Henry Miller - NEXUS

It was our first meal with the Essens. We had never met Mrs. Essen before, nor Reb's son and daughter. They were waiting for us, the table spread, the candles lit, the fire going, and a wonderful aroma coming from the kitchen.

Have a drink! said Reb first thing, holding out two glasses of heavy port. How was it? Did you get nervous?

Not a bit, said I. We went all they way to Blue-point.

Next time it'll be Montauk Point. Mrs. Essen now engaged us in talk. She was a good soul, as Reb had said. Perhaps a trifle too refined. A dead area somewhere. Probably in the behind.

I noticed that she hardly ever addressed her husband. Now and then she reproved him for his rudeness or for his bad language. One could see at a glance that there was nothing between them any more.

Mona had made an impression on the two youngsters, who were in their teens. (Evidently they had never come across a type like her before.) The daughter was overweight, plain looking, and endowed with extraordinary piano legs which she did her best to hide every time she sat down. She blushed a great deal. As for the son, he was one of those precocious kids who talk too much, know too much, laugh too much, and always say the wrong thing. Full of excess energy, excitable, he was forever knocking things over or stepping on some one's toes. A genuine pipperoo, with a mind that jumped like a kangaroo.

When I asked if he still went to synagogue he made a wry face, pinched his nostril with two fingers, and made as if pulling the chain. His mother quickly explained that they had switched to Ethical Culture. It pleased her to learn that in the past I too had frequented the meetings of this society.

Let's have some more to drink, said Reb, obviously fed up with talk of Ethical Culture, New Thought, Baha'i and such fol de rol.

We had some more of his tawny port. It was good, but too heavy.

After dinner, he said, we'll play for you. He meant himself and the boy. (It'll be horrible, I thought to myself.) I asked if he was far advanced, the boy.

He's not a Mischa Elman yet, that's for sure. He turned to his wife. Isn't dinner soon ready?

She rose in stately fashion, smoothed her hair back from her brow, and headed straight for the kitchen. Almost like a somnambulist.

Let's pull up to the table, said Reb. You people must be famished.

She was a good cook, Mrs. Essen, but too lavish. There was enough food on the table for twice as many as we were. The wine was lousy. Jews seldom had a taste for good wine, I observed to myself. With the coffee and dessert came Kummel and Benedictine. Mona's spirits rose. She loved liqueurs. Mrs. Essen, I noticed, drank nothing but water. Reb, on the other hand, had been helping himself liberally. He was slightly inebriated, I would say. His talk was thick, his gestures loose and floppy. It was good to see him thus; he was himself, at least. Mrs. Essen, of course, pretended not to be aware of his condition. But the son was delighted; he enjoyed seeing his old man make a fool of himself.

It was a rather strange, rather eerie ambiance. Now and again Mrs. Essen tried to lift the conversation to a higher level. She even brought up Henry James—her idea of a controversial subject, no doubt—but it was no go. Reb had the upper hand. He swore freely now and called the rabbi a dope. No talky-talk for him. Fisticuffs and wrastling, as he called it, was his line now. He was giving us the low-down on Benny Leonard, his idol, and excoriating Strangler Lewis, whom he loathed.

To needle him, I said: And what about Redcap Wilson? (He had worked for me once as a night messenger. A deaf-mute, if I remember right.)

He brushed him off with—A third-rater, a punk.

Like Battling Nelson, I said.

Mrs. Essen intervened at this point to suggest that we withdraw to the other room, the parlor. You can talk more comfortably there, she said.

With this Sid Essen slammed his fist down hard. Why move? he shouted. Aren't we doing all right here? You want us to change the conversation, that's what. He reached for the Kummel. Here, let's have a little more, everybody. It's good, what?

Mrs. Essen and her daughter rose to clear the table. They did it silently and efficiently, as my mother and sister would have, leaving only the bottles and glasses on the table.

Reb nudged me to confide in what he thought was a whisper—Soon as she sees me enjoying myself she clamps down on me. That's women for you.

Come on, Dad, said the boy, let's get the fiddles out.

Get ‘em out, who's stopping you? shouted Reb. But don't play off key, it drives me nuts.

We adjourned to the parlor, where we spread ourselves about on sofas and easy chairs. I didn't care what they played or how. I was a bit swacked myself from all the cheap wine and the liqueurs.

While the musicians tuned up fruit cake was passed around, then walnuts and shelled pecans.

It was a duet from Haydn which they had chosen as a starter. With the opening bar they were off base. But they stuck to their guns, hoping, I suppose, that eventually they would get in step. It was horripilating, the way they hacked and sawed away. Along toward the middle the old man broke down. Damn it! he yelled, flinging his fiddle on to a chair, it sounds god-awful. We're not in form, I guess. As for you, he turned on his son, you'd better practise some more before you play for anybody.

He looked around as if searching for the bottle, but catching a grim look from his wife he slunk into an easy chair. He mumbled apologetically that he was getting rusty. Nobody said anything. He yawned loudly. Why not a game of chess? he said wearily.

Mrs. Essen spoke up. Please, not to-night!

He dragged himself to his feet, It's stuffy in here, he said. I'm taking a walk. Don't run away! I'll be back soon.

When he had gone Mrs. Essen tried to account for his unseemly conduct. He's lost interest in everything; he's alone too much. She spoke almost as if he were already deceased.

Said the son: He ought to take a vacation.

Yes, said the daughter, we're trying to get him to visit Palestine.

Why not send him to Paris? said Mona. That would liven him up.

The boy began to laugh hysterically.

What's the matter? I asked.

He laughed even harder. Then he said: If he ever got to Paris we'd never see him again.

Now, now! said the mother.

You know Dad, he'd go plumb crazy, what with all the girls, the cafe's, the...

What a way to talk! said Mrs. Essen.

You don't know him, the boy retorted. I do. He wants to live. So do I.

Why not send the two of them abroad? said Mona. The father would look after the son and the son after the father.

At this point the doorbell rang. It was a neighbor who had heard that we were visiting the Essens and had come to make our acquaintance.

This is Mr. Elfenbein, said Mrs. Essen. She didn't seem too delighted to see him.

With elbows bent and hands clasped Mr. Elfenbein came forward to greet us. His face was radiant, the perspiration was dripping from his brow.

What a privilege! he exclaimed, making a little bow, then clasping our hands and wringing them vigorously. I have heard so much about you, I hope you will pardon the invasion. Do you speak Yiddish perhaps—or Russe? He hunched his shoulders and moved his head from side to side, the eyes following like compass needles. He fixed me with a grin. Mrs. Skolsky tells me you are fond of Cantor Sirota...

I felt like a bird released from its cage. I went up to Mr. Elfenbein and gave him a good hug.

From Minsk or Pinsk? I said.

From the land of the Moabites, he replied.

He gave me a beamish look and stroked his beard. The boy put a glass of Kummel in his hand. There was a stray lock of hair on the crown of Mr. Elfenbein's baldish head; it stood up like a corkscrew. He drained the glass of Kummel and accepted a piece of fruit cake. Again he clasped his hands over his breast.