The Avram Davidson Treasury (67 page)

“Buh-buh-but h-h-how does it wuh-work?
work?
How—” Old Grandmother Brakk smiled what he would come to think of as her usual faint smile; shrugged. “How do boy and girl love? How does bird fly? How water turn to snow and snow turn to water? How?”

Silberman stuttered, waved his arms and hands; was almost at once in the kitchen; so were two newcomers. He realized that he had long ago seen them a hundred times. And did not know their names, and never had.

“Mr. Grahdy and Mrs. Grahdy,” Wesley said. Wes seemed just a bit restless. Mrs. Grahdy had an air of, no other words would do, faded elegance. Mr. Grahdy had an upswept moustache and a grizzled Vandyke beard; he looked as though he had once been a dandy. Not precisely pointing his finger at Fred, but inclining it in Fred’s general direction, Mr. Grahdy said, “How I remember your grandfather well! [“Great-uncle.”] His horse and wagon! He bought scraps metal and old newspaper. Sometimes sold eggs.”

Fred
remembered it well, eggs and all. Any other time he would have willingly enough discussed local history and the primeval Silbermans; not now. Gesturing the way he had come, he said, loudly, excitedly, “I never saw anything
like
it before! How does it work, how does it
work?
The—the”—
what
had the old one called it?—“
the Slovo stove?
”

What happened next was more than a surprise; it was an astonishment. The Grahdy couple burst out laughing, and so did the white-haired man in the far corner of the kitchen.
He
called out something in his own language, evidently a question, and even as he spoke he went on chuckling. Mr. and Mrs. Grahdy laughed even harder. One of the Brakk family women tittered. Two of them wore embarrassed smiles. Another let her mouth fall open and her face go blank, and she looked at the ceiling: originally of stamped tin, it had been painted and repainted so many times that the design was almost obscured. There was a hulking man sitting, stooped (had not Fred seen
him
, long ago, with his own horse and wagon—hired, likely, by the day, from the old livery stable—calling out
Ice! Ice!
in the summer, and
Coal! Coal!
in the winter?); he, the tip of his tongue protruding, lowered his head and rolled his eyes around from one person to another. Wesley looked at Silberman expressionlessly. And Nick, his dark face a-smolder, absolutely glared at him. In front of all this, totally unexpected, totally mysterious, Fred felt his excitement flicker and subside.

At length Mr. Grahdy wiped his eyes and said something, was it the same something, was it a different something? was it in Slovo, was it in Huzzuk? was there a difference, what was the difference? Merry and cheerful, he looked at Fred. Who, having understood nothing, said nothing.

“You don’t understand our language, gentleman?”

“No.”

“Your grandfather understood our language.”

“Yes, but he didn’t teach me.” Actually, Uncle Jake
had
taught him a few words, but Silberman, on the point of remembering anyway one or two of them, and quoting, decided suddenly not to. Uncle Jake had been of a rather wry and quizzical humor; who knew if the words really meant what Uncle Jake had said they did?

Wes’s sister (cousin?) said, perhaps out of politeness, perhaps out of a wish to change the subject, perhaps for some other reason—she said, “Mrs. Grahdy is famous for her reciting. Maybe we can persuade Mrs. Grahdy to recite?”

Mrs. Grahdy was persuaded. First she stood up. She put on a silly face. She put her finger in her mouth. She was a little girl. Her voice was a mimic’s voice. She became, successively: hopeful, coy, foolish, lachrymose, cheerful. From the company: a few chuckles, a few titters. Then she stopped playing with her skirts, and, other expressions leaving her face, the corners of her mouth turned down and she looked around the room at everyone. Some exclamations of, supposedly, praise were heard, and a scattered clapping of hands; Mrs. Grahdy silenced all this in a moment. For a second she stood there, pokerfaced, stiff. Then she began a rapid recitation in what was obviously verse. Her face was exalted, tragic, outraged, severe: lots of things!
How
her arms and hands moved!
How
she peered and scouted!
How
she climbed mountains, swung swords. A voice in Fred’s ear said, half whispering, “This is a patriotic poem.” Mrs. Grahdy planted the flag on, so to speak, Iwo Jima. Loud cries from the others.
Much
applause. The patriotic poem was evidently over. The down-turned mouth was now revealed to be, not the mask of Tragedy, but the disciplined expression of one too polite to grin or smirk at her own success.

After a moment she turned to Silberman. “I know that not one word did you understand, but did the ear inform you the verses were alexandrines?”

