I wish I could, but I have to go home and get ready.
You look great.
But I have to wash my hair.
Your hair looks great.
I touched my wig and laughed, but she didn’t smile.
Really, it looks great.
Our eyes locked, and an unfriendly feeling passed between us. Of
course it was a wig—I knew she knew this—but she was suddenly
determined to call my bluff. I imagined that we were dueling, delicate foils raised high.
Okay then, let ’s have breakfast.
I can drop you off at Mr. Peeps after.
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Fine. Thank you.
Everyone knows that if you paint a human being entirely with house paint he will live, as long as you don’t paint the bottom of his feet. It takes only a little thing like this to kill a person. I had worn the wig for almost thirty hours straight, and as I stripped and jiggled and moaned, I began to feel warm, overly warm. By midday, sweat was running down the
sides of my face, but the men just kept coming, it was a day of incredible profits. Allen even patted me on the back as I left, saying, Good work, champ. Pip was waiting in the van, but the walk across the parking lot felt long and strange. I thought I recognized a customer crouching by his car, but no, it was just a normal man huddled over something in a cage. He murmured, That’s right, we ’re going to take you home.
Pip put me right to bed and even borrowed a thermometer from her
coworker upstairs. But she did not suggest I take off my wig, and in my fever I understood what this meant. I saw her in the clearing with a pistol and I knew without even looking that my hands were empty. But I could win by pretending to have a pistol. If I said bang and let her shoot me, I would win. If I died this way, as Gwen, would the rest of me still go on living? And what was the rest of me? I fell asleep with this question and tunneled through the night ripping at the knotted strands until the wig came off. I didn’t put it on in the morning, and Pip didn’t ask how I was feeling; she could see I was fine. She didn’t offer to drive me to work, and we both knew she wouldn’t be there to pick me up.
I sat in the green plastic chair under the fluorescent lights. It was an extraordinarily slow day. It seemed that all the men in the world were too busy to masturbate. I imagined them out there doing virtuous things, solving crimes and teaching their children how to do cartwheels. It was the last hour of my eight-hour shift, and I had not given a single show.
It was almost eerie. I watched the clock and door and began to place bets between them. If no customers came for me in the next fifteen minutes, I would yell Allen’s name. Fifteen minutes passed.
Allen!
What.
Nothing.
There were only twenty minutes left now. If no one came in the next
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twelve minutes, I would yell the word “I,” as in me, myself, and. After seven minutes, the door dinged and a man came in. He bought a video and left.
I!
What?
Nothing.
It was the final eight. If no customers came in, I would yell the word
“quit.” As in no more, enough, I’m going home. I stared at the door. It threatened to open with each breath I took, with each passing minute.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.
t h e m a g i c b a r r e l
b e r n a r d m a l a m u d
Not long ago there lived in uptown New York, in a small, almost
meager room, though crowded with books, Leo Finkle, a rabbini-
cal student in the Yeshivah University. Finkle, after six years of study, was to be ordained in June and had been advised by an acquaintance that he might find it easier to win himself a congregation if he were married.
Since he had no present prospects of marriage, after two tormented days of turning it over in his mind, he called in Pinye Salzman, a marriage broker whose two-line advertisement he had read in the Forward.
The matchmaker appeared one night out of the dark fourth-floor
hallway of the graystone rooming house where Finkle lived, grasping a black, strapped portfolio that had been worn thin with use. Salzman, who had been long in the business, was of slight but dignified build, wearing an old hat, and an overcoat too short and tight for him. He smelled frankly of fish, which he loved to eat, and although he was missing a few teeth, his presence was not displeasing, because of an amiable manner curiously contrasted with mournful eyes. His voice, his lips, his wisp of beard, his bony fingers were animated, but give him a moment of repose and his mild blue eyes revealed a depth of sadness, a characteristic that put Leo a little at ease although the situation, for him, was inherently tense.
He at once informed Salzman why he had asked him to come,
explaining that his home was in Cleveland, and that but for his parents, who had married comparatively late in life, he was alone in the world.
He had for six years devoted himself almost entirely to his studies, as a result of which, understandably, he had found himself without time for a social life and the company of young women. Therefore he thought it
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the better part of trial and error—of embarrassing fumbling—to call in an experienced person to advise him on these matters. He remarked in passing that the function of the marriage broker was ancient and honorable, highly approved in the Jewish community, because it made practical the necessary without hindering joy. Moreover, his own parents had been brought together by a matchmaker. They had made, if not a financially profitable marriage—since neither had possessed any worldly goods to speak of—at least a successful one in the sense of their everlasting devotion to each other. Salzman listened in embarrassed surprise, sensing a sort of apology. Later, however, he experienced a glow of pride in his work, an emotion that had left him years ago, and he heartily approved of Finkle.
