Maximilian recognizes the language of the lyric — Hebrew — but cannot follow the words. “What’s he singing?” he asks Rabbi Teitelman.
Without losing the beat, Teitelman, still clapping, answers, “It’s an old Hasidic song.” He leans close to Max. “It’s about life’s uncertainties and how they’re all part of God’s will. It praises God for constantly testing his people.” Max notes that, while there is little hesitation in the rabbi’s reply, his speech has thickened, his eyelid droops a little, his red hair is matted with sweat around his forehead. The rabbi’s breath, only inches away, reminds Maximilian of Derek Blackthorn’s. The odour of alcohol seems even to exude from his pores.
The pace of the music accelerates steadily until it borders on the furious, yet the musicians, thorough professionals, have no difficulty maintaining it. Accordion and clarinet interlace their melodic parts in an intricate pattern. Manny Kirsch’s sticks beat against the skin of his snare drum with the swiftness of hummingbird wings. Herman Hitzik’s dancing — at first almost dainty — is now peasant-like and foot-stomping, executed with such zest and abandon that the floor of the Glick house, built to last a century, seems on the verge of collapse.
Suddenly Teitelman lets out a “Whoop!” and is on his feet. The dance at the centre of the floor has become a duet. Laughing, whooping like farmhands at a hoedown, the two whirl, spin, kick, their white socks and black shoes flashing high into the air.
A bit anxiously, Sarah Glick eyes the fireplace mantle where a pair of antique Chinese vases, acquired only recently after hard bargaining from Doc Ingoldsby, have begun a sympathetic rattle. Next to them, a delicate perpetual clock vibrates perilously close to the end of its time and its mahogany perch. But just as she makes a discreet move to protect her treasures, and just as startlingly as they began, the music and dancing cease. Hitzik and Teitelman, flushed from their efforts, give a final yelp, then reel away from each other. Hitzik, the professional, feigns dizziness, but Teitelman is genuinely dazed. With some difficulty he picks out his chair and flops himself into it, flattening the down cushions into pancakes. (Sarah Glick makes a mental note to fluff the cushions first chance she gets.)
Now Augustus Glick has the centre of the floor, brandy bottle in hand, and Henry has produced fresh glasses.
Sarah shoots a meaningful glance at her husband. “These gentlemen have a long drive ahead of them tomorrow, Henry.”
“Nonsense!” says Henry. “Tomorrow’s tomorrow. Tonight we drink!”
The men cheer, all except Teitelman who is still trying to catch his breath.
“You’re outta shape, Rabbi, if you’ll pardon my saying so,” says Henry Glick. He hands Teitelman a small glass of brandy. “Here, just what the doctor ordered.”
In a stupor, the young rabbi grips the glass and downs the brandy heroically. He slumps back in his chair, the whites of his eyes as red as his beard.
Augustus Glick raises his own brandy glass. “A toast everyone!” he shouts. “I want to propose a toast.”
“No, wait,” Teitelman interrupts thickly. “It’s my turn to pre-pose a toasht. Thass a rabbi’s per … a rabbi’s p’rogatiff.”
The young man struggles to his feet, extending his glass for another refill.
Reuben Calish says, “Three cheers for Teitelman!” as Augustus Glick pours obligingly.
“You’ll drown the poor man,” says Bryna, but the old man isn’t paying attention to her.
“The floor’s yours,” he says to the rabbi, adding only half in jest, “Now mind what you say, young fella. We don’t want a repeat of the other night.”
“Not to worry,” says the rabbi. “I have complete control of all my f-faculties.” Teitelman stops here, his lips pressed together, his eyes closed. All systems within are temporarily shut down, perhaps for emergency repair, perhaps to allow energy to build so he can plunge into his next thoughts. Abruptly his eyes open wide. They focus on some object at the tip of his nose, while his glass, once again empty, is held high. “A toast!” says the rabbi. “A toast to music that soothes the savage breast. Or is it beast? I always forget which. To music, to the great D-Dionysus —”
Maximilian whispers to Henry Glick, “Who’s Dionysus?”
Plucking a fact from his unused college philosophy, Henry replies, “The Greek god of wine and music.”
