The Kiss of the Prison Dancer

by Jerome Richard

  “I wasn’t on the jury,” Shmuel said.

  No, Max thought, you weren’t on the jury. But I am! The water whistled and he made the two cups of tea. “Lemon?” he asked. He cut two slices of lemon and delivered the tea to Shmuel who nested in the big chair, his feet drawn up and his leather face relaxed so that the wrinkles were just cracks, singing, a Talmudic student taking a break for tea. “Tell me, Shmuel. Why did you come tonight?”

  “To see how you were.”

  “I know. I mean, why do you care how I am?”

  Shmuel sipped the tea. “Who else do I have to care about?” He said it so quietly that Max had to lean forward to hear. “Max,” Shmuel said. “Be my friend.”

  Max took the rest of the tea in one swallow and got up to pace about the room. “What do you want me to do?” he asked.

  Shmuel looked up, his face blossoming. “Teach me to play chess,” he said.

  Max looked at Shmuel as if he were crazy, but the question raised echoes of a small boy nagging his father: Bitte zeige mir Schach zu spielen, Papa. And Max’s father would pull his arm away from the boy’s grasp and go on playing, never taking his eyes from the board. It was always father’s friend who said Spaterhin, later. One day Max found Grandfather Mordecai at the chess set. “But you don’t play chess,” the boy said, and Grandfather Mordecai said, “How can I teach you if I don’t learn?”

  Shmuel stood up. “Good night,” he said, starting for the door.

  “Wait,” Max said. He took the chess set out of the closet and blew the dust off. “One game,” he said.

  Max played very slowly, explaining his moves to Shmuel, and in the end they played another game and Shmuel was catching on, though Max still beat him easily.

  “Thank you,” Shmuel said, getting up from the table.

  Max watched him put his coat on. “Shmuel,” he said. Shmuel turned around. “If you were sick, I wouldn’t come visit you.”

  Shmuel shrugged his shoulders, but whether to indicate that he understood or whether he was just adjusting his coat, Max didn’t know.

  “You hear, Shmuel?”

  “Good night, Max. Thanks for the chess.”

  Max watched Shmuel go out, then he ran to the door. “Thanks for the flowers,” he called. Shmuel, halfway down the steps, turned, but said nothing.

  It was too late to watch the news on television so he went to sleep early instead. He was tired and he thought he would sleep well, but he kept waking up to voices that whispered guilty. He would look at the black window and yearn for morning, but when morning came only a rising tide of nausea made him get out of bed. He threw up in the toilet and then he flushed it and sat down at the kitchen table and watched his hands tremble. Sunlight kissed the window and over the roof of the house across the street a clear blue sky stretched all the way to heaven. He had dreamed that he was dressed in a brown uniform and boots and he had gone to someone’s apartment. In the dream he knocked on the door with his fist and when the door opened it was Holtz pleading with Max not to take him away, but Max led him to a gray stone building with iron doors. Next to the building at a sidewalk cafe, Shmuel sat playing chess and inside the building voices chanted guilty, guilty. Max went to the window: there was not even a fog to blame for his headache.

  Every morning for the past three days he had called the agency to say he was not feeling well; now with his head throbbing and his stomach doing a waltz, he had to go to work. For a while he considered calling and saying he was sick again, but he looked at the flowers that Shmuel brought and he knew he could not call. The chess set was still set up on the kitchen table. Max saw at a glance that the game was not over. Shmuel’s last pawn could interpose en passant and capture Max’s knight in the process. The checkmate was not a checkmate and looking at the board, Max wondered how he could have failed to see it. He blamed it on not having played for so long and he wondered if he would have to apologize to Shmuel. The wooden figures seemed to mock him. Maneuvering Shmuel’s pieces, he saw that he was closer to being checkmated than Shmuel was.

  He made some coffee and drank it before it cooled, burning his tongue, but it made him feel better and he got dressed and hurried for the bus, his head still humming.

  The familiar furniture of the office comforted him. He was a little late and some people were already waiting on the leather chairs in the reception room. Max nodded to the receptionist and did not even wait for her to ask him how he felt. He couldn’t wait to get back to his desk.

  “How do you feel?” Shmuel asked, looking up from a letter.

