merrily, free as a bird. Juan joined in. We stalked each other like animals, we turned into waltzing mice, we did the deaf and dumb act.
And all the time I was thinking of Mona wandering about in the house of mourning, waiting for her mourning dress, her black gloves, and what not.
Round and round, with never a care. A little kerosene, a match, and we would go up in flames, like, a burning merry-go-round. I looked at Juan's poll—it was like dry tinder. I had an insane desire to set him on fire, set him aflame and send him hurtling down the elevator shaft. Then two or three wild turns, a la Breughel, and out the window!
I calmed down a little. Not Breughel, but Hieronymous Bosch. A season in hell, amidst the traps and pulleys of the medieval mind. First time around they yank off an arm. Second time around a leg. Finally just a torso rolling around. And the music playing with vibrant twangs. The iron harp of Prague. A sunken street near the synagogue. A dolorous peal of the bells. A woman's guttural lament.
Not Bosch any longer, but Chagall. An angel in mufti descending slantwise just above the roof. Snow on the ground and in the gutters little pieces of meat for the rats. Cracow in the violet light of evisceration. Weddings, births, funerals. A man in an overcoat and only one string to his violin. The bride has lost her mind; she dances with broken legs.
Round and round, ringing door-bells, ringing sleigh-bells. The cosmococcic round of grief and slats. At the roots of my hair a touch of frost, in the tips of my toes a fire. The world is a merry-go-round in flames, the horses burn down to the hocks. A cold, stiff father lying on a feather-bed. A mother green as gangrene. And the bridegroom rolling along.
First we'll bury him in the cold ground. Then we'll bury his name, his legend, his kites and race horses. And for the widow a bon-fire, a suttee Viennoise. I will marry the widow's daughter—in her mourning gown and black gloves. I will do atonement and anoint my head with ashes.
Round and round... Now the figure eight. Now the dollar sign. Now the spread eagle. A little kerosene and a match, and I would go up like a Christmas tree.
«Mr. Miller! Mr. Miller!» calls Juan. «Mr. Miller, stop it! Please stop it!»
The boy looks frightened. What can it be that makes him stare at me so?
«Mr. Miller,» he says, clutching me by the coat tail, «please don't laugh so!
I relaxed. A broad grin came over my face, then softened to an amiable smile.
«That's better, sir. You had me worried. Hadn't we better go now?»
«I think so, Juan. I think we've had enough exercise for to day. To-morrow you will get a bicycle.
«Yes sir, I am indeed. I always have a fabulous appetite. Once I ate a whole chicken all by myself. That was when my aunt died.»
«We'll have chicken to-night, Juan me lad. Two chickens—one for you and one for me.»
«You're very kind, sir... Are you sure you're all right now?»
«Fine as a fiddle, Juan. Now where do you suppose we could buy a mourning dress at this hour?»
«I'm sure I don't know,» said Juan. In the street I hailed a taxi. I had an idea that on the East Side there would be shops still open. The driver was certain he could find one.
«It's very lively down here, isn't it?» said Juan, as we alighted in front of a dress shop. «Is it always this way?»
«Always,» I said. «A perpetual fiesta. Only the poor enjoy life.»
«I should like to work down here some time,» said Juan. «What language do they speak here?»
«All languages,» I said. «You can also speak English.»
The proprietor was standing at the door. He gave Juan a friendly pat on the head.
«I would like a mourning dress, size 16,» I said. «Not too expensive. It must be delivered to-night, C. O. D.»
A dark young Jewess with a Russian accent stepped forward. «Is it for a young or an old woman?» she said.
«A young woman, about your size. For my wife.»
She began showing me various models. I told her to choose the one she thought most suitable. «Not an ugly one,» I begged, «and not too chic either. You know what I mean.»
«And the gloves,» said Juan. «Don't forget the gloves.»
«What size?» asked the young lady.
«Let me see your hands,» I said. I studied them a moment. «A little larger than yours.»
I gave the address and left a generous tip for the errand boy. The proprietor now came up, began talking to Juan. He seemed to take a great fancy to him.
«Where do you come from, sonny?» he asked. «From Puerto Rico?»
«From Cuba,» said Juan.
«Do you speak Spanish?»
«Yes sir, and French and Portuguese.»
«You're very young to know so many languages.»
«My father taught me them. My father was the editor of a newspaper in Havana.»
«Well, well,» said the proprietor. «You remind me of a little boy I knew in Odessa.»
«Odessa!» said Juan. «I was in Odessa once. I was a cabin boy on a trading ship.»
«What!» exclaimed the proprietor. «You were in Odessa? It's unbelievable. How old are you?»
«I'm eighteen, sir.»
The proprietor turned to me. He wanted to know if he couldn't invite us to have a drink with him in the ice cream parlor next door.
We accepted the invitation with pleasure. Our host, whose name was Eisenstein, began to talk about Russia. He had been a medical student originally. The boy who resembled Juan was his son who had died. «He was a strange boy,» said Mr. Eisenstein. «He didn't resemble any of the family. And he had his own way of thinking. He wanted to tramp around the world. No matter what you told him he had a different idea. He was a little philosopher. Once he ran away to Egypt—because he wanted to study the pyramids. When we told him we were going to America he said he would go to China. He said he didn't want to become rich, like the Americans. A strange boy! Such independence! Nothing frightened him—not even the Cossacks. I was almost afraid of him sometimes. Where did he come from? He didn't even look like a Jew...»
He went into a monologue about the strange blood that had been poured into the veins of the Jews in their wanderings. He spoke of strange tribes in Arabia, Africa, China. He thought even the Eskimos might have Jewish blood in them. As he talked he became intoxicated by this idea of the mixture of races and bloods. The world would be a stagnant pool had it not been for the Jews. «We are like seeds carried by the wind,» he said. «We blossom everywhere. Hardy plants. Until we are pulled up by the roots. Even then we don't perish. We can live upside down. We can grow between stones.»
All this time he had taken me for a Jew. Finally I explained that I was not a Jew, but that my wife was.
«And she became a Christian?»
«No, I'm becoming a Jew.»
Juan was looking at me with big, questioning eyes. Mr. Eisenstein didn't know whether I was joking or not.
«When I come down here,» I said, «I feel happy. I don't know what it is, but I feel more at home here. Maybe I have Jewish blood and don't know it.»
«I'm afraid not,» said Mr. Eisenstein. «You're attracted, because you're not a Jew. You like what is different, that's all. Maybe you hated the Jews once. That happens sometimes. Suddenly a man sees that he was mistaken and then he becomes violently in love with what he once hated. He goes to the other extreme. I know a Gentile who became converted to Judaism. We don't try to convert, you know that. If you're a good Christian it's better that you stay a Christian.»
«But I don't care about the religion,» I said.
«The religion is everything,» he said. «If you can't be a good Christian you can't be a good Jew.
We are not a people or a race—we're a religion.»
