Barney's Version (23 page)

Charnofsky? Her first husband. I shook my pounding head, trying, unavailingly, to clear it of the jackhammer within. “The art teacher?” I asked, baffled.

“The art teacher? You understand Yiddish, may I be so bold to inquire?”

“Some.”

“I'm your
machuten
. Clara's father. May I come in?”

“Yes. Certainly. Excuse me a minute, will you?”

I splashed my face with water once more, and emerged to discover I wasn't hallucinating. Mr. Charnofsky was still there. Hands clasped behind his back, he was studying the ink drawings that still hung on the wall. “I take it you are an artist, Mr. Panofsky.”

“Clara's,” I said.

“Clara's. Why would she buy such disgusting things?”

“She made them.”

“She made them. I couldn't help noticing in that little room there, a crib. There is a child?”

“We lost him.”

“So you lost a son and I lost a daughter. May there be no more mourning in your house or mine.”

“Would you care for some coffee?”

“It gives me gas. Especially the Frenchy kind they serve here. But a cup of tea would be nice, if you don't mind?”

He cleared a space for himself at the table, ostentatiously brushing it free of crumbs, and sweeping aside a half-filled mug in which
several Gauloise butts floated. He inspected his teaspoon and wiped it on the edge of the tablecloth. “Lemon, you've got some?” he asked.

“Sorry. I'm out.”

“He's out,” said Mr. Charnofsky, shrugging. And then, sucking on a sugar cube, sipping tea, he told me he was the cantor of the B'nai Jacob synagogue in Brighton Beach. “It's not a princely living,” he said, “but they provide us with an apartment, the building belongs to the synagogue's president, he would die before he would agree to a paint job, never mind fix a leaky toilet bowl, his wife's barren, it's a shame, so who will he leave his fortune to? His problem. I have plenty of my own. Gall-bladder stones, you shouldn't live to see the day. I also suffer from sinus trouble, varicose veins, and corns on my feet. It's from standing so much in the synagogue. Listen here, cancer it isn't, right? And, oh yes, there is the pittance I earn from performing at weddings and funerals, they slip you fifty dollars they want a tax receipt, and I preside over seders every Pesach at Finestone's Strictly Kosher Hotel in the Catskills. Every year sold out because of me. My voice. A gift from the Almighty, Blessed be He. But where does Fine-stone put me up, he's so grateful for the money he's raking in? In a room the size of a cupboard behind the kitchen, the fridge and the larder locked up at night in case I might steal a Coca-Cola or a tin of sardines. I have to walk a mile to do my business. Anyway, I sent Clara whatever I could spare care of American Express, which is the only address I had for her.”

Mr. Charnofsky had two children. There was Solly, an accountant, an alrightnik, married, blessed with two lovely kids. Rank-one scholars, both of them. He showed me photographs. “You're their uncle now. Milton was born on February eighteenth and Arty on June twenty-eight, if you care to write that down for future reference.” And of course there was also Clara. “
Aleha ha-sholem
,” he said. “You look,
epes
, surprised to see me.”

“I need time to take this in.”

“Time he needs. And what about me, mister? Did I even know she was married, my own daughter?” he asked, his ingratiating manner yielding to anger. “You did say my Clara drew these filthy pictures?”

“Yes.”

Obviously the condition of our apartment had emboldened Mr. Charnofsky. Mind you, to his Brighton Beach eyes it had to appear a dump, not the prize that had cost me a good deal of key money. He pulled a white linen handkerchief out of a trouser pocket and dabbed his forehead with it. “And she never told you about us, it goes without saying?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“He's afraid not. Well, for my part, I'm certainly surprised Miss Cat's Meow married a Jewish boy. A nigger would have been more like it. She adored them.”

“I don't like anybody calling them ‘niggers,' if you don't mind.”

“If I don't mind. Be my guest. Call them what you like,” said Mr. Charnofsky, sniffing the stale air, his nose wrinkling. “If you were willing to open a window, I wouldn't say no.”

I did as he asked.

“If you are not an artist, Mr. Panofsky, do you mind if I ask what, exactly, is your field of endeavour?”

“I'm an exporter.”

“He's an exporter. But business can't be so hot. To live like this. Five flights up and no elevator. No fridge. No dishwasher.”

“We managed.”

“You think I'm being unfair. But if your son, your own flesh and blood,
alav ha-sholem
, had lived and grown up and was ashamed of you, how would you feel?”

I got up, found the cognac, and poured some into my coffee. Mr. Charnofsky clacked his tongue. He sighed. “Is that schnapps I see?”

“Cognac.”

“Cognac. Honour thy father and thy mother. That's a commandment. Do you do that at least?”

“My mother's a problem.”

“And your father, what may I ask does he do for a living?”

“He's a cop.”

“A cop. Oh ho. Where are you from, Mr. Panofsky?”

“Montreal.”

“Montreal. Ah. Then perhaps you know the Kramers? A fine family. Or Cantor Labish Zabitsky?”

“Sorry. No.”

“But Cantor Zabitsky is well known. We have performed in concerts together at Grossinger's. People had to book early. Are you sure you never heard of him?”

“I don't come from an observant family.”

“But you're not ashamed of being Jewish,” he cried, a burst furuncle. “Like her. Like Clara.”

“
Aleha ha-sholem
,” I said, reaching for the cognac bottle again.

