The End of Everything (New Yiddish Library Series) (37 page)

Not long ago she’d re-read one of Turgenev’s books: a Russian girl could no longer cope with life around her, so she retreated to a convent and came to nothing.
*
But she, Mirel—she was no longer a girl, while the concept of a convent was totally alien to her and seemed so silly. From childhood on she’d never been taught how to be religious. Since she could no longer cope with the state of affairs in which she found herself, she’d have to seek farther afield:

—She couldn’t say whether or not she’d find anything, but go she would.

Having reached the start of the chain bridge, they stopped. Because of the Zaydenovskis, Montchik could go no farther into the suburb. A sad little fire burned in Mirel’s dreamy eyes; deep, deep within the dream it burned, gazing out dreamily to some distant place diagonally across the broad, flowing river. Above the blue shadows under her eyes, her long black lashes seemed even longer and blacker than usual, investing with particular grace her alluring, perfectly straight mouth, which she now kept sternly shut. Suddenly that little fire flashed like lightning in her eyes:

—I have an acquaintance, a Hebrew poet, Montchik. For the most part he smiled a great deal, this acquaintance of hers, and generally held his peace, but once he’d said of her:

—Nothing would ever come of Mirel, he’d said. She was nothing more than a transitional point in human development, and nothing would come of her.

A smile of self-mockery kindled in her eyes, and she turned to glance at Montchik with it:

—I myself—this acquaintance of mine has said—am nothing, and will never get anywhere. The centrally overriding consideration, he says, are those who will come after me.

She wanted to part from him and cross the bridge alone, but Montchik, who was lost in thought, started as though awakening from sleep:

—Out of the question! He might be unable to call on the Zaydenovskis, but he could certainly accompany her to the other side of the bridge.

Afterward he was so confused that he couldn’t remember when he’d recrossed the bridge and boarded a streetcar. When he paid the conductor his fare, a wallet stuffed with papers fell from his pocket. An old general sitting opposite him noticed his state of distraction, picked up the wallet and returned it to him, but he stared straight at the general with unseeing eyes and didn’t even thank him. Such idiotic thoughts crept into his mind:

—No, this was certainly something that couldn’t be, this possibility now so seemingly feasible, that he, Montchik, might ostensibly be able to marry Mirel. It was so absurd. And he had no idea how such a hopeless prospect could ever have occurred to him. Firstly, he could never imagine such happiness for himself … Mirel was something of an intellectual, after all … And secondly … What? Who? When? Did Mirel need him? Mirel needed something else … Wait … Perhaps that acquaintance of hers was right in saying that she was “a transitional point” … “a transitional point.” But wait … Recently he, Montchik, had made so much money, and she, Mirel … . She’d soon be needy … How could it be otherwise?

—After all, it would simply be a pleasure if Mirel would consent to take as much as she needed from him … First of all, she needed to go abroad on her own … to Italy, for example. Winter was coming on … She’d definitely have to rest after the summer she’d just lived through. But wait: how could one tell her this? How could one possibly propose this to her?

By the time he’d shaken o. all this confusion, the streetcar had carried him to another side of the city and farther than he needed to go. He finally got off and started walking back home. But soon he was overcome by confusion once more. Some elegantly dressed young man, a merchant, delighted to have met him here in the street, dismissed those of his companions in whose company he was on his way to pass the evening and began discussing business with him:

One contract here, another contract there.

Montchik stood opposite him, biting his thumb and looking down at the pavement in a daze. The elegant young man was under the impression that Montchik couldn’t hear him over the incessant rattle of passing streetcars and droshkies, so he led him to the top end of a quiet street nearby and there began repeating everything from the beginning again. But Montchik stared at his interlocutor with glazed, staring eyes, finally took him by the arm, and made his position clear to him:

—Man alive! You can go on talking to me as much as you want, but I can’t hear a single word you’re saying … What can’t you understand here? I’m dealing with a diffcult personal matter at the moment and I’m simply not capable …

The Zaydenovskis postponed the divorce until the following Wednesday week and decided to relocate it to a town downriver
*
where they weren’t well known.

