I wanted to move around him, look at him, but it was too late for that, I knew I had the full parts, that I stood, that my hands touched the books on the shelf in front of me, and I shifted very slowly to my left, so that the wall of books would hide me, lest the old man see me, though the old man showed no sign even now of realizing I was here with him.
The younger man sighed.
"Rebbe, why would I kill Rachel's daughter?" asked the younger man in Yiddish. "Why would I kill the only child I had?" The language wasn't easy for him. "Esther, my beautiful Esther," he said, sounding heartfelt and strong. He didn't like to speak Yiddish. He wanted his English.
"But you did," said the old man in return. It came from his dry lips with hatred. He spoke now in Hebrew: "You are an idolater; you are a killer; you killed your child. You had her murdered. You walk with evil. You reek of it!"
I was slightly shaken. I could feel it physically, the jarring surprise at the old man's wrath.
The young man again played the game of patience, shuffling slighdy, shaking his head as if humoring a half-naked prophet who won't stop raving on your doorstep.
"My teacher," Gregory Belkin whispered in English, "my model. My grandfather. And you blame me for her death?" This put the old man in a fury. He too spoke in English:
"What do you want of me, Gregory? You've never come to this house without a reason." His fury was calm. This old man himself would do nothing about the death of this girl. He sat at his desk with his hands clasped on an open book. Tiny Hebrew letters.
I felt the loss of her again, as if I'd been kicked and I wanted to say out loud, "Old man, I avenged her, I slew the three assassins with the leader's pick. I slew them all. They died on the pavements."
I felt her as if I alone in this room held the candle in memory of her. Neither of these mourned her, accusations be damned.
Why are you allowing this to happen, Azriel? Grief for those you don't know is easy. Maybe it is even exciting. But to be alone? That is to be alive. And you are most certainly secret and alone here.
"You break my heart, Rebbe," said Gregory in English. Obviously the current American language was much easier for him. His whole body sagged with his soft whisper of despair. His hands were deep in his pockets. His flesh was a little chilled from the cold outside, and the room itself was stifling. I thought he was lying, and telling the truth.
I fed upon the smell of them, never mind the wax, the parchment, the old reliable scents, I smelled the men-the old man's warm living skin that was so clear and fine, so free of disease that it had become silken in old age, pure like the bones of his living body inside it, which were no doubt so brittle now they could break at the slightest blow.
The young man was immaculate and anointed with fine and subtle perfumes. The perfume rose from the pores of his skin, from the curls of his hair, from the clothing he wore, a subtle mingling of calculated scents. The fragrance of a modern monarch.
I drew closer to the younger one. I might have been now two feet from him, to his left, and slightly behind him. I saw his profile. Thick eyebrows, smooth and neatly groomed and well formed, fine features, molded in good proportion; we would have called him blessed. He had no scar or blemish. Something indefinable to me enriched him and enlarged his power. When he smiled, which he did now sadly and imploringly, his teeth were perfectly white.
His eyes were large, like her eyes had been, but not quite so beautiful. He lifted his hands, another form of plea, small, quiet. His fingers were fine, and the smoothness of his cheeks was fine; he had been nourished as she had, lovingly, as if the whole world all of his life had been his mother's breast. What did he lack? I couldn't find in him a fracture or sore, or break anywhere, only the indefinable enhancement.
Then I realized what it was. He had the prettiness of the young, but he was past fifty years! How dazzling it was. How wondrous the way age sharpened his physical virtues, and made the glare of his eyes so much the more strong.
"Speak to me, Gregory Belkin," said the old man with contempt, "and tell me why you've come, or leave my house now."
I was again startled by the old man's wrath.
"All right, Rebbe," the younger man answered, as if the tone and the manner were nothing new to him.
The old man waited.
"I have a check in my pocket, Rebbe," said Gregory. "I come to give it to you for the good of the whole Court."
By this I knew he meant the Hebrews of the old man for whom the old man was the Rabbi, the zaddik, the leader.
Flashes of memory came at me, rather like jagged pieces of glass- glimpses of my long dead Master Samuel. But it didn't mean anything and I pushed it aside. At this point, keep in mind, I could not recall anything of my past. Nothing. But I knew what this man was- venerable, powerful in holy ways, perhaps a magician, but if he was a magician, why hadn't he sensed that I was there?
"You always have a check for us, Gregory," said the old one. "Your checks come to the bank without you. We take your money in honor of your dead mother, and your dead father, who was my beloved son. We take your money for what it can do for those whom they once loved, your mother and father. Go back to your Temple. Go back to your computers. Go back to your worldwide church. Go home, Gregory! Hold your wife's hand. Her daughter has been murdered. Mourn with Rachel Belkin. Is she not entitled to that much?"
The younger man gave a little nod, as if to say, ah, things aren't going to improve here, and then he tilted his head to the right and shrugged respectfully and spoke again:
"I need something from you, Rebbe," he said. Direct as it was, it was smooth.
The old man lifted his hands and shrugged. He shifted in the light of the electric lamp, and sighed. His lips were full for the lips of an old man. A faint sheen of sweat appeared on the top of his head.
Behind him stood more shelves of books. The room was so crowded with books it might as well have been made of books. The chairs were big, with their frames hidden inside their leather, and all were surrounded by books. There were scrolls, and scrolls in sacks, and scrolls of leather.
One cannot after all burn or discard old scrolls of the Torah. These must be buried, and properly, or kept in someplace like this.
Who knew what this old man had brought through the world with him? His English was not pure and sharp like that of Gregory, but carried with it the speaking habits of other tongues. Poland. I saw Poland and I saw snow.
Gregory slipped his left hand into his pocket. There was the check, the piece of paper, the banknote, the gift that he wanted to give so badly. I heard it crackle as his fingers touched it. It was folded right beside the gun.