20. SHALLON, SHALLOP, SHALLOT, SHALLOW
I got out of the car and took a deep breath.
I thought, My name is Alma Singer you don’t know me but I was named after your mother.
21. SHALOM, SHAM, SHAMAN, SHAMBLE
I knocked on the door. There was no answer. I rang the bell, but there was still no answer, so I walked around the house and looked into the windows. It was dark inside. When I came back around to the front, Herman was leaning against the car with his arms crossed over his chest.
22. I DECIDED THERE WAS NOTHING LEFT TO LOSE
We sat together on the porch of Isaac Moritz’s house, swinging on a bench and watching the rain. I asked Herman if he’d ever heard of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry and when he said no I asked him if he’d ever heard of The Little Prince and he said he thought he had. So I told him about the time Saint-Ex crashed in the Libyan desert, drank the dew off the airplane’s wings which he’d gathered with an oil-stained rag, and walked hundreds of miles, dehydrated and delirious from the heat and cold. When I got to the part about how he was found by some Bedouins, Herman slipped his hand into mine, and I thought, An average of seventy-four species become extinct every day, which was one good reason but not the only one to hold someone’s hand, and the next thing that happened was we kissed each other, and I found I knew how, and I felt happy and sad in equal parts, because I knew that I was falling in love, but it wasn’t with him.
We waited a long time, but Isaac never came. I didn’t know what else to do, so I left a note on the door with my telephone number.
A week and a half later—I remember the date, October 5th—my mother was reading the newspaper and she said, “Remember that writer you asked me about, Isaac Moritz?” and I said, “Yes,” and she said, “There’s an obituary for him in the paper.”
That evening I went up to her study. She had five chapters left of The History of Love, and she didn’t know that now she wasn’t translating them for anyone but me.
“Mom?” I said. She turned. “Can I talk to you about something?”
“Of course, darling. Come here.”
I took a few steps into the room. There was so much I wanted to say.
“I need you to be—” I said, and then I started to cry.
“Be what?” she said, opening her arms.
“Not sad,” I said.
ONE NICE THING
September 28
Today is the 10th day in a row of rain. Dr. Vishnubakat said one nice thing to write in my journal is my thoughts and feelings. He said that if I wanted him to know something about how I feel but don’t want to talk about it I could just give him my journal. I did not say haven’t you ever heard of the word PRIVATE? One thought I have is it’s very expensive to take a plane to Israel. I know this because I tried to buy a ticket at the airport and they said it was 1200 dollars. When I told the woman that one time my mom bought a ticket for 700 dollars, she said there were no tickets for 700 dollars anymore. I thought maybe she was just saying that because she thought I didn’t have the money, so I took out the shoebox and showed her the 741 dollars and fifty cents. She asked me where I got so much money, so I told her 1500 cups of lemon-aid, even though it wasn’t totally true. Then she asked me why I wanted to go to Israel so much and I asked her if she could keep a secret and she said yes so I told her I was a lamed vovnik and also maybe the Messiah. When she heard this she took me to a special room that is only for employees and gave me an El Al pin. Then the police came and took me home. The way I felt about this was angry.
September 29
It’s been raining for 11 days. How is anyone supposed to be a lamed vovnik if first it costs 700 dollars to get to Israel and then they change it to 1200 dollars? They should keep the price the same so that people will know how much lemon-aid they have to sell if they want to get to Jerusalem.
Today Dr. Vishnubakat asked me to explain the note I left for Mom and Alma when I thought I was going to Israel. He put it in front of me to refresh my memory. But I did not need my memory freshened because I already knew what it said because I’d done 9 drafts since I wanted to type it for officialness and I kept making mistakes. What it said was “Dear Mom and Alma and Anyone Else, I have to go away and I might be gone for a long time. Please don’t try to find me. The reason why is I’m a lamed vovnik and I have to take care of a lot of things. There is going to be a flood but you don’t have to worry because I built you an ark. Alma you know where it is. Love, Bird.”