  “Fine.” He wanted to get to work, to read and file and sort and lose himself in other people’s problems. “Oh, Shmuel,” he said. “Thank you for the flowers.” Shmuel kept reading and Max drummed his fingers on the desk and waited for the mail.

  Finally Shmuel brought the mail over, spreading one letter out before Max. “This is Mrs. Kipnis,” he said. “She is in New Zealand and wants to know can we find a Jewish husband for her.”

  “You’re not supposed to read the mail,” Max told him. “Just open it.”

  “That’s some job,” Shmuel said, going back to his own desk.

  Max watched his small back as it retreated. “I didn’t mean it,” he said. “Read the mail, Shmuel. What does it hurt?”

  He began to line up his folders but he saw that Shmuel was still watching him from the middle of the room. What does he want? Max wondered. Then Shmuel went to his desk and Max started to work, but not in earnest yet because he knew that Doctor Resnick would be in soon to ask how he felt. He bided his time, arranging the folders on his desk until the door to the consultation room opened. Before the psychiatrist could say anything, Max said, “I feel much better. It was only a little cold. A bad cold.” The psychiatrist nodded. “It’s good to see you back,” he said, and then he stood and watched like Shmuel had done and Max, sorting out the folders for the third time, cursed him under his breath.

  At lunch time, Shmuel held up a chess set. “Not today,” Max said, hurrying out to the luncheonette. He ate quickly and then walked three times around the block trying not to think of the boy and Holtz and the trial. Before the hour was up he was back at his desk, addressing envelopes and suffering Shmuel’s questioning stare.

  He preferred the letters that simply asked for information. To these people he could send a printed statement. Completed applications were a little more difficult. For each of these he had to see if the application was properly completed and if it was assign it to one of the consulting psychiatrists. The hardest letters to deal with were those that stated their problem either on an application Max had sent or in the letter itself. He had to decide whether to send an application or a form letter explaining that the agency could not be of help. Often, doing this, he thought of Clara. If she had written instead of coming to make a scene in the outer office, their relationship would have been limited to the form letter. Since meeting Clara he often wondered about the people he wrote to, but not today. With his mind poised on the edge of a cliff, two strategies seemed to lead to safety: working as fast as he could, and making the mail last all day.

  At four o’clock the mail seemed to be holding out, but Max was slowing down. “Shmuel,” he called. “Should I send an application to a woman who wants advice on getting an abortion?”

  Shmuel’s head jerked up. “You’re asking me?”

  “Sure I’m asking you. Is that a family problem or not?”

  Shmuel closed his eyes to think. “Is she married?”

  “She doesn’t say.”

  “Ask her if she’s married,” Shmuel advised. Max wasn’t sure this was right, but rather than consult Doctor Resnick, he composed a letter to her.

  The next letter was from a woman whose son had just been arrested for hitting a policeman. Max did not want to think about it. He tried another letter, but he found he could not make any more decisions. Suddenly he picked up the remaining letters and dumped them on Shmuel’s desk. “Finish for me, Shmuel,” and he went out.
He saw the receptionist look at the clock as he passed her desk, but he did not stop until he was at Clara’s door.

  “I have to talk to you,” he said to Clara, who stood in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “Come in,” she said, but she sniffed at him before she turned and went into the living room and Max, following her in, said, “I’m not drunk.”

  Arnold was sprawled on the couch reading a book.

  “Go do your homework,” Clara said.

  “What homework?” Arnold asked, but Clara was pushing him into the bedroom.

  Max sat on the easy chair by the window. He wanted to tell her about Holtz, but he couldn’t do it and when she took a seat opposite him and composed herself, hands folded in her lap, he was nearly as surprised as she was to hear himself say: “Clara, will you marry me?”

  For minutes the only sound was from Arnold in the bedroom. Clara wiped her hands on her apron, getting the flour she had rubbed off back on her hands. Max wondered if he should fall on his knees and ask again or if he should take it back. Only her silence told him she heard what he said. Finally she stopped wiping her hands and stood up. “You’re coming tomorrow night, Max. Let me think about it until then.”

  “Don’t think,” Max shouted. “Tell me now!”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “A woman likes time to think. Even if it’s only a formality.”

  Max stood up. He looked out the window and saw the evening fog gathering by the street light. Yes, he thought, it is only a formality. “That’s all right,” he said.

