Jacob's Folly (34 page)

I
went on with my life in the Comédie-Française. As to the boy playing somewhere in the Jewish quarter, my blood in his veins: I tried to think of Ethiop as a dream, fag end of the hallucination that was my life before I became a Frenchman. For the most part, I succeeded. Aside from a persistent cough, nasty reminder of damp nights spent trawling the Tuileries for sodomites, I remained one hundred percent carefree.

I had exchanged several letters with Solange over the years. She knew I had gone onstage. One morning she appeared at my door, her eyes glassy.

“The Comte de Villars has been arrested,” she said. I brought her inside, struck by her solemn beauty. Her face was fuller now, and there were steel-gray streaks in her dark hair. I gave her a cup of tea, and she explained that the count had lost control of his finances. Le Jumeau having disappeared with my portion of the winnings from the bet, Villars seemed at a loss, adrift in his life, and began to gamble compulsively, mounting up huge debts. The countess was furious that he was spending her dowry. She called him a child, a lunatic. She began to work day and night to have him arrested. She wanted him to be judged insane. This was a solution of desperation among aristocratic
families, for inveterate profligates: they were simply put into prisons and kept there. The families bypassed the regular judicial system by virtue of something called a
lettre de cachet
—a sealed letter from the king, demanding the arrest of the person in question. With a
lettre de cachet
, anyone could be disposed of, and released only at the pleasure of the king. Some noblemen incarcerated in this way were never released at all. Now the grand Comte de Villars was in prison at the Château de Vincennes, the holding pen for aristocrats! As my old nemesis, Inspector Buhot, once said, “Nobody can predict his own fate.”

Solange became my housekeeper that afternoon, having unwrapped my porcelain candelabra, memento from the count, and set it proudly on my dining table. I could not afford to keep her as the count had done, but she was satisfied with the wage I offered. Going to the country to live with her husband did not seem to be an option she favored.

Immediately, my life improved. Solange thought of everything: menus to please my palate and ease my digestion; softer bedding to promote sleep; fragrant potted narcissus to create peace of mind and please the eye. She led the two servants with a firm but gentle hand. It was as if I had a wife, and yet I was completely free. Heaven.

I loved Solange. She swished through my house with her light step, her intent expression. I drew comfort from her orderly mind. I think Solange was really a secret nun. She had the private radiance of a truly spiritual being. She was sister, mother, friend to me; for kicks I had almost any actress in Paris, and a few society ladies besides. I was never short of company. I had become a cold person, filled with sour quips and unkind ironies. I was amusing, though. People feared me and were drawn to me because of it. I trusted only Solange, who knew my original self.

My lungs hadn't been right for years. One day, after a violent coughing spasm, I drew my handkerchief from my mouth and saw that it was stippled with blood. Instead of taking it easy, as Solange bade me, I took on more work, and stirred myself into a social whirl.
I invited groups of people I didn't particularly like over to my house and entertained them compulsively, never satisfied unless I had them weeping with laughter. The improvisatory skills I had learned at the Spectacle des Grands Danseurs never left me; in fact, I now had a need to speak in paragraphs. I plied my guests with the best drink, sending poor Solange down to the cellar for more and more champagne. Many of the actresses in those days were also courtesans, as Antonia had been; it wasn't uncommon to see a pair of nipples poking out from the top of a loosened bodice. After each such grotesque evening, when the guests had stayed till dawn and the rouge on the women's faces was smudged and formless, the false hair on their heads coming apart like old sofa stuffing, the men's faces gray, I was filled with sadness. Without even saying goodbye to the last of my guests, I would trudge up to my room and lie on my bed. Sometimes I wept without expression, my face a blank. Solange always came in at those times, brought me chamomile tea and some buttered bread. She sat on the chair beside my bed, doing needlepoint or reading a book. She listened if I wanted to talk, but mostly she was just present. Eventually I fell asleep.

The coughing seizures got worse and worse. There were sudden fevers. The theater doctor prescribed all sorts of remedies, including mustard plaster and being bled by leeches. For a time I thought I was getting better. I played Argan in
Le Malade imaginaire
, of all things, hoping not to expire on the stage like Molière himself. I felt myself growing stronger. Gripped by a sudden lust for extreme enjoyment, I held a dinner every night for a week, inviting all the most entertaining people I knew. Antonia herself made an appearance. It was a small world, ours; we were bound to run into each other. She was over thirty now, and no longer commanded the huge sums as a courtesan that she once had. But she was still a fine singer, spritely and fun, and loved a romp. I didn't mind that she knew of my origins. Many people did, by now, know I was a Jew. No one much cared in that society. Players were outcasts, in a way, just like Jews. So that made me a double outcast.

