Scenes From Village Life - Amos Oz [3]
"I'm listening," said Arieh Zelnik.
"The Zelniks, the descendants of Leon Akaviah Zelnik, were, if I am not mistaken, among the founders of this village. You were among the very first settlers, were you not? Ninety years ago? Nearly a hundred almost?"
"His name was Akiva Arieh, not Leon Akaviah."
"Of course," the visitor enthused. "We have great respect for the history of your illustrious family. More than respect, admiration! First, if I am not mistaken, the two elder brothers, Semyon and Boris Zelkin, came from a little village in the district of Kharkov, to establish a brand-new settlement here in the heart of the wild landscape of the desolate Manasseh Hills. There was nothing here. Just a desolate plain covered in scrub. There were not even any Arab villages in this valley; they were all on the other side of the hills. Then their little nephew arrived, Leon, or, if you insist, Akaviah Arieh. And then, at least so the story goes, first Semyon and then Boris returned to Russia, where Boris killed Semyon with an ax, and only your grandfather—or was it your great-grandfather?—Leon Akaviah remained. What's that, he was called Akiva, not Akaviah? I'm sorry. Akiva then. To cut a long story short, it turns out that we, the Maftsirs, also come from Kharkov District! From the very forests of Kharkov! Maftsir! Maybe you've heard of us? We had a well-known cantor in the family, Shaya-Leib Maftsir, and there was also a certain Grigory Moiseyevich Maftsir, who was a very high-ranking general in the Red Army, until he was killed by Stalin in the purges of the 1930s."
The man stood up and mimed the stance of a member of a firing squad, making the sound of a salvo of rifle fire and displaying sharp but not entirely white front teeth. He sat down again, smiling, on the bench, seemingly pleased with the success of the execution. Arieh Zelnik had the feeling the man might have been waiting for applause, or at least a smile, in exchange for his own saccharine grin.
The host chose, however, not to smile back. He pushed the used glass and the jug of ice water to one side and said:
"Yes?"
Maftsir the lawyer clasped his left hand with his right hand and squeezed it joyfully, as if he had not met himself for a long time and this unexpected encounter filled him with gladness. Underneath the flood of words there bubbled up an inexhaustible gush of cheerfulness, a Gulf Stream of self-satisfaction.
"Well then. Let us begin to lay our cards on the table, as they say. The reason I took the liberty of intruding on you today has to do with the personal matters between us, and it may also have something to do with your dear mother, God grant her a long life. With that dear old lady, I mean to say. Always provided, of course, that you have no particular objection to broaching this delicate matter?"
"Yes," said Arieh Zelnik.
The visitor stood up, took off his beige jacket, which was the color of dirty sand, revealing large sweat marks in the armpits of his white shirt, put the jacket on the bench and seated himself again.
"Excuse me," he said. "I hope you don't mind. It's just that it's such a hot day. Do you mind if I take my tie off too?" For a moment he looked like a frightened child who knew that he deserved a reprimand but was too shy to beg. This expression soon vanished.
When his host said nothing, the man pulled his tie off, with a gesture that reminded Arieh Zelnik of his son Eldad.
"So long as we have your mother on our hands," he remarked, "we can't realize the value of the property, can we?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Unless we find her an excellent place in a truly excellent home. And I happen to have such a home. Or rather, my partner's brother does. All we need is her consent. Or perhaps