The Origin of Sorrow (45 page)

He would not sketch her face. That was their agreement. Her torso must be headless, she had a reputation to protect, and two young boys. Her portrait would be fine another time. Without her body.

Where would she undress? Avra led her into Yetta’s room; his mother was at schul.

He had known that the cabinet maker would not object. Could not. It was Yussel who had brought him as a wedding gift a book of etchings of the masters. Most of them had sketched the female form. He allowed himself a private smile. None had sketched Brendel Isaacs.

Barefoot, she stepped into his room, his studio, wearing one of Avra’s robes. His wife watched from the doorway, to see if she was needed. He motioned Brendel to a place two metres in front of him, where they had positioned Hersch’s old bed in the gray light pouring from the window. He nodded to her, very slightly, as if he were an old hand at this. Her face flushed a pale pink, but only for a moment, as she opened the robe and let it drop to the floor. The light caressed her body with sheen and shadow. His room, not the schul, had become God’s temple.

He raised a hand for her not to move as he studied her, as he began to sketch. He noted the angle at which her shoulders sloped. How her breasts offered themselves, two matching undercurves, one slightly smaller than the other, something he had not expected. Around her nipples were not magenta discs, like Avra’s, but pale pink flowers of soft flesh, the petals uneven, a pinkness made by a cherry dropped in milk; the pink nipples themselves shyly trying to hide their emerging heads. He sketched the slope of her flesh as it curved into her waist and out again to her hips. Beneath her navel her nether hair was a pale brown fuzz, a perfect triangle, unlike his wife’s dark diamond. Her left thigh caught the light from the window, then rounded into deep shadow. He drew, smudged the charcoal for shading with his fingers, with the side of his hand, stepped back from the easel, looked at the sketch and at her, idly noticed Avra still watching from the doorway, returned to the easel to add a line here, to soften a line there. Unclipped the paper from the easel, set it on the floor, clipped another sheet in place. He motioned her to the bed. She sat, resting for a moment, then reclined on her side, facing him, moving her lithe arms slowly, sensuously, as if posing unclothed had come as a birthright with her form. He raised a hand when he saw what he wanted, not just her shape but the negative space beyond and between, and she paused and held the pose. Quickly he began to sketch. His manhood, he was glad to note, was behaving itself. Avra, not only his wife but his manager, had been wise in making love to him at dawn.

He placed the sketch on the floor, fastened another sheet of paper on the easel. Her back, her buttocks, her legs extended, her legs bent at the knee, one by one the sketch pile grew, each drawing without a head. A terrible image occurred to him — the severed head of the blacksmith from Mainz lying on the beach. And then a connection he had never made before — that the head had belonged to Brendel’s husband, the father of her boys.

He set the charcoal down and waved at her to relax. She slipped into the robe, they entered the kitchen, he gave her a glass of water. They found his wife in his mother’s room, where much of his work — framed by Yussel Kahn — was stacked in the space where his father ‘s bed had been. Avra was removing his sketches of the lane from their frames.

“Why are you doing that?” He saw Brendel’s lips move as she spoke to Avra and motioned the question to him.

“To put the new sketches in. The ones that Hiram likes. We’ll display them in the lane on Monday.”

“In the lane?”

“Where else?”

“People will be shocked. Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“We could use some excitement,” Avra said.

“But the Rabbis … the children. What will you tell them?”

“Art needs no defense. Besides, your body is the work of Yahweh. How can they be ashamed of that?”

“But they will be.”

“So, let them do the defending.”

“I didn’t realize . . .” Brendel said.

“No face, as you and Hiram agreed.”

“It will become a guessing game!”

Avra grinned. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“How awful!” She was rubbing her forehead with her hand.

“Listen to me,” Avra said. “The lane is awful. The locked gates are awful. The laws against the Jews are awful. Your beauty is not awful. The beauty inside our clothing is revealed only in bedrooms, at night, in the dark. But it’s a part of the life of the lane, and that is Hiram’s subject. How can he not show that? The children you’re concerned about — they don’t come from starter dough.”

“I don’t see you posing nude.”

“My body no one would look at twice.”

