Natalie checked the mail piled on her desk in the library, but there was only one letter for her, from Slote. Looking up from his work, Byron saw her sombre expression. “What is it, Natalie?”
“It’s my father. I may have to leave.”
The letter from her mother arrived two days later. Meantime Natalie resumed a certain aloofness toward Byron, though she still wore the brooch, and looked at him with changed eyes.
She took the long and somewhat frantic account of her father’s heart attack to Jastrow, who was having his tea by the fire in the study, wrapped in a shawl. He shook his head sympathetically over it and handed it back to her. Gazing at the fire and sipping tea, he said, “You had better go.”
“Oh, I think so. I’m practically packed.”
“What was Louis’s trouble last time? Was it this bad?” The brothers were deeply estranged — Natalie did not know exactly why — and this breaking of their long tacit silence about her father gave her an awkward, unpleasant sensation.
“No, not really. The trouble was my announcement that I was in love with Leslie. Papa got awfully weak and had breathing difficulty and a blackout episode. But he wasn’t hospitalized that time.”
Jastrow pensively fingered his beard. “He’s only sixty-one. You know it gets to be suspenseful, Natalie, this question of whose heredity you’ve got. Our mother’s family mostly popped off in their fifties. But Father’s two brothers both made it past ninety and he reached eighty-eight. My teeth are like my father’s. I have excellent teeth. Louis always had a lot of trouble with his teeth, the way Mama did.” Jastrow became aware of the girl’s dark watchful regard. He made a little apologetic gesture with both hands. “You’re thinking what a self-centered old horror A.J. is.”
“But I wasn’t thinking that at all.”
Jastrow put on cotton gloves to poke at the fire and throw on a fresh log. He was vain about his small finely shaped hands. “You won’t come back. I know that. Life will get difficult here. Possibly I could go to New Mexico or Arizona. But they’re such dull, arid, zero-culture places! The thought of trying to write there!” He gave a deep sigh, almost a groan. “No doubt my books aren’t that important. Still, the work is what keeps me going.”
“Your books are important, A.J.”
“Are they? Why?”
Natalie sat leaning her chin on a fist, groping for an honest and precise answer. She said after a pause, “Of course they’re extremely readable, and often brilliant, but that’s not their distinction. Their originality lies in the spirit. The books are very Jewish. In a creditable, unsentimental way, in substance and in attitude. They’ve made me, at least, realize how very much Christendom owes this bizarre little folk we belong to. It’s surprising how much of that you’ve gotten even into the Constantine book.”
Her words had a remarkable effect on Aaron Jastrow. He smiled tremulously, his eyes misted, and he all at once did look strikingly Jewish — the mouth, the nose, the expression, the soft white hand at his beard, were all features of a hatless little rabbi. He spoke in a soft shaky voice. “Of course you know exactly what to say to please me.”
“That’s what I think, Aaron.”
“Well, bless you. I’ve evolved into a pagan, a materialist, and a hedonist — and I fell in love with the grandeur of Christianity and of Jesus long long ago — but none of that has made me less Jewish. Nobody else in the family will accept that, your father least of all. I’m so grateful that you can. I truly think that the books on Constantine and Luther will round out the picture. I want to get them done. In my way I’m bearing witness, as my rabbinic forebears did in theirs. Though no doubt they’d be horrified by me.” He studied her face. He smiled, and his eyes began to twinkle. “How long after you left would Byron remain? He gives me such a secure feeling, just by being here.”
“Give him a raise in salary. That’ll convince him more than anything. He’s never earned a penny before.”
Jastrow pursed his lips, rounded his-eyes, and tilted his head. Many years of living in Italy showed in the mannerism. “I have to watch my money now. We’ll see. My strong impression is, actually, that you’ll marry Leslie once you get back there, and — oh, stop blushing and looking so coy. Have I hit it?”
“Never mind, A.J.”
“I’m sure if Byron were aware of that, he’d be more likely to stay on.” Jastrow stroked his beard, smiling at her.
“Good God, Aaron! Do you expect me to tell Byron Henry I’m going to marry Slote, just to make him stay with you?”
“Why, my dear, whoever suggested such a thing? Wait — my point is -” Jastrow stretched out a hand and looked after her, utterly astonished at her abrupt walkout.
Chapter 20
“Holy cow!” Bryon exclaimed. “There’s my father, or his double.”
“Where?” said Natalie. Her flight was delayed, and they were drinking coffee in the Rome airport at a table outside a little cafe; the same cafe where they had lunched before setting off for Warsaw.
“Inside that ring of carabinieri over there.”
He pointed to a group of men leaving the terminal, escorted by six deferential police officers. Some of the party wore the green uniform of the foreign ministry; the rest were in civilian clothes. The military bearing of a short broad-shouldered man, in a pepper-and-salt suit and soft hat, had caught Byron’s eye. He stood, saying, “Can it be him? But why the devil didn’t he write or wire me that he was coming to Italy? I’ll take a look.”
“Briny!”
He was starting to lope away; he stopped short. “Yes?”
“If it is your father — I’m so tacky and sooty from that horrible train ride, and he’s obviously busy.” Natalie, usually so self-assured, suddenly looked confused and nervous, in an appealing, pathetic way. “I wasn’t expecting this. I’d rather meet him another time.”
“Well, let’s see if it’s him.”
Victory Henry heard the voice behind him just as the party reached the exit doors. “Dad!
Recognizing the voice, Pug turned, waved, and asked his escort from the ministry to wait for him. “
The father and son clasped hands. “Well, how about this?” Victor Henry said, looking up at Byron’s face, with affection he usually concealed when less surprised.
“What’s up, Dad? Couldn’t you let me know you were coming?”
“It happened sudden-like. I intended to ring you tonight. What are you doing down here in Rome?”
“Natalie’s going home. Her father’s sick.”
“Oh? Has she left already?”
“No. That’s her, sitting over there.”
“That’s the famous Natalie Jastrow? The one in gray?”
“No, further over, in black. With the big hat.”
Victor Henry caught a new proprietary note in his son’s voice. The listless, hangdog air of his Berlin days had given way to a confident glance and a straighter back. “You’re looking mighty bright-eyed and bushy-tailed,” Pug said.
“I feel marvellous.”
“I’d like to meet that girl.” The father suddenly strode toward her, so fast that Byron had to take a running step or two to catch up. There was no stopping him. They came and faced Natalie, who remained seated, hands clasped in her lap.
