And I saw the woman drunken with the blood of the saints, and with the blood of the martyrs of Jesus; and when I saw her, I wondered with great admiration.
And the angel said unto me, Wherefore didst thou marvel? I will tell thee the mystery of the woman, and of the beast that carrieth her, which hath th seven heads and ten horns.
The beast that thou sawest was, and is not; and shall ascend out of the bottomless pit, and go into perdition: and they that dwell on the earth shall wonder, whose names were not written in the Book of Life from the foundation of the world, when they behold the beast that was, and is not, and yet is.
Listening to religious zealots always makes me hungry and thirsty—I mean for the so-called good things of life. A full spirit creates an appetite throughout all parts and members of the body. George had no sooner left than I began to wonder where in this bloody aristocratic quarter I could find a bakery that sold streusel kuchen or jelly doughnuts (Pfann Kuchen) or a good rich cinnamon cake which would melt in one’s mouth. After a few more glasses of Port I began to think of more substantial comestibles, such as sauerbraten and potato dumplings with fried bread crumbs swimming in a rich spicy black gravy; I thought of a tender roast shoulder of pork with fried apples on the side, of scallops and bacon as an hors d’oeuvre, of crepes Suzette, of Brazil nuts and pecans, of charlotte russe, such as they make only in Louisiana. I would have relished anything at that moment which was rich, succulent and savoury. Sinful food, that was what I craved. Sinful food and wines that were aphrodisiac. And some excellent Kummel to top it off.
I tried to think of some one at whose house we could be certain of getting a good meal. (Most of my friends ate out.) The ones that came to mind lived too far away or else were not the sort you could bust in on unannounced. Mona of course was all for eating in some excellent restaurant, eating until we were ready to burst, after which I was to sit and wait until she could find some one to pay for the meal. I didn’t relish the idea at all. Had done it too often. Besides, it had happened to me once or twice to sit like that all night waiting for some one to show up, with the dough. No sir, if we were going to eat well I wanted the money for it right in my pocket.
How much have we, anyway? I asked. Have you looked everywhere?
About seventy-two cents was all that could be mustered, it seemed. Pay day was six days off. I was in no mood—and too hungry—to start making the rounds of the telegraph offices just to gather in a few shekels.
Let’s go to the Scotch bakery, said Mona. They serve food there. It’s very simple but it’s substantial. And cheap.
The Scotch bakery was near Borough Hall. A dismal place, with marble table tops and sawdust on the floor. The owners were dour Presbyterians from the old country. They spoke with an accent which reminded me unpleasantly of MacGregor’s parents. Every syllable they uttered had the clink of small coin, the resonance of the bone-yard. Because they were civil and proper one was supposed to be grateful for the service they rendered.
We had a concoction of horse’s hocks and bloated porridge with buttered scones on the side and a thin leaf of unseasoned lettuce to garnish it. There was no taste to the food whatever; it had been cooked by a sour-faced spinster who had never known a day of joy. I would rather have had a bowl of barley soup with some matzoth balls in it. Or fried frankfurters and potato salad, such as Al Burger’s family indulged in.
The meal had a most sobering effect. But it left me with the aura of intoxication. Somehow I began to get that light, extra-clearheaded feeling, that hollow bones and transparent veins set-up, in which I knew an insouciance that was always extraordinary. Every time the door opened a hideous jangle and jumble assailed our ears. There were two sets of trolley tracks in front of the door, a phonograph shop and a radio shop just opposite, and at the corner a perpetual congestion of traffic. The lights were just going on as we rose to leave. I had a toothpick in the corner of my mouth which I was chewing complacently, my hat was cocked over one ear, and as I stepped towards the curb I was aware that it was a wonderfully balmy evening, one of the last days of Summer. Queer fragments of thought assailed me.
For example, I kept harking back to a Summer’s day about fifteen years previous when, at that very corner where all was now pandemonium, I had boarded a street car with my old friend MacGregor. It was an open trolley and we were headed for Sheepshead Bay. Under my arm was a copy of Sanine. I had finished the book and was about to lend it to my friend MacGregor. As I was ruminating on the pleasurable shock which this forgotten book had made upon me I caught a burst of strangely familiar music from the loudspeaker in the radio shop across the way. I stood there as if rooted to the spot. It was Cantor Sirota singing one of the old synagogue tunes. I knew it only too well because I had listened to it dozens of times. Once I had owned every record of his which was available. And I had purchased them at a price!
I looked at Mona to see what effect the music had produced. Her eyes were moist, her face strained. Quietly I took her hand and held it. We stood thus for several minutes after the music had ceased, neither of us attempting to say a word.
Finally I mumbled—You recognize that?
She made no answer. Her lips were quivering. I saw a tear roll down her cheek.
Mona, dear Mona, why hold it back? I know everything. I’ve known for a long time … Did you think I would be ashamed of you?
No, no Val. I just couldn’t tell you. I don’t know why.
But didn’t it ever occur to you, my dear Mona, that I love you more just because you are a Jew? Why I say this I don’t know either, but it’s a fact. You remind me of the women I knew as a boy—in the Old Testament. Ruth, Naomi, Esther, Rachel, Rebecca … I always wondered as a child why no one I knew was called by such names. They were golden names to me.
I put my arm around her waist. She was half sobbing now. Don’t let’s go yet. There’s something more I want to say. What I tell you now I mean, I want you to know that. I’m speaking from the bottom of my heart. It isn’t something that’s just occurred to me, it’s something I’ve wanted to broach for a long time.
Don’t say it, Val. Please don’t say any more. She put her hand over my mouth to stop me. I permitted it to rest there a few moments, then I gently withdrew it.
Let me, I begged. It won’t hurt you. How could I possibly hurt you or wound you now?
But I know what you’re going to say. And … And I don’t deserve it.
Nonsense! Now listen to me … You remember the day we got married … in Hoboken? You remember that filthy ceremony? I’ve never forgotten it. Hasten, here’s what I’ve been thinking … Supposing I become a Jew—Don’t laugh! I mean it. What’s so strange about it? Instead of becoming a Catholic or a Mohammedan I’ll become a Jew. And for the best reason in the world.
And that is? She looked up into my eyes as if completely mystified.
Because you’re a Jew and I love you—isn’t that reason enough? I love everything about you … why shouldn’t I love your religion, your race, your customs and traditions? I’m no Christian, you know that. I’m nothing. I’m not even a Goy … Look, why don’t we go to a rabbi and get married in true orthodox style?
She had begun to laugh as if her sides would burst. Somewhat offended, I said: You don’t think I’m good enough, is that it?
Stop it! she cried. You’re a fool, a clown, and I love you. I don’t want you to become a Jew … you could never be one anyhow. You’re too … too something or other. And anyway, my dear Val, I don’t want to be a Jew either. I don’t want to hear anything about the subject. I beg you, don’t ever mention it again. I’m not a Jew. I’m not anything. I’m just a woman—and to hell with the rabbi! Come, let’s go home…
We walked home in absolute silence, not a hostile silence but a rueful one. The wide, handsome street on which we lived seemed more than ever prim and respectable, a thoroughly bourgeois Gentile street such as only Protestants could inhabit. The big brownstone stoops, some with heavy stone balustrades, some with delicate wrought iron banisters, gave a solemn, pompous touch to the buildings.
I was deep in thought as we entered the love nest. Rachel, Esther, Ruth, Naomi—those wonderful old Biblical names kept flitting through my head. Some ancient memory was stirring at the base
