Read Online The Fixer by Bernard Malamud - Free Book Online

later finished the last of the woodwork, once more uneasy.
    It was nightfall. After he had swept and cleaned up, soaked the paintbrushes in turpentine, and washed, he heard Zina limping up the stairs. She was wearing a dress of blue silk, her hair up and encircled with a white ribbon, her cheeks and lips delicately rouged. She invited Yakov to eat with her again. “In celebration of the completion of your fine work, and most of all, to your future relationship with Papa, though he has already retired and we shall be alone.”
    He had the old excuses, was even a little irritated by the invitation and wanted to escape, but she would not hear of it. “Come, Yakov Ivanovitch, there’s more to life than work.”
    It was news to him. Still, he thought, the job’s done here and this is the last I’ll see of her. So what’s wrong with farewell?
    On the kitchen table Zina had laid out a feast, even some food he had never seen before. There were stuffed cucumbers, raw Danube herring, fat sausages, pickled sturgeon with mushrooms, assorted meats, wine, cakes and cherry brandy. The fixer, overwhelmed by the spread, felt at first self-conscious. If you’ve had nothing you’re afraid of too much. But he swept that aside and
ate hungrily those things he had eaten before. He sucked the red wine through delicious chunks of white bread.
    Zina, open and happy, and looking more attractive than he had ever seen, picked here and there at sweet and spicy things and filled her wineglass often. Her sharp face was flushed, she talked about herself and laughed at nothing at all. Although he tried to think of her as possibly a friend she remained strange to him. He was strange to himself. Once, staring at the white tablecloth, he thought of Raisl but put her out of his mind. He finished the meal—he had never in his life eaten so much —with two glasses of brandy, and only then began to enjoy the “party.”
    When she cleared the table Zina’s breath was heavy. She brought out a guitar, plucked it, and in a high thin voice sang, “Ech, my pack is heavy.” It was a sad song and filled him with mild melancholy. He had thought of getting up to leave, but the kitchen was warm and it was pleasant to sit there listening to the guitar. Then she sang, “Come on, come on, my darling angel, come and dance with me.” When she put down her guitar, Zina looked at him in a way she never had before. Yakov understood at once where they were. Excitement and foreboding flowed into one feeling. No, he thought, it’s a Russian woman. If she slept with me and found out who I was she’d cut her throat. Then he thought, it’s not always so, there are some who wouldn’t mind. For himself he was willing to experience what there was to experience. But let her lead.
    â€œYakov Ivanovitch,” Zina said, pouring herself another glassful of wine which she at once drank down, “do you believe in romantic love? I ask because I think you guard yourself against it.”
    â€œWhether I do or don’t it doesn’t come easily to me.”
    â€œI heartily agree that it oughtn’t to come too easily,” Zina said, “but it seems to me that those who are serious
about life—perhaps too serious—are slow to respond to certain changes in the climate of feeling. What I mean to say, Yakov Ivanovitch, is that it’s possible to let love fly by like a cloud in a windy sky if one is too timid, or perhaps unable to believe he is entitled to good fortune.”
    â€œIt’s possible,” he said.
    â€œDo you love me—just a little, Yakov Ivanovitch?” she asked quickly. “I’ve sometimes noticed you looking at me as though you might. For instance, you smiled at me quite delightfully a few minutes ago, and it warmed my heart. I dare ask because you yourself are very modest and tend to be conscious—overconscious, I would say—that we are from