The morning of the final party, I had one of my fevers. I played onstage anyway, and came home slick with sweat. I thought half a bottle of champagne would raise my spirits, and it did, for a while, but by the time dinner was served I was shivering violently. I took to my bed, raising my glass to all present and commanding them to stay until dawn if they wished. Solange divided her time between the guests and me. She wished she could ask them all to go home, but I wouldn't let her.

She placed the count's candelabrum next to my bed. I stared at it, listening to the aggressive laughter downstairs, and remembered how as a child I had gazed at the Shabbos candles with such wonder. Now my eyes, drained of their credulity, stared, empty as two dry buckets, at the mesmerizing flames that crouched, reared up, and swayed from side to side in the breeze leaking through the loose windowpanes like six charmed snakes.

M
asha's hand was sandwiched between her mother's palms as Pearl sat gazing out the hospital window. Masha stared at her mother's hands, waiting for time to pass so the drug they'd given her would kick in. The pain in her chest was deep, as though a spade were digging into her with every heartbeat. They had done all sorts of tests, but, again, they'd come up with nothing. Ghost pain, they said. Something was stalking her from the inside. She felt helpless.
How strange that Leslie was the one to rescue me
, she thought. She remembered seeing the massive figure coming at her through the smoke. She had thought she was about to be murdered. For the first time, Masha missed Leslie, and imagined him charging into this hospital room and taking her away with him. She would gladly go. She wanted him to come get her. The rescue had opened her up.

Pearl cleared her throat, shifted in her seat, but she didn't let go of Masha's hand. A muted knock at the open door, and Derbhan Nevsky tottered in, his skinny legs looking almost too frail to keep him up. He was carrying a bunch of flowers and a stuffed plastic bag.

“Masha,” he whispered. His face had gone slack, deflated. Pearl looked up at him.

“I'm Derbhan Nevsky, Masha's personal manager,” said Nevsky, bowing, the flowers behind his back. “I am so sorry about this.” Nevsky slumped onto an orange plastic chair, his back curved.

“Is Shelley okay?” asked Masha.

“They've already released her.”

“She was supposed to be in the city,” she said. “She stayed 'cause I was scared.”

“She's fine, though. Don't question it,” said Pearl. “You'll drive yourself crazy.”

“You mean I'm supposed to believe this all happened for a reason? It's in the plan?” Masha spoke in a hoarse whisper. “Please just leave me alone with that stuff, Mommy.” Pearl let go of her daughter's hand, smoothed her skirt.

“The Coes are on their way to their boat in Greece,” said Nevsky. “I think the best thing—and Mrs. Edelman, I'm sure you agree with me—is for Masha to go home. You need to recover.”

He swung a full plastic bag onto the bed. “You left some clothes at the Coes', I thought you might like to have them,” he said. “Plus your cell is in there.”

Back in her own bed again, Masha stared down at the dish of melting chocolate ice cream, the only food she could get past her gullet without gagging. Pearl had brought it on a tray. Masha drank a spoonful of the sweet, cold soup at the bottom of the bowl, thought of Shelley, how she loved ice cream. She might be licking a cone now, out in the sunshine. Masha felt a great chasm opening up between her and her friend. The pain had led her back home. She would never live in the story machine now, nor be a part of that magic world. It occurred to her that she might not live very long.

Masha hadn't spoken since she got home. Pearl, Yehudis, Miriam, and the others came into the room many times a day, filled with worry and consolations. Masha sat, wordless, wild-haired, with dark circles
around her great glittering eyes, her catatonia turning each family visit to awkward cajoling. She was beginning to frighten them. Her thoughts were muddled. Bundles of memory exploded in her mind and radiated outward. She stared into the still-fresh images, marveling at what had been her life such a short time ago: the view she had of the marina from her bathroom window as she brushed her teeth, boats bobbing in the glittering sea; her customary black chair in the now-charred free rental, where she would sit with her feet tucked under her every morning, planning her day with Shelley, filled with a sense of possibility, her destiny mounting; her bare limbs gliding through the Coe pool, the warmth on her face as she turned it toward the sun, eyes closed … and, though she tried to avoid it, there was another, darker recollection: a few hours after Nevsky left the hospital, the Coes had made a surprise visit. Shiny-faced Ross appeared bearing a huge bunch of roses in his manicured hands. Ancient Helga clacked in after him, tight beige trousers tucked into black boots, low-cut top revealing deep creases in her overbaked breastplate. She struck a pose of exaggerated sympathy, thin lips turned down in a clownish pout, head tilted to one side.

“Oh, my beauty!” she whined. “You poor thing.”

Masha smiled up at them. “I thought you'd gone,” she said, taking the cellophane-swaddled roses from Ross and holding them in her arms like a baby.

“We're on our way to the airport,” said Ross.