This notion originated with Miriam Lyubashits, who once unexpectedly remarked:

—I don’t understand why a huge fuss has to be made about this divorce here in the city.

Her aunt seized on her objection and took it o. to her husband in his study:

—I beg you: Miriam’s quite right, after all …

Of late, nothing generally got done in the house without Miriam’s advice and approval. Her aid was even enlisted when Shmulik locked himself up in his room for a whole day and refused to allow any food to be brought in to him. Toward nightfall, someone remarked:

—Where’s Miriam, for heaven’s sake? Why shouldn’t she go into Shmulik’s room and see to it that he eats?

And Miriam went in to him, and he ate.

The younger Lyubashits, who wasn’t directly involved in any of this, observed it all with great amusement. He held his sides as his substantial frame doubled up with laughter:

—Oh, Miriam, what’s become of you?

Before her marriage, he recalled, she’d been a person of significance, and in political circles her name had continually cropped up in connection with even the most trivial activity. But now she’d been reduced to nothing more than a commonplace wet nurse. How could she possibly pretend otherwise? What great difference did it make whether she nursed her own child or someone else’s?

Miriam was livid and glowered at him as if he’d gone mad.

—Can anyone understand this Shoylik?

Her baby started crying, so she took the child from Rikl who was holding her, glaring at the younger Lyubashits, her face flushed in fury. She was on the verge of saying something coarse to him, but her aunt heard the child’s crying and suddenly came up:

—Listen, Miriam, have you done anything to soothe the little one’s stomach?

Miriam immediately put Shoylik’s idiocy out of her mind and began complaining to her aunt:

—She didn’t know what to do and was at her wits’ end. The child had been in distress all night and the warm compresses hadn’t helped at all.

Little by little, its former tranquility returned to the house. In the silence that prevailed in the hushed, tidied rooms, the adults once again started taking naps during the day, and the noisy children were now confined to their own distant nursery. Shmulik alone still failed to sleep through the night, suffered from migraines, and strongly resented his mother for continually coming in to take his temperature:

—Why was he continually being bothered with the thermometer? Why wasn’t he left alone? He had no temperature.

That he looked worse from day to day, spoke to no one, and locked himself up in his room where he paced up and down for hours on end in his stocking feet, had all become familiar to the members of the household. But one night something wholly unexpected befell him and shocked them all just after they’d extinguished their lamps and retired to bed. From one room to another the sound of frantic shrieking ripped through the silent darkness:

—What’s happened?

—Who’s unwell?

—Get a lamp lit immediately!

Around the lamp that had been lit in Shmulik’s room, there was a rushed jostling of women’s bare shoulders, men’s uncovered arms, and glaringly white drawers. Someone raised Shmulik’s head, someone else sprinkled water on his face. He’d already slowly opened his eyes, staring bemusedly at the people who surrounded him and were informing one another:

—It’s nothing, nothing … Shmulik suddenly felt unwell; he imagined he was going blind.

He soon dozed off, started awake, then dozed off again. The doors of his room were opened wide and the lamp was left burning, a chair was placed next to his bed with a peeled orange on it, and all returned to their night’s rest. But some while later, Shmulik awoke once more and couldn’t fall asleep again. He began pacing about his room.

This was about three o’clock in the morning. From all around came the sound of comfortable snoring. He strode back and forth, impatiently waiting for the dawn. When day came, he’d go in there, to Mirel’s wing, and would tell her:

—Early on Wednesday morning—he’d tell her—they’d travel out for the divorce … Everything was over. He wished to ask only one thing of her: would she come in with him to take formal leave of his father and sit with him for a while, not more than fifteen minutes? … That quarter-hour would demonstrate that nothing untoward had occurred between them; that she’d simply come with him to visit his father.

He wanted Mirel to give him a passing thought at the end:

—Shmulik’s changed completely … He’s become a different person.

