Shadows of Berlin полностью

Her tolerance for Feter’s schéma grandiose is limited. But she cannot deny a weak, dizzy hope at such a possibility, even now. Therefore, she must be clear. “What exactly are you proposing, Feter? A business relationship?”

A business relationship? A partnership, he thinks, is a better word.

“As you had with Eema?”

He shrugs lightly with open palms. “Would that be so intolerable?”

Rachel breathes deeply. “So. You haven’t said a word,” she observes.

“Haven’t I?” he wonders.

“You haven’t asked me a thing. But maybe you don’t need to. Are you still connected, you and her?”

His face grays. “We were not ‘connected’ as you put it, no. I simply played the role of her messenger.”

“So you don’t speak?”

“We do not,” he admits thinly.

“Do you know she is dying?”

“Yes,” he answers. “But who isn’t, Rashka, my dear? Who isn’t?”

Days pass. A gush of cold air blows in as Rachel opens the kitchen window. Kibbitz leaps out on the prowl. Snowflakes dance through the air. She hesitates for an instant longer, then shoves the sash closed.

“Hey, Shemp Howard is dead.”

“Who?”

Aaron is seated at the table over his breakfast, a grapefruit, since he’s been putting on a little weight, he thinks. “Shemp Howard.” He repeats the name. “He was one of the original Stooges.”

A shrug. “I have no idea what you’re saying.”

“The Three Stooges. You know,” he insists, as if she should know. As if who could possibly not know. “Once, there was a fourth stooge?” he says. But then gives up, surrendering the paper. “Anyhow. Here, you can read all about it. I gotta get my ass in gear.” He stretches from the lower back up, extending his arms and yawning out a spacious breath. Then he’s up, heading for the bedroom to tie his tie, singing along to the radio to “Sixteen Tons” in a faux bass voice. “Ya dig sixteen tons—­whattaya get? Another day older and a cherry-­red Corvette…”

But Rachel is not listening. She has suddenly seized the page of obituaries. A headline and picture.

Mrs. Angel Mendelbaum, wife to Mr. Irving Mendelbaum of the construction firm of Mendelbaum & Sons, sadly fell to her death yesterday morning from the terrace of the couple’s penthouse apartment on East 91st Street and Fifth Avenue. Mrs. Mendelbaum was alone at the time of the accident. Born in Berlin, Germany, she became a naturalized U.S. citizen in 1947 and will be remembered as a generous supporter of Jewish charities as well as a patroness of the arts.

Staring at the photograph, Rachel hears the voice and looks up at the face.

You didn’t imagine that I was going to allow myself to be victimized by the ravages of a disease, did you, Bissel?

The woman who fills the chair across from her is not the matron Rachel faced in the park. She is the gnä’ Fräulein, in lace gloves and fine fabrics. She has resurrected herself as the exquisite murderess from the Prenzlauer Berg. The Red Angel of Berlin, her vanity intact even after death. And then she is gone. Her final murder victim was herself.

Aaron reappears, flapping his arms into his jacket, and belches lightly. “Oy, that grapefruit is so full of acid,” he complains, but she isn’t really listening to him until he steals the piece of toast from her plate.

“Thief, that’s my toast.”

“Sue me,” he suggests, chewing. “You know, my pop had the same breakfast every day for forty million years. One poached egg on toast with pickled herring. That and a glass of prune juice.” He says this and downs the last swallows of coffee from his cup.

“Coffee won’t help a sour stomach,” she points out.

He shrugs. Whattaya gonna do? “Life is suffering. I gotta run.”

“I’m pregnant,” she says. The words fall out.

32.

For the World That Will Come

The frost is sticking to the windowpane. A thousand intricate stars of frost. It’s mesmerizing.

“So,” he begins. On his way out. Lights his Lucky from the gas burner and huffs smoke. “You’ve got an appointment today, right? With the doctor?”

“Yes. Two o’clock.”

“Should I come with?”

“Should you?” Rachel sounds slightly too surprised. “I don’t know. Why?”

“I don’t know either,” he says. “This is the first time I’m having a baby too, ya know. I got no idea what the hell I’m supposed to be doing. Go with my wife to the obstetrician? Don’t go with my wife to the obstetrician? So I ask you.”

“Because I’m the expert.”

“Well, in this case, you’re the star of the show, honey,” he says, stubbing out her cigarette for her. A habit he’s developed to curb her smoking, because his mother read an article in Reader’s Digest. “I’m just playing a bit part. The guy who walks on in Act Three and says, ‘Your Majesty! The heir to the throne is born!’”

“I don’t know what you are saying, as usual. But the doctor’s only a few blocks away. I can walk.”

“No, no,” Aaron begins to insist. “No walking, thank you very much. Take a cab.”

“A cab costs money.”