Howard Jacobson - Kalooki Nights

‘I’m sorry,’ was what did he say. ‘I remember your mother. She was a very nice person. My parents always spoke highly of her.’

For the second time that afternoon I wondered if I was going to faint. ‘It’s nice of you to have come,’ I said.

I was surprised to see he was not on his own. A woman who had been standing even more removed from the proceedings than he was, brought herself forward, also to wish me ‘long life’. She was not anyone I knew. A woman a little older than me, I estimated, a touch heavy in the torso, with a strong square face and a fiercely vulnerable expression. Pretty still, or maybe pretty, as sometimes happens, only since she’d aged. Some issue of age, over and above the usual ones of regret and apprehension, hung over her. The prettiness spoke of it, the unnaturally piercing blue eyes spoke of it, and the long hair, worn down her back like a girl’s, proclaimed it — notwithstanding everything else I had to sorrow over — to a degree I found painful. From the way she positioned herself by Manny I surmised that she was in some caring or even custodial relation to him. Could Manny have been rearrested and reincarcerated? I wondered. Had they let him out, just for the afternoon, on humanitarian grounds, and could this woman have been his nurse or his prison guard? Were they even, for the duration of my mother’s funeral, manacled together?

I thanked them both for their attendance and was about to walk away to join Shani and Mick when Manny suddenly said, ‘Max, this is Dorothy.’

There are no revelations. Everything you learn, you know already.

I insisted they return with me to the shiva house. I wanted to give them something. Wine sweeter than sweet sherry, and kichels. ‘Be careful, you can break your teeth on those,’ I told Dorothy. But of course she knew that already.

I stuck Mick Kalooki on to Manny. If there were things about the faith Mick had not got to the bottom of yet, Manny was the one to ask. A crying shame they hadn’t been introduced to each other earlier. Dorothy I engineered into a corner, by the celloshaped cabinet where my father’s boxing gloves were still on display, and where my mother kept the glasses and the doilies for kalooki, sitting us both down on those low stools which mourners are meant to occupy for the duration of the shiva. And there I got her to tell me everything I knew.

The house, of course, to which Manny had once invited me and where we’d pitted Rothko against cartoons, the house I’d imagined was a charitable home for Jewish men who’d killed their parents, was of course — of course of course — Dorothy’s. I’d fancied it was near to where she had walked Asher to meet her father in the days of their innocence before all their worlds fell in, but I’d got that slightly wrong. It wasn’t near her old home. It was her old home. And Manny lived there. Not as a lodger, she wanted me to understand, though she wasn’t always able to get Manny himself to understand that. But she hoped that I did. Not as a lodger. It was his home too. Had been his home from the day he was released. She had gone personally to collect him. As how could she not? Who else was going to do it?

The question on a day of tears made me want to cry again. Who else? Well, why not Asher?

She looked at me I wasn’t sure whether with astonishment at what I didn’t appear to know, for someone who appeared to know everything, or to be certain that I was strong enough to hear speak of it now. I made similar enquiries with my eyes of her. Me? her expression said. I’m strong enough for everything . And I didn’t allow my eyes to say in return Is that why you let your hair grow down your back like a girl’s?

I wasn’t strong enough and never will be. I bleed easily. Epistaxis of the imagination. The membranes of the brain dry quickly, then are quick to rupture. Many cartoonists suffer from the same condition. But I was obliged to learn a lesson from my father. You stay on your feet no matter how much blood you lose.

Asher.

The Jew I envied above all others. Marked black like Cain, the way I’d have liked to look. Seeded like a pomegranate with the sorrows and the tribulations of his people, but juicy with the wine of the pomegranate, too, spicy with spikenard and saffron, calamus and cinnamon, his lips like a thread of scarlet.

But he was seeded with a sorrow too many. When the police roused him from his bed (Dorothy beside him) to tell him that his parents had been murdered, he bent double as though a horse had kicked him in the stomach, and bawled blood. His doing. He was marked black like Cain. It was his doing. Yes, his brother had lost his reason, but what had made his brother lose his reason?

And the Lord said, What hast thou done? the voice of thy brother’s blood crieth unto me from the ground. And now thou art cursed from the earth. .

Cursed from the earth, Asher knew at once that he would never be able to resume relations with the woman he loved and had wanted, for as long as he could remember, for his wife. Whenever he looked into her face, he would see them. As for his brother, Asher could not even begin to describe the abhorrence he felt. He was bereft of everything, and at his brother’s hands. Was that what Manny had wanted — to put an end to everybody’s happiness if he could have no happiness of his own? He could not have been so deranged, could he, as to suppose that with his parents dead, Asher would settle down to a carefree life with Dorothy? No one could be so deluded. So it had been an attack on all of them. Manny had gassed them all — his mother and his father, and Asher, and Dorothy, and himself.

Dorothy, after many years to think about it, did not agree with Asher. Yes, she believed, Manny had been deluded. She believed he had done it, partly, for her. Out of deluded love for her. Not selfish love. The very opposite of selfish love. And you can’t get much more deluded than that. Even at the time, she wanted to tell Asher that. Forgive your poor brother. He did not comprehend what he was doing. He doesn’t think as other people think. But Asher had gone again. Gone once, and now gone a second time. Gone not to come back. And she was not able to tell him anything.

’For which abandonment of you, after all he had done to promote your happiness, Manny fantasised about shooting him?’

She was surprised I knew that. ‘To this day Manny believes he did in fact shoot his brother, yes,’ she said. She had begun to rock a little on her chair. ‘So he told you that?’

‘Not in so many words. But I wonder why he doesn’t also believe he shot you.’

‘Because I’m here. Because he can see me. Because I’m not dead.’

Ah.

So we had got to it at last. What I needed to be told but had always known. That Asher was out of it. Lying under a shovelful of dirt, just like my mother.

It seems that he went back to Israel. ‘Seems’, because Dorothy too had had to piece it all together. Did not stay for the inquest into his parents’ death or for their funeral, never looked upon his brother, never spent another hour with Dorothy, never spoke to her or otherwise informed her where he’d gone, never even packed a bag. And in Israel, not many years into Manny’s sentence, they shot him. He had thrown in his lot with the fanatics, stood guard at the iron gates of a settlement in Ramallah, with his rifle in one hand and his Bible in another, claiming back what Elohim had promised to his people, where they shot him.

‘They being terrorists?’

She hesitated. Was I meant, I wondered, to have said ‘freedom fighters’, as Alÿs would have demanded? But that wasn’t the reason for the hesitation.

‘They being, according to Manny,’ she said, ‘the agents of Manny’s will. Which if you take the long view, they were. But terrorists, yes.’