been written, you will vanish, Moses Grelich, and go wherever you are to go to next.”
The scribe handed the rabbi the pen and pushed the parchment toward him. The rabbi began, very slowly, to sign his name.
And Ritchie began to think. He was remembering that he hadn’t had a chance yet to question Grelich about Nietzsche or Camus. They both sounded important. There was Jakob, the waiter-translator-agent. Ritchie knew that on his own, without Grelich he’d never go back to Ratstein’s. He’d convince himself that the agent thing was nonsense, how could a broken-down old Rumanian waiter in a Jewish restaurant do anything for him in the American market? And he’d probably never see Solomon again. Or if he did, what could he say to him? He wanted to ask Solomon about his life, but Solomon wasn’t likely to talk about the good old days back in Addis Ababa and how black people became Jews when he knew Ritchie was responsible for his friend Grelich’s death.
Grelich, of course, had no one to blame but himself. He had set himself on the path of death all by himself. But was it the act of a friend to go along with it and help him out when the suicide didn’t go right in the first place? Was it even the act of a compassionate stranger to help Grelich complete what he had begun, probably not in his right mind?
Ritchie thought about his own small and non-interacting family. His mother was dead. His father had passed away a few years ago in an expensive rest home in Arizona. His younger sister was studying Library Sciences at Vassar. He never saw her, they didn’t correspond.
This new family, which had sprung up around Grelich and included him, was a strange and exciting experience. He’d have to give up all that once he got rid of Grelich.
It was suddenly in Ritchie’s mind to call off this ceremony, cancel the execution. There was enough room in his head for Grelich and himself!
The rabbi finished his signature and looked at him with his eyebrows raised.
“Nu?” the rabbi said.
The rabbi made a gesture. The flame of the candle flared, and died out.
Ritchie sat up in bed. Wow, what a dream. He looked around. He touched his face—the new familiar face of Moise Grelich.
Ritchie said, “Grelich, are you there?”
No answer.
“Grelich! Come out! Don’t sulk. Let’s talk.”
Still nothing from Grelich.
“Oh, Grelich,” Ritchie said, his heart breaking, “where are you? Tell me you’re still here!”
“So nu, where else would I be?” Grelich’s familiar voice said in his head.
“Christ, you had me scared. I had this dream. I dreamed a rabbi was divorcing us.”
“Are we husband and wife that a rabbi should divorce us?”
“No, but we’re pretty close. Roommates. Mindmates. In some ways, closer than husband and wife.”
“What a line of gab you’ve got.”
“It’s not gab! I want you here. I want you to call Solomon and Esther and have them meet us at Ratstein’s this evening.”
“Consider it done. You want to talk to that Rumanian agent again? Ritchie have you no common sense?”
“If I think he’s too much of a shyster,” Ritchie said, “I won’t ask him to represent me. But maybe he’s an honest
“I got some stories you could write,” Grelich said.
“I’ll be pleased to hear them.”
“That’s for tomorrow,” Grelich said. “For tonight, what do you say we get some more sleep?”
Ritchie grunted his assent. Again, Grelich fell asleep almost at once. Ritchie lay on the bed and watched the lights and shadows on the ceiling. At last he fell into a slumber. His last thought was, more than likely there would be a tomorrow for him as well as for Grelich.
