|
“Usually we’d just go to the nearest place, but Nora insisted on finding somewhere with tablecloths,” Ethan explained as he seated himself at the small table in the corner of the room. Nora had already ordered their drinks, which had arrived
moments before Ethan and Meyer.
Meyer surveyed the nearly vacant restaurant while Ethan excused their unexpected delay, describing their efforts to escape the reception after Friday night services as quickly as possible. His attention returned to the conversation sometime after Ethan finished telling her about enduring the inane
comments regarding how lovely the service was and how dry the pastries were.
“I figured he would probably cost you at least an hour, anyway” Nora said, nodding toward Meyer.
“Yeah, they were practically asking for his autograph. One of them even brought a camera to take pictures of him in that uniform,” Ethan said, leaning back in his chair, “I told you they wanted to see you in it.”
“You shouldn’t have made him wear it,” Nora said, “He must be sick to death of it. Besides, it doesn’t look very comfortable.”
“It’s fine,” Meyer said, glancing down at the pale beige button-down shirt, “it was a little stiff for such a long service, but it was fine.”
“Apparently today was some kind of holiday, so the cantor felt the need to stretch his vocal cords a little longer than usual,” Ethan said, massaging his forehead with the heels of his hands.
“What holiday?” Nora asked, “I don’t think you celebrated anything this time last year.” Meyer stared down at the arrangement at the center of the table, salt and pepper shakers neatly positioned to the side of the dessert menu. Next to that,
the napkin holder stood precariously near the lighted candle surrounded by a low, frosted glass holder.
“I don’t know, it’s one that changes every year,” Ethan said, “last year, it was…”
“February 25,” Meyer said without looking up from the table, “and it’s called Purim.”
“That’s some memory you’ve got,” Ethan said.
“I’ve never heard of Purim,” Nora said.
“They explained it a little at the service. It’s one of the holidays that commemorated how our people were almost exterminated, but then saved at the last minute,” Ethan said.
“That narrows it down.”
“Well if you want the specifics you’ll have to ask Zeyde,” Ethan said, “Actually, he was looking for you before, Meyer. Did you get the chance to talk to him?”
“We spoke earlier,” Meyer replied, staring at the candle at the center of the table. Ethan started to go on about Zeyde’s anticipation of Meyer’s arrival. Meyer drifted off again, watching the small flame jump away from the small pool of
melted wax surrounding the wick. He noticed a small, nearly perfect circle of light on the tablecloth near the candles. After scanning the area for the source, he discovered the reflective bit on Nora’s fourth finger. Ethan cut his speech off abruptly, and positioned his arm along the back of Nora’s chair.
“So you’ve found us out,” Ethan said, letting out a short laugh and grasping Nora’s left hand, “Don’t tell Zeyde, alright? I think it’d kill him if he knew I was marrying a shikse.”
“Why?” Meyer asked, “He didn’t say anything to me when…” Meyer saw Nora’s face flush a bit, and he let his voice trail off. Ethan cleared his throat and released his light grip on Nora’s hand.
“I was only half serious,” he said, “Listen, you’re okay with this right? I mean, I told you we’d been seeing each other.”
“It’s fine,” Meyer said.
“Zeyde won’t mind, I’m sure, but it was different when she was with you,” Ethan continued, “You could do no wrong in his eyes, especially now that you’ve come back from the goddam desert. You still haven’t told us anything about that.”
“What is there to tell?” Meyer asked, “You were in the reserves. You know what it’s like.”
“Not the same,” Ethan said, “This is the IDF we’re talking about. I was climbing jungle gyms compared to what you were doing over there, dealing with the fucking ragheads. God, the West Bank, Gaza—it’s never enough for those people, they’re—”
“‘Half devil and half child,’” Meyer said. His eyes returned to the blackened wick at the center of the candle.
“Meyer, you okay?” Nora asked.
“I’m fine,” he said, “It’s just a little hot in this uniform.” Nora watched Meyer’s hand lift his glass to his lips, watching the liquid slowly drain.