Dr. Vishnubakat asked me how I got the name Bird. I told him I just did. If you want to know why Dr. Vishnubakat is called Dr. Vishnubakat it’s because he’s from India. If you want to remember how to say it just think of Dr. Fishinabucket.
September 30
Today the rain stopped and the firemen took down my ark because they said it was a fire hazard. The way this made me feel was sad. I tried not to cry because Mr. Goldstein says that what G-d does is for the best, and also because Alma said I should try to push down my feelings so that I can have friends. Something else Mr. Goldstein says is What the eyes don’t see the heart doesn’t feel, but I had to see what happened to the ark because all of a sudden I remembered that I had painted on the back, which no one is allowed to throw away. I made Mom call the firemen to ask where they’d put all the pieces. She told me they’d piled them on the sidewalk for the garbage man, so I made her take me there, but the garbage man had already come and everything was gone. Then I cried and kicked a stone and Mom tried to hug me but I wouldn’t let her because she shouldn’t have let the firemen take down the ark, and also she should have asked me before she threw away everything that belonged to Dad.
October 1
Today I went to see Mr. Goldstein for the first time since I tried to go to Israel. Mom brought me to Hebrew School and waited outside. He wasn’t in his office in the basement, or in the sanctuary, but I finally found him outside in the back digging a hole for some siddurs with broken spines. I said Hello Mr. Goldstein and for a long time he didn’t say anything or even look at me, so I said Well it’s probably going to start raining again tomorrow, and he said Fools and weeds grow without rain, and kept digging. His voice sounded sad and I tried to understand what he wanted to tell me. I stood next to him and watched the hole get deeper. There was dirt on his shoes and I remembered how once someone from the Daleds stuck a sign on his back that said kick me, and no one told him, not even me, because I didn’t want him to ever know it was there. I watched him wrap three siddurs in an old cloth, and then he kissed them. The circles under his eyes were bluer than ever. I thought maybe Fools and weeds grow without rain meant he was disappointed so I tried to think of why, and when he lay the cloth with the broken siddurs in the hole I said Yisgadal veyisqadash shemei rabbah, Magnified and sanctified may His great name be in the world that He created, and may His kingdom come in your lives and your days, and then I saw that tears were coming out of Mr. Goldstein’s eyes. He started to shovel dirt in the hole and I saw that his lips were moving but I couldn’t hear what they were saying, so I listened harder, I put my ear right to his mouth, and he said, Chaim, which is the name he calls me, A lamed vovnik is humble and works in secret, and then he turned away, and I understood that the thing he was crying about was me.
October 2
It started to rain again today, but I didn’t even care because the ark is gone now, and because I disappointed Mr. Goldstein. To be a lamed vovnik means never to tell anyone you’re one of the 36 people the world depends on, it means doing good things that help people without anyone ever noticing you. Instead I’d told Alma that I was a lamed vovnik, and Mom, and the woman at El Al, and Louis, and Mr. Hintz, my gym teacher, because he tried to make me take off my kippah and put on shorts, and also a few other people, and the police had to come and get me, and the firemen came and took down the ark. The way this makes me feel is like crying. I disappointed Mr. Goldstein and also G-d. I don’t know if this means I am not a lamed vovnik anymore.
October 3
>
Today Dr. Vishnubakat asked me if I was feeling depressed so I said What do you mean by depressed so he said For example do you feel sad and one thing I did not say is Are you an ignoramus? because that is not what a lamed vovnik would say. Instead I said If a horse knew how small a man is compared to it, it would trample him, which is something Mr. Goldstein sometimes says, and Dr. Vishnubakat said That’s interesting, can you elaborate? and I said No. Then we sat in silence for a few minutes which is something we do sometimes, but I got bored so I said Corn can grow on manure which is something else Mr. Goldstein says, and this seemed to interest Dr. Vishnubakat a lot because he wrote it down on his pad, so I said Pride lies on the dung heap. Then Dr. Vishnubakat said Can I ask you a question and I said Depends and he said Do you miss your father and I said I don’t really remember him, and he said I think it would be very hard to lose your father, and I didn’t say anything. If you want to know why I didn’t say anything it’s because I don’t like it when anyone talks about Dad unless they knew him.
