Uncle Chaim And Aunt Rifke And The Angel
Page 5
The angel took his hand. "They see now, as they saw you then. Come with me, I will take you there."
The dybbuk looked around, just this side of panicking. He even tugged a bit at the blue angel's hand, but she would not let him go. Finally he sighed very deeply — lord, you could feel the dust of the tombs in that sigh, and the wind between the stars — and nodded to her. He said, "I will go with you."
The blue angel turned to look at all of us, but mostly at Uncle Chaim. She said to him, "You are a better painter than I was a muse. And you taught me a great deal about other things than painting. I will tell Rembrandt."
Aunt Rifke said, a little hesitantly, "I was maybe rude. I'm sorry." The angel smiled at her.
Rabbi Shulevitz said, "Only when I saw you did I realize that I had never believed in angels."
"Continue not to," the angel replied. "We rather prefer it, to tell you the truth. We work better that way."
Then she and the dybbuk both looked at me, and I didn't feel even ten years old; more like four or so. I threw my arms around Aunt Rifke and buried my face in her skirt. She patted my head — at least I guess it was her, I didn't actually see her. I heard the blue angel say in Yiddish, "Sei gesund, Chaim's Duvidl. You were always courteous to me. Be well."
I looked up in time to meet the old, old eyes of the dybbuk. He said, "In a thousand years, no one has ever offered me freely what you did." He said something else, too, but it wasn't in either Hebrew or Yiddish, and I didn't understand.
The blue angel spread her splendid, shimmering wings one last time, filling the studio — as, for a moment, the mean winter sky outside seemed to flare with a sunset hope that could not have been. Then she and Manassa, the dybbuk, were gone, vanished instantly, which makes me think that the wings aren't really for flying. I don't know what other purpose they could serve, except they did seem somehow to enfold us all and hold us close. But maybe they're just really decorative. I'll never know now.
Uncle Chaim blew out his breath in one long, exasperated sigh. He said to Aunt Rifke, "I never did get her right. You know that."
I was trying to hear the music, but Aunt Rifke was busy hugging me, and kissing me all over my face, and telling me not ever, ever to do such a thing again, what was I thinking? But she smiled up at Uncle Chaim and answered him, "Well, she got you right, that's what matters." Uncle Chaim blinked at her. Aunt Rifke said, "She's probably telling Rembrandt about you right now. Maybe Vermeer, too."
"You think so?" Uncle Chaim looked doubtful at first, but then he shrugged and began to smile himself. "Could be."
I asked Rabbi Shulevitz, "He said something to me, the dybbuk, just at the end. I didn't understand."
The rabbi put his arm around me. "He was speaking in old Ladino, the language of the Sephardim. He said, 'I will not forget you.'" His smile was a little shaky, and I could feel him trembling himself, with everything over. "I think you have a friend in heaven, David. Extraordinary Duvidl."
The music was gone. We stood together in the studio, and although there were four of us, it felt as empty as the winter street beyond the window where the blue angel had posed so often. A taxi took the corner too fast, and almost hit a truck; a cloud bank was pearly with the moon's muffled light. A group of young women crossed the street, singing. I could feel everyone wanting to move away, but nobody did, and nobody spoke, until Uncle Chaim finally said, "Rabbi, you got time for a sitting tomorrow? Don't wear that suit."
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Document ID: 20e2f581-c8bf-4eab-a107-573365116700
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 27 August 2011
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Isais
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1.0 — создание файла, скрипты — Isais.
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