a simple nod of greeting and recognition, but Max could feel people’s heads turning as they passed, staring at this pair and especially at the strange-looking clergyman. And sure enough, the bakery bunch was at its customary lookout, taking careful note.
They continued heading east on King Street in the direction of Kerkorian’s, one of the last corner grocery stores in a world of supermarkets. They entered the store, stamping their feet, inhaling the friendly, clean aroma of the place — a heady mixture of spice, citrus, soaps of all kinds. The owner, Amos Kerkorian, was standing as always near the front door behind his cash register, in shirtsleeves, bald head covered with an old shapeless Donegal tweed cap, paunch protected behind a white apron tied with a huge bow at the back. It seemed to Maximilian that Kerkorian spent his life in those same clothes behind that same cash register; that he ate there, slept there, raised his family there and would probably die there.
Anyone hoping to enter and leave Kerkorian’s anonymously hoped in vain. The grocer’s voice was a trumpet that blasted greetings across the length and breadth of his store like a fanfare. “Hello, hello, hello!” he shouted over his ancient cash register. “It’s Rabbi Teitelman and Maestro Glick!” There were three or four customers in the store, all of whom promptly abandoned their shopping baskets and lists to fasten their eyes on the Lubavitcher and his pupil. “To what do I owe the honour?” asked Kerkorian.
“To the fact that I need a dozen eggs,” the rabbi responded.
“One dozen of our finest Grade As, coming up!” To Max the grocer said, “And what can I do for you, Maestro?”
“I’ll, uh, I’ll just have —” Max fumbled awkwardly. How could he admit he’d only come along because, for the first time, he wanted to be in the Lubavitcher’s company?
“He’s my bodyguard,” explained Rabbi Teitelman, coming to Maximilian’s rescue.
An outspoken man, Kerkorian said, “Lemme tell you something, Rabbi, no offence meant, of course. If you don’t start eating something besides eggs all the time, you ain’t gonna have a body to guard. Know what you need? A Grade-A wife.”
From the other customers came discreet titters. Conscious that he was the centre of attention, Rabbi Teitelman calmly brought the discussion of his marital status to a close. “I’m very grateful for your concern, Mr. Kerkorian. Someday God may be kind enough to send me a wife. Until He does, I’ll have to be content to share my home with a dozen eggs.”
Good, thought Maximilian, that settles that; now let’s just get the eggs and get out of here. Unlike Rabbi Teitelman, who accepted Kerkorian’s bold suggestions as well as the stares of the other customers with good grace, Max was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. He wanted to cry out to the other customers, “What are you all gawking at? We’re not a circus act!” It seemed as though Kerkorian was taking forever to slip the carton of eggs into a bag, to ring up the sale, to count out the change.
At last, Rabbi Teitelman and the boy turned to leave.
“Oh-oh!” Amos Kerkorian said in a loud whisper. “Look who’s coming? Mister Pain-in-the-neck himself.”
The front door of the shop opened just as the shopkeeper spoke these words of warning and Maximilian recognized the one man he did not want to see at this point.
Maximilian’s dread was contagious. Rabbi Teitelman took a deep breath, then out of the side of his mouth whispered to his pupil, “Pray for courage Maximilian. Courage!”
Twelve
The man closing the shop door behind him, stamping the slush from his overshoes, clapping his gloved hands together to generate warmth in them, was Morris Moskover, the Local Sage.
With forced courtesy, Kerkorian called out, “Hello, Mr. Moskover.”
“Kerkorian, my friend,” said Moskover, “you ready to do some serious business?”
Kerkorian cast his eyes toward the heavens, asking for strength. “What can I do for you tonight, Mr. Moskover?” he asked patiently.
“I’d like a nice piece of Swiss cheese. A pound will do.” Moskover wagged a gloved finger at the grocer. “Nice, mind you.”
“Would I sell you Swiss cheese that wasn’t nice?” said the grocer, insulted.
“You know how Swiss cheese is, Kerkorian,” said Moskover. “Sometimes the holes aren’t right, especially when they’re too big. And, of course, when they’re too small it’s no good either, is it? I want holes that aren’t too big … or too small.”