The next day he went across to their wing several times but found no one there except the servant girl. He waited until fires had been kindled for the evening and went across again. This time Mirel was in. She’d only just returned from town. A lamp was burning in her room, and in front of the open wardrobes stood the large trousseau chest in which the maid had been helping to pack her things all morning. She lay in bed facing the door and her features, still flushed from the chill outdoors, expressed both curiosity and astonishment as he entered. He took fright and looked down.

Later, in the same state of fright, he sat opposite her on the chair next to the bed and said something totally different from what he’d been preparing to say:

—He’d thought that perhaps … perhaps she might still go in to take her formal leave—that’s what he’d thought.

He didn’t look at her. Quite suddenly he felt her stroking his knee with her smooth, soft hand. He slowly raised his eyes and saw:

Still lying on the bed, she’d moved closer to him. Leaning on her elbows, her head in her hand, she looked directly into his eyes.

—Shmulik—she asked—have I done you harm?

Shmulik’s heart pounded.

—Harm? No … Who says so?

Mirel was obliged to rise very early to finish packing what remained of her belongings. She had also to reserve a room in the quiet hotel opposite the Shpolianskis’ apartment and leave instructions for her luggage to be sent on there. The boat that traveled downriver to the city where the divorce was to be finalized left at ten in the morning. The proceedings would take place between five and six that afternoon after which, to avoid traveling with the Zaydenovskis, she’d return by train and Montchik would meet her at the station. He’d promised. By that evening she’d undoubtedly be exhausted. Even now she felt a great weariness throughout her body. But was this any excuse? Now she felt some compassion for Shmulik, and had given him her word. She’d have to put on her shawl and spend a few minutes in the big house.

Her mother-in-law’s maid, who opened the back door for her, started back, so stunned was she by Mirel’s sudden entrance. Because of her arrival, the mood in the dining room suddenly tensed. The chair next to her mother-in-law was vacated for her, but no one dared start any conversation. Someone called aside the visiting out-of-town relative, a newly married young woman who was sitting at the table; Miriam Lyubashits began whispering in Rikl’s ear and soon went out into another room with her; and Mirel, feeling oppressed, began to regret having come. She thought:

—She’d done her duty … Now she could go back.

But her mother-in-law suddenly started blinking and leaned closer to her. During the last few days, she’d not been able to rid herself of a suspicion of an exclusively female kind. Now she had to question Mirel about it.

At her first question, Mirel blushed violently. Without looking at her, she answered brusquely and irritably:

—No.

—I can’t remember.

—For a long time.

Suddenly her mother-in-law, looking like an astounded small-town grandmother, straightened her entire foolish frame:

—Yes—her expression said—I’m content now.

She looked around, but there was no one here except Mirel. So she turned to her once again and said with loud incredulity:

—Mirele, you’re pregnant, you know!

—What?

She thought her mother-in-law had taken leave of her senses. She was simply speaking like an idiot.

To spite her, she instantly rose from her place and demanded loudly:

—She didn’t understand … And that apart, what had this to do with the divorce?

But all around her the tumult in the room was now so great that no one was listening to what she said. Someone called Shmulik in. Someone else hurried off to the study to give Yankev-Yosl the news. And Miriam Lyubashits was already standing in the doorway again. As soon as the mother-in-law had rapidly imparted some information to her, she looked across at Mirel and nodded her head:

—Of course; what a question!

That night, Mirel felt intensely nauseous and woke the servant girl twice. She made her take a note to Shmulik in which she wrote that she didn’t love him and reminded him that even before their wedding she’d stipulated in a clause in their betrothal contract that she reserved the right to leave him at any time; that she still didn’t believe she was pregnant but that in any case she couldn’t have a child with him; that if she was indeed pregnant, he alone was responsible and a remedy for the pregnancy had to be sought.

Shmulik was persuaded to drive off to the distillery and wait there for a few days.

With everyone standing around him, his mother comforted him in a private room before he left:

—What was there to think about? Now the situation was very different. If Mirel were to bear a child, she’d become far more tractable.