Read Online The Confessions of Max Tivoli: A Novel by Andrew Sean Greer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Andrew Sean Greer
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It must have been an old dress, something from her courtship with Mr. Levy long ago in Philadelphia, a shimmering vestige of girlhood and vanity.
And she continued to look at me, signaling something from deep inside her eyes. I looked back to Alice, who sulked in the settee, then to her mother and that mysterious smile.
“Where’s Tillie?” I asked, referring to their maid.
Mrs. Levy shook her head. “A family emergency. Somebody’s died, I think, or is going to die. In Sonoma, so we’re all alone.”
A tilt of her head, a blink of the eyes. What was she trying to tell me?
“Shall I make tea?” I ventured.
The room released its breath. Mrs. Levy laughed again and Alice let out a little snort of amusement, shaking the ebony wreaths of her hair, twisting the ribbons of light all over.
“Wouldn’t that be wonderful, Alice?”
“Oh, absolutely wonderful, Mother. Stunning.”
Her mother shot her a mean look. “I appreciate it, Mr. Tivoli.”
I went into the kitchen, utterly perplexed. There, the tea things were already set out on a silver platter. I lit the gas of the stove in that old kitchen where I used to sit beside John Chinaman as he haggled with the bread and fish vendors who came to this back door. I boiled the water and made the tea while Mrs. Levy stood there in the room with me, humming something under her breath. And then, with no help from her at all, nothing but the encouragement of her pearl-drop eyes, I arranged the tea things in the parlor directly in front of Alice, who gave me a little breath of gratitude before setting at the cherry cake. I sat back. I realized they had been sitting in the parlor all afternoon, distracting themselves with hair and costumes, weary, thirsty, and half starved.
I was a fool; I had seen so little of the world that I didn’t know what the Jewish Sabbath might mean to the Levys. Hughie, who had somehow heard of these things, informed me that my Levys had to get gentiles to do for them what they could not do for themselves. Heating or even serving tea for themselves was forbidden, he said, shrugging his shoulders. Another boy of Hughie’s acquaintance knew even more, earning his pocket money by working at Temple Beth El as their “Shabbos goy,” as he called it. “They pay me to put out the candles,” he said, smiling. “Or take tickets. It’s crazy. And they don’t even pay me, they leave the money in a little pile, like they forgot it there.” This boy (redhaired, skinny, whom Hughie liked but whose name I have forgotten) told me their holy book forbade my Levys from even enjoying a candle that one of us had lit unless we lit it for our own pleasure before they entered the room. I imagined Alice waiting in her dark bedroom for me to enter, pretending I had lit the candle for myself. There she would sit, gauging my own pleasure at the flame before enjoying it herself—would this be nothing less than love? It was as close as I dared get.
In reality, I did very few of these tasks for the Levys. Their maid, Tillie, though Irish Catholic, was a veritable clairvoyant in their household, understanding the least squint or shiver to mean the fire must be built again or the gaslights brought up a little. She knew which sighs meant tea, which tosses of the hair meant bathwater should be run, and though sometimes I heard the furious shouts as Mrs. Levy caught her stirring beef gravy with a milk spoon, and watched as the angry mother stomped out back to bury the defiled object, Tillie kept the Levys in the same great middle-class comfort that we, upstairs, Protestantly free to boil Saturday tea, were enjoying. I wonder, though, how devout they really were; I’ve learned since that some of their practices were unusually lax, and that neither of them really believed in God. But
they did keep up this Sabbath ritual, even if, in truth, they rarely needed me to aid them.
But memory reverses, sometimes. The things we did every day diminish into specks and unequaled
And she continued to look at me, signaling something from deep inside her eyes. I looked back to Alice, who sulked in the settee, then to her mother and that mysterious smile.
“Where’s Tillie?” I asked, referring to their maid.
Mrs. Levy shook her head. “A family emergency. Somebody’s died, I think, or is going to die. In Sonoma, so we’re all alone.”
A tilt of her head, a blink of the eyes. What was she trying to tell me?
“Shall I make tea?” I ventured.
The room released its breath. Mrs. Levy laughed again and Alice let out a little snort of amusement, shaking the ebony wreaths of her hair, twisting the ribbons of light all over.
“Wouldn’t that be wonderful, Alice?”
“Oh, absolutely wonderful, Mother. Stunning.”
Her mother shot her a mean look. “I appreciate it, Mr. Tivoli.”
I went into the kitchen, utterly perplexed. There, the tea things were already set out on a silver platter. I lit the gas of the stove in that old kitchen where I used to sit beside John Chinaman as he haggled with the bread and fish vendors who came to this back door. I boiled the water and made the tea while Mrs. Levy stood there in the room with me, humming something under her breath. And then, with no help from her at all, nothing but the encouragement of her pearl-drop eyes, I arranged the tea things in the parlor directly in front of Alice, who gave me a little breath of gratitude before setting at the cherry cake. I sat back. I realized they had been sitting in the parlor all afternoon, distracting themselves with hair and costumes, weary, thirsty, and half starved.
I was a fool; I had seen so little of the world that I didn’t know what the Jewish Sabbath might mean to the Levys. Hughie, who had somehow heard of these things, informed me that my Levys had to get gentiles to do for them what they could not do for themselves. Heating or even serving tea for themselves was forbidden, he said, shrugging his shoulders. Another boy of Hughie’s acquaintance knew even more, earning his pocket money by working at Temple Beth El as their “Shabbos goy,” as he called it. “They pay me to put out the candles,” he said, smiling. “Or take tickets. It’s crazy. And they don’t even pay me, they leave the money in a little pile, like they forgot it there.” This boy (redhaired, skinny, whom Hughie liked but whose name I have forgotten) told me their holy book forbade my Levys from even enjoying a candle that one of us had lit unless we lit it for our own pleasure before they entered the room. I imagined Alice waiting in her dark bedroom for me to enter, pretending I had lit the candle for myself. There she would sit, gauging my own pleasure at the flame before enjoying it herself—would this be nothing less than love? It was as close as I dared get.
In reality, I did very few of these tasks for the Levys. Their maid, Tillie, though Irish Catholic, was a veritable clairvoyant in their household, understanding the least squint or shiver to mean the fire must be built again or the gaslights brought up a little. She knew which sighs meant tea, which tosses of the hair meant bathwater should be run, and though sometimes I heard the furious shouts as Mrs. Levy caught her stirring beef gravy with a milk spoon, and watched as the angry mother stomped out back to bury the defiled object, Tillie kept the Levys in the same great middle-class comfort that we, upstairs, Protestantly free to boil Saturday tea, were enjoying. I wonder, though, how devout they really were; I’ve learned since that some of their practices were unusually lax, and that neither of them really believed in God. But
they did keep up this Sabbath ritual, even if, in truth, they rarely needed me to aid them.
But memory reverses, sometimes. The things we did every day diminish into specks and unequaled
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