“What’d Zeyde say when he saw you?” Nora asked, “He’s been talking about you constantly since he found out you were getting back.”
“We didn’t speak for very long,” Meyer said. After a few seconds hesitation, he continued, “He asked if I remembered a story he used to tell us.”
“Which one?” Ethan asked.
“About the old man and the house full of candles,” Meyer said.
“I don’t remember that one,” Ethan said, with a shrug, “I thought he would have asked you about the other American over there he’s been asking about. Nora, what was his name?”
“Goldstein,” Nora said, “He was a physician. Did you know him?”
“I haven’t seen him in almost a year,” Meyer said.
“So you did know him?” Nora asked.
“Not well,” Meyer said, “he was one of Kahane’s disciples.”
“God bless him,” Ethan said, raising his glass slightly, “the JDL is the best thing that’s happened to this country. So where’s this doctor been?”
“Goldstein?” Meyer said, “He was killed.”
“Martyred?”
“That’s one way of looking at it.”
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Nora shifted in her seat and Meyer felt the blood rush to his face. He had been staring at her since Ethan’s friends had swept him away for a quick game of pool. Meyer declined, explaining that he was
still suffering from jetlag.
“I’m sorry, it’s your hair,” he said. Nora’s hand immediately flew to the light brown twist of hair fastened to the back of her head.
“Did it come undone?”
“No, it’s the way you’re wearing it,” Meyer said. Nora laughed and her hand returned to the table.
“I’ve always worn my hair like this,” Nora said.
“I know,” Meyer said, “It’s just that I saw a woman in Hebron a while ago who wore her hair like that.”
“Hebron?”
“It’s in the West Bank.”
“She’s Arab then?” Nora asked.
“Yes.”
“What’s her name?”
“I don’t know,” Meyer said, “I only knew her briefly. Have I congratulated you?” Meyer slightly raised his chin toward her hand.
“Not yet,” Nora said, slowly tilting her hand to watch the light pass through the clear stone, “God, I’m terrified. We’re not even out of school yet, and we’re already—”
“But my cousin convinced you,” Meyer said, “somehow.” Nora lowered her hand to her lap and met his eyes.
“He’s very persuasive,” Nora said.
“I know.”
“You said you were fine with it,” Nora said.
“I am.” Meyer broke his gaze and brought his eyes back to the candle. The pool of wax surrounding the wick finally began to overspill the small crevice at the top.
“What was the story about?” Nora asked after a few moments of silence, “that Zeyde used to tell you?”
“About the old man and the cottage full of candles?” Meyer said, “It’s boring, you don’t want to hear it.”
“No, I do.”
“It’s this man who’s looking all over the world for justice and can’t find it,” Meyer said, “so he goes into woods and finds this cottage where an old man lives. In the cottage, the old man has an infinite amount of candles, each of which
represents a life. When the candle burns out, the life ends. The young man asks to see his candle, and when the old man shows it to him, he sees that the oil is nearly gone. So, the young man is panicking as he’s watching his life burning out right before his eyes, and he looks at the candle next to his, full of oil and burning bright. He
looks around and sees that the old man is gone, so he picks up the candle full of oil, and tilts it just above his own—”
“But he realizes it’s wrong, and stops, right?” Nora asked, her eyes slightly wider than usual.
“That’s what Ethan used to ask,” he said with a wan smile, “But just before a single drop of oil fell, the old man instantly appeared next to the young man and catches his arm. He says, ‘is this the kind of justice you’re seeking?’ and
disappears.” Nora tightened her grip on her glass and lifted it to her lips, taking a sip.
“You were gone, Meyer,” Nora said, lowering her glass back to the table, “Did you think I was going to join a convent?”
“No, that’s not—”
“I couldn’t be sure you were coming back,” Nora said, “Did you really want to hold onto that citizenship so badly?”
“I thought so,” Meyer said, lifting his nearly empty glass to his forehead, rolling it slightly to press the condensation into his skin.