The two went to their business. Leo had led Salzman to the only clear place in the room, a table near a window that overlooked the lamp-lit city. He seated himself at the matchmaker’s side but facing him, attempting by an act of will to suppress the unpleasant tickle in his throat. Salzman eagerly unstrapped his portfolio and removed a loose rubber band from a thin packet of much-handled cards. As he flipped through them, a gesture and sound that physically hurt Leo, the student pretended not to see and gazed steadfastly out the window. Although it was still February, winter was on its last legs, signs of which he had for the first time in years begun to notice. He now observed the round white moon, moving high in the sky through a cloud menagerie, and watched with half-open mouth as it penetrated a huge hen, and dropped out of her like an egg laying itself. Salzman, though pretending through eyeglasses he had just slipped on, to be engaged in scanning the writing on the cards, stole occasional glances at the young man’s distinguished face, noting with pleasure the long, severe scholar’s nose, brown eyes heavy with learning, sensitive yet ascetic lips, and a certain, almost hollow quality of the dark cheeks. He gazed around at shelves upon shelves of books and let out a soft, contented sigh.
When Leo’s eyes fell upon the cards, he counted six spread out in Salzman’s hand.
“So few?” he asked in disappointment.
“You wouldn’t believe me how much cards I got in my office,” Salz-
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man replied. “The drawers are already filled to the top, so I keep them now in a barrel, but is every girl good for a new rabbi?”
Leo blushed at this, regretting all he had revealed of himself in a cur-riculum vitae he had sent to Salzman. He had thought it best to acquaint him with his strict standards and specifications, but in having done so, felt he had told the marriage broker more than was absolutely necessary.
He hesitantly inquired, “Do y
ou keep photographs of your clients on file?”
“First comes family, amount of dowry, also what kind promises,”
Salzman replied, unbuttoning his tight coat and settling himself in the chair. “After comes pictures, rabbi.”
“Call me Mr. Finkle. I’m not yet a rabbi.”
Salzman said he would, but instead called him doctor, which he
changed to rabbi when Leo was not listening too attentively.
Salzman adjusted his horn-rimmed spectacles, gently cleared his
throat and read in an eager voice the contents of the top card:
“Sophie P. Twenty-four years. Widow one year. No children. Edu-
cated high school and two years college. Father promises eight thousand dollars. Has wonderful wholesale business. Also real estate. On the mother’s side comes teachers, also one actor. Well known on Second Avenue.”
Leo gazed up in surprise. “Did you say a widow?”
“A widow don’t mean spoiled, rabbi. She lived with her husband
maybe four months. He was a sick boy she made a mistake to marry
him.”
“Marrying a widow has never entered my mind.”
“This is because you have no experience. A widow, especially if she is young and healthy like this girl, is a wonderful person to marry. She will be thankful to you the rest of her life. Believe me, if I was looking now for a bride, I would marry a widow.”
Leo reflected, then shook his head.
Salzman hunched his shoulders in an almost imperceptible gesture
of disappointment. He placed the card down on the wooden table and began to read another:
“Lily H. High school teacher. Regular. Not a substitute. Has savings
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and new Dodge car. Lived in Paris one year. Father is successful dentist thirty-five years. Interested in professional man. Well Americanized family. Wonderful opportunity.”
“I knew her personally,” said Salzman. “I wish you could see this girl.
She is a doll. Also very intelligent. All day you could talk to her about books and theyater and what not. She also knows current events.”
“I don’t believe you mentioned her age?”
“Her age?” Salzman said, raising his brows. “Her age is thirty-two years.”
Leo said after a while, “I’m afraid that seems a little too old.”
Salzman let out a laugh. “So how old are you, rabbi?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“So what is the difference, tell me, between twenty-seven and thirty-two? My own wife is seven years older than me. So what did I suffer?—
Nothing. If Rothschild ’s a daughter wants to marry you, would you say on account her age, no?”
“Yes,” Leo said dryly.
Salzman shook off the no in the yes. “Five years don’t mean a thing.
I give you my word that when you will live with her for one week you will forget her age. What does it mean five years—that she lived more and knows more than somebody who is younger? On this girl, God bless her, years are not wasted. Each one that it comes makes better the bargain.”
“What subject does she teach in high school?”
“Languages. If you heard the way she speaks French, you will think it is music. I am in the business twenty-five years, and I recommend her with my whole heart. Believe me, I know what I’m talking, rabbi.”
“What ’s on the next card?” Leo said abruptly.
Salzman reluctantly turned up the third card:
“Ruth K. Nineteen years. Honor student. Father offers thirteen
thousand cash to the right bridegroom. He is a medical doctor. Stomach specialist with marvelous practice. Brother-in-law owns own garment business. Particular people.”
Salzman looked as if he had read his trump card.
“Did you say nineteen?” Leo asked with interest.
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“On the dot.”
“Is she attractive?” He blushed. “Pretty?”
