The Witch and the Borscht Pearl (17 page)

“He picked my jobs, my clothes, and introduced me to new friends. He managed my income and my frame of mind.” She looked down, then. “I loved him.”

These words brought a restless murmuring among the listeners, but she continued as if unaware.

“Maybe I leaned on him too much. Maybe I had become his creation, his … his child, although we were nearly the same age. But what’s done is done. I’m sorry for everything, Solly. I wish I’d understood you better. But it’s too late to change anything now. Good-bye, Solly.”

Ignoring the noisily reacting crowd, she leaned down and plucked a small long handled spade from where it leaned against the mound of waiting dirt. She turned it over and scooped up soil using the shovel’s back side. She held that over the gaping grave and tilted it, letting the morsel of dirt slide. The clumps hit the casket with a hollow clatter that came as a shock and added to the morbid atmosphere. She laid the shovel carefully back down and moved away.

Bella stood, which again brought the murmuring crowd to attentive silence. After picking her way to where Pearl had been, she took up the spade, did the same thing, but stood poised some extra minutes over the grave as if examining it carefully before turning away. I wondered if she wanted to say a few words also, but she said nothing. She laid the shovel down and returned to her seat, but didn’t sit. Pearl hadn’t sat back down either. One by one, others came to take turns at sprinkling a bit of dirt on the casket.

When the bosomy blonde arrived for her turn, she picked up the small shovel. Then, to my astonishment, she flipped it over, used the proper side of the spade, filled it to overflowing instead of scooping up a symbolic amount, and flung the whole contents at the coffin with a splat. She then cast the spade away as if it burned her hand. Everyone stared.

Mrs. Risk whispered in my ear. “Snoopy Steiner, what do you bet!”

The woman paled, then flushed. With hands clenched tightly around the sausage-shaped handbag that dangled from her shoulder, she sent a beseeching look to her friends, “I’m sorry,” she said in a muffled voice. To whom, I couldn’t tell. She glanced over at Pearl where she stood as frozen in place as everyone else. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I’m—I was furious for what he did to you, Pearl.” Pearl said nothing, and the woman stumbled back to her place behind Zoë.

I watched Mrs. Risk for guidance, but she didn’t move. Eventually, the rabbi began what I took to be a prayer that began, “El male rachamim …”

Mrs. Risk signaled me and we moved away. Slowly at first, we walked back to my car. Behind me I heard Solly’s friends and mourners begin chanting together. I paused to listen to the beautiful cadences, but Mrs. Risk pulled at my arm. “Quickly,” she said, “we must get to Solly’s house before the others,” but I hesitated.

I saw Pearl and Bella turn away and walk toward their limousine. They walked side-by-side, but somehow didn’t seem connected. Thus together but separately, they entered their car.

I heard at the end of the prayer some syllables that sounded like ‘virushalayim.’ “Does that mean ‘Jerusalem?’ ” I asked Mrs. Risk as I finally yielded to her tugging.

“Yes.”

“It’s beautiful, the way they said it. Why do we have to rush away? And why didn’t you take your turn dropping dirt into the grave like the others?”

Mrs. Risk looked at me incredulously. “And take the chance of offending somebody? They think we’re intruders as it is. We didn’t know him that well. That’s something only the closest mourners do.”

“Well, we’re sort of mourners.”

“No, we’re not. We’re friends of the not-quite-yet-accused suspect. Don’t forget that. Get in and drive. I can’t wait to find out if that blonde woman who broke down was the loose-lipped Vivian Steiner. I’d bet a bushel of belladonna she was. Hurry up. And stop at the gourmet deli in Bridgehampton as we pass through because I forgot, we should take some food with us to the shivah.”

There’s that word again. I made a mental note to ask Mrs. Risk what it meant at another time. At this moment, however, I had to give my concentration to the traffic, which had multiplied while we were burying Solly. So for now, I kept my questions to myself and drove.

O
NLY PEARL AND BELLA
beat us to Solly’s house, which was a good two hours from the cemetery in the best of traffic conditions, which never happens. I’d pounded the accelerator. Darkness had fallen as we’d pulled away from the grave site, but fortunately the weather had cleared on the East End, in the Hamptons. No shrouding fog or mist. Let’s not mention shrouds.

Anyway, we arrived, hauling along a ten by fourteen inch eggplant five-cheese lasagna. I’d shuddered at the exalted Hamptons price tag, but I wasn’t paying.