He was hardly expecting this, scarcely he knew an alexandrine from an artichoke: and yet. Not pausing to examine his memory or to analyze the reply, he said, “Once I heard a recording of Sarah Bernhardt—” and could have kicked himself; surely she would feel he was taking the mickey out of her? Not at all. All phony “expression” gone, she made him a small curtsy. It was a perfectly done thing, in its little way a very sophisticated thing, an acknowledgment of an acceptable compliment, an exchange between equals. It made him thoughtful.

Grahdy: “So you didn’t understand what this Mr. Kabbaltz has asked?”—gesturing to the white-haired man in the far corner. Fred shook his head; if the question dealt with iambic pentameter, he would
plotz.
“This Mr. Kabbaltz has asked, the Slovo stove, you know, ‘Did it even get warm yet?’
Hoo,
hoo, hoo!
” laughed Mr. Grahdy, Mrs. Grahdy, Mr. Kabbaltz.
Hoo,
hoo, hoo!

Fred decided that ignorance was bliss; he turned his attention to the steaming bowl set before him as the people of the house dished out more food. Soup? Stew?
Pot
tage? He would ask no more questions for the moment. But could he go wrong if he praised the victuals? “Very good. This is very good.” He had said, evidently, the right thing. And in the right tone.—It
was
very good.

Mr. Grahdy again: “Your great-grandfather never send you to the Huzzuk-Slovo Center to learn language?”

“No, sir. Not there.”

“Then where he did send you?”

“To the Hebrew School, as they called it. To learn the prayers. And the Psalms.” Instantly again he saw those massive ancient great thick black letters marching across the page.
Page
after page. A fraction of a second less instantly Mr. Grahdy made the not quite pointing gesture, and declaimed. And paused. And demanded, “What is the second line? Eh?”

Silberman: “Mr. Grahdy, I didn’t even understand the
first
line.”

Surprise. “What? Not? But it is a
Psalm
.” He pronounced the
p
and he pronounced the
l
. “Of course in Latin. So—?”

“They didn’t teach us in Latin.”

More surprise. Then, a shake of the head. Silberman thought to cite a Psalm in Hebrew, reviewed the words in his mind, was overcome with doubt.
Was
that a line from a Psalm?—and not, say, the blessing upon seeing an elephant?…or something? The Hebrew teacher, a half-mad failed rabbinical student, had not been a man quick with an explanation. “Read,” he used to say. “Read.”

More food was set out: meat, in pastry crust. Then (Mr. Grahdy): “When you will be here tomorrow? Perhaps I shall bring my
violin
”—he pronounced it vee-o-leen—“and play something.”

“That would be nice”—Fred, noncommittally; and turning again to the food of the memorial feast, “Delicious!” said Fred.

“Is it warm yet?”—Mr. Grahdy.
Hoo,
hoo, hoo!
—
Mr.
Grahdy,
Mrs
. Grahdy, Mr. Kabbaltz. People entered, talked, ate, left. Someone: “You’re old Jake Silberman’s grandson?” “Great-nephew.” By and by Fred looked up: Mr. Kabbaltz and the Grahdys were gone. For a moment he heard them just outside the door. Laughing. Footfalls. The gate closed; nobody seemed left but family members. And Fred. Silence. Someone said, “Well, there go the Zunks.” Someone else: “Don’t call them that. Call them Huzzuks.”

Wesley suddenly leaped up, almost toppling his chair. Began to bang his head against the wall. “I can take Chinks!”
Bang
. “I can take Japs!”
Bang
. “I can take Wops, Wasps, Heebs, and Micks!”
Bang. Bang. Bang
.

“Wesley—”

“Wes—”

“Wassyli—”

“Was—”

“I can take Spics and Niggers.”
Bang! Bang!
“I can
not
take—
Zunks!
”
Bang!
Abruptly, he sat down, and held his head.

In Fred’s mind:
Question:
So what’s a Zunk?
Answer:
A deprecated Huzzuk.

