“This fellow of yours,” the Rabbi said, “came in to put us all right. To tell us of the promised land. Not Jerusalem but Moscow. Worked all the hours the good Lord sends. Argued the devil’s case better than the devil himself. All for one and one for all.” He laughed, “Wonderful stuff. And a lot of people believed it, you know. He should have been a lawyer, defending the gangsters. Arguing that they were part of the economic system—Robin Hoods robbing the rich to feed the poor.” He turned to look at her, the red cheeks and the bright blue eyes making him look more like an out-of-season Father Christmas than a Rabbi. “Can’t you persuade him to come back here and keep us all alive again? We miss him, you know.”
She smiled, “A wife must follow her husband wherever he goes.”
The old man laughed and nodded. “And he says you take wonderful photographs. Of what, my dear?”
“To earn money, of fashion and cosmetics, for myself pictures of people. Poor people.”
“Ah yes. The winners and the losers. He says that your parents were Russian—do you feel Russian?”
“Only just before I go to sleep or when I see silver birches.”
The Rabbi nodded, looking at her intently. “I can see why he fell in love with you, my dear. Not just that pretty face and those melting eyes.” He paused. “Well, I’d better get on my way. Enjoy yourselves while the sun is shining.” He patted Andrei’s arm as he stood up and was stopped to talk by two different people before he got to the street door.
Tania had photographed all afternoon, people, shopfronts, fruit, salami hanging in rows from ceilings, shop signs in Yiddish, Russian and Polish, people from every part of Eastern Europe, mainly very old or very young—the others in-between were somewhere else, earning a living in Brooklyn or Manhattan, Queens and the Bronx.
As the sun went down they were strolling slowly along the boardwalk towards Coney and despite the warm air he shivered.
“Are you cold?”
“No. It was just one of those odd shivers.” He smiled. “Somebody put his foot on my grave.”
“Let’s go back home.”
He stopped and looked out at the ocean and then back towards the buildings of Brighton Beach. He sighed deeply and then said, without looking at her, “Yes. You’re right. Let’s go home.”
They walked back along the boardwalk to the small park at Brighton Beach and took a cab back to Manhattan. They sat holding hands on the back seat and by the time they got to Prospect Park he was asleep. She looked at his face. He was fifty-three now, sixteen years older than her but sometimes he looked much older. His hair was greyer now than when she first knew him but the terrible way he had his hair cut gave him a kind of innocent boyish look. He wasn’t handsome but he was definitely attractive. The hesitant way he spoke when he was intent on getting over some point made you listen more carefully and when he did smile, which wasn’t often, it was a young man’s smile.
She still had no idea why he had wanted to go to Brighton Beach. He hadn’t shown her where the bookshop had been, he didn’t seek out anyone, although a lot of people obviously remembered him. Maybe it was some kind of “À la recherche du temps perdu.” One of these days she would know what went on in that head.
They ate dinner at a small Italian restaurant on East 22nd Street, and then walked home together talking about the films that the restaurant owner had enthusiastically recommended they should see—La Dolce Vita, L’Avventura, and Rocco and his Brothers.
As they rode up to their apartment in the elevator Aarons said, “It seems kind of strange not having a shop anymore.”
Tania laughed. “You just can’t get used to being a dealer in books instead of a bookseller.”
As he put the key in the lock they heard the phone ringing and when Tania answered it she turned to Aarons. “It’s for you—it’s Bill.”
As he took the phone Aarons said, “Hi.”
Malloy laughed. “You’ve got more American now you’ve moved to Union Square.” He paused. “You know that old thing we used to do with the guy from Kansas, I’ve been asked to contact you by the new guy. What d’you think?”
“How did he know about me?”
“The old guy told him. The new guy’s very keen.”
“It’s OK with me.”
“Can I contact you at your place tomorrow?”
“Yeah. I’ll be here all day.”
The room Aarons had taken for his books and to use as an office was large, with a high ceiling. There was a roll-top desk and a small desk with an electric typewriter and a dictaphone that was used by a part-time secretary.
Down the centre of the room were two long tables of beautifully polished mahogany on which books were laid out, some single books, others four or five volumes together. Every wall had wooden shelves from floor to ceiling with an old-fashioned library ladder that Aarons had bought at an auction. And every shelf was full of books. In a bay window there were two armchairs at a low circular table.
Aarons stood at the window, the activity in Union Square always comforted him. All those people who were busy with their lives. Selling fruit or flowers at one of the stalls or bustling along the streets to shop or work. None of them spending their days worrying about the rivalries of the super-powers or the state of the world in general. They didn’t give a damn about the dialectic of materialism, they probably couldn’t name the President of the Soviet Union. Their lives were bounded by their jobs and their families. They probably couldn’t name the Secretary of State either, and many of them wouldn’t even know the capital city of California. Maybe they were the wise ones, getting on