“You want to buy a pound of cheese or a pound of holes?” Kerkorian demanded, his patience leaking away.
Moskover laughed. “Kerkorian, it’s a lucky thing for you that I’m a believer in loyalty. Everybody says, ‘Moskover, you’re out of your mind, you should shop at the supermarkets. They’ve got everything and cheaper too!’ But good old Morris Moskover says, ‘No siree, I’ve been Amos Kerkorian’s valuable and true customer for thirty long years!”’
“Maybe it’s time you started taking everybody’s advice,” said Kerkorian, reaching wearily for a slab of Swiss cheese the size of a concrete block.
It was only after this exchange that the eyes of Morris Moskover fell upon Rabbi Teitelman and Maximilian standing off to one side, both teacher and pupil hoping to escape unnoticed. But no such luck. The eyes of Morris Moskover were small and piercing, capable of seeing under carpets and behind closed doors, anywhere there was something that was none of his business. In Moskover’s long, narrow face were deep lines that the raw January winds etched deeper and which, when he laughed, became deeper again, almost sinister.
A man who regularly dispensed advice to others at the drop of a hat, Moskover regarded himself as an expert on everything from buttering bread to manufacturing space rockets. His own business — he had once owned a clothing store— had gone bankrupt so many times over the years that his creditors had lost count. Nobody was quite sure how he and his wife supported themselves, but it was a good bet they were living off the kindness of a son-in-law, a professional gambler in Chicago.
“Tell me, young fella,” Moskover said, after greeting the rabbi and Maximilian, “you still taking piano lessons from that stretched-out noodle, what’s-his-name?”
“Mr. Blackthorn.”
“Yeah, Barrack Blackthorn,” said Moskover.
“It’s Derek,” the boy corrected him. “D-E-R-E-K.”
“Derek, Barrack. What’s it matter? If you ask me, they’re a couple a spies.”
“Who are?” Max asked.
“Barrack Blackthorn and that Madama Butterfly he lives with. The one they call Suzuki.”
“Shizuko,” Max interjected.
“Shizuko, Suzuki. What’s it matter? It’s all the same.”
“What makes you think they’re spies?” Rabbi Teitelman asked.
“You ever seen a couple like that before?” Moskover said, narrowing his beady eyes.
“No,” the rabbi admitted.
“Then that proves it,” said Moskover.
“What country do you figure they’re spies for?” asked the rabbi, pretending to take Moskover seriously.
“Ach, what’s it matter? A spy’s a spy and that’s all there is to it. It’s certainly not a business decent human beings go into.”
Once again Moskover turn
ed his attention to Maximilian. “Tell me, young fella,” Morris Moskover always seemed to begin his sentences with those very words, making the boy feel as if he were on trial before the Lord High Executioner, “the old man, your grandfather I mean, says you’re gonna be a judge when you grow up. Lemme give you a piece of advice, my young friend. You be a furniture man like your father and your grandfather. In my whole life I never bought five cents worth of anything from a judge. But furniture? Hmph. Millions I’ve spent! Just a coupla weeks ago the Missus complains to me, ‘Morris, the chesterfield’s no good any more, I can’t find a comfortable spot to sit.’ I tell her we’ve had that chesterfield thirty years and better she should go on a diet and lose fifty pounds. You think I didn’t end up buying a new sofa at Glick’s? Cost me an arm and a leg. Something else to remember, boy. Never marry a woman with fancy ideas!”
Maximilian opened his mouth, but a quick nod from Rabbi Teitelman told him not to bother. Better to let the Local Sage rave on.
“Anyway, there’s one thing I’m glad about, Maxie,” said Moskover.
“What’s that?”
“I’m glad the old man says this music business is only a sideline with you. Listen to me, young fella, in the village I came from in Russia, you know how musicians lived? Like crows, eating seeds off the roads.”
Again Maximilian was tempted to argue, but before he could get a word out Rabbi Teitelman had noisily cleared his throat. “You’re quite right,” said the rabbi to Moskover. “Music should be a person’s hobby, nothing else.” The rabbi shot his pupil a stern look. “Isn’t that so, Maximilian?”
“Uh, yes … yes, that’s so,” Maximilian said.
The Outside Chance of Maximilian Glick Page 11