To Max it seems strange that a rabbi should be toasting a Greek god of anything, let alone wine and music. But no one else in the room seems perturbed. It is a night, Maximilian concludes, for the absurd. He has never before experienced anything quite like it. At most adult gatherings, the women take over the living room where the discussion runs to recipes — for baking, for raising children, for raising funds for the local synagogue or Israel — and the men segregate themselves in the dining room where they deal with questions of national politics, international trade and other matters about which they can do nothing. Before midnight somebody always points out that it’s late, that tomorrow’s another day. Then, quietly, decently, two-by-two, as if heading for Noah’s ark, the company departs and drives off in solid, four-door sedans.
In the Glick living room everyone’s attention is on Rabbi Teitelman. The young man’s face has never looked whiter, his eyes never redder. “Where was I?” asks the rabbi, vaguely aware that he is in the midst of making a speech.
“Dionysus,” Reuben Calish reminds him. “The Greek god.”
Henry Glick looks over at Maximilian and smiles with satisfaction, underlining for his son’s benefit the obvious value of a higher education.
“Speaking of which,” the Lubavitcher rabbi says, working hard to keep his words from running into each other, “we have tonight, right here on our very own stage —”
“Oh, no! Oh, no!” says Maximilian to himself.
“— Maximilian Glick.” Pointing over to the boy, like a master of ceremonies, the rabbi calls out. “Steelton’s own god of music!”
“Oh, no!” Maximilian repeats to himself.
Reuben Calish grins at Max with delight. “You’re a musician, too?”
But before the boy can answer, the rabbi is standing behind him, prodding gently. “C’mon Max, to the piano, boy.”
Max blushes and hangs back. “I better not. Not tonight.”
“Just one eensy-teensy n-number,” Teitelman insists.
“I’m out of practice.”
“Nonsense, dear,” says Bryna Glick. “You’re never out of practice.”
“Mother,” says Sarah Glick, coming to her son’s aid, “he’s a bit shy.”
“Besides,” Max adds, “I wouldn’t know what to play. I mean, I don’t know any Jewish pieces.”
“It doesn’t have to be a Jewish piece,” Reuben Calish coaxes. “Play anything.”
“Play Mozart’s Turkish Rondo, or that other piece, by Beethoven. You know the one I mean, Maxie,” Bryna hums the first bar of Für Elise. “They’re both Jewish.” To Bryna Glick, anything written in a minor key is Jewish, even if the composer is from Borneo.
Pushed firmly toward the Bechstein by Teitelman and urged on by the others (except Sarah Glick, who senses his shyness under these conditions), Maximilian seats himself at the keyboard and plays beautifully a short but melodic piece. To discourage encores, he rises quickly from the bench.
“Encore! Encore!” call the visitors from Detroit, applauding.
“Didn’t I tell you the k-kid’s great!” says Teitelman, the proud impresario, to his fellow Lubavitchers.
Reuben Calish asks Max, “What was that? I’ve heard it before, but I can’t remember the name.”
“It was one of the Songs Without Words by Felix Mendelssohn.”
“You see,” says Bryna Glick to Max, “you do know some Jewish pieces. Felix Mendelssohn was a Jew.”
Augustus Glick is unimpressed. “Not much of a Jew, if you ask me. Didn’t his family convert to Christianity? I think Mendelssohn was raised as a Christian, as a matter of fact.” “Maybe so,” Bryna Glick allows, “but it didn�
�t stop him from being a great composer. Whose Wedding March do you think they played when you and I got married? And when Henry and Sarah got married? I didn’t hear you objecting at the time, Augustus.”
Grumpily, Augustus Glick says, “You know how I feel about Jews who get mixed up with Christianity, Bryna.”
“That’s not the point. The man is one thing, his music is another.”
“Not in my books,” says Augustus flatly. “You don’t separate the man from his work, as far as I’m concerned.” He turns to Reuben Calish. “In this world you’re either a Jew or you’re not a Jew and there’s nothing in between, isn’t that right?”
“That’s certainly our position on the question,” says Reuben Calish. “Being Jewish is not a hobby, not just something you take up and put down, like a book of short stories. It’s a round-the-clock kind of thing. I’m sure your own rabbi agrees with me a hundred percent.” He looks over at Kalman Teitelman for expected support.