Bella and Pearl greeted us at the door. Although they responded politely to Mrs. Risk’s hug and my regrets, they seemed jointly disinclined to talk—both to us and to each other—so we passed beyond them into the depths of Solly’s house.

A bulky woman, who, because of the apron I supposed was the housekeeper, trundled towards us from a room at the end of the hall and whisked the eight-pound covered dish from my arms. She wore black Converse high top sneakers in which she walked in a semi-stooped position, rolling on the outside of her soles like an arthritic cowboy—a career of scrubbing can do that to you, one reason why I think all housework should be done by men. Better them than me.

After she disappeared, Mrs. Risk dug into her basket and pulled out two bottles of cabernet sauvignon of exalted origins.

She made straight for the sideboard in the formal dining room and tucked her precious bottles behind some gallon jugs of red wine sitting there, of the type she liked to call ‘screw top wine.’ Obviously, Bella was no wine connoisseur. These jugs were accompanied by such an overwhelming selection of premium brand alcoholic beverages and mixes that I wondered if perhaps Jews have wakes like the Irish are famed for. A few bottles of beer and soft drinks had been jammed, like afterthoughts, into an antique silver ice bucket.

Mrs. Risk uncorked one of her bottles with her own fold-out corkscrew, which she then dropped back into her basket, and poured into two highball glasses—no wine glasses in view. After popping her now much lighter basket out of sight behind the sideboard with the dust bunnies, she thrust one glass at me, sipped hers, said, “It needs to open a bit,” and strolled away, swirling the contents. She had the brightly attentive expression of a sight-seer.

“Where are you going?” I asked as I caught up with her. If it seems like she always moves faster than me, that’s an illusion. She just tends to charge ahead while I’m trying to figure out what she’s doing—which slows me down.

“Oh, here and there. Bella and Pearl will soon be busy at the door, I don’t think we should impose our conversation on them just yet. We’ll entertain ourselves, like good guests.”

“Is that what we are, guests? Is a shivah just a Jewish wake?”

“A shivah, my dear, is derived from the Hebrew word for seven. Visitors come to pay their respects to the deceased and the mourners for seven days. Ten Jews, who regrettably must be men, if Conservative or Orthodox—I’m not familiar with Reformed custom—assemble in the morning and in the evening to fill out a minyan, or quota, which then enables the mourners to say a ‘Kaddish’, or mourner’s prayer. You heard it at the end of the service at the cemetery. You liked the sound of it, as I recall. I believe the language in which it’s recited is Aramaic.”

“Oh.”

“However, I’d venture to guess that today’s ‘shivah’ service will be Solly’s one and only, since he probably wasn’t a religious man. I say that because he evidently hadn’t known a Rabbi for his friends to call upon to officiate at the funeral. Haven’t you been to funerals before?” she asked.

“Well, my husband’s. He wasn’t religious, and besides, I just buried him, I didn’t exactly mourn him.”

“That’s it?”

“When my parents died, I think.”

She stopped walking, turned to face me, and pointed one of those loooong fingers at me. “What do you mean, you ‘think?’ They died just last year. Can’t you remember that far back?”

I sipped some of the wine. “Okay, I remember. I had nothing to do with the arrangements, so it slipped my mind.”

Mrs. Risk stared curiously. “I thought you had no other family. Who made the arrangements?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I wasn’t interested enough to ask.”

Her eyes softened, making me very uncomfortable. “You must have been very angry with them.”

I turned away from her. “What’s under that—that—draped thing? Is that a decoration?”

Mrs. Risk turned to look. “Ah. ‘Vanity of vanity, saith the Preacher; all is vanity.’ It’s a tablecloth, looks like to me. Someone draped it over a mirror to hide it. Another Jewish custom. I’m surprised they thought of doing it.”

“Who’s the Preacher?” I asked, bewilderedly.

She sighed, but in an indulgent tone. “Answering your questions is like trying to fill a canyon with pebbles. He was another Solomon, but from a long time ago. One of civilization’s wisest men. I can see we’ll have to spend some time discussing the Bible, and I can foretell that I’ll need some of Solomon’s patience.”

“Oh. The Bible.” I wandered on, losing interest. “I don’t want to become religious or anything.”