“How could we leave without saying goodbye?” effused Helga. “You look so like a Klimt, with your marvelous eyes and your hair …”

Coe drew a photograph from his inside blazer pocket. “We're going to have Leslie keep working on
Sweet Helga
while we're gone,” said Coe, handing her an image of the black boat. Masha looked at the photograph. In it, she was standing at the prow of
Sweet Helga
in a T-shirt and shorts, an electric sander in her hand. Leslie was beside
her, had his ear mufflers on. “Thought you'd like a picture of her, you did so much work on that boat.”

“Thanks,” said Masha. The picture seemed as though it had been taken a long time ago. Two people, high up on a big boat, fuzzy with overexposure, nearly pulverized by light. She felt like weeping. It was then that Pearl walked into the room, her wig neat and shining, stockings thick, sleeves long. Helga turned—saw Pearl—froze. I watched as a blush boiled up under Helga's skin, mottling her chest, her neck, climbing up to her cheeks. Her capped smile appeared swiftly, bravely. I couldn't tell if it was panic or embarrassment that was affecting her so deeply. Masha witnessed the sanguine tide rising beneath the epidermis of Helga Coe. Her dark night eyes traveled to her mother. She knew these people wouldn't help her anymore.

“I'm Pearl Edelman,” Pearl said. “Masha's mother.”

“Of course,” said Helga, almost to herself.

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Edelman,” said Ross, putting out his hand, which fell back to his side, untouched. “Ross and Helga Coe. We simply adore your daughter.”

Pearl regarded the pair of them. “Good to meet you,” she said, then began to fold Masha's things, as if to leave them to their privacy. The Coes left with cheery haste.

Neither Pearl nor Masha spoke of the Coes, once they were alone. I crept along the edge of Masha's breakfast tray, wondering. Some horror had been acknowledged by Helga's blush, some vile thing released. I didn't know what it was yet, but it terrified me.

After a week at home, Masha woke to find that the pain had receded from her chest like a noxious tide. She propped up her head on her fist and cast a hostile glance around the room: her sisters' tidy beds, the bare desk, each pencil in place, a row of dolls they had once shared crammed on the shelf above the radiator.

The plastic bag of Masha's clothes lay crumpled on the floor beside her. Masha reached out for it, leaning over in bed to peer at her things: a pair of jeans, a dress, shorts, a couple of tank tops. Shelley's favorite orange platform shoes had somehow been added to the pile. Masha took out each item and spread it on her bed. Hungrily, she dressed herself in the tight jeans, a tank top, the shoes. Masha thought of her shining friend, wobbling along in these heels, her coltlike legs skinny and strong, shock of blond fluff pinned down with girlish pink clasps. Masha was brushing her hair for the first time in days when Estie walked in.

“Oh, what are you—what are you wearing, Mashie!”

“I'm alone in my room,” said Masha. “I get to wear what I want.”

Estie walked over to Masha's bed and sat down at the end of it, pulling the covers over her bony knees. “They talk about you all the time, you know,” she said.

“I bet,” said Masha.

“Yehudis feels bad.”

“Why?” asked Masha.

“Because of Eli,” said Estie. “Oh! Can I have one?” she was holding up a bag of purple hard candy she'd found under the blanket.

“Sure,” said Masha. “What about Eli?”

“That he's taking out Yehudis,” said Estie, sucking on the sweet. “But Mommy says if it's
beshert
, it's
beshert
, and she shouldn't worry so much. I think they're gonna get married.”

Masha just sat for a long time. She was amazed by how much she could cry. No sobbing; just silent, unstemmed tears that dripped down her face. Yehudis rushed in and wept too, when she realized that Estie had told her. She sat beside her sister, held her hand.

“It's okay,” said Masha. “You should marry him. I couldn't have made him happy. I don't think I'm that kind of person. I don't know why.”

“Of course you are,” said Yehudis. “When you meet the right person it'll all work out.”

Masha shook her head. “I wish I could get out of here,” she whispered. She had no money. She didn't know anyone outside. It was finished with the Coes; Nevsky had disappeared.

She began walking around the house in her skimpy clothes. Mordecai wouldn't even look at her. The younger children stared; Suri and the twins avoided her, embarrassed. Miriam told her she could at least have the consideration to dress modestly while in her parents' house. “Why must you insult us?” she asked. Masha didn't answer; she couldn't, really. Her mind was a blank. She could not do more than what she was doing: haunt the house, her mind clogged, her legs and arms moving mechanically. She knew one thing: if she put on her old clothes, if she covered up again, then it would be a sign that she was ready to die. She ate in her room, lay in bed all day. Pearl looked in on her daughter every fifteen minutes or so. She insisted the door be kept open at all times.

I despaired of my plan. The ruin of Leslie Senzatimore had brought me no joy, as it turned out. And here was Masha, on suicide watch. My meager powers were not enough to rectify the situation. I began to hope someone would swat me and put an end to my misery when Pearl's sister, Rivkah, came to visit from Baltimore.

