Fixer, The - Bernard Malamud [119]
There’s no bottom to my bitterness, he thought.
He nailed at the wooden walls of the pen with both fists. The guard sternly ordered him to stop, so he beat himself instead, his face and head. She looked on with shut eyes.
Afterwards, when it was over, except what was left of his anguish, he said, “So if you weren’t barren, what was the matter?”
She looked away, then at him. “Who knows? Some women conceive late. With conception you need luck.”
Luck I was short of, he thought, so I blamed her.
“Boy or girl?” Yakov asked.
She smiled at her hands. “A boy, Chaiml, after my grandfather.”
“How old now?”
“Almost a year and a half.”
“It couldn’t be mine?”
“How could it be?”
“Too bad,” he sighed. “Where is he now?”
“With Papa. That’s why I went back, I couldn’t take care of him alone any more. Ah, Yakov, it’s not all raisins and almonds. I’ve gone back to the shtetl but they blame me for your fate. I tried to take up my little dairy business but I might just as well be selling pork. The rabbi calls me to my face, pariah. The child will think his name is bastard.”
“So what do you want from me?”
“Yakov,” she said, “I’m sorry for what you’re suffering. When I heard it was you I tore my hair; but I figured you’d also be sorry for me. Please, it might make things easier if you wouldn’t mind saying you are my son’s father. Still, if you can’t you can’t. I don’t want to add to your burdens.”
“Who’s the father, some goy I’ll bet.”
“If it makes you feel better he was a Jew, a musician. He came, he went, I forgot him. He fathered the child but he’s not his father. Whoever acts the father is the father. My father’s the father but he’s only two steps from death’s door. One knock and I’m twice widowed.”
“What’s the matter with him?”
“Diabetes, though he drags himself around. He worries about you, he worries about me and the child. He wakes up cursing himself for not having been born rich. He prays every time he thinks of it. I take care of him the best I can. He sleeps on a bag of rags pushed to the wall. He needs food, rest, medicine. The little we get comes from charity. One or two of the rich send their servants over with this or that, but when they see me they hold their noses.”
“Has he talked to anybody about me?”
“To everybody. He runs everywhere, sick as he is.”
“What do they say?”
“They tear their hair. They beat their chests. They thank God it wasn’t them. Some collect money. Some say they will make protests. Some are afraid to do anything because it may annoy the Christians and make things worse. Some are pessimistic but a few have hope. Still, there’s more going on than I know.”
“If it doesn’t go faster I won’t be here to find out what.”
“Don’t say that, Yakov. I went myself to see some lawyers in Kiev. Two of them swear they will help you but nobody can move without an indictment.”
“So I’ll wait,” said Yakov. Before her eyes he shrank in size.
“I’ve brought you some haleh and cheese and an apple in a little pack,” Raisl said, “but they made me leave it at the warden’s office. Don’t forget to ask for it. It’s goat’s cheese but I don’t think you’ll notice.”
“Thanks,” said Yakov wearily. He said, after a sigh, “Listen, Raisl, I’ll write you a paper that the child’s mine.”
Her eyes glistened. “God will bless you.”
“Never mind God. Have you got a piece of paper, I’ll write something down. Show it to the rabbi’s father, the old melamed. He knows my handwriting and he’s a kinder man than his son.”
“I have paper and pencil,” she whispered nervously, “but I’m afraid to give them to you with this guard in the room. They warned me not to hand you anything but the confession and to take nothing but that from you or they would arrest me for attempting to help you escape.”
The guard was restless and again came forward. “There’s nothing more to talk about. Either sign the paper or