Teitelman’s ears are stuffed with cotton batting, his tongue anaesthetized inside his mouth. He can feel cold beads of perspiration trickling from his hairline down his forehead and temples. He knows the debate has something to do with Jewishness and that somebody — he’s not sure who — has asked him if something is one hundred percent certain. In some buried reservoir that has no connection with his vocal chords, he locates a loose string of words and hears himself reply to Calish, “Pard’n me for muddying the w-waters, but nothing is a h-hun’red p’rcent certain. What I mean is, the only thing that’s a hun’red percent certain is that nothing is a hun’red percent certain.” Rather pleased with the way he has put this, the rabbi smiles to himself.
Augustus Glick is bristling. Once again this Lubavitcher is proving unreliable. “Now surely, Rabbi,” he says, “you’re not going to stand there and tell us you’re in favour of compromising our religious beliefs, our traditions? You of all people, a Lubavitcher?”
Calish, though taken aback at Teitelman’s Theory of Uncertainty, moves to his colleague’s defence. “I’m sure what the rabbi meant was that —”
Teitelman interrupts. “I can speak for myself, thank you,” he says politely to Calish. Though he stands unsteadily, his face has a determined look. “It’s the rabbi’s per … p’rogative to speak for himself, right?” Hearing no contrary opinion, Teitelman goes on, looking straight at Augustus Glick. “My dear sir, is A. Glick & Son’s furniture emporium open or closed on the Jewish Sabbath, Saturday?”
“Well now, it’s open but —”
“And do you or do you not frequent Hong Ling’s China Palace?”
The old man speaks quickly. “I don’t touch a thing that’s got pork in it. Not a mouthful!”
“And when was the last time you took the time to put on your tefillin and say the morning prayers before you went to work?”
“I can’t remember the exact date, of course, but —” “Ah,” says Teitelman, “the answer should have been this morning if you were a hundred p-percent Jew.”
Though separated by a large coffee table, old Augustus Glick and the young rabbi now seem to stand toe-to-toe, with the older man clearly losing ground. “But, but, you’re overlooking certain realities of life in Steelton,” Augustus Glick stammers.
Teitelman, however, is not inclined to be merciful. “Even you, my friend, are a compromiser, are you not?”
“But —”
“And yet you would presume to judge others? To say, ‘This man is an okay Jew but that man isn’t an okay Jew so let’s throw him and all his work out the window.’ That’s what you would presume t-to do?”
Augustus Glick glares at the rabbi. The rabbi seems to be propped up by nothing more than sheer nerve. He is too bleary-eyed to glare back. Silently, like seconds at a duel, Henry Glick has risen to stand behind his father, his calming hand on the old man’s shoulder, and Reuben Calish has stationed himself behind Rabbi Teitelman. “Maybe you should sit for a minute. You’ll feel better, Rabbi,” Calish whispers.
Brusquely the rabbi waves off his advisor. “I’m fine. Never felt better.”
Sarah Glick is solicitous. “Can I get you some black coffee?” she suggests to the rabbi. But this too is rejected. Teitelman’s gaze — as much of it as can work its way past his drooping eyelids — fixes on his adversary. “Anybody, my dear sir,” he says to Augustus Glick, “anybody can fall from grace. There’s no such thing as a perfect Jew and you, sir, are the perfect example of that perfect fact!”
Though the senior Glick has also had too much to drink, his jaw, jowls and all, juts out bellicosely and he clenches his knobby old fists.
Maximilian stares at both men with fascination. In his wildest imagination he cannot see either striking a blow at the other. But then the night has already proven bizarre. Who knows where the craziness will stop?
Henry Glick says soothingly to his father, “Dad, why don’t we all sit down? Sarah’ll make some fresh coffee.”
Sarah Glick rises from her chair. “Good idea,” she says. “No, wait. I don’t need coffee.” Angrily Augustus points to Rabbi Teitelman. “This man, this man has slandered my family’s name and reputation, a reputation that has gone without stain for generations and that’ll go on without stain for generations to come!”
“You have no power to speak for the generations to come, sir,” Teitelman responds, punctuating his response with a jolting hiccup.
“Is that so? Are you telling me I don’t know my own children, my own grandson?” The old man becomes watery- eyed. “My own dear grandson, flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood.”
