funny?” Pravdin demands.
“Maybe,” Friedemann T. says—he gestures toward the crowd milling around the author and laughs again—“maybe we’ve already traveled back in time.”
Later, as they start toward the exit, Friedemann T. steers Pravdin into the men’s room. “You should have told me, you know,” he chastises him. “I’m supposed to be a friend.”
“Told you what?” Pravdin wants to know, his voice slipping over the edge into nervousness.
“If I knew about what, I wouldn’t be asking you to tell me,” says Friedemann T. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he adds in a low voice.
“What for God’s sake am I doing?” demands Pravdin.
“That was precisely what the militia major wanted to know.” Friedemann T. turns to go, adds with icy politeness:
“Do me the service of waiting a minute or two so we won’t be seen leaving together.”
“What leaving together?” Pravdin cries hysterically. “About what are you talking?”
But Friedemann T. has already slipped out of the men’s room.
In the street Pravdin glances over his shoulder every few seconds, doesn’t notice anybody following him, stops to scrawl on the rear wall of the Union of Journalists:
Publish and perish
(Anon: Pravdin has recently skimmed some Abram Tertz stories in samizdat) , hurries on to the synagogue for his appointment with the beardless assistant rabbi.
“The answer is nyet,” the rabbi cries when he catches sight of Pravdin.
“How can you give an answer when you don’t know the question?” argues Pravdin. The rabbi scurries down the aisle past the neon Star of David into the bare vestibule that serves as an office. Pravdin is hard on his heels.
“It doesn’t matter the question, the answer is no,” the rabbi repeats, unwinding the frayed tefillen from his forearm.
“That’s not biblical,” protests Pravdin.
The rabbi turns on him angrily. “We don’t live in biblical times,” he wails. “We are no longer the chosen people. You are not some big shot Old Testament prophet come to lead us in your Eisenhower jacket and basketball sneakers to the promised land. If the Red Sea parts tomorrow it will be to let some capitalist Cain under contract to some Arab Abel drill for oil.”
“For God’s sake calm yourself, rabbi,” Pravdin urges.“It’s not as if I yelled the secret name of God outside the holy of holies.”
The assistant rabbi settles into a chair, closes his eyes, sucks in air through hairy nostrils. “Be my guest, pose the question,” he says hoarsely.
Pravdin leans across the table until he is breathing into the rabbi’s face. “Instant matzos,” he begins, “is an idea whose time has come. Thesis: powdered matzos direct from Tel Aviv. Antithesis: holy water from the River Jordan. Synthesis:”—Pravdin sways back, pauses for theatrical effect—“all the matzos your heart desires for the High Holy Days.”
“I’ve heard the question, you’re my witness,” the assistant rabbi says with controlled calm, “and the answer is still no.” He springs from his chair, takes Pravdin firmly under the elbow, steers him toward the door. “What are you up to these days that they come here asking about you?” he whispers. Pravdin starts to reply but the assistant rabbi holds up a palm. “Better you don’t tell me. What you don’t tell me I don’t know. If I don’t know it can’t be a conspiracy. Listen, Robespierre Isayevich, you want to do something for the Jews, go become a Christian.”
Pravdin, wounded, clings to the doorknob like a child on his first day at school. “It’s too late to convert,” he whines. “I’m circumcised.”
The assistant rabbi, surprisingly strong, pries his fingers off the knob one by one. “Circumcise your heart,” he advises, and he shoves him out the door.
Mother Russia pulls her fox furs tightly around her neck, leans over the stove to taste a spoonful of soybean soup, swallows, grimaces, adds a pinch of salt.
Pravdin,
“Maybe,” Friedemann T. says—he gestures toward the crowd milling around the author and laughs again—“maybe we’ve already traveled back in time.”
Later, as they start toward the exit, Friedemann T. steers Pravdin into the men’s room. “You should have told me, you know,” he chastises him. “I’m supposed to be a friend.”
“Told you what?” Pravdin wants to know, his voice slipping over the edge into nervousness.
“If I knew about what, I wouldn’t be asking you to tell me,” says Friedemann T. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he adds in a low voice.
“What for God’s sake am I doing?” demands Pravdin.
“That was precisely what the militia major wanted to know.” Friedemann T. turns to go, adds with icy politeness:
“Do me the service of waiting a minute or two so we won’t be seen leaving together.”
“What leaving together?” Pravdin cries hysterically. “About what are you talking?”
But Friedemann T. has already slipped out of the men’s room.
In the street Pravdin glances over his shoulder every few seconds, doesn’t notice anybody following him, stops to scrawl on the rear wall of the Union of Journalists:
Publish and perish
(Anon: Pravdin has recently skimmed some Abram Tertz stories in samizdat) , hurries on to the synagogue for his appointment with the beardless assistant rabbi.
“The answer is nyet,” the rabbi cries when he catches sight of Pravdin.
“How can you give an answer when you don’t know the question?” argues Pravdin. The rabbi scurries down the aisle past the neon Star of David into the bare vestibule that serves as an office. Pravdin is hard on his heels.
“It doesn’t matter the question, the answer is no,” the rabbi repeats, unwinding the frayed tefillen from his forearm.
“That’s not biblical,” protests Pravdin.
The rabbi turns on him angrily. “We don’t live in biblical times,” he wails. “We are no longer the chosen people. You are not some big shot Old Testament prophet come to lead us in your Eisenhower jacket and basketball sneakers to the promised land. If the Red Sea parts tomorrow it will be to let some capitalist Cain under contract to some Arab Abel drill for oil.”
“For God’s sake calm yourself, rabbi,” Pravdin urges.“It’s not as if I yelled the secret name of God outside the holy of holies.”
The assistant rabbi settles into a chair, closes his eyes, sucks in air through hairy nostrils. “Be my guest, pose the question,” he says hoarsely.
Pravdin leans across the table until he is breathing into the rabbi’s face. “Instant matzos,” he begins, “is an idea whose time has come. Thesis: powdered matzos direct from Tel Aviv. Antithesis: holy water from the River Jordan. Synthesis:”—Pravdin sways back, pauses for theatrical effect—“all the matzos your heart desires for the High Holy Days.”
“I’ve heard the question, you’re my witness,” the assistant rabbi says with controlled calm, “and the answer is still no.” He springs from his chair, takes Pravdin firmly under the elbow, steers him toward the door. “What are you up to these days that they come here asking about you?” he whispers. Pravdin starts to reply but the assistant rabbi holds up a palm. “Better you don’t tell me. What you don’t tell me I don’t know. If I don’t know it can’t be a conspiracy. Listen, Robespierre Isayevich, you want to do something for the Jews, go become a Christian.”
Pravdin, wounded, clings to the doorknob like a child on his first day at school. “It’s too late to convert,” he whines. “I’m circumcised.”
The assistant rabbi, surprisingly strong, pries his fingers off the knob one by one. “Circumcise your heart,” he advises, and he shoves him out the door.
Mother Russia pulls her fox furs tightly around her neck, leans over the stove to taste a spoonful of soybean soup, swallows, grimaces, adds a pinch of salt.
Pravdin,
Similar Books
