A Tale of Love and Darkness - Amos Oz [76]
I remember how my father mastered his trembling enthusiasm, and did not forcibly snap the string holding the parcel together or even cut it with scissors but—I shall never forget this—undid the strong knots, one after another, with infinite patience, making alternate use of his strong fingernails, the tip of his paper knife, and the point of a bent paper clip. When he had finished, he did not pounce on his new book but slowly wound up the string, removed the wrapping of glossy paper, touched the jacket of the uppermost copy lightly with his fingertips, like a shy lover, raised it gently to his face, ruffled the pages a little, closed his eyes and sniffed them, inhaling deeply the fresh printing smells, the pleasure of new paper, the delightful, intoxicating odor of glue. Only then did he start to leaf through his book, peering first at the index, scrutinizing the list of addenda and corrigenda, reading and rereading Uncle Joseph's foreword and his own preface, lingering on the title page, caressing the cover again, then, alarmed that my mother might be secretly making fun of him, he said apologetically:
"A new book fresh from the press, a first book, it's as though I've just had another baby."
"When it's time to change its nappy," my mother replied, "I expect you'll call me."
So saying, she turned and left the room, but she returned a few moments later carrying a bottle of sweet, sacramental Tokay and three tiny liqueur glasses, saying that we must drink the health of Father's first book. She poured some wine for the two of them and a little drop for me, she may even have kissed him on the forehead, while he stroked her hair.
That evening my mother spread a white cloth on the kitchen table, as though it were Sabbath or a festival, and served up Father's favorite dish, hot borscht with an iceberg of pure white cream floating in it. She congratulated him. Grandpa and Grandma joined us to share our modest celebration, and Grandma remarked to my mother that the borscht was really very nice and almost tasty, but that—God preserve her from giving advice, but it was well known, every little girl knew, even Gentile women who cooked in Jewish homes knew, that borscht should be sour and just slightly sweet, certainly not sweet and just slightly sour, the way the Poles make it, because they sweeten everything, without rhyme or reason, and if you didn't watch them, they would drown salt herring in sugar, or even put jam on chreyn (horseradish sauce).
Mother, for her part, thanked Grandma for sharing her expertise with us and promised that in the future she would serve her only bitter and sour food, as that would be sure to suit her. As for Father, he was too pleased to notice such pinpricks. He presented one inscribed copy to his parents, another he gave to Uncle Joseph, a third to his dear friends Esther and Israel Zarchi, another to I cannot remember whom, and the last copy he kept in his library, on a prominent shelf, snuggled up close to the works of his uncle Professor Joseph Klausner.
Father's happiness lasted for three or four days, and then his face fell. Just as he had rushed to the post office every day before the packet arrived, so he now rushed every day to Achiasaph's bookshop in King George V Avenue, where three copies of The Novella were displayed for sale. The next day the same three copies were there, not one of them had been purchased. And the same the next day, and the day after that.
"You," Father said with a sad smile to his friend Israel Zarchi, "write a new novel every six months, and instantly all the pretty girls snatch you off the shelves and take you straight to bed with