Suddenly I felt Nahoum Yood’s heavy hand on my shoulder. His eyes were dancing, his mouth ringed with saliva. The battered derby which he wore indoors and out had come down over his eyes, giving him a comical and an almost maniacal look.
Mysterium! he shouted. Mysterium! Mysterium!
I looked at him blankly.
You haven’t read it? he yelled. What looked like a crowd began to gather round us, one of those crowds which spring up from nowhere as soon as a hawker begins to advertise his wares.
What are you talking about? I asked blandly.
About your Knut Hamsun. The greatest book he ever wrote—Mysterium it is called, in German.
He means Mysteries said Mona.
Yes, Mysteries, cried Nahoum Yood.
He’s just been telling me all about it, said Mona. It does sound wonderful.
More wonderful than A Wanderer Plays an Muted Strings?
Nahoum Yood burst in: That, that is nothing. For Growth of the Soil they gave him the Nobel Prize. For Mysterium nobody even know about it. Look, let me explain … He paused, turned half-way round and spat. No, better not to explain. Go to your Carnegie chewing gum library and ask for it. How do you say it in English? Mysteries? Almost the same—but Mysterium. is better. More mysterischer, nicht? He gave one of his broad trolley track smiles and with that the brim of his hat fell over his eyes.
Suddenly he realized that he had collected an audience. Go home! he shouted, raising both arms to shoo the crowd away. Are we selling shoe laces here? What is it with you? Must I rent a hall to speak a few words in private to a friend? This is not Russia. Go home … shool And again he brandished his arms.
No one budged. They simply smiled indulgently. Apparently they knew him well, this Nahoum Yood. One of them spoke up in Yiddish. Nahoum Yood gave a sad complacent sort of smile and looked at us helplessly.
They want that I should recite to them something in Yiddish.
Fine, I said, why don’t you?
He smiled again, sheepishly this time. They are like children, he said. Wait, I will tell them a fable. You know what is a fable, don’t you? This is a fable about a green horse with three legs. I can only tell it in Yiddish … you will excuse me.
The moment he began talking Yiddish his whole countenance changed. He put on such a serious, mournful look that I thought he would burst into tears any moment. But when I looked at his audience I saw that they were chuckling and giggling. The more serious and mournful his expression, the more jovial his listeners grew. Finally they were doubled up with laughter. Nahoum Yood never so much as cracked a smile. He finished with a dead pan look in the midst of gales of laughter.
Now, he said, turning his back on his audience and grasping us each by the arm, now we will go somewhere and hear some music. I know a little place on Hester Street, in a cellar. Roumanian gypsies. We will have a little wine and some
Mysterium, yes? You have money? I have only twenty-three cents. He smiled again, this time like a huge cranberry pie. On the way he was constantly tipping his hat to this one and that. Sometimes he would stop and engage a friend in earnest conversation for a few minutes. Excuse me, he would say, running back to us breathless, but I thought maybe I could borrow a little money. That was the editor of a Yiddish paper—but he’s even broker than I am. You have a little money, yes? Next time I will treat.
At the Roumanian place I ran into one of my ex-messengers, Dave Olinski. He used to work as a night messenger in the Grand Street office. I remembered him well because the night the office was robbed and the safe turned upside down, Olinski had been beaten to within an inch of his life. (As a matter of fact, I had taken it for granted that he was dead.) It was at his own request that I had put him in that office; because it was a foreign quarter, and because he could speak about eight languages, Olinski thought he would earn a lot in tips. Everybody detested him, including the men he worked with. Every time I ran into him he would chew my ear off about Tel Aviv. It was always Tel Aviv and Boulogne-sur-Mer. (He carried about with him post cards of all the ports the boast had stopped at. But most of the cards were of Tel Aviv.) Anyway, before the accidents, I once sent him to Canarsie, where there was a plage. I use the word plage because every time Olinski spoke of Boulogne-sur-Mer, he mentioned the bloody plage where he had gone bathing.
Since he left our employ, he was telling me, he had become an insurance salesman. In fact, we hadn’t exchanged more than a few words when he began trying to sell me a policy. Much as I disliked the fellow, I made no move to shut him off. I thought it might do him good to practise on me. So, much to Nahoum Yood’s disgust, I let him babble on, pretending that perhaps I would also want accident, health and fire insurance too. Meanwhile, Olinski had ordered drinks and pastry for us. Mona had left the table to engage the proprietress in conversation. In the midst of it a lawyer named Mannie Hirsch walked in—another friend of Arthur Raymond. He was passionate about music, and particularly passionate about Scriabin. It took Olinski, who had been drawn into the conversation against his will, quite a while to understand who it was we were talking about. When he learned that it was only a composer he showed profound disgust. Shouldn’t we go maybe to a quieter place, he wondered. I explained to him that that was impossible, that he should hurry up and explain everything to me quickly before we left. Mannie Hirsch hadn’t stopped talking from the time he sat down. Presently Olinski launched into his routine talk, switching from one policy to another; he had to talk quite loudly in order to drown out Mannie Hirsch’s voice. I listened to the two of them at the same time. Nahoum Yood was trying to listen with one ear cupped. Finally he broke into an hysterical fit of laughter. Without a word he began reciting one of his fables—in Yiddish. Still Olinski kept on talking, this time very low, but even faster than before, because every minute was precious. Even when the whole place began to roar with laughter Olinski kept on selling me one policy after another.
When I at last told him that I would have to think it over, he acted as if he had been mortally injured. But I have explained everything clearly, Mr. Miller, he whined.
But I already have two insurance policies, I lied.
That’s all right, he retorted, We will cash them in and get better ones.
That’s what I want to think about, I countered.
But there is nothing to think about, Mr. Miller.
I’m not sure that I understood it all, I said. Maybe you’d better come to my home tomorrow night, and therewith I wrote down a false address for him.
You’re sure you will be home, Mr. Miller?
If I’m not I will telephone.
But I have no telephone, Mr. Miller.
Then I will send you a telegram.
But I already made two appointments. for tomorrow evening.
Then make it the next night, I said, thoroughly unperturbed by all this palaver. Or, I added maliciously, you could come to see me after midnight, if that’s convenient. We’re always up till two or three in the morning.
I’m afraid that would be too late, said Olinski, looking more and more disconsolate.
Well, let’s see, I said, looking meditative and scratching my head. Supposing we meet right here a week from to-day? Say half-past nine sharp.
Not here, Mr. Miller, please.
O.K. then, wherever you like. Send me a postcard in a day or so. And bring all the policies with you, yes?
During this last chit-chat Olinski had risen from the table and was holding my hand in parting. When he turned round to gather up his papers he discovered that Mannie Hirsch was drawing animals on them. Nahoum Yood was writing a poem—in Yiddish—on another. He was so disturbed by this unexpected turn of events that he began shouting at them in several languages at once. He was getting purple with rage. In a moment the bouncer, who
