East of Time by Jacob Rosenberg Page A

small blonde, possibly in her late thirties. She had broad hips and a high bosom, incessantly pursed her painted lips, and sauntered about the house like a French perfumery. Needless to say, she was Henry’s icon, though why she had married him was an enigma.
    They lived in the better part of our city of the waterless river, in a two-bedroom apartment. There was also a kitchen, its walls tiled in green and white and its ceiling painted beige, and it was here that Henry had set up his workroom. His senior employee, Sasha, who knew the outcome of all things in advance and finished every sentence with ‘I told you so’, had come from a little township with his young wife. He was an excellent tailor and a good-looking man, with a mulatto’s complexion, wavy hair and black eyes that brimmed with wonder — a wonder which Marieta was determined to investigate. The third workman in the atelier was the ever-silent and inconspicuous presser, Felek.
    On the first day of my employment, Mr Brawerbaum took me aside. ‘Young man,’ he stated rather solemnly, ‘one of your duties as an apprentice will be to assist the lady of the house with domestic chores, if she should need you.’ I was of course delighted with such a prospect and immediately began to fantasize.
    On Mondays our boss would leave the house right after breakfast. It was the day he had reserved for buying materials and trimmings, and for enjoying a lunch with his colleagues in the trade. On one such Monday soon after I began there, I noticed Marieta winking Sasha over (I wished it could have been me) into the adjoining bedroom. Overcome with curiosity, I edged closer to the wooden stud wall.
    â€˜Please, darling,’ I heard her address him in Polish, ‘don’t torment me.’
    â€˜Stop it, Marieta!’ Sasha adored the good-hearted Quasimodo, and he sounded frightened. ‘You have a husband, a gentleman, who loves you dearly, and you want to betray him?’
    â€˜Oh, you silly boy,’ Marieta retorted. ‘To love is much, much mightier than to be loved!’
    â€˜No, Marieta!’ Sasha declared firmly. ‘And don’t speak to me in Polish.’
    â€˜Oh, Sasha, sweetie. Yiddish is so unromantic!’
    But Sasha turned on his heel, banged the bedroom door behind him and came through into the workroom. He was pale and sweating, and clearly agitated. The presser Felek gave him a dirty look. At that instant I heard Marieta call my name.
    â€˜Don’t go in there!’ Sasha hissed.
    I stopped, then remembered Henry’s injunction that I should respond if his wife called on me. I opened the bedroom door and paused just beyond the threshold, paralysed.Marieta stood there like Eve before her enlightenment by the snake. As if by magic, the door slid shut behind me.
    â€˜What are you waiting for, you fool!’ she screamed. ‘Can’t you see I have a sore hand? Help me — I can’t reach around behind my back!’ And she hurled her bra furiously in my face. Just then the bedroom door flew open, and there was Mr Brawerbaum.
    â€˜What’s this!’ my boss shouted. ‘What’s going on here?’
    Marieta didn’t skip a beat as she explained, with a giggle, the reason for my presence.
    â€˜Wait outside,’ her husband commanded curtly.
    I obeyed, and while waiting I heard more giggles from Marieta, along with Quasimodo’s heart-wrenching pleas and entreaties. After a few minutes he quietly re-emerged, gave me my unearned pay for the rest of the month, and, almost in a whisper, said: ‘Please go. Go into the workroom, take your things, and never come back again.’
    As I collected my few belongings I heard Sasha murmur, ‘I told you so.’
    Three weeks later I unexpectedly met up with Sasha — on a new job. I was astounded. ‘Sasha!’ I cried. ‘What happened?’
    â€˜That woman was Potiphar’s wife incarnate,’