bed?â
âHeâll find twenty years of dust, and a few missing pawns.â
âThanks, papa, but I have to go.â Rupert pulled up his sleeves so he could hug his father. Then he rushed into the hall, jars smacking in his pockets. Tony Brill appeared from behind a fire door. âThatâs him, Mr. Weil, isnât it? Rupert himself. I can spot a fugitive by his walk.â
Tony Brill didnât go after Rupert. He lunged at Philipâs door. Philip locked him out âI can save him, Mr. Weil ⦠trust me.â
Philip returned to the kitchen, ignoring the babble. He was interested in weather reports. Did the television predict snow? Rupert would catch pneumonia in his sneakers. Philip shouldnât have let him out of the house without a proper undershirt. The boy had no mind for cold weather. His thumbs would have to freeze before the idea of frostbite entered his head. How could Philip signal to him? Should he fly scarves from his fire escape? He laughed bitterly at his own incompetence. He had just enough energy in him to become a father. His wife, a Russian girl with handsome bosoms am a fiat behind, stared him in the eye for eleven years and ran away before Rupert was six. Sonia, the Stalinist, must have found other causes than a man who would die for Trotsky and chess and a boy who looked more like her husband than her self. She was supposed to be in Oregon, living with a band of apple pickers, a gray-haired Russian lady.
Philip berated himself. A father should have the right to make a prisoner of his son, if only for a little while. He mean to jab the boy with questions, brutal questions, not a dialecti cal checklist that would give Rupert the chance to invent a shabby scheme, a rationale for frightening old grocers an sending Isaacâs mother to Bellevue. But Philip was powerless his own questions would glance off Rupert and bite Philip behind the ears. If Rupert had a dybbuk in him, a demon sucking at his intestines, who put it there? Such a dybbul could only be passed from father to son. The violence Philip had done to his body, the gnawing of his own limbs, the sell lacerations that came a nibble at a time, the rot of living in doors, the poison of chess formulas, degrees of slaughte acted out on a board, the insane fondling of wooden men pawns, bishops, and kings, must have created a horrible scratchy weasel that crept under Rupertâs skin, grabbed hi testicles, tightened his guts, and caused conniptions in hi brain. The dybbuk was Philip. No one else.
Rupert was on the run. He had to fight the weight in his pockets, the shifting, sliding bottles and jars, the wind that slapped the enormous collars of the jacket he stole out of a grubby bungalow that belonged to the housing cops. His belly gurgled from the pickles he swallowed in his fatherâs apartment. He couldnât dash across a housing project with burgeoning pockets and also digest pickles and cottage cheese. Hiccoughs broke his miserable stride. He avoided the shoppers huddling out of the bialy factory on Grand Street with their bags of onion bread. They might have recognized him, in spite of his jacket. They would scream, splinter bialys in his face, and call for the big Jewish Chief, Isaac Sidel, or the nearest housing cop. He didnât have the patience to dodge bialys and pick onions out of his eyes. He was going to Esther Rose.
Rupert couldnât grasp all of Estherâs fervors. Sheâd come out of a Yeshiva in Brownsville that would only accept the daughters of the Sephardim of Brooklyn. Stuck in a neighborhood of Puerto Ricans, blacks, and rough Polish Jews, it had gates on every side. The Yeshiva was impregnable. None of the Polish Jews could gain access to its prayer rooms and library. The girls were rushed in through a door in the back. They had little opportunity to examine what existed outside the Yeshivaâs front wall. They understood the hypnotic candlepower of a 25-watt bulb.
âHeâll find twenty years of dust, and a few missing pawns.â
âThanks, papa, but I have to go.â Rupert pulled up his sleeves so he could hug his father. Then he rushed into the hall, jars smacking in his pockets. Tony Brill appeared from behind a fire door. âThatâs him, Mr. Weil, isnât it? Rupert himself. I can spot a fugitive by his walk.â
Tony Brill didnât go after Rupert. He lunged at Philipâs door. Philip locked him out âI can save him, Mr. Weil ⦠trust me.â
Philip returned to the kitchen, ignoring the babble. He was interested in weather reports. Did the television predict snow? Rupert would catch pneumonia in his sneakers. Philip shouldnât have let him out of the house without a proper undershirt. The boy had no mind for cold weather. His thumbs would have to freeze before the idea of frostbite entered his head. How could Philip signal to him? Should he fly scarves from his fire escape? He laughed bitterly at his own incompetence. He had just enough energy in him to become a father. His wife, a Russian girl with handsome bosoms am a fiat behind, stared him in the eye for eleven years and ran away before Rupert was six. Sonia, the Stalinist, must have found other causes than a man who would die for Trotsky and chess and a boy who looked more like her husband than her self. She was supposed to be in Oregon, living with a band of apple pickers, a gray-haired Russian lady.
Philip berated himself. A father should have the right to make a prisoner of his son, if only for a little while. He mean to jab the boy with questions, brutal questions, not a dialecti cal checklist that would give Rupert the chance to invent a shabby scheme, a rationale for frightening old grocers an sending Isaacâs mother to Bellevue. But Philip was powerless his own questions would glance off Rupert and bite Philip behind the ears. If Rupert had a dybbuk in him, a demon sucking at his intestines, who put it there? Such a dybbul could only be passed from father to son. The violence Philip had done to his body, the gnawing of his own limbs, the sell lacerations that came a nibble at a time, the rot of living in doors, the poison of chess formulas, degrees of slaughte acted out on a board, the insane fondling of wooden men pawns, bishops, and kings, must have created a horrible scratchy weasel that crept under Rupertâs skin, grabbed hi testicles, tightened his guts, and caused conniptions in hi brain. The dybbuk was Philip. No one else.
Rupert was on the run. He had to fight the weight in his pockets, the shifting, sliding bottles and jars, the wind that slapped the enormous collars of the jacket he stole out of a grubby bungalow that belonged to the housing cops. His belly gurgled from the pickles he swallowed in his fatherâs apartment. He couldnât dash across a housing project with burgeoning pockets and also digest pickles and cottage cheese. Hiccoughs broke his miserable stride. He avoided the shoppers huddling out of the bialy factory on Grand Street with their bags of onion bread. They might have recognized him, in spite of his jacket. They would scream, splinter bialys in his face, and call for the big Jewish Chief, Isaac Sidel, or the nearest housing cop. He didnât have the patience to dodge bialys and pick onions out of his eyes. He was going to Esther Rose.
Rupert couldnât grasp all of Estherâs fervors. Sheâd come out of a Yeshiva in Brownsville that would only accept the daughters of the Sephardim of Brooklyn. Stuck in a neighborhood of Puerto Ricans, blacks, and rough Polish Jews, it had gates on every side. The Yeshiva was impregnable. None of the Polish Jews could gain access to its prayer rooms and library. The girls were rushed in through a door in the back. They had little opportunity to examine what existed outside the Yeshivaâs front wall. They understood the hypnotic candlepower of a 25-watt bulb.
Similar Books
