The Boxer (16 page)

“And how I’m happy!” Aron said. “How did you know what the letter said?”

“Irma told me.”

“Irma? Who’s Irma?”

“You don’t know Irma?”

Mark’s amazement wasn’t feigned; apparently Irma was a very familiar name for him, and his own father, the all-knowing, didn’t know Irma. “Irma is the nurse.”

He dragged Aron into the house, went into his room, then to another one, and knocked on the door. In the process Aron caught himself thinking of other things:
He walks like a real person, he knocks on the door like a real person
. Mark asked an elderly nurse if Nurse Irma was there.

“She’s out.”

“When will she be back?”

“She didn’t say. Probably this evening.”

“I’m taking him home today,” Aron said.

“Well then, our young man will be happy,” the nurse said indifferently.

“Is the doctor available?”

“He’s not here either.”

“Please tell him that I’ll be back.”

In Mark’s sleeping hall Aron said, “You must say good-bye to your friends.”

“I don’t have any friends.”

Aron opened Mark’s bedside table, took everything out, and Mark started to cry. He turned his head to the wall and brought his hands to his eyes more and more frequently; soon he gave up trying to hide his tears. Some other children had come closer and stared
as if they were at a circus
, but they left solemnly when Aron chased them off shouting. Aron unfolded his handkerchief
and gave it a shot
. “Tell me about Irma.”

With this he had found the exact source of Mark’s tears. Mark described, at first interrupted by sobs, an unearthly being. Beautiful, clever, friendly, selfless, so it seems. Aron couldn’t understand why his son had hidden such a treasure from him. If Mark was telling the truth, then Irma had taken care of him ten or a hundred times more lovingly than was to be expected of a nurse. She had read to him both books Aron had brought and others too, she had an answer to every question, she had gone walking with Mark so that he could see what was beyond the walls and the parks of the home. Once she had built an entire person out of snow for him,
a snowman
— that’s how Irma was.

“Did she spend as much time with the other children?” Aron asked.

“No, only with me,” Mark said. It sounded as if he had meant “That’s the whole point!” And he sounded proud.

“Did she give you your food?”

Mark said that sometimes he had offered her his chocolate but she never took even one piece, as if this was the ultimate proof of how special she was. He said, “Sometimes we also talked about you.”

“About me?”

“She asked me and I told her.”

“What did you tell her?”

“About how you got healthy that time.”

“And what else?”

“I can’t remember.”

O
nly when Mark asserted that they had also spoken about him, Aron says, did he suspect that Irma’s attentions were directed not only to his son but to himself, and that Mark had played the role of a go-between. “I told you how I brought lots of packages. Wasn’t it understandable, then, that she should be interested in such a father? And that he didn’t have a mother, he would have said that, too. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that it must have been that way, but wasn’t my suspicion logical?”

“No, it’s illogical.”

“Why is it illogical?”

“How do you explain the fact that up to the last day she didn’t try to meet you? Surely there had been plenty of occasions.”

“Perhaps she had tried but I simply didn’t notice.”

“That’s splitting hairs. In the end you’ll claim that her reserve was purely a sign of refinement.”

Aron smiles at me — that’s exactly what he thinks — however, he prefers not to answer my loaded question immediately but to let the facts speak for themselves.

M
ark’s move brought considerable changes that were greater than Aron had predicted. The biggest and most notable change was that Mark was
present twenty-four hours
a day

Like Aron before him, Mark had to get used to the apartment gradually, with the additional awkwardness that most of the objects in his new surroundings were not only unfamiliar; they were completely unknown to him. For example, he had never seen a closet, never heard a radio; the first rocking chair of his life was the subject of daylong experiments.

What had hitherto been the living room was converted into a bedroom for Mark, and Aron slept in the master bedroom. Conveniently, both rooms had doors leading to the corridor. Aron didn’t let Mark sleep with him in the double bed, not even for one night. He would have liked to, but
just in time
he remembered when as a child he was allowed to sleep with his mother for one week in his father’s bed while his father was away on business, and the tragedy that followed when his father came back.

