A Thousand and One Afternoons in Chicago Part 37

The conversation finally begins. It runs something like this. It is the great financier talking. "Europe. Oh, yes. Quite a mess. Things will pick up, however." A long pause. The umbrellas bob along. One, two, three, four, five--the financier counts up to thirty. Then he rubs his hands together as if he were taking charge of a situation freshly arisen at a board of directors' meeting and says in a jovial voice: "Where were we?

Oh, yes. The European situation. Well, now, what do you want to know in particular?"

Ah, this great financier has columns of figures, columns of reports and columns of phrases in his head. Press a b.u.t.ton and they will pop out.

"Have a cigar?" the financier asks. Cigars are lighted. "A rotten day," he says. "Doesn't look as if it will clear up, either, does it?" Then he says, "I guess this is an off day for me. No energy at all. I swear I can't think of a thing to tell you about the European situation."

He sits smoking, his eyes fastened on the scene outside the window. His eyes seem to be searching as if for meanings that withhold themselves. Yet obviously there is no thought in his head. A mood has wormed its way through the columns of figures, columns of reports, and taken possession of him. This is bad for a financier. It is obvious that the umbrellas outside are for the moment something other than ripples; that the great play of life outside is something other than an inarticulate Greek chorus mumbled as an obbligato for him alone.

The great financier is aware of something. Of what? He shakes his head, as if to question himself. Of nothing he can tell. Of the fact that a great financier is an atom like other atoms dancing in a chaos of atoms. Of the fact that each of the umbrellas crawling past under his window is as important as himself. The great financier's ego is taking a rest and dreams naked of words crowd in to distract him.

"We have in Europe a peculiar situation," he says. "England and France, although hitched to the same wagon, pull in different directions. England must build up her trade. France must build up her morale. These involve different efforts. To build up her trade England must re-establish Germany. To build up her morale France must see that Germany is not re-established and that it remains forever a beaten enemy."

The great financier looks at his watch suddenly. "By Jove!" he says. "By Jove!" He has to go. He is sorry the interview was a failure. But a rotten day for thinking. Back into his raincoat. A limousine has drawn up. A servant helps him to dress. In a moment another umbrella has joined the crawl of umbrellas over the pavement.

It rains. And a great financier is riding home to dinner.

PITZELA'S SON

"His name?" said Feodor Mishkin. "Hm! Always you want names. Is life a matter of names and addresses or is it something else?"

"But the story would be better, Feodor, with names in it."

The rotund and omniscient journalist from the west side muttered to himself in Russian.

"Better!" he repeated. "And why better? If I tell you his name is Yankel or Berella or Chaim Duvit do you know any more than if I tell you his name is Pitzela?"

"No. We will drop the matter. I will call him Chaim Yankel."

"You will call him Chaim Yankel! And what for? His name is Pitzela and not Chaim Yankel."

"Thanks."

"You can go anywhere on Maxwell Street and ask anybody you meet do they know Pitzela and they will say: 'Do we know Pitzela? We know Pitzela all right.' So what is there to be gained by calling him Chaim Yankel?"

"Nothing, Feodor. It was a mistake even to think of it."

"It was. Well, as I was telling you before you began this interruption about names, he is exactly 110 years old. Can you imagine a man 110 years old? A man 110 years old is an unusual thing, isn't it?"

"It is, Feodor. But I once knew a man 113 years old."

"Ha! And what kind of a man was he? Did he dance jigs? Did he crack nuts with his teeth? Did he drink like a fish?"

"No, he was an old man and very sad."

"You see! He was sad. So what has he to do with Pitzela? Nothing. Pitzela laughs all day long. And he dances jigs. And he cracks nuts with his teeth. Mind you, a man 110 years old cracks nuts with his teeth! Can you imagine such a thing?"

"No Feodor. It is amazing."

"Amazing? Why amazing? Everything that happens different from what you know is amazing to you! You are very nave. You know what nave means? It is French."

"I know what nave means, Feodor. Go on about Pitzela."

"Nave means to be childish late in life. In a way you are like Pitzela, despite the difference in your ages. He is nave. You know what he wants?"

"What?"

"This Pitzela wants to show everybody how young he is. That's his central ambition. He don't talk English much, but when you ask him, 'Pitzela, how do you feel today?' he says to you right back, 'Oi, me? I'm full o' pep.'

Then if you ask him, 'How old are you, Pitzela?' he says: 'Old? What does it matter how old I am? I am just beginning to enjoy myself. And when you talk about my dying don't laugh too much. Because, you know, I will attend all your funerals. When I am 300 years old I will be burying your grandchildren.' And he will laugh. Do you like the story?"

"Yes, Feodor. But it isn't long enough. I will have to go out and see Pitzela and describe him and that will make the story long enough."

"It isn't long enough? What do you mean? I just begun. The story ain't about Pitzela at all. So why should you go see Pitzela?"

"But I thought it was about Pitzela."

"You thought! Hm! Well, you see what good it does you to think. For according to your thinking the story is already finished. Whereas according to me the story is only just beginning."

"But you said it was about Pitzela, Feodor. So I believed you."

"I said nothing of the sort. I merely asked you if you knew Pitzela. The story is entirely about Pitzela's son."

"Aha! This Pitzela has a son. That's interesting."

"Of course it is. Pitzela's son is a man 87 years old. Ask anybody on Maxwell street do they know Pitzela's son and they will tell you: 'Do we know Pitzela's son? Hm! It's a scandal."

"The editor, Feodor, forbids me to write about scandals. So be careful."

"This scandal is one you can write about. This Pitzela's son is such a poor old man that he can hardly walk. He has a long white beard and wears a yamulka and he has no teeth and one foot is already deep in the grave.

If you saw Pitzela's son you would say: 'Why don't this dying man go home and sit down instead of running around like this?'

"And why don't he?"

"Why don't he? Such a question! He don't because Pitzela don't let him.

Pitzela is his father and he has to mind his father. And Pitzela says: 'What! You want to hang around the house like you were an old man? You are crazy. Look at me, I'm your father. And you a young man, my son, act like you were my father. It's a scandal. Come, we will go to the banquet.'

"What banquet, Feodor?"

"Oh, any banquet. He drags him. He don't let him rest. And he says: 'You must shave off your beard. For fifteen years you been letting it grow and now it's altogether too long. How does it look for me to go around with a son who not only can't walk, but has a beard that makes him look like Father Abraham himself?'"

"And what does Pitzela's son say?"

"What can he say? Nothing. The doctor comes and tells him: 'You got to stay in the house. You are going out too much. How old are you?' And Pitzela's son shakes his tired head and says: 'Eighty-seven years old, doctor.' And the doctor gives strict orders. But Pitzela comes in and laughs. Imagine."

"Yes, it's a good story, Feodor."