“She was twelve years old and she began to tear her hair out in clumps for a how-do-you-do. ‘Dr. Kaplan,' I said, he's an honoured member of our congregation, a big contributor, ‘what should I do?' ‘Have her periods started yet?' he asked. Feh! How should I know a thing like that? ‘Send her to see me,' he said. So you think Clara was grateful, he didn't even charge me. ‘He felt up my tits,' she said. A twelve-year-old. Language like that. From the gutter. Mrs. Charnofsky held her down and I washed her mouth out with soap.

“Then it started. What am I talking? It had already started. The craziness. ‘You're not my parents,' she said. We should be so lucky. ‘I'm adopted,' she said. ‘And I want to know who my real parents are.' ‘Sure,' I said. ‘You're the daughter of Czar Nicholas. Or maybe it's King George of England. I forget which.' ‘I'm not Jewish,' she said. ‘I know that much. So I want you to tell me who my real parents are.' Until we told her she said she wouldn't eat. So eventually we had to force open her mouth, and she was a biter let me tell you, pouring chicken soup into her mouth through a funnel. And then she would vomit all over me on purpose. My good suit. It was positively disgusting.

“Next I would find filthy books under her mattress.
Translated from the French. Nina
or
Nana
or some such. Poetry by that bastard Heine, he was also ashamed of being a Jew. Sholem Aleichem wasn't good enough for Miss Hotzenklotz. And she started to go to Greenwich Village and could be gone for two days. That's when I started locking her into her room at night. Too late, I found out. Because she was no longer a virgin. Going out on the street dressed like a whore. Our street. People were talking. I could lose my position in
the synagogue, and then what? I'd have to sing on street corners. Listen here, that's how Eddie Cantor got started, and look at him today, with such a thin voice and those popping eyes. I'll bet he isn't even five feet tall. But he's a millionaire yet, so they look up to him, the goyim.

“It got to be too much. Her tantrums. The filth she talked. Sometimes not coming out of her room for ten days, sitting there, staring at nothing. Thank God for Dr. Kaplan, he arranged for a mental hospital. Expert care she got, never mind the expense. We did without. They gave her electro-shock therapy, the latest thing in modern medicine. She comes home, she slits her wrists in the bathtub for a thank-you. The ambulance sits outside. Everybody is peeking through their curtains. Mrs. Charnofsky was so ashamed she wouldn't leave the apartment for a week. On top of all my other duties I have to do the shopping or come home to tuna sandwiches.

“I want you to know, Mr. Panofsky, you shouldn't blame yourself, because it wasn't the first time she tried suicide. Or the second. Dr. Kaplan tells me it's a cry for help. She wants help, she can ask. Am I deaf? A bad father? Nonsense. Mr. Panofsky you're still a youngster,” he said, hauling out his immense handkerchief to blow his nose. “Exporting is a top-notch line of business and you should do better at it if you work hard. You should marry again. Have children. All those cartons on the floor. Are you moving out of here, I wouldn't blame you?”

“They're her things. Leave me your address and I'll have them shipped to you.”

“What things, for example?”

“Clothes. Her notebooks. Poems. Diaries. Her ink drawings.”

“What would I need them for?”

“There are people who think highly of her work. You should have a publisher look at it.”

“Diaries, you said. Full of lies about us, I'll bet. Filth. Making us out for monsters.”

“Maybe it would be better if I handled this.”

“No. Ship them. I'll leave you my card. My nephew should look at it. He's a professor of literature at
NYU
. Highly thought of. He used to encourage her.”

“Like you did.”

“Like I did. Oh, very nice. Thank you, I'm sure. After all Mrs. Charnofsky and I suffered. The shame she brought on us.”

“Electro-shock therapy. My God.”

“What if I told you those times she wouldn't come out of her room for ten days, maybe two weeks, we left food for her outside the door. Once Mrs. Charnofsky goes to pick up the empty plate, she lets out a shriek, I thought somebody had died. And you know what was on that plate? You should pardon me, her number two. Yes, mister. That's what she did. At the hospital they recommended that operation — what do you call it? A frontal laboratory. But my nephew, the professor, said no. I mustn't allow it. Do you think I did wrong to listen to my nephew?”

“Oh, you did wrong, Mr. Charnofsky. Bloody wrong. But not about that, you damn fool.”

“You damn fool. Is that a way to talk to an older man, I just lost a daughter?”

“Get out of here, Mr. Charnofsky.”

“Get out of here. Did you think I was going to invite myself to dinner in such a dump?”

“Get out of here before I throw you on the floor and wash your mouth out with soap.”

I grabbed him, frog-marched him out of the door, and slammed it shut. Then he started to pound on the door. “I want my homburg,” he said.

I retrieved it, whacked open the door, and thrust it at him.

“You couldn't have made her so happy,” said Mr. Charnofsky, “if that's what my Clara did to herself.”

“You know, Mr. Charnofsky, I'm quite capable of literally throwing you down the stairs.”

“Pish pish.”

I took a step toward him.

“The man at the embassy told me she was dead two days
³²
when you found her on Thursday. But the table was set for dinner for two.
There was a burnt chicken in the oven. So, I ask myself, where were you that night, Mr. Panofsky?”

I took another step toward him. He started down the stairs, stopped in mid-flight, shook his fist at me, and hollered, “Murderer.
Oysvorf. Momzer
. I wish
makkes
on you and your unborn children. Plagues. Deformities. Phew,” he said, spitting on the floor, and turning to flee once I started after him again.

“I'm worried about Clara,” he says, watching me closely. But I decline the trap he is setting for me.

670 words today.