Mark’s presence did not affect his work — Aron could take care of it in the evening or when Mark took his afternoon nap — but it did affect his relationship with Ostwald. Ostwald came as usual, at any time of the day, and sat down, to talk and drink. He hardly noticed Mark. He didn’t actually ignore him, he just reduced their relationship to what was unavoidable — as if he didn’t want to appear impolite. Ostwald wasn’t crazy about children, Aron says, and had made it clear that the reasons for his visits had nothing to do with Mark. On the other hand, Mark wasn’t an obtrusive child but was self-contained and shy. Aron presumes he must have sensed Ostwald’s reserve. In any case, as soon as Ostwald would turn up, Mark would retreat to his room, where he would play or look out the window. Then Ostwald tried to behave like he always did, but Aron sat there with a bad conscience, and in his thoughts he was in the neighboring room. He looked past Ostwald and restrained the drinking; he didn’t want Mark to see his father drunk. Ostwald said, “The only way out is to get some help. You can definitely afford it.”

Though Aron promised to find a housekeeper, for several weeks he did nothing. Ostwald didn’t pressure him,
he never said things twice
, but his behavior changed noticeably. Until then their meetings had been entertaining mainly because of his liveliness, now he hardly spoke. Aron had the impression that he came only for the liquor, and Ostwald didn’t try to challenge this impression. He drank hastily to reach the desired state as fast as possible and not have to extend his visit longer than necessary. Soon he came rarely and finally not at all.

For a couple of days Aron didn’t miss him; he was almost relieved by Ostwald’s absence. The cognac was locked up, Aron busied himself with Mark and was
a good father
, until this new situation felt like a sacrifice to his son. He started longing for Ostwald; he thought that with his absence Ostwald wanted to punish him.

P
unish you? What for?”

“His staying away could have been a sign of a jealousy.”

“He was jealous of Mark?”

“Yes, that’s what I thought.”

“Why did you care so much? Was it fun to watch him drink?”

“It was only like that in the last few days, it wasn’t like that at the beginning.”

“What first attracted you to him?”

Although he has already lifted his hand from the table to brush off my question, Aron declares himself prepared to name a couple of reasons after all: Ostwald was an intelligent person. He was original, meaning entertaining and amusing. With time he, Aron, had the feeling that Ostwald needed him for more than just the cognac — that behind Ostwald’s self-conscious words was a person in need. Ostwald was like him; the past had damaged them in similar ways. And, not least, Aron says, Ostwald had been above every suspicion.

on did his best not to let Mark feel his vexation, but it became increasingly difficult. One morning he took him by the hand and went to see Ostwald. Normally Aron took advantage of walks to explain the world to Mark, often until they were both exhausted;
it had to be that way
. For example, shop signs were particularly suitable material for Mark’s first reading lessons. This time, however, Aron was silent, and in his thoughts he prepared for the meeting with Ostwald. He planned a sort of reconciliation, which was problematic since no argument had taken place. There had been only a growing estrangement, which was the result of a new situation that could not be changed by any number of well-meant words. Thus Aron’s visit was hardly more than a gesture; nothing could be clarified through an exchange of opinions.

In Ostwald’s street he was suddenly afraid that his visit itself could lead to a fight. Aron was aware that he had a tendency to choleric outbursts, and experience had taught him that good intentions offered scant protection from them. A choleric, he says, does not choose when he shouts and when not. It could easily happen, if Ostwald stuck to his guns for too long, that Aron would shout at him. He would accuse Ostwald of coming to his apartment only to drink good liquor, everything else was just an excuse. And he pictured his reaction when Ostwald would answer, “That’s exactly why I came.”

Ostwald wasn’t home. Aron didn’t have a piece of paper on which to write a message, that he could then drop into the mail slot. He would have liked to leave some sign of life, he had nothing on him that could have reminded Ostwald of him. Only a banknote, he says but, as things stood, that was not a serious possibility. He even knocked in vain on the door to the neighboring apartment.