“Meyer, are you sure you’re okay?” she asked, “You look really pale.”
“I’m fine,” Meyer said, “just a little jetlagged, that’s all.”
“The flight must have been a nightmare,” Nora said, “Where were you?”
“Rafah,” Meyer replied, “It’s in Gaza.”
“I thought you were in Hebron,” Nora said.
“Not since last February,” Meyer said, lowering the glass.
“And you remembered that girl?” Nora said, “Ethan’s right, you’ve got an excellent memory.”
“Thank you.”
“How did you see her hair?”
“Excuse me?”
“How did you see her hair?” Nora asked once more, “don’t they wear scarves on their heads?”
“Yes.”
“Then how did you—”
“Hers fell off,” Meyer said, slowly rising from his seat. After a barely audible pardon, Meyer searched for the men’s room.
It took Meyer three tries to turn the cold water on, partly due to the years of neglected oxidation, partly because of the thin film of sweat that coated his hands. Twenty-nine. He cupped his hands under the weak stream of water until he had
gathered a sufficient amount.
No one had heard; news traveled slowly. They were all so proud, his father clapping him on the shoulder, mother introducing him to the bridge club. Meyer brought his hands just under his lips and drew a long drink, washing the sour, acidic
taste from his mouth and replacing it with the slightly metallic flavor of the water. Twenty-nine.
-You remember the story about the old man and the cottage full of candles?
-Yes, Zeyde
Meyer’s gaze swept the restroom, far too small for a restaurant with tablecloths. The single lightbulb over the sink gave insufficient light, even for a room this tiny. No window— an aluminum matrix of paper-thin slits, maybe ten square inches
in total, several feet above the only toilet in the room—supplied the sole means of ventilation.
Even if he had heard the story—unlikely—but if he had, they were portraying Goldstein as a hero. No one knew.
-You remember the story about the old man and the cottage full of candles?
-Yes, Zeyde
-And what do you think of the young man seeking justice?
Zeyde knew. No matter how they glorified Goldstein, he would know. They talked about his work as a physician, his four kids. Zeyde only saw the twenty-nine candles, oil burned out.
Meyer leaned against the wall and undid the top two buttons of his shirt, too quickly. One snapped off, flew against the other wall. Not enough air in the room.
Her hair had been exactly like Nora’s, maybe a shade darker, but curled in the same position, fastened the same way, he saw when the pale blue cloth she had swirled so carefully around her head fluttered to the soaking floor of the cave.
Twenty-nine.
Meyer transferred his weight to his left side and felt something shift beneath him. Looking down, he saw one of the square blue tiles had broken in half and come loose. Meyer pushed the tile out of its position with the toe of his boot,
leaving a bare gray spot on the floor. Carefully, Meyer used his boot to arrange the broken piece diagonally along the other half of the tile.
By all ye will or whisper
By all ye leave or do
No air in the room, none at all—the square silver vent clearly did not create enough circulation. Meyer stepped over to the sink and ran the cool water once more, watching it slip through his thick, callused fingers.
-You remember the story about the old man and the cave full of candles?
-Yes, Zeyde
-And what did you think about the young man seeking justice?
-I think the bastard was lucky someone caught his arm.
Dripping wet, his hands ran over his face, through his hair. He brought his eyes up to the mirror above the sink, staring at the reflective surface. They could have stopped him. Hundreds of men in that cave against one, two, they could have
stopped him, why didn’t they?
The silent sullen peoples
Shall weigh your God and you.
Rumors about the blessed Goldstein still hadn’t reached across the ocean yet. Meyer’s eyes moved along the surface of the mirror, filling in the lost spots where the rust disrupted the image. His gaze traced a path along the mirror, resting
momentarily on the image of the door behind him, the chipped paint, followed the line of buttons on his shirt, up his neck, clean-shaven face, and finally settling on his own hollow stare.
“‘Is this the kind of justice you are seeking?’” |