Part 41 (2/2)
”White. There are eight million four hundred and six billion, and all the rest pure scalp. I'll pull till I'm satisfied. Don't say Nick any more or I'll pull and pull. Go on.”
”If you had a razor instead of a tweezer would you nick instead of pull?” he said meekly.
In response she gave a ferocious yank and came away with a snarl like mist. ”Poor Enoch, you're going bald like a rocket. Just fleece or feathers all over. Puff and it's out and gone.”
”I'm a very unattractive man. Unsuitable for a husband. I never planned to be a husband. You know I thought I would be a monk.”
”Jews don't have monks.”
”Precisely the problem,” he acknowledged with enthusiasm. ”I made a pledge: let G.o.d be the kind of G.o.d who would allow the sort of world in which it is possible to lead a virtuous life, and I would repay him by dedicating my days and every so often my nights to constant praise of his holy name. No G.o.dd.a.m.ns to speak of. A sort of friar I would be. After I grew up, of course.”
”And then you grew up.”
”No. Then I was born-look how you lose the chronology, you're not attentive. First I was born, and found the world the way it is, and myself a Jew, and G.o.d the G.o.d of an unredeemed monstrosity, and well, just as you said, Jews don't have monks, so it was easy to see something was wrong immediately, but so naive was I that I didn't despair or suspect-”
”Yes you did. Jews are cunning.”
”-and in my simplicity I thought that whatever you come upon that seems unredeemed exists in this state for the sake of permitting you the sacred opportunity to redeem it. I used to have a crooked idea that man finds the world unwell in order to heal it, I had the presumptuousness of thinking myself one of the miracle rabbis. Charlatans and deviations those were, and as cunning as Methodist Bishops. But afterward I became wise, and learned how the world isn't merely unredeemed: worse worse worse, it's unredeemable,”
”You have no sense of humor,” said his wife.
”That was meant to be a joke.”
”All of that?”
”Yes.”
The tweezer dropped to the pillow. ”I don't like long jokes.”
He laughed aloud. ”And that's a short joke.”
”I don't see why.”
”Not seeing why is the point of the joke. Sometimes a joke is a joke only if someone doesn't know it's a joke.”
”Oh Enoch! How mean you arel”
”How rich you are,” he countered.
”I can't help it, can I?” But she was all at once infiltrated by a sulky meditation. Her gaze moved interiorly. ”Did you see this afternoon how that small-minded Sarah Jean came without any gloves?-Just because it was a civil ceremony doesn't make it right.”
”Civility was expected to be an attribute of the ceremony, not of the witnesses,” Enoch observed.
”She did it for spite. If it'd been church she would have worn them with a decency. But my G.o.d, did you get an eyeful of William's work?-it looked as though any minute Sandy might have to follow up with a christening. If judges do that.”
He said, ”You'd rather it was Nick.”
”Nick?” She was fearful; she was petulant.
”Instead of me. Instead of me.”
”Well what's the difference? She still wouldn't have worn her gloves. Anyhow I settled long ago it wasn't going to be Nick.”
”You settled it wasn't going to be me,” he contradicted.
”But that was before.”
”Before? Before what?”
”Before we gave up finding him.”
”And if we find him now?”
”What do you mean now? Now there's a war. You don't find anyone in a war. William said so. You said so. War's the end of finding anyone.”
”But if we did?”
She picked up the tweezer and bit the air with it. ”I've given it up, I told you.”
”It? It? And what do I read for it?” he demanded.
”Hope.”
”Ah, that's something else! Hope isn't Nick. You give up hope, you don't give up Nick. Nick you don't give up, is that the idea?”
”I give up what I please, who knows if I'll ever see him again? So it doesn't matter. For G.o.d's sake, Enoch.”
”It doesn't matter? What doesn't matter? It doesn't matter that you'll never see him again or it doesn't matter whom or how you marry as long as there's a certainty you'll never see him again?”
”For G.o.d's sake, Enoch. I can't follow any of that. You married me for the money so think of the money. Concentrate on the money and leave Nick out of it.”
”All right. Out he goes. Put the child away.”
”What do you mean, put her away?”
”In a school. Or whatever.”
”A school! A baby three years old! And melancholy enough to begin with!”
”The point is you look at her and think Nick.”
”Liar. You mean you do. All you think is Nick Nick Nick. It was supposed to be the money you cared about!”
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