Following the conversation by reading their lips and their hand motions, Hiram stepped closer to Avra, kissed her temple, pointed to himself, smiling. He would look at her twice.

“You can’t sell them!” Brendel was near to tears now. “I never agreed to that! Imagine men hanging these in their bedrooms. Their wives would hate me!”

“I doubt any married man would dare.”

“Who, then? Bachelors? That would be worse!”

Avra pondered, looked at Hiram. “Very well, we’ll just display his talent. They won’t be for sale.”

“It’s more than his talent you’re displaying!”

Hiram spoke to Avra quickly with his hands. Avra frowned, but translated. “He doesn’t want to upset you. He says he won’t show them without your permission.”

Brendel wiped perspiration from her forehead, tried to slow her breathing, the rise and fall of her chest beneath her robe.

“It’s not as if you’re ashamed of your body,” Avra said.

Brendel’s eyes flashed at her. “Why should I be ashamed of it!”

“Exactly. Why should anyone?”

Cocking her head to the side, squinting at Avra, Brendel said, “I think I know Guttle well. You I don’t know at all.”

“Few people do.

Slowly Brendel began to look at the drawings, one by one. Most she placed carefully in one pile. A few she set aside — those that showed the confluence of her thighs, her triangle of private hair. “You can show all but these,” she said.

Hiram, understanding, nodded his head.

“A guessing game.” Brendel turned to Avra. “Will you help me bake this week? I suspect I’ll be selling lots of ruggelah. And mun cake. And strudel. Lots of everything.”

Hiram raised two fingers at her, pointed to the studio. Two more drawings? Brendel shook her head, no, and went to Yetta’s bedroom to dress.

Guttle remained in bed most of the Sabbath. After morning services, while the children played in the lane, Meyer strolled to the south gate and gazed out at the river, his mind dancing with numbers. He could not put pencil to paper on Shabbas, but nothing could prevent his mind from spinning its mathematical polka to the sweet music provided by Buderus, the carrot-haired Gentile angel. To discount notes of twenty-five thousand gulden at ten percent, he would need to put up twenty two thousand five hundred. He had been able to put away twenty thousand from his profits of the past five years, with the help of Guttle’s efficient housework — keeping their clothing in good repair, preparing simple meals. He’d been saving the money for just such an opportunity. The difference he could borrow from one of his brothers.

On the river, while gray and white gulls whirled against the winter sky, he saw seamen from a three-masted ship that lay at anchor unloading huge bundles of cloth — cotton and silk that had been turned into bolts of fabric in the mills of England. Kalman and Moish made a nice living importing such cloth; if they could order in greater bulk, they would obtain a lower wholesale price, their own profits would increase, and he could turn a substantial profit for the Crown Prince. The Gentile bankers, he felt certain, would invest in bank notes or safe foreign currencies, items that carried little risk. Investing in the expanding import business could earn far larger profits — assuming a ship carrying your merchandise did not go down at sea, or get highjacked by pirates to a distant port. Though ordered in bulk, the fabric would be sold to merchants and tailors and dressmakers only in small lots, so the market would not be flooded and the price driven down.

The wisp of a cloud floated through him. What if he lost money for the Prince, instead of making a profit? The answer to that was simple. He would make sure that he did not. He would read the markets as he read the Torah. Just as religiously.

And Buderus not withstanding, he would not feel guilt about getting rich. Why should he?

Watching the schooner unload at the busy quay stoked his effervescence. His good fortune, he felt certain, would help cure Guttle’s malaise, whatever it was that ailed her, as soon as she felt well enough to listen.

Sunday morning, Guttle arose from her bed to feed the children breakfast. When they had gone out to play, and the baby Salomon was gurgling contentedly in his crib, Meyer sat across from her at the kitchen table, both of them sipping tea through crystals of honey; she was still in her robe, he had donned dark blue knee-breeches and a matching vest. Unable to hold back any longer, he told her of the offer from Buderus, from the Crown Prince. Guttle broke off a braid from the leftover challah on the table. When she spoke, it was not with the excitement he had expected.

“You’re not going to do this, of course.”