Sarah Glick is equally solicitous to her father-in-law. “Dad, please, take it easy. Let me get you a cup of coffee.”
“I said I don’t need coffee.”
“Gus!” It is Bryna Glick now, employing her husband’s nickname, usually a sign that he is being intemperate, immodest, impatient or a plain nuisance. “Gus!” when snapped imperiously, usually achieves an immediate and beneficial result, but this time falls on deaf ears. Still clench-fisted, eyeing Kalman Teitelman like a cautious prizefighter, old Augustus Glick says through gritted teeth, “Rabbi Kaminsky, may he rest in peace, wouldn’t have made such a statement, not in a million years.”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” Reuben Calish calls out, trying to play the role of peacemaker. He positions himself between the old man and the young rabbi, a benign smile showing through his thick beard and moustache. He holds up his hands, a referee calling an end to a match. “Come now, are we not all Jews?”
The old man jerks his thumb at the Lubavitcher rabbi. “Apparently not, according to your sort.”
Calish allows this slur to roll past him. Without losing his smile, he looks first to the rabbi, then to the senior Glick. “Let us have peace, gentlemen. After all, God willing, you two will dwell side by side in the House of the Lord for many years to come.”
“Maybe God’s willing,” says Augustus Glick, still hot, “but I’m not. Not so long as this man insists on throwing our imperfections in our faces all the time.”
Teitelman, still groping his way through an alcoholic fog, retorts, “I haven’t thrown up anything.”
“You do it all the time.”
“I do not.”
Calish, the peacemaker, smiling like a saint, holds up his hands once more. “All right, boys,” he says, as if talking to errant youngsters, “now that we’ve got that off our chests, why don’t we all sit down and calm down. Okay?” He turns to Sarah Glick. “At the risk of being a pushy guest, that coffee idea sounds awfully good to me. Could we trouble you?”
“Of course,” says Sarah Glick, making for the kitchen. Augustus Glick takes a seat on one side of the large coffee table. Rabbi Teitelman takes a seat on the other. “There,” says Calish, “that’s more like it.” Again the saintly smile, the hushed tone of voice.
There is total silence. No one stirs. The storm seems to be over.
Suddenly, Augustus Glick leans forward in his chair pugnaciously. “You wanna run an ol
d-timer like me into the ground, maybe that’s your privilege. Then again, maybe it’s not. But there’s one thing for sure. I will not stand for one bad word about young Maximilian here and I don’t care if you’re the Chief Rabbi of Jerusalem!” The old man’s voice chokes.
Again Reuben Calish motions for a truce, but before he can utter a syllable the rabbi gets to his feet, holding one arm on his chair for support. “I never said a bad word about Maximil … Max. Me and him, I mean he and I, are friends. Izzn’ that so, Max?”
Maximilian nods, figuring a nod is a bit more neutral than an outright “Yes.”
“An’ I’ll tell you s-something else, my dear sir,” Rabbi Teitelman says, still gripping the arm of his chair for support. “Someday, someday when Maxie here finally escapes from this, this c-cocoon an’ heads for New York City with Celia What’s-her-name we’ll just see who does all the bad-mouthing around here.”
Henry Glick’s brow furrows slightly. “Celia who? What’re you talking about, Rabbi?”
“You know, Celia What’s-her-name. Brzjinski. Of the famous team of Brzjinski and Glick.” He leans toward Maximilian. “Or is it Glick and Brzjinski, Max?”
Maximilian feels himself turn to stone. This has to be a bad dream, he tells himself. There is no other explanation.
All eyes on Max, his father quietly asks, “Max, what’s this business about Glick and Brzjinski? I don’t understand.”
The boy is speechless.
“Maxie, what’s this all about? I want to know.”
Maximilian shakes his head. “Nothing.”
“Then why do you look so upset?”
“Who’s upset?”
“You are, obviously.”
Max protests half-heartedly. “I’m not upset, honest.”
Bryna Glick suddenly springs to life. “Brzjinski. Isn’t that the name of the girl who almost tied with you at the music festival? Yes, of course, I remember now.” Maximilian’s grandmother throws back her head and laughs. “Well, well, Maxie, don’t tell me you and your arch rival are having a love affair!” She laughs again.
The Outside Chance of Maximilian Glick Page 14