  “Do you want to stay for dinner?” Clara asked.

  “No,” Max said. “I have to go somewhere.”

  He was out of the house before she could ask another question and on Geary Boulevard he hailed a taxi. “The Hall of Justice,” he told the driver.

  In a few minutes he was there. He pushed through the crowds leaving the Hall and gained the marble lobby out of breath. There was only one man at the information desk. Max went to him. The officer wore a blue business suit. “Are you a policeman?” Max asked.

  The officer’s eyes narrowed. “Yes.”

  “I killed Linda Jordan.”

  “What?”

  “I killed Linda Jordan.”

  18

  Max sat alone in a pleasant office on the fourth floor of the Hall of Justice. The patrolman who led him there was posted outside the door. Every once in a while Max could hear him speaking to someone in the hall, but he never seemed to say anything about Max being in the office and Max began to wonder how long he would have to wait. He got up and tiptoed around the room. Besides the desk there was an old couch, two straightback chairs, and a row of filing cabinets. Behind the desk was a leather chair that tipped back and pointed to the window. Max looked out at the lights outlining the hills to the south; he tried to imagine himself looking out through bars, waiting for the guards to come and lead him to the execution chamber.

  Someone was at the door. Max felt his heart turn to ice and then melt again as the patrolman’s voice said, “He’s inside.” Max sat down quickly, wondering if he would be given the third degree.

  A man came and stood in the open doorway. He wasn’t wearing a uniform. Max smiled politely. Finally the man seemed to make up his mind. He came into the room and seated himself at the desk. For a minute they just stared at each other, then the man switched on the desk lamp and said, “Now, what’s all this about you killing the Jordan girl?”

  Max didn’t know what to say. He thought he made it clear to the officer at the information desk who ran his hands up and down Max’s body and then, satisfied that Max did not have a gun, marched him up to the fourth floor. There the officer told the desk sergeant what Max had said and Max repeated it himself.

  “Are you a policeman?” he asked.

  “Lieutenant Sloane. Homicide.” He said it quickly, a man used to identifying himself, and then he leaned back in his chair and pressed his fingers together. Lieutenant Sloane was a big man; when he leaned back the chair disappeared behind him and he seemed to be leaning on air. A gray suit just barely managed to cling to him and a bright red tie flapped outside the jacket as if there were not room for it inside. He leaned forward suddenly and slapped the table. “You didn’t kill the Jordan girl,” he said. He wasn’t asking anything; he was announcing his decision. For a minute, Max was afraid the lieutenant was going to leave and that was all there was to it, that he had somehow been seen through and would soon be tossed out of the police station as an imposter. He avoided the detective’s eyes.

  “Do you read the papers?” Sloane asked.

  “Yes,” Max said. Then he added, “Sometimes.”

  “Do you know a man was found guilty yesterday of killing that girl?”

  “Yes, of course. That’s why I’m here.”

  The detective got up and paced around the room. He stopped at the files and drummed his fingers on them, then came back to the desk and sat down again, leaning across the desk and pointing a finger at Max. “How old are you?”

  Max had stopped counting the years, had even lost the habit of noting his birthday in the camp when one often did not know what day it was. “Fifty-seven,” he said, calculating quickly. “No, fifty-eight.”

  “What do you do?”

  Max described his job, wondering what it had to do with his confession. He had not slept well the night before and now his stomach reminded him that he forgot to eat dinner. When he finished telling about the agency he yawned and apologized.

  “Where were you born?”

  “Berlin.”

  “You’re Jewish, aren’t you?”

  Max nodded. He thought of repeating his confession. “I don’t-” he began, but Lieutenant Sloane began to speak at the same time. They both stopped and Sloane suddenly whirled in his chair and looked out the window. Max saw that the man worked in sudden motions, as if he were the victim of a constant series of inspirations, and he waited for him to jump up. He was not disappointed. Lieutenant Sloane leaped from his chair and in three strides was at the door. “I’ll be back,” he said.