On the way home he was plagued by the suspicion that Ostwald had spotted him through the window and that was why he hadn’t opened the door. He was thinking of going back when Mark announced that his feet hurt. Aron carried him part of the way home. People turned around to stare; the children grinned because nobody had to carry them when they were Mark’s age. Aron started the lessons again. But Mark didn’t want to listen; he brought up the topic of Nurse Irma. It wasn’t the first time he had begged Aron to let him visit her in the home; he said that at least he would like to write her a letter, Nurse Irma would definitely answer.

“It’s your birthday soon,” Aron said, “then we’ll go there. Definitely.”

Mark asked what that was, a birthday. Time and again Aron was struck by
such
questions. He explained the reason and sense of birthdays and didn’t forget to mention the important role of presents. He said, “For your birthday you can wish for something beautiful and, if you’re lucky, you actually get it.”

“Does everybody have a birthday?”

“Everybody.”

“You too?”

“Naturally.”

“Can you also wish for something?”

“Yes.”

“From whom?”

“From you,” Aron said. “From who else?”

He observed that this information, in addition to all anticipated joy, apparently brought a new preoccupation into Mark’s life.

*  *  *

N
ow and again Kenik would come by and offer his services, more and more often since Mark’s arrival. Aron gratefully accepted; Kenik soon became indispensable tohim. It would never have occurred to Aron to leave Mark alone in the apartment for over a quarter of an hour, the time it took for a quick purchase. Whenever he had a longer errand to run he took Mark along, or Kenik had to come. He himself found such attention exaggerated; nevertheless, he took Mark along or called Kenik.

To Aron’s question how he could show his gratitude for putting him through so much trouble, Kenik replied, “Don’t talk like that, you’ve already done so much for me.”

W
ith time I liked him better. But I never knew what to say to him. He felt most at ease when the table was well set and he could talk about the past. Not necessarily about the camp, simply about the past. Probably he felt that the past was the most important part of his life. But he talked about it in a way that in my opinion led to nothing. The old times were one thing and the new ones something else and in between there were no bridges. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that I am better than he is. It’s just that I didn’t know what to do with him. I was bored. I once thought that Kenik was perfect for people who collect prejudices against Jews. He got along splendidly with Mark.”

*  *  *

W
hen the monthly statements were due, Aron went to Tennenbaum and found him waiting with tea and cookies. Tennenbaum’s intention to solve the dissension between them could not be overlooked; right at the door he laid his hand in a friendly manner on Aron’s back and led him into the room in which the table was set. He hardly looked at the columns of numbers Aron had handed him; he laid the paper to one side as if it would only disturb their cozy afternoon. He remarked that everything was bound to be correct, as always. Yet Aron saw no reason to share Tennenbaum’s conciliatory mood — this unfounded heartiness —
without a fight
. He said, “You didn’t think so for a long time.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You’d better check. Just a couple of weeks ago you were worried about the balances. What has changed in the meantime?”

Tennenbaum looked at him like a wounded deer, Aron relates. With a little reproach and much patience in his eyes, Tennenbaum said, “Why do you have to remind me of that?”

“Because I remember. Either you are worried, in which case you should check, or you’re not worried, in which case why did you say you are?”

“All right,” Tennenbaum said, smiling. “Will you nevertheless drink a cup of tea with me, a sinner?”

While Tennenbaum poured tea into the cups, Aron wondered why his boss had become so friendly. Perhaps Tennenbaum had recently looked around in vain for a new bookkeeper, hence the about-face.

While they sipped their tea, Tennenbaum was preparing an explanation, Aron could tell. He discarded unexpressed formulas and searched for better ones. Finally he said, “In all honesty, Mr. Blank, something has indeed changed. If you remember correctly, recently we spoke about the books, with which I was always satisfied. The topic of our brief conversation was, if you’ll allow me the pompous word, your lifestyle.”