Fixer, The - Bernard Malamud [14]
Nikolai Maximovitch rose slowly, an old man with wrinkled, red-rimmed, wet melancholy eyes, and welcomed Yakov without embarrassment. The fixer, thinking of his Black Hundreds button felt for him contempt, and a portion of the same for himself. His throat tightened. Though he wasn’t trembling he felt he might be.
“Nikolai Maximovitch Lebedev,” the fat Russian said, offering his soft pudgy hand. A thick gold watch-chain hung on his paunch, and his vest was dusty with snuff grains.
Yakov, after a slight hesitation, shook hands, answering as he had planned, “Yakov Ivanovitch Dologushev.” To have given his name might have finished off the reward. Yet he felt ashamed and sweaty.
Zinaida Nikolaevna busied herself with the samovar.
Her father indicated a chair for the fixer.
“I have a good deal to thank you for, Yakov Ivanovitch,” he said, resuming his seat. “I lost my footing in the snow, no doubt there was ice under it. You were very kind to assist me—not everyone would have. Once, under quite different circumstances—I began to drink only after the death of my beloved wife, a woman of exceptional qualities—Zina will affirm the truth of what I am saying—I fainted from illness on Fundukleyevsky Street, in front of a coffee shop, and lay on the pavement with a gash in my head for an unconscionable time before anyone—in this case a woman who had lost a son at Port Arthur—bothered to come to my assistance. Nowadays people are far less concerned about their fellow humans than in times past. Religious feeling has shrunk in the world and kindness is rare. Very rare indeed.”
Yakov, waiting for him to come to the reward, sat tightly in the chair.
Nikolai Maximovitch regarded the fixer’s worn sheepskin coat. He took out his snuffbox, inserted a pinch in both nostrils, blew his nose vigorously in a large white handkerchief, sneezed twice, then after a few futile attempts, succeeded in thrusting the box back into his robe pocket.
“My daughter informs me you were carrying a bag of tools yesterday. What is your trade, if I may ask?”
“Repairs, et cetera, of all kinds,” Yakov answered. “I do carpentering, also painting, and roofing.”
“Is that so? Are you presently employed?”
The fixer, without thought, said he wasn’t.
“Where are you from if you don’t mind saying?” said Nikolai Maximovitch. “I ask because I have a curious nature.”
“From the provinces,” Yakov answered, after a moment’s hesitation.
“Ach—really?—a country boy?—and a good thing, may I say. The country virtues are not to be denied. I’m from the region of Kursk myself. I’ve pitched hay in my time. Do you come to Kiev as a pilgrim?”
“No, I came for work.” He paused. “Also, if possible, for a little education.”
“Excellent. You speak well although with a provincial accent. But grammatically. Have you had some school-ing?”
Blast his questions, the fixer thought.
“I’ve read a little on my own.”
The girl was watching him through lowered eyelids.
“Do you also read in the Holy Scriptures?” asked Nikolai Maximovitch. “I presume you do?”
“I know the Psalms.”
“Wonderful. Did you hear, Zina?—the Psalms, wonderful. The Old Testament is admirable, the true prophecy of Christ’s coming and his redemption of us through death. However, it is in no way equal to the preachings and parables of Our Lord, in the New Testament. I have just been rereading this.” Nikolai Maximovitch glanced down at the open book and read aloud: “ ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit; for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.’ “
Yakov, grown pale, nodded.
Nikolai Maximovitch’s eyes were humid. He had again