“Mmm. Good decision. ‘Religion’ springs from man’s imagination and is rather a bad concept, in my opinion. The Bible has nothing to do with religion. It is rather a—well, think of it as a manufacturer’s operating manual for human beings. Like you get with cars.”

I wandered off, bored. “Come on, let’s see where these stairs lead.”

“We can’t do that now,” she declared, with a quick glance behind us. “We’ll be too noticeable.”

I ignored her and kept going. She took hold of the back of my skirt and pulled, so I had no choice but to give in or be jerked off my feet. She can be strong, although I’m no light-weight.

People were pouring through the door, now. Pearl and Bella had retired to the large room off to the side of the front door, the room Bella had barred us from entering that night of the storm. That thought reminded me of the peeping tom, and I wondered if he would show up. I wished I’d gotten a look at him. I drifted into the room with the flow of traffic. It was dumb to do, I know, but I couldn’t help peering into each face as if looking for flashing neon letters on the forehead, proclaiming, ‘I’m the peeping tom!’

A cluster of people had gathered around Pearl and Bella, who were seated side by side on the sofa.

A man stepped forward and leaned down to kiss Pearl on the cheek. She clasped his hand warmly in both of hers and introduced him to Bella as Harold Mann. He looked down and smiled, nodding politely to Bella. The murmuring in the crowd behind him indicated widespread recognition. I whispered at Mrs. Risk, “Who?”

“Runs one of the oldest, best known theatrical booking agencies in Manhattan,” she whispered in return. “They’ve been in business for decades. Hush.”

He spoke in an intimately pitched voice tinged with Brooklyn. “You’re a lovely lady, Bella, but knowing Solly, that’s no surprise. You had to be something special to land Solly in holy matrimony. Nice to meet you. Sorry it had to be like this.

“My father, who most of you here knew,” he said with a backwards glance to include those crowded behind him. “He introduced me to Solly, back when I first came into the agency, Bella. Solly had a couple years on me. Not only in the business, but also in experience. All kinds of experience.” Again he flashed that slight smile, but this time it was tinged with that male smugness that means he was referring to women. I nudged Mrs. Risk to see if she’d caught that, but she ignored me.

He continued. “Solly was a great guy, always willing to share his expertise with anybody. Very generous man.

“And could he spot talent. I remember, for instance, when he came to me one day and said, ‘Harry, just saw a girl out in Bethlehem. Just terrible. But I’m going to tell you her name, and you’ll be remembering I told you some day, ’cause that girl’s gonna make it big. She’s got the warmest heart I ever saw on any one person, and it shines through like a spotlight.’ I asked Solly, did you sign her? And he said, ‘Nah, wouldn’t have me. But she will. She’s got my name on ’er.’”

He beamed at Pearl, who gave his hand a quick squeeze. “And that’s the first day I ever heard of the Borscht Pearl. He waited for you, Pearl.

“You know, Solly was so darned good looking. A film star he looked. I always wondered why Solly never applied his expertise to promote himself, but he liked the backstage. Solly was a star-maker. And I could trust Solly’s opinion. When he told me a singer was good, I didn’t even have to catch her act. I could book her into a gig with confidence.

“But you were special to him, Pearl. When, one by one, he dropped everybody else and devoted himself to you exclusively, I knew you were meant for big things. And sure enough, you two became the best team ever to come outta the Catskills Circuit.” He shook his head. “Nobody like Solly. Nobody like you, either, hon.”

He kissed Pearl again, nodded at Bella, then stepped back, inserting himself into the crowd. Another man who was shorter and probably in his late sixties took his place. His nimbly voice was too low and he spoke with a thick accent, so I only caught a word here and there. My attention began to be distracted more and more by the people arriving, so I confess I stopped listening.

The crowd looked to be impressively prosperous, which told me that either theatrical people do better financially than I’d ever thought, or that they were careful to keep up the appearance of success.

I noticed how squashed Simon Lutz looked, jammed between two taller men at the back of the room. He held a black kipah in his broad stubby hands and twisted it continually as he stared at Pearl with an expression resembling that of a basset hound with a stomach ache.

About four more men and women took their turns, three of them referring kindly to Bella, one pointedly not acknowledging her existence. I heard bits and pieces of what must have made up the mosaic of Solly’s life, which seemed entirely drawn from his business. It appeared that he’d been an important man in his profession, known to everyone, and if the verbal bouquets were to be believed, liked universally. Except by one person, obviously.