One thing I decided is that from now on before I do anything I will always ask myself WOULD A LAMED VOVNIK DO THIS? For example today Misha called for Alma and I did not say Do you want to French kiss her? because when I asked myself the question WOULD A LAMED VOVNIK DO THIS? the answer was NO. Then Misha said How is she? and I said OK and he said Tell her I was calling to see if she ever found the person she was looking for, and I didn’t know what he was talking about so I said Pardon me? and then he said Actually never mind don’t tell her I called, and I said OK and didn’t tell her because one thing a lamed vovnik is good at is keeping secrets. I did not know Alma was looking for someone and I tried to think of who but I couldn’t.
October 4
Today something terrible happened. Mr. Goldstein got very sick and fainted and nobody found him for three hours and now he’s in the hospital. When Mom told me I went to the bathroom and locked the door and asked G-d to please make sure Mr. Goldstein was going to be OK. When I was almost 100 percent positive that I was a lamed vovnik I used to think G-d could hear me. But I’m not sure anymore. Then I had a very horrible thought which was that maybe Mr. Goldstein got sick because I’d disappointed him. Suddenly I felt very, very sad. I squeezed my eyes shut so that no tears could leak out, and I tried to think of what to do. Then I had an idea. If I could do one good thing to help someone and not tell anyone about it, maybe Mr. Goldstein would get better again, and I would be a real lamed vovnik!
Sometimes if I need to know something I ask G-d. For example I will say If you want me to steal 50 more dollars out of Mom’s wallet so I can buy a ticket to Israel even though stealing is bad then let me find 3 blue punch-buggies in a row tomorrow, and if I find 3 blue punch-buggies in a row the answer is yes. But I knew this time I couldn’t ask G-d for help because I had to figure it out by myself. So I tried to think of someone who needed help and all of a sudden I knew the answer.
THE LAST TIME I SAW YOU
I was in bed, dreaming a dream that took place in the former Yugoslavia, or maybe it was Bratislava, for all I know it could have been Belarus. The more I think about it, the harder it is to say. Wake up! Bruno shouted. Or so I have to assume he shouted, before he resorted to the mug of cold water he emptied onto my face. Perhaps he was getting me back for the time I saved his life. He stripped back the sheets. I regret whatever he may have found there. And yet. Talk about an argument. Every morning it stands at attention, like the lead counsel for the defense.
Look! shouted Bruno. They wrote about you in a magazine.
I was in no mood for his practical jokes. Left to my own devices, I’m content to wake myself with a fart. So I tossed my wet pillow on the floor and burrowed headfirst into the sheets. Bruno slapped me upside the head with the magazine. Get up and look, he said. I played the part of the deaf-mute, which I’ve perfected over the years. I heard Bruno’s footsteps retreat. A crash from the direction of the hall closet. I braced myself. There was a loud noise, and the screech of feedback. THEY WROTE ABOUT YOU IN A MAGAZINE, Bruno said through the bullhorn he’d managed to dig out of my things. Despite my being under the sheets, he managed to locate the precise placement of my ear. I REPEAT, the bullhorn shrieked. YOU: IN A MAGAZINE. I threw off the sheets and ripped the bullhorn from his lips.
When did you become such a fool? I said.
When did you? said Bruno.
Listen, Gimpel, I said. I’m going to close my eyes and count to ten. When I open them, I want you to be gone.
Bruno looked hurt. You don’t mean that, he said.
Yes, I do, I said, and closed my eyes. One, two.
Say you didn’t mean it, he said.
