Barney's Version - Mordecai Richler [73]
“The art teacher? You understand Yiddish, may I be so bold to inquire?”
“Some.”
“I’m your machuten. Clara’s father. May I come in?”
“Yes. Certainly. Excuse me a minute, will you?”
I splashed my face with water once more, and emerged to discover I wasn’t hallucinating. Mr. Charnofsky was still there. Hands clasped behind his back, he was studying the ink drawings that still hung on the wall. “I take it you are an artist, Mr. Panofsky.”
“Clara’s,” I said.
“Clara’s. Why would she buy such disgusting things?”
“She made them.”
“She made them. I couldn’t help noticing in that little room there, a crib. There is a child?”
“We lost him.”
“So you lost a son and I lost a daughter. May there be no more mourning in your house or mine.”
“Would you care for some coffee?”
“It gives me gas. Especially the Frenchy kind they serve here. But a cup of tea would be nice, if you don’t mind?”
He cleared a space for himself at the table, ostentatiously brushing it free of crumbs, and sweeping aside a half-filled mug in which several Gauloise butts floated. He inspected his teaspoon and wiped it on the edge of the tablecloth. “Lemon, you’ve got some?” he asked.
“Sorry. I’m out.”
“He’s out,” said Mr. Charnofsky, shrugging. And then, sucking on a sugar cube, sipping tea, he told me he was the cantor of the B’nai Jacob synagogue in Brighton Beach. “It’s not a princely living,” he said, “but they provide us with an apartment, the building belongs to the synagogue’s president, he would die before he would agree to a paint job, never mind fix a leaky toilet bowl, his wife’s barren, it’s a shame, so who will he leave his fortune to? His problem. I have plenty of my own. Gall-bladder stones, you shouldn’t live to see the day. I also suffer from sinus trouble, varicose veins, and corns on my feet. It’s from standing so much in the synagogue. Listen here, cancer it isn’t, right? And, oh yes, there is the pittance I earn from performing at weddings and funerals, they slip you fifty dollars they want a tax receipt, and I preside over seders every Pesach at Finestone’s Strictly Kosher Hotel in the Catskills. Every year sold out because of me. My voice. A gift from the Almighty, Blessed be He. But where does Fine-stone put me up, he’s so grateful for the money he’s raking in? In a room the size of a cupboard behind the kitchen, the fridge and the larder locked up at night in case I might steal a Coca-Cola or a tin of sardines. I have to walk a mile to do my business. Anyway, I sent Clara whatever I could spare care of American Express, which is the only address I had for her.”
Mr. Charnofsky had two children. There was Solly, an accountant, an alrightnik, married, blessed with two lovely kids. Rank-one scholars, both of them. He showed me photographs. “You’re their uncle now. Milton was born on February eighteenth and Arty on June twenty-eight, if you care to write that down for future reference.” And of course there was also Clara. “Aleha ha-sholem,” he said. “You look, epes, surprised to see me.”
“I need time to take this in.”
“Time he needs. And what about me, mister? Did I even know she was married, my own daughter?” he asked, his ingratiating manner yielding to anger. “You did say my Clara drew these filthy pictures?”
“Yes.”
Obviously the condition of our apartment had emboldened Mr. Charnofsky. Mind you, to his Brighton Beach eyes it had to appear a dump, not the prize that had cost me a good deal of key money. He pulled a white linen handkerchief out of a trouser pocket and dabbed his forehead with it. “And she never told you about us, it goes without saying?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“He’s afraid not. Well, for my part, I’m certainly surprised Miss Cat’s Meow married a Jewish boy. A nigger would have been more like it. She adored them.”
“I don’t like anybody calling them ‘niggers,’ if you don’t mind.”
“If I don’t mind. Be my guest. Call them what you like,” said Mr. Charnofsky, sniffing the stale air, his nose wrinkling. “If you were willing to open a window, I wouldn’t say no.”
I did as he asked.
“If you are not an artist, Mr. Panofsky,