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Authors: Kenneth Wishnia
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metals—”
“Gold, silver, copper, and lead. Yes, what else?”
“That we know the secret recipe for invisibility—”
“Just one? There are a quite a few, you know.”
Her face, with its broad Slavonic features, suddenly seemed distant, as if the air between us had solidified.
“Of course none of them work,” she said, the side of her mouth crinkling up into a wry smile. The unseen barrier between us evaporated, and for a split second all was right with the world.
“Same as with all the love potions,” she added.
“Right. But that doesn’t stop snake juice peddlers and other charlatans from preying on people’s weaknesses. Pretending to be a master of the Kabbalistic arts could keep an unscrupulous man clothed and fed for many years.”
“You think this was a failed experiment in Kabbalistic fakery?”
The other wine cup, again.
“The only question is whether it was by mistake or by design. And the best way to answer that is to find out who this mysterious nighttime visitor was.”
“Oh, I doubt that she was all that mysterious.”
“She appears to have taken considerable pains to keep her identity a secret,” I said.
“Nothing can be kept secret in a house full of servants. The maids know everything. They can practically hear through the walls.”
I snapped out of my theoretical reverie. What if someone had been listening to us? My overly casual conversation with a Christian woman could easily be turned against me by unsympathetic listeners.
But Kassy was already out in the hall.
“Time to speak to the servants,” she called out to me, before rushing down the stairs.
By the time I caught up with her, she was questioning the laundress just outside the kitchen.
“Oh, no, Miss Kassy. I’ve never listened at the keyhole,” said the laundress. “That would be like eavesdropping on a priest hearing confession.”
“I see,” said Kassy, her eyebrows knitting together in thought.
“Can I go now? I’ve got to hang up the laundry.”
“Yes, you can go.”
“Danke schön.”
The laundress curtsied quickly, then raised the basket of wet linen she’d been balancing on her hip and hefted it out the back door, nearly tripping over a young boy who was polishing a pair of boots on the stairs. They seemed to be in an awful hurry to clean up the place, which is understandable when visitors are expected, but it wouldn’t have been my first priority under the circumstances.
I followed Kassy into the kitchen, where the old housemaid, whose name was Mrs. Gromatsky, was washing dishes while the cook mixed some batter in an earthenware bowl.
“Do you have a butter pan?” said Kassy.
“What size?” said the cook, stirring cheese filling into the bowl that nearly matched the pallor of her skin. She had dark sorrowful eyes and wore her plain brown hair wrapped in a tight bun.
“The smallest one you’ve got.”
“In there,” she said, pointing at a cupboard with her chin while she poured some of the golden yellow batter into a frying pan.
Kassy fished around in the cupboard until she came out with a heavy iron skillet no bigger than her hand.
“And we’d better send for the authorities,” said Mrs. Gromatsky.
“No, wait,” I said.
That got me a suspicious look from the house servants.
“The Christian authorities can be rather, um, single-minded in their pursuit of justice,” I explained, choosing my words carefully.
“You cannot delay such a matter,” Mrs. Gromatsky insisted, as the cook expertly flipped a couple of pancakes.
“Very well.”
And so the houseboy was dispatched to fetch the authorities. Not too quickly, I hoped.
“The authorities are more reasonable here than in Germany,” said Mrs. Gromatsky. “Well, some of them are. The parliament is a complete mess, of course, but that’s another matter. You can buy any man’s vote with a pot of vodka and a pinch of salt in that awful place.”
Kassy slipped in between Mrs. Gromatsky and the cook, and placed
“Gold, silver, copper, and lead. Yes, what else?”
“That we know the secret recipe for invisibility—”
“Just one? There are a quite a few, you know.”
Her face, with its broad Slavonic features, suddenly seemed distant, as if the air between us had solidified.
“Of course none of them work,” she said, the side of her mouth crinkling up into a wry smile. The unseen barrier between us evaporated, and for a split second all was right with the world.
“Same as with all the love potions,” she added.
“Right. But that doesn’t stop snake juice peddlers and other charlatans from preying on people’s weaknesses. Pretending to be a master of the Kabbalistic arts could keep an unscrupulous man clothed and fed for many years.”
“You think this was a failed experiment in Kabbalistic fakery?”
The other wine cup, again.
“The only question is whether it was by mistake or by design. And the best way to answer that is to find out who this mysterious nighttime visitor was.”
“Oh, I doubt that she was all that mysterious.”
“She appears to have taken considerable pains to keep her identity a secret,” I said.
“Nothing can be kept secret in a house full of servants. The maids know everything. They can practically hear through the walls.”
I snapped out of my theoretical reverie. What if someone had been listening to us? My overly casual conversation with a Christian woman could easily be turned against me by unsympathetic listeners.
But Kassy was already out in the hall.
“Time to speak to the servants,” she called out to me, before rushing down the stairs.
By the time I caught up with her, she was questioning the laundress just outside the kitchen.
“Oh, no, Miss Kassy. I’ve never listened at the keyhole,” said the laundress. “That would be like eavesdropping on a priest hearing confession.”
“I see,” said Kassy, her eyebrows knitting together in thought.
“Can I go now? I’ve got to hang up the laundry.”
“Yes, you can go.”
“Danke schön.”
The laundress curtsied quickly, then raised the basket of wet linen she’d been balancing on her hip and hefted it out the back door, nearly tripping over a young boy who was polishing a pair of boots on the stairs. They seemed to be in an awful hurry to clean up the place, which is understandable when visitors are expected, but it wouldn’t have been my first priority under the circumstances.
I followed Kassy into the kitchen, where the old housemaid, whose name was Mrs. Gromatsky, was washing dishes while the cook mixed some batter in an earthenware bowl.
“Do you have a butter pan?” said Kassy.
“What size?” said the cook, stirring cheese filling into the bowl that nearly matched the pallor of her skin. She had dark sorrowful eyes and wore her plain brown hair wrapped in a tight bun.
“The smallest one you’ve got.”
“In there,” she said, pointing at a cupboard with her chin while she poured some of the golden yellow batter into a frying pan.
Kassy fished around in the cupboard until she came out with a heavy iron skillet no bigger than her hand.
“And we’d better send for the authorities,” said Mrs. Gromatsky.
“No, wait,” I said.
That got me a suspicious look from the house servants.
“The Christian authorities can be rather, um, single-minded in their pursuit of justice,” I explained, choosing my words carefully.
“You cannot delay such a matter,” Mrs. Gromatsky insisted, as the cook expertly flipped a couple of pancakes.
“Very well.”
And so the houseboy was dispatched to fetch the authorities. Not too quickly, I hoped.
“The authorities are more reasonable here than in Germany,” said Mrs. Gromatsky. “Well, some of them are. The parliament is a complete mess, of course, but that’s another matter. You can buy any man’s vote with a pot of vodka and a pinch of salt in that awful place.”
Kassy slipped in between Mrs. Gromatsky and the cook, and placed
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