  It was getting late and Max’s eyes were growing heavy and searching for sleep. He wondered why they couldn’t question him in the morning, or why they had to question him at all since he had confessed. His eyes closed and soon he thought he heard Clara outside his room. She was asking if she could come in. The door opened and Max woke up. Lieutenant Sloane was back with another man. Sloane sat at the desk and the other man, also dressed in plain clothes, but more slightly built with a fringe of brown hair and a pencil-stripe moustache under his hooked nose, seated himself on top of the desk. “This is Lieutenant Jacobs,” Sloane said.

  “How do you do,” Max said, wrinkling his forehead to hold his eyes open.

  Lieutenant Jacobs leaned close to him. “Why do you want to make trouble?” he asked confidentially.

  “Trouble?” Max shook the sleep from his head. “What do you mean trouble?”

  “The man who killed Linda Jordan is named Holtz. We had a long investigation, there was a fair trial, and yesterday twelve impartial citizens found him guilty.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “I understand,” Jacobs said. He spoke very slowly and patiently, like a teacher addressing a backward pupil. “Every time there’s a murder three or four people come down here and confess. They can’t all be guilty. Am I right?” He waited for Max to answer, but it was a moment before Max realized an answer was expected. “Yes,” he said. “I guess so.” “Not you guess so,” Jacobs said. “You know so. They can’t all be guilty and you can bet that none of them are guilty. You know what’s wrong with them? Some of them are feeling guilty they weren’t kind to their mothers and they want to confess to killing somebody so we should punish them. Some of them just want to be famous. They want to sit up there in the witness box without actually having murdered anyone. You’re very tired, aren’t you, Max?” Jacobs nodded his head. Max, surprised to hear his name, nodded with the detective. “
Why don’t you go home and get some sleep,” Jacobs said, “and forget all about this killing and raping.” He nodded his head, but Max held his head still and said in a loud voice: “I killed Linda Jordan.”

  Lieutenant Sloane, who had carefully studied his fingernails while Jacobs spoke, jumped out of his chair. “Now look here, Friedman,” he yelled. Jacobs grabbed his arm and pulled him to the side of the room where they whispered to each other. Sloane’s outbreak cleared the air of the fog that Jacob’s soft voice had produced and Max was tired but fully awake now. He watched the two detectives huddle together and he knew they were plotting to take away from him the decision he had made. When they came towards him again, Max stood up to meet them.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Jacobs said. “We’re going to go now. We got other things we have to do. Anytime you change your mind, you’re free to leave. You can go right out that door and go home and get a good night’s sleep.”

  “Suppose I don’t change my mind?” Max asked.

  “This is a serious matter,” Sloane said.

  “Yes,” Max replied softly, catching Jacobs’ tone. “I know it’s serious.”

  Sloane was about to say something else, but Jacobs pushed him towards the door. Over his shoulder Jacobs said, “Think about it.” They walked out, leaving the door open.

  Max sat in the chair. Sloane had left the desk lamp on and the light hurt his eyes so he got up and turned the lamp off. Then he sat in the chair again and held his head in his hands until he fell asleep.

  When he woke up he thought at first it was morning and he was in his own room in the Richmond. Wondering why it was still dark, he searched for his clock, but there was no ticking sound and he realized now as the unfamiliar shapes in the detective’s office established themselves, there had been no alarm. What am I doing here? he asked himself. Then he remembered where he was and what he had done. He turned on the desk lamp and looked for Sloane or Jacobs, but there was no one there. His own watch had stopped and he did not know what to do. The door was still open. Must I go through with this? He thought of leaving. What business was it of his if a Nazi waited to die for a crime he had not committed? Wasn’t that the way the world went? He got up and took a step towards the door. He had his own life to live, and he thought of Clara and smelled the rich oily odor of her cooking. Max stepped out into the corridor Two men hurried by; they did not pay any attention to him. At the end of the corridor the desk sergeant watched him for a minute and then returned to his book. He was free to leave. He took a step down the corridor and looked back at the desk sergeant. He took another step and his eye was caught by a display of wanted posters. Some of the pictures had numbers hung around the necks of the criminals. Max had seen such pictures in the post office, but he never thought about them before. Now he rolled back his sleeve and looked at his own number. He took another step and stopped again. Four policemen came in together, their boots tramping time in the marble hallway. Wo gehen wir hin? Sarah’s laughter rang in his head and he turned back and asked the desk sergeant for Lieutenant Jacobs.