Salzman kissed his finger tips. “A little doll. On this I give you my word. Let me call the father tonight and you will see what means pretty.”
But Leo was troubled. “You’re sure she ’s that young?”
“This I am positive. The father will show you the birth certificate.”
“Are you positive there isn’t something wrong with her?” Leo
insisted.
“Who says there is wrong?”
“I don’t understand why an American girl her age should go to a
marriage broker.”
A smile spread over Salzman’s face.
“So for the same reason you went, she comes.”
Leo flushed. “I am pressed for time.”
Salzman, realizing he had been tactless, quickly explained. “The
father came, not her. He wants she should have the best, so he looks around himself. When we will locate the right boy he will introduce him and encourage. This makes a better marriage than if a young girl without experience takes for herself. I don’t have to tell you this.”
“But don’t you think this young girl believes in love?” Leo spoke uneasily.
Salzman was about to guffaw but caught himself and said soberly,
“Love comes with the right person, not before.”
Leo parted dry lips but did not speak. Noticing that Salzman had
snatched a glance at the next card, he cleverly asked, “How is her health?”
“Perfect,” Salzman said, breathing with difficulty. “Of course, she is a little lame on her right foot from an auto accident that it happened to her when she was twelve years, but nobody notices on account she is so brilliant and also beautiful.”
Leo got up heavily and went to the window. He felt curiously bitter and upbraided himself for having called in the marriage broker. Finally, he shook his head.
“Why not?” Salzman persisted, the pitch of his voice rising.
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“Because I detest stomach specialists.”
“So what do you care what is his business? After you marry her
do you need him? Who says he must come every Friday night in your house?”
Ashamed of the way the talk was going, Leo dismissed Salzman,
who went home with heavy, melancholy eyes.
Though he had felt only relief at the marriage broker’s departure, Leo was in low spirits the next day. He explained it as arising from Salzman’s failure to produce a suitable bride for him. He did not care for his type of clientele. But when Leo found himself hesitating whether to seek out another matchmaker, one more polished than Pinye, he wondered if it could be—his protestations to the contrary, and although he honored his father and mother—that he did not, in essence, care for the matchmaking institution? This thought he quickly put out of mind yet found himself still upset. All day he ran around in the woods—missed an important appointment, forgot to give out his laundry, walked out of a Broadway cafeteria without paying and had to run back with the ticket in his hand; had even not recognized his landlady in the street when she passed with a friend and courteously called out, “A good evening to you, Doctor Finkle.” By nightfall, however, he had regained sufficient calm to sink his nose into a book and there found peace from his thoughts.
Almost at once there came a knock on the door. Before Leo could
say enter, Salzman, commercial cupid, was standing in the room. His face was gray and meager, his expression hungry, and he looked as if he would expire on his feet. Yet the marriage broker managed, by some trick of the muscles, to display a broad smile.
“So good evening. I am invited?”
Leo nodded, disturbed to see him again, yet unwilling to ask the man to leave.
Beaming still, Salzman laid his portfolio on the table. “Rabbi, I got for you tonight good news.”
“Your worries are finished. I have for you a first-class bride.”
“Leave me in peace concerning this subject.” Leo pretended lack of interest.
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477
“The world will dance at your wedding.”
“Please, Mr. Salzman, no more.”
“But first must come back my strength,” Salzman said weakly. He
fumbled with the portfolio straps and took out of the leather case an oily paper bag, from which he extracted a hard, seeded roll and a small, smoked white fish. With a quick motion of his hand he stripped the fish out of its skin and began ravenously to chew. “All day in a rush,” he muttered.
Leo watched him eat.
“A sliced tomato you have maybe?” Salzman hesitantly inquired.
“No.”
The marriage broker shut his eyes and ate. When he had finished he carefully cleaned up the crumbs and rolled up the remains of the fish, in the paper bag. His spectacled eyes roamed the room until he discovered, amid some piles of books, a one-burner gas stove. Lifting his hat he humbly asked, “A glass tea you got, rabbi?”
Conscience-stricken, Leo rose and brewed the tea. He served it with a chunk of lemon and two cubes of lump sugar, delighting Salzman.
After he had drunk his tea, Salzman’s strength and good spirits were restored.
“So tell me, rabbi,” he said amiably, “you considered some more the three clients I mentioned yesterday?”
“There was no need to consider.”
“Why not?”
“None of them suits me.”
“What then suits you?”
Leo let it pass because he could give only a confused answer.
Without waiting for a reply, Salzman asked, “You remember this girl I talked to you—the high school teacher?”
“Age thirty-two?”
But, surprisingly, Salzman’s face lit in a smile. “Age twenty-nine.”
Leo shot him a look. “Reduced from thirty-two?”
My Mistress's Sparrow Is Dead: Great Love Stories, From Chekhov to Munro Page 57
