Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

“That black wife of his—”

“Ex-wife.”

Uncle waved his hand. “She the one who got him on drugs?”

“I don’t know. I doubt it. She’s the one who kicked him out. Made him face the addiction.”

“Bernie Rabinowitz’s one real grandson has rhythm,” he said in a mocking tone; but it sounded hollow. His daughter, Helen, had never been able to conceive. Her two children were adopted.

“Look at your nephew,” I said, pointing to me. “The Rabinowitzes are a regular United Nations.”

Bernie smacked his lips. “I’m dry all the time. Get me some water, please. There’s fancy water in that refrigerator.”

The refrigerator was only one of a number of conveniences added to the room. Besides the table covered with papers, there was a stereo system, a Xerox machine, tape recorders for dictation and a huge device that I didn’t know was a first-generation fax.

Pat looked in while I brought him a glass of Evian. “Helen and the kids are here.”

“And the genius?”

“Helen said Jerry’s still at the office. He’ll be here soon.”

“We’ll be a little longer,” Bernie said imperiously, his usual tone with Pat.

She rolled her eyes, but disappeared compliantly.

“She’s the only one who takes and doesn’t whine.”

“How about me?”

“You criticize. That’s worse than whining.”

“Does Jerry whine?” I asked, referring to Helen’s husband, now the president of Uncle’s company.

“Jerry loses my money and blames everything and everyone but his stupid management.” This was an old complaint. In the early seventies Uncle had retired from the day-to-day management of his company, turning it over to his son-in-law. To Bernie’s amazement, Jerry sold off Home World, the discount electronics and appliance chain Bernie had bought and expanded in the sixties. With profits from the sale, Jerry invested heavily in Manhattan real estate. Not the low- to middle-income housing that had made Bernie rich in the forties and fifties, but elaborate office buildings and luxury apartment complexes. At first, Wall Street loved his maneuvers. In 1972, various improprieties came to light — four city inspectors eventually went to jail — and then the 1973 recession hit New York hard. By 74, the value of Uncle’s company’s stock dropped from twenty-three dollars a share to seventy-five cents, demolishing Bernie’s and Jerry’s paper worth from six hundred million dollars to less than thirty million. Uncle came out of retirement. In a series of dazzling moves, he rescued the situation. He called on his old friends, made sweetheart deals with banks, billed and cooed with the state and city government, and managed not only to keep Jerry out of prison, but out of the papers too. By 1980 Bernie had restored the stock to ten dollars a share. In an act of generosity and loyalty — it seemed to me — Bernie stepped aside for Jerry again. This second succession was going better. By 1988, the stock was up to twenty-five and Bernie had returned to the Forbes list of the one hundred richest Americans.

“I thought Jerry is doing great now,” I said.

“Ronald Reagan did great,” Bernie said. “Jerry went along for the ride.” Bernie took another long drink of water. I was reminded of my mother; he didn’t see the world very differently from her. He believed, as did she, that social tides bear individuals at their whim, that often successful businessmen are driftwood who imagine they are Olympic swimmers. Indeed, Bernie’s edge had been the clear vision of his brand of Marxism: he didn’t try to make waves, he rode them. As if he were thinking along those lines, he wiped his lips and said, “It’s time to get out of real estate, especially in New York,” he said. “He thinks Bush will keep things good. They’re so greedy,” Bernie said. “It isn’t hard to make money. Buy low and sell high, that’s what’s hard. But these geniuses think the good times go on forever. I keep telling him, it’s supply and demand. We’ve built and built and built. Prices have to come down. The Japs want our real estate, he says, that proves things are going up.” Bernie grunted. “I’m supposed to take that seriously? I know this city.” Bernie nodded at his view of Manhattan, certainly commanding and panoramic. His buildings were reduced in size, toys for the gigantic hands of his wealth and power. “Nobody makes things anymore. Maybe they will again, after the disaster, maybe …” He grunted. “It’s gone. My father’s world is gone.”

“Have you been in the Korean grocery stores?”

“What?” Bernie looked at me sharply, squinting, as if I had brought him something to examine.

“They remind me of the old Jewish delis. Whole families work. The children. Everybody. Twenty-fours a day, seven days a week. The kids do their homework between making change.”

“They’re fools too,” Bernie said. “My father was a good man, but he was a fool.” He laughed suddenly. “Kids do their homework and make change. You approve?”

“I approve and I don’t.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“They include their children in their work, I like that. Apprenticeship has many benefits. Much less alienating than going to school well into adulthood for what amounts to learning a trade from a stranger. But they have no childhood and that’s too hard. They may grow up to be hardworking, decent and successful, but their hearts will be empty. They’ll never feel joy as adults because they have nothing in the bank to draw on.”

Bernie stared at me, his head trembling slightly. His eyes were fierce, as challenging as ever. “It’s better they grow up to be drug addicts like the blacks?”

“No. But there should be some other choice.”

“Your trouble is, you think people can be happy.”

“I think they should be given the chance.”

“Enough. It isn’t that I think you’re wrong.” Bernie glanced at his pile of papers, at Aaron’s letter. “I know you’re wrong,” he said quietly. “Now listen,” he leaned toward me, although he lowered his eyes. “If this goes badly for me, I’ve left enough for you to try to save the world.” His head came up with a broad smile, dentures gleaming. His attitude was a confusing mix of humor and malice. “You want to help this grandson of mine, go ahead. They get nothing from me.”

“What happens if you live?”

“Tough.” Bernie took another sip. I said nothing. I didn’t believe him. He put the glass down and said, “Go and get my adoring family.”

This was goodbye. Too many others had gone without my acknowledgment. I took his trembling hand. He was surprised, but gripped me hard. My thumb brushed across the white knots of hair, the knuckles that had fascinated me so long ago. “I love you, Uncle. You saved my life.”

Tears welled in his hard eyes. He shook his head as if denying it.

“No, I’m not pretending there weren’t things you did wrong. And that I did wrong. I don’t mean that. I mean, you did the best you could and it was more than enough. I’m grateful.”

He covered my thumb with his other hand and squeezed, a tear falling. He shut his eyes, sighed, and said, “I’m proud of you.” We sat there, holding hands, for a while. When he opened them again, his eyes were red. “Are you happy?”

I nodded. “Sometimes.”

“Because of your work?”

I nodded. He sighed again. “You did a good thing with those Grayson kids in Boston. Is that what you’ll do with my money? Help kids?”

“I’m going to try.”

Bernie nodded. He let go of my hand, shut his eyes, and put his fingers to them, pressing as if he wanted to push them into his skull. “Okay,” he sighed, straightened, and looked at me. His eyes were clearer, but still sad and guarded. “Okay,” he repeated and added in a doomed voice: “I’m ready to see them.”