Meyer looked at her warily. This must be one of her teases; she was so good at that. But her lips held no hint of a smile.

“Not going to do this? What do you mean?”

“I mean you’re going to thank the Crown Prince for his gracious offer, but tell him thank you, no. Aren’t you?”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying. This is the opportunity I’ve been seeking for years. Why would I say no?.”

Guttle lay her piece of challah on the table. “Meyer, this money is in payment for the peasants sent to fight in America. Like Georgi’s brother. You said so yourself. Surely you don’t want to get involved in that.”

“I won’t be getting involved in anything.” His left hand rubbed his head in frustration, leaving his hair in disarray, giving him a rare unkempt look. “I’ll just be investing some money.”

“Meyer, it’s not just some money. Surely you see that. This money pays for the bodies of the peasants. It pays for their blood.”

“That’s not relevant, Guttle. The men already are in England. Maybe already on their way to America. If I turned down the offer, it wouldn’t change anything. The ships still would sail. Some of the men still would die. The only difference would be that Gentile bankers would be investing the money, would be making profits, would be earning the gratitude of the Crown Prince. Whether I do this or not doesn’t affect the peasants at all.”

Guttle folded the collar of her gray robe up under her chin. “The money comes with blood on it. There’s no way to avoid acknowledging that.”

“Nonsense.” Meyer stood and paced about. He was trying hard not to lose control, not to become overbearing. “This is the opportunity I’ve been waiting for. If I invest this money wisely, I’m sure to get more of Wilhelm’s business. Our lives could take a turn for the better.”

“Our lives are fine now. We don’t need blood on our hands.”

“Stop with the blood already.” Now he was truly angry, his face was reddening. A different kind of man, he thought, would slap her. “When Wilhelm’s father dies, Wilhelm will become the Landgrave of Hesse-Kassel. The treasury there is a hundred times bigger than at Hanau. Friedrich has been hiring out his peasants to fight in every war in Europe for forty years. The money is in his treasury — along with his rents, his profits from his fields, from his investments. If one day I am offered to invest that money, how would I separate one source from another? It’s all intermingled.”

“That’s in the future. If it happens, you’re smart enough to figure out something.”

“Guttle, in business everything is intermingled. Besides, if I turn down this offer from Wilhelm, there won’t be any future for me. Not with him. Not now, not later.”

“It won’t be the end of the world.”

“It would be the end my dream! Of our dreams! If the law ever changes, if the gates are unlocked, only those with money will be able to move out. This is our chance to stop adding to our money, and start multiplying it. That’s what’s at stake here.”

“You won’t just be sending men off to die, which is bad enough,” Guttle said. “You’ll be sending them off to kill other men.”

“I won’t be sending them anywhere! They’re already sent!” He gripped the back of his chair. “I have to say this, Guttle. Today, maybe for the first time since we’ve known each other, you have disappointed me.”

“I have disappointed you?” She lost control, began to shout at him. “How can you say such a thing? What about being a good person! What about morality!”

His voice rose to the anger of hers. “This is not about morality! This is business!”

Shaking her head, Guttle stood, hugged herself as if she were chilled. When she spoke her voice sounded tired, worn out. “My ankles are hurting. I’m going back to bed.” At the top of the stairs, before she descended, she said quietly, “I hope you won’t disappoint me.”

“What? What was that you said?” But she was gone, moving carefully down the stairs, gripping the rope balustrade tightly, as if below her were an abyss.

He slammed his fist against the table. The challah and the two tea glasses jumped. He sprang down the stairs two at a time and out into the lane without a coat. A chill wind blowing from the south rippled the loose white sleeves of his shirt. Angrily he strode down the lane, ignoring people who offered greetings. Not stopping till he reached the locked south gate, locked because it was Sunday. He gripped its iron bars like a prisoner in a cell. He looked at the gray river trembling beneath the wind. The ship from yesterday was gone. Turning, he entered the cemetery, walked about among the stones of all the thousands who had been born in the lane, and had died in the lane. He read names. He read dates. He read encomiums. Hours passed before his anger abated, before he dared return to the Hinterpfann.