With my eyes closed I remembered the first time I ever met Bruno. He was kicking a ball in the dust, a skinny, red-haired boy whose family had just moved to Slonim. I walked up to him. He lifted his eyes and took me in. Without a word, he kicked me the ball. I kicked it back.
Three, four, five, I said. I felt the magazine drop open in my lap and heard Bruno’s footsteps moving away down the hall. For a moment they paused. I tried to imagine my life without him. It seemed impossible. And yet. SEVEN! I shouted. EIGHT!! On nine, I heard the front door slam. Ten, I said, to no one in particular. I opened my eyes and looked down.
There, on the page of the only magazine I subscribe to, was my name.
I thought: What a coincidence, another Leo Gursky! Obviously it gave me a thrill, even though it had to be someone else. It’s not an unusual name. And yet. It isn’t common, either.
I read a sentence. And that was all I needed to read to know it could be no one other than me. I knew this because I was the one who’d written the sentence. In my book, the novel of my life. The one I’d started to write after my heart attack and sent, the morning after the art class, to Isaac. Whose name, I saw now, was printed in block letters across the top of the magazine’s page. WORDS FOR EVERYTHING, it said, the title I’d finally chosen, and underneath: ISAAC MORITZ.
I looked up at the ceiling.
I looked down. Like I said, there are parts I know by heart. And the sentence I knew by heart was still there. As were a hundred or so others I knew, also by heart, only edited a little here and there, in a way that felt ever-so-slightly sickening. When I turned to read the contributors’ notes, it said that Isaac had died that month, and the piece they’d published was part of his last manuscript.
I got out of bed and took the phone book out from under Famous Quotations and The History of Science, with which Bruno likes to boost himself when sitting at my kitchen table. I found the number for the magazine. Hello, I said, when the switchboard answered. Fiction, please.
It rang three times.
Fiction Department, said a man. He sounded young.
Where did you get this story? I asked.
Excuse me?
Where did you get this story?
Which story, sir?
Words for Everything.
It’s from a novel by the late Isaac Moritz, he said.
Ha, ha, I said.
Pardon me?
No, it’s not, I said.
Yes, it is, he said.
No, it’s not.
I assure you it is.
I assure you it isn’t.
Yes, sir. It is.
OK, I said. It is.
May I ask whom I’m speaking with? he said.
Leo Gursky, I said.
There was an awkward pause. When he spoke again his voice was less sure.
Is this some sort of joke?
Nope, I said.
But that’s the name of the character in the story.
My point exactly, I said.
I’ll have to check with the Fact-Checking Department, he said. Normally they inform us if there’s an existing person with the same name.
Surprise! I shouted.
Please hold, he said.
I hung up the phone.
At most a person has two, three good ideas in a lifetime. And on those magazine pages was one of
mine. I read it over again. Here and there, I chuckled aloud and marveled at my own brilliance. And yet. More often, I winced.
I dialed the magazine again and asked for the fiction department.
Guess who? I said.
Leo Gursky? said the man. I could hear the fear in his voice.
Bingo, I said, and then I said: This so-called book.
Yes?
When’s it coming out?
Please hold, he said.
I held.
In January, he said when he returned.
January! I cried. So soon! The calendar on my wall said October 17th. I couldn’t help myself, I asked, Is it any good?
Some people think it’s one of his best.
One of his best! My voice rose an octave and cracked.
Yes, sir.
I’d like an early copy, I said. I may not live until January to read about myself.
There was silence on the other end.
Well, he finally said. I’ll see if I can dig one up. What’s your address?
Same as the address of the Leo Gursky in the story, I said, and hung up. Poor kid. He could spend years trying to unravel that mystery.
But I had my own to unravel. Namely, if my manuscript had been found at Isaac’s house and mistaken for his, didn’t that mean he had read it, or at the very least begun to read it before he died? Because if he had, that would change everything. It would mean—
And yet.
I paced the apartment, at least as much as it was possible to pace, what with a badminton racket here and a stack of National Geographics there, and a set of boules, a game about which I know nothing, at large on the living room floor.