didn’t I go to see him then?
Tamar was standing at his desk, feverish, impatient. “What’s the matter with you, Malkiel? Are you sick? Good God, you look shattered.”
“It’s nothing.”
“I’ve been standing here—you haven’t even noticed me.”
“I’m sorry,” Malkiel said. “I’m hot.” He found his handkerchief, wiped his forehead and the back of his neck. “I’m almost finished. Do you want me to read your piece?”
“No; there’s no hurry. Come on. I need some coffee.”
Unsteadily he followed her to the cafeteria. Their friends were swapping newspaper jokes and political gossip.
“I’m worried about you. You look like it’s the end of the world. What’s wrong?”
Lie to her? “It’s my father. He’s a sick man. Very sick.”
She wanted to say “Cancer?” but asked, “His heart?”
“Worse,” Malkiel said. He repeated his conversation with Dr. Pasternak. Tamar listened in silence, her eyes filling with dread. Malkiel tried to compose himself. “Let’s go upstairs. We have work to do,” he said.
They rose, and Tamar took his hand. “Don’t let this change anything between us.” And after a pause, “Do you hear me? Don’t. Your father isn’t my father, but I, too, am struck by his misfortune; I, too, am pained by it. I need you more now than before. Promise me you’ll try?”
“I promise,” Malkiel said, wondering how he could thinkabout her article. A few words from the mouth of a doctor, and the whole world is upside down.
He finished rewriting the Buenos Aires story, read Tamar’s piece and sent it on to the political desk.
“Page twenty,” said the layout editor.
Ordinarily Malkiel argued with him, always after more prominence for Tamar’s pieces. But not this time. Too many words and pictures bouncing around inside his head. He could not even figure out whether he wanted to stay or go home.
“Shall I come with you?” Tamar asked him in the elevator.
Malkiel did not answer.
“I’d like to,” she insisted.
Malkiel remained silent. They walked up Eighth Avenue, with its shops full of exotic fruit and its sleazy bars and clubs. At the Coliseum they stopped for a red light.
“I think I need to be alone with him for a while,” Malkiel said. “But please, come and join us later.”
When the light turned green he walked on, leaving Tamar behind. A few taxis passed, but he preferred to make his way on foot. Loretta rushed to give him a hug. “He’s in the living room,” she said. “By the window. All he’s done since yesterday is look outside. He won’t sleep or eat or drink, and he won’t talk to me.”
For a long moment Malkiel stared at his father’s back. “Good evening, Father,” he said quietly.
Elhanan seemed not to hear him.
“Father, I should have come yesterday. Can you forgive me?”
Elhanan sighed and said, “Come over here.”
Together they looked out at the night, and the lights of the great city. How many fathers and sons confront their destiny at the same moment?
“Speak to me, Malkiel.”
What could he say, and how could he say it without breaking down?
“Speak to me. I need to hear your voice.”
“I saw the—”
“I know. I don’t want to hear his words, but yours.”
With his throat tight and his eyelids heavy, Malkiel had to lean on the table behind him to keep his balance. Overwhelmed, blinded by emotion, he saw himself walking a tightrope over an abyss: one false step, one awkward word, and he would fall, dragging his father with him. “Listen to me, Father. You’ve always been at the center of my existence; and you always will be, to the end of my days.”
A sob shook Elhanan. “God of my fathers,” he said, “let me remember those words when I have forgotten everything else.”
He extended a hand to his son, who took it in his own. An hour later, Tamar found them the same way.
Her name was Blanca, but she preferred, God knows why, to be called Bianca. Tamar had introduced her to Malkiel,
Tamar was standing at his desk, feverish, impatient. “What’s the matter with you, Malkiel? Are you sick? Good God, you look shattered.”
“It’s nothing.”
“I’ve been standing here—you haven’t even noticed me.”
“I’m sorry,” Malkiel said. “I’m hot.” He found his handkerchief, wiped his forehead and the back of his neck. “I’m almost finished. Do you want me to read your piece?”
“No; there’s no hurry. Come on. I need some coffee.”
Unsteadily he followed her to the cafeteria. Their friends were swapping newspaper jokes and political gossip.
“I’m worried about you. You look like it’s the end of the world. What’s wrong?”
Lie to her? “It’s my father. He’s a sick man. Very sick.”
She wanted to say “Cancer?” but asked, “His heart?”
“Worse,” Malkiel said. He repeated his conversation with Dr. Pasternak. Tamar listened in silence, her eyes filling with dread. Malkiel tried to compose himself. “Let’s go upstairs. We have work to do,” he said.
They rose, and Tamar took his hand. “Don’t let this change anything between us.” And after a pause, “Do you hear me? Don’t. Your father isn’t my father, but I, too, am struck by his misfortune; I, too, am pained by it. I need you more now than before. Promise me you’ll try?”
“I promise,” Malkiel said, wondering how he could thinkabout her article. A few words from the mouth of a doctor, and the whole world is upside down.
He finished rewriting the Buenos Aires story, read Tamar’s piece and sent it on to the political desk.
“Page twenty,” said the layout editor.
Ordinarily Malkiel argued with him, always after more prominence for Tamar’s pieces. But not this time. Too many words and pictures bouncing around inside his head. He could not even figure out whether he wanted to stay or go home.
“Shall I come with you?” Tamar asked him in the elevator.
Malkiel did not answer.
“I’d like to,” she insisted.
Malkiel remained silent. They walked up Eighth Avenue, with its shops full of exotic fruit and its sleazy bars and clubs. At the Coliseum they stopped for a red light.
“I think I need to be alone with him for a while,” Malkiel said. “But please, come and join us later.”
When the light turned green he walked on, leaving Tamar behind. A few taxis passed, but he preferred to make his way on foot. Loretta rushed to give him a hug. “He’s in the living room,” she said. “By the window. All he’s done since yesterday is look outside. He won’t sleep or eat or drink, and he won’t talk to me.”
For a long moment Malkiel stared at his father’s back. “Good evening, Father,” he said quietly.
Elhanan seemed not to hear him.
“Father, I should have come yesterday. Can you forgive me?”
Elhanan sighed and said, “Come over here.”
Together they looked out at the night, and the lights of the great city. How many fathers and sons confront their destiny at the same moment?
“Speak to me, Malkiel.”
What could he say, and how could he say it without breaking down?
“Speak to me. I need to hear your voice.”
“I saw the—”
“I know. I don’t want to hear his words, but yours.”
With his throat tight and his eyelids heavy, Malkiel had to lean on the table behind him to keep his balance. Overwhelmed, blinded by emotion, he saw himself walking a tightrope over an abyss: one false step, one awkward word, and he would fall, dragging his father with him. “Listen to me, Father. You’ve always been at the center of my existence; and you always will be, to the end of my days.”
A sob shook Elhanan. “God of my fathers,” he said, “let me remember those words when I have forgotten everything else.”
He extended a hand to his son, who took it in his own. An hour later, Tamar found them the same way.
Her name was Blanca, but she preferred, God knows why, to be called Bianca. Tamar had introduced her to Malkiel,
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