inviting a scientist from Moscow. Also joining the discussions: the theologian James Wienfield, andMalkiel. “God and death are linked to this problem,” the sage had told them; the editor was famous in newsrooms everywhere for his humanism. The theologian could only approve; for him, God was linked to everything, and therefore to death. One day he said, “If I had to choose between the God of death and the death of God, I’d take the God of death.” As usual Malkiel teased him: “In my tradition we talk about the Angel of Death. Our God is the God of life.” James retorted, “We should never talk theology with Jews; they take God too seriously.”
“When’s this round table on AIDS?” Serge asked
“In a month or so.”
“And how many will die between now and then?”
The dinner guests ventured guesses. Paul quoted Professor Leventhal’s statistics. Bianca mentioned an article in the
Times.
Malkiel said nothing. For him, figures obscured the tragedy instead of clarifying it. Every death deserved to be thought of as the first, unique. Every time the disease struck, it meant one more human face obliterated, one more family in mourning. Every time, they should give the death all the prominence and attention and compassion that it deserved. “You’d like to fill the paper with your obits,” one of his assistant editors told him. “But reality is something else again.” Malkiel answered, “Reality can wait. Death doesn’t.”
“Any news from Tamar?” Paul asked.
“No news is good news,” Bianca commented.
“You two ought to get married,” Paul said.
“Are you crazy?” Bianca said. “Get married? What for?”
“For children,” her husband explained.
“Children? You can make them without a marriage license.”
Malkiel let them argue. It was their favorite pastime. Inhis mind, he joined Tamar. His loving friend Tamar. His accomplice, his ally. Tamar’s smile. Tamar’s gestures. Tamar’s caresses. “When you’re in love,” she said, “you have no right to hold back. When you’re in love you let your body choose its own ways of loving.” Sparkling eyes and impertinent lips; her view of love was definite.
“Just the same, you ought to get married,” Paul insisted.
“Oh, leave him alone,” Bianca snapped.
A light gust of yearning made Malkiel blush. He had known a few women. Passing fancies who left no traces. Tamar was different. With her he could not drop his guard. Demanding and critical, she kept him alert. She wanted him perfect even in his imperfections: “For a man to interest me, the woman or the reporter, he has to be noble or a son of a bitch; if he prefers the middle ground, he can go to hell.” Did he love her? Yes, he loved her. And his father loved her, too. Elhanan could not look at her without smiling. He would be happy to see her come into the family, if only to assure the survival of the line. Poor Father. To give him pleasure, Malkiel and Tamar should marry as soon as possible. While he could still take part in the ceremony. How much time did he have before vanishing in darkness and emptiness? Poor Father. How could they save him? How could they help him? Often in bed Tamar would sigh, “Poor Malkiel.”
He rose abruptly. “Forgive me. I have to leave.”
“Heading back to the newspaper?”
“Are you kidding? He has a hot date. Poor Tamar.”
Full of anguish, as he was each time he thought of his father, Malkiel urgently needed to see him again.
One evening early in his illness, Elhanan asked his son to sit down opposite him. “I have grave matters to discuss with you, my son.”
Malkiel’s heart stopped. Elhanan hastened to reassure him. “Don’t be afraid. We’ll fight back. We’ll hold out. We’ll learn how.”
Father, I admire your courage. Your confidence. Your way of fighting resignation. But how long will it last? More and more you move awkwardly, more and more your memory slips.… But we will fight to the end. Even if it’s
“When’s this round table on AIDS?” Serge asked
“In a month or so.”
“And how many will die between now and then?”
The dinner guests ventured guesses. Paul quoted Professor Leventhal’s statistics. Bianca mentioned an article in the
Times.
Malkiel said nothing. For him, figures obscured the tragedy instead of clarifying it. Every death deserved to be thought of as the first, unique. Every time the disease struck, it meant one more human face obliterated, one more family in mourning. Every time, they should give the death all the prominence and attention and compassion that it deserved. “You’d like to fill the paper with your obits,” one of his assistant editors told him. “But reality is something else again.” Malkiel answered, “Reality can wait. Death doesn’t.”
“Any news from Tamar?” Paul asked.
“No news is good news,” Bianca commented.
“You two ought to get married,” Paul said.
“Are you crazy?” Bianca said. “Get married? What for?”
“For children,” her husband explained.
“Children? You can make them without a marriage license.”
Malkiel let them argue. It was their favorite pastime. Inhis mind, he joined Tamar. His loving friend Tamar. His accomplice, his ally. Tamar’s smile. Tamar’s gestures. Tamar’s caresses. “When you’re in love,” she said, “you have no right to hold back. When you’re in love you let your body choose its own ways of loving.” Sparkling eyes and impertinent lips; her view of love was definite.
“Just the same, you ought to get married,” Paul insisted.
“Oh, leave him alone,” Bianca snapped.
A light gust of yearning made Malkiel blush. He had known a few women. Passing fancies who left no traces. Tamar was different. With her he could not drop his guard. Demanding and critical, she kept him alert. She wanted him perfect even in his imperfections: “For a man to interest me, the woman or the reporter, he has to be noble or a son of a bitch; if he prefers the middle ground, he can go to hell.” Did he love her? Yes, he loved her. And his father loved her, too. Elhanan could not look at her without smiling. He would be happy to see her come into the family, if only to assure the survival of the line. Poor Father. To give him pleasure, Malkiel and Tamar should marry as soon as possible. While he could still take part in the ceremony. How much time did he have before vanishing in darkness and emptiness? Poor Father. How could they save him? How could they help him? Often in bed Tamar would sigh, “Poor Malkiel.”
He rose abruptly. “Forgive me. I have to leave.”
“Heading back to the newspaper?”
“Are you kidding? He has a hot date. Poor Tamar.”
Full of anguish, as he was each time he thought of his father, Malkiel urgently needed to see him again.
One evening early in his illness, Elhanan asked his son to sit down opposite him. “I have grave matters to discuss with you, my son.”
Malkiel’s heart stopped. Elhanan hastened to reassure him. “Don’t be afraid. We’ll fight back. We’ll hold out. We’ll learn how.”
Father, I admire your courage. Your confidence. Your way of fighting resignation. But how long will it last? More and more you move awkwardly, more and more your memory slips.… But we will fight to the end. Even if it’s
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