White Tiger on Snow Mountain by David Gordon

thinking about those eyes through the lattice, as if seen through a veil or the filigreed wall of a harem. About that high shoe and the body hidden under those clothes. I flipped through Nietzsche, Hegel, Kant, but it was no use. I went out on the steps and felt my sweat dry and watched my smoke go up. Then I lay back down and read the Norton till dawn, Wordsworth to Keats straight through. When the sun lit my window, I went to the Chevron for a large coffee and a donut. On the way back I noticed two feet sticking out of the bushes next to Merv’s door. I parted the branches, and there he was, snoring away. He had his keys in his hand. Looked like he was coming home drunk and just missed by a few inches. I unlocked the door, and with a lot of prodding and pleading, he let me help him up. I got him onto the couch and covered him with a blanket. I noticed a pale band of skin around his wrist that used to be a watch. I wondered if they got his wallet too.
    “Steve,” he mumbled.
    “It’s Larry,” I said.
    “Larry.”
    “Yes?”
    “Don’t tell anyone.”
    “Of course not,” I whispered, gently shutting the door. Who would I tell?
    I left early for shul. Lawn sprinklers were throwing a glow on the grass, but no wind moved the leaves and I could see it was going to be another killer day. I unlocked the door and turned on all the lights. I got the A/C going. Then I took my book and sat on the steps to make sure I wouldn’t miss Leah. But I couldn’t read. My racing mind surged ahead of the lines. At last she came rocking up the path, holding her bent father by the elbow. It was unclear who was supporting whom. I quickly kicked the mashed cigarette butts I’d accumulated into the shrubbery and smiled.
    “Good morning,” I called.
    “Shabbat shalom,” the rabbi answered. Leah said nothing, a punch in the heart, but when the rabbi went in, she loitered out front, turning her closed eyes to the sun. I grabbed the chance to study her face, trying to store up every detail for later, when she’d disappear again behind the screen. Her skin was astonishing. There were no splotches or marks, only a blending, from milk to pink to deep rose. Her hair was a liquidy black, and each curl seemed to be alive, growing, twisting right then. I realized how long it had to be, coiled up like that. If she let it down, how low would it fall? To the small of her back? To her hips? She opened her eyes and caught me staring. I fled back down to my book.
    “What are you reading?”
    “A poetry anthology. Keats, actually. I’m up to Keats.”
    “Who’s Keats?”
    “Who’s Keats?” I blurted loudly, then caught myself. In a rush, I told her everything I knew about Keats. How he was self-taught, really, working class, and died of TB at twenty-five, broke and bereft in Rome. How he wrote all his greatest works in only twelve months, and in that brief flash burned himself into the heart of English literature. He wrote some of the most beautiful love poems ever, yet some speculate that he may have died a virgin. Her throat bloomed red, and I realized that I’d said “virgin” to a rabbi’s daughter. I blushed back and tried to extricate myself by getting high-minded but only dug deeper.
    “You know what Oscar Wilde said?”
    She shook her head no. Of course not!
    “Never mind,” I said. “Sorry.”
    “What did he say?”
    “He said that Keats’s grave was the holiest site in Rome.”
    “That’s beautiful,” she said and smiled. It was the first smile. “I’d love to read him some time.”
    “You can borrow this.” I offered her the book. “I mean I’ve read it.”
    “No, I can’t. It’s so big.”
    “Well, there’s just a few pages of Keats.”
    “No, I mean because of my father.”
    Just then the first worshippers appeared, coming up the block in their black, the young kids scampering ahead. One dropped his yarmulke and ran back. On an impulse, I opened the book to the page I’d turned down and ripped it