Rivkah was plump, bustling. She wore a bobbed brown wig. Glasses. She ate the modest late-morning snack Pearl served up with gusto, and spoiled the youngest children with books and sweets. Then she lifted a large blue folder from her satchel.

“I know you have a million things to do before sundown, and I promise I'll help you,” she said, beaming at her sister. “But I can't wait anymore, I have to show you this.”

“What is it?” asked Pearl.

“The family tree!”

“You finished it?”

“Can you believe it? Ten years it took me! Don't worry about spilling coffee on it, this is just a copy,” she said, spreading out the laminated page for inspection. “Now, look. The pink squares are direct relations. The blues are indirect. You know we originally came from
Poland. Well, boy do I have a surprise for you!” The page was a maze of lines connecting pink and blue rectangles. Each rectangle contained a name, a place and date of birth, and death. The print was tiny.

“Look how far back that goes,” murmured Pearl, tracing her finger from her own name, with its impressive eleven offspring written below it, up and up, to people born in the seventeenth century. “Sixteen ninety-two!”

“Yes. There are still a few names outstanding. We already knew about Grandpa Max coming here through Portugal, but look. Look at this. In Poland. See? He's not a direct relative, but he is a relative.” A shiny red fingernail was pointing at a name. Curious, I hovered over it. I read:
b. 1732. d. 1780. Gimpel Cerf
. It couldn't be. Cousin Gimpel? I landed on the name, only to be shooed away by Rivkah.

“He was a maggid. A wandering holy man. A tzaddik. He was the disciple of the Rav Dov Ber, who was of course a disciple of the Ba'al Shem Tov!”

“No …,” Pearl whispered. I landed on the table with a thud. Was I
related
to these people? Tears came to my eyes and I looked up to heaven. This would really be too much.

“We have a true tzaddik in our family,” Rivkah continued. “And not just any tzaddik—one of the originals! Now try marrying off your girls, they'll go like hot cakes!”

“Rivkah!” Pearl laughed. “That's a little shtetl for me.”

“Say what you like, you know it's a nightmare getting them all married, and everybody loves a tzaddik in the family,” said Rivkah.

“I have to admit, you're right,” said Pearl, checking her watch. “Oh, I need to get to the store, it's so late!” They fled, leaving the baby in the care of Trina, the housekeeper. The family tree was left exposed on the coffee table. I flew over to Gimpel Cerf's name and landed on it. As my filament-thin legs trod across the characters, I had a strange sensation: images were being drawn up into my brain, as if through the pads on my feet. I could see Mezritch. The men in their high fur hats, their black caftans, the women, hair covered, aprons soiled,
walking through the streets, their children hanging off their arms. I smelled the woodsmoke pouring from the chimney pots, heard the sound of the droshky cabs clopping along the streets, and the loud, vehement people calling to one another in Yiddish. I saw Cousin Gimpel, that dear friend, his wandering iris floating aimlessly, his other fixed before him as he walked to prayer. He looked older than I remembered, and so intent. Gone was his bumbling manner, his foolish smile. This was a wise man, a man who knew the holy names, the Book of Creation. He had hid his power from all of us. Why? I wondered. Out of modesty? An unwillingness to face what he really was? I would never know. Filled with curiosity, I took off and buzzed over to where my own name might be. After a long search I found it. Jacob Cerf. Married to Hodel Mendel. Issue: Ethiop. Ethiop married Hannah and they begat Jacob, Sarah, Abraham, and Scheindl. I hovered over the name of my son, afraid to land, and yet wanting so much to see his face. In the end, of course, I alighted.

I found myself in a tailor's shop. Pigeonhole cubbies filled with every color of thread and ribbon lined the walls. A large glass window framed a well-heeled populace bustling outside. The women wore the waists of their dresses very high now, just below the breasts. They didn't wear wigs, but charming little knots of hair at the base of their necks. How I wished I could try my luck with those beauties. Now my gaze shifted. I saw a young man seated in a fine black suit, a yarmulke on his head, his pale face bent over his work. My son had my light eyes and a quick, foxlike expression, the dark brows and swarthy skin of Mme Mendel. He was sewing a gentleman's waistcoat with great intensity. The silk was pale green as new leaves. Ethiop's work was fine, precise. I stayed with him for several hours. He only looked up from his task when a customer walked into the shop. The man was tall, wearing a pair of tight-fitting vanilla-colored woolen britches and a short navy jacket. To my surprise, he referred to Ethiop as “citizen.”
Had the Jews become citizens of France?
I wondered, incredulous. My son deftly took the man's measurements, made notes of his desires for
a new jacket, and nodded without a hint of servile groveling when the man left. I was impressed.