Wes began again. “They can talk Latin. We can hardly grunt. They recite poems. We can barely tell a dirty joke. They have violinists. We are lucky if we got fiddlers. Why did God punish us poor Slovo slobs by putting us in the same country with them, over there in Europe? Why are we still respectful to them, over here in America? Why? Somebody please tell me.
Why?
”

A sister, or maybe a sister-in-law, said, somewhat slowly, “Well…they are better educated—”

This set Wes off again. “In
their
dialect,
they
had books, magazines, newspapers. All
we
had was the catechism and the missal, in ours.
They
—”

“We had a newspaper. Didn’t Papa’s brother used to send it to us…sometimes?
We
—”

Wesley brushed the invisible ethnic newspaper aside. “The
Patriótsk?
The
Patriótsk.
Came out once a month. One sheet of paper, printed on four pages. What was in it? The new laws, the price of pigs,
some
obituaries,
no
births, and the Saints’ Days in both Church calendars: that’s
all. Finish
. The
Patriótsk!
” Evidently the invisible newspaper had climbed on the table again, for Wesley swept it off again, and then he trampled on it. Heavily.

“Hey, look at the time. I got to be going. I sure want to thank you for that delicious—”

“We are giving you some to take with you, home,” said an aunt. Or was it a niece?

“Oh, I—”

“It’s the
cus
tom. And you
liked
.”

“Oh, sure. But my new apartment isn’t ready yet, and my aunt is strictly kosher.” They didn’t say anything ecumenical, neither did they tell him that the Law of Moses was dead and reprobate; they began to put fruit into a paper bag. A
large
paper bag.

But Wes, taking head from hand, was not finished yet. “Why?
Why?
Will someone tell me
why
?”

Someone, surely a sister, too straight-faced to be serious, said, “They are so beautiful; they ride red horses.” Wes almost screamed. When had she ever seen a Huzzuk on a horse? When had she ever seen a
red
horse? Nick’s wife told Silberman that it was a saying. A proverb.

“Anyway,
you
know, some people say it wasn’t the
horse
that was red, but, uh, the things on the horse? What the horse, like,
wore?
” Nick, who had been reading the funny papers with a very unfunny expression, now fired up. Who
gave
a damn? he demanded. Quit
talk
ing about all them old European things, he demanded. Fred announced his thanks for the fruit. Wes asked Nick if he wasn’t
in
terested in his rich Old World heritage; Nick, upon whom subtlety was wasted, shouted that
no
, he
was
n’t; Wes ceased being subtle and shouted back; Fred Silberman said that he really had to be going. And started out.

Someone came out into the hall and walked along with him: old Mrs. Brakk…being very polite, he thought. A dim light was on in her room. She stopped. He paused to say good night. The look she now gave him, had she been forty years younger, would have been an invitation which he knew could not be
what
she now meant; what was it she now meant?

“You want to come in,” she said. “You want to see how it works.” She moved inside the room. Silberman followed, beginning to breathe heavily, beginning to feel the earlier excitement. He had for
got
ten! How could he have for
got
ten?

“First you put on the black piece, up on here.” The book-sized slab slid into its place on the rack. The infant sighed in sleep. “
Yes,
my rope of pearls,” she said softly. “Next, you put on the sorcepan with the water in it. Now, I make just a bowl of tea, for me. And so…
next …
you put in the blue piece,” about the size of a magazine, “down…
there
. See? This is what we call the Slovo stove. And so now it gets warm…”

What
had the old Huzzuks, those quasi-countrymen of the old Slovos, what had they
meant
, “Is it even warm yet?” Silberman forgot the question as he watched the vapors rise, felt the air warm, above; felt the unwarmed space between the two “pieces,” the thicker fragment of black stone (if it
was
stone) and the thin fragment of pale blue; saw, astonishingly soon, the size of crabs’ eyes, the tiny bubbles form; and, finally, the rolling boil. He was still dazed when she made the tea; he hadn’t remembered setting down the bag of fruit, but now he picked it up, set a soft thank-you and good-night, left the house.

He could hear them still shouting in the kitchen.

“That’s nice,” said Tanta Pesha when he gave her the fruit.

“Tanta, what is it with the Huzzuks and the Slovos?”

Out came the bananas. “The Huzzuks?” She washed the bananas, dried them with a paper towel, dropped it in the garbage. “The Huzzuks. They are all right.” Out came the oranges.

“Well, what about the Slovos?”

She washed the oranges. “The Slovos?” She dried the oranges with a paper towel, dropped it in the garbage. “The Slovos? They are very clean. You could eat off their floors. On Saturday night they get drunk,” and he waited for more, but no more came: Tanta Pesha was washing the apples. This done, she was overcome by a scruple. “Used to,” she said. “Now? I don’t know. Since I moved away.” How long had she and Uncle Jake lived near the Huzzuks’ and Slovos’ neighborhood? She began to dry the apples with a paper towel. How long? Forty years, she said.