Shadows of Berlin полностью

“Yes. I went,” she says. “I told you I would.”

“Okay, just checking up. If I’m gonna be laying out all this dough for him…”

She spoons kung pao shrimp onto Aaron’s plate. “Yes. You must get your money’s worth.”

Rachel spoons out her lo mein. “Do you want to use the chopsticks?”

Aaron waves them off with a shake of his head and uses his fork. Rachel decides on the cheap takeout chopsticks and stirs her food absently.

“So what happened with your uncle?” her husband wonders out loud.

Rachel sniffs, frowns lightly at her plate.

“I mean, you saw him for a coffee someplace this morning, didn’t ya?”

“Yes,” she answers as if confessing.

“So how’d it go?”

She clips a bite of the lo mein with her chopsticks and lifts it from the plate. “He doesn’t look so well,” she announces, causing a crease in her brow. “I’m not sure how he’s been eating.” She chews, swallows, not tasting.

Aaron sighs. “H’boy.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” he says and shovels in his food. “It’s only that I know what that means. How much is it gonna cost me this time?”

“That’s an ugly thing to say. Must you make him sound like a beggar?” Rachel despairs. “He’s the only family I still have.”

“Except for a husband and a whole mishpocha of in-­laws,” Aaron points out but then relents at the pained expression that strikes Rachel’s face. “Okay, okay. Sorry. Not the same thing, I know. Sorry I brought it up.”

“It’s not the same thing,” she confirms.

“All right, please,” he begs, frowning over the bill from Con Edison. “Let’s just have dinner, can we?” he says, chewing, then loudly tsks. “Aw, now will ya look at this?” he complains. “Four dollars and twenty-­two cents for what? Turning on a light bulb.”

But Rachel isn’t ready to relinquish the topic. “You didn’t have a single person from your family poisoned in a gas chamber.”

“I said I surrender, okay?” Aaron reminds her, his face blanching. “I know. I’m just the big American dope who doesn’t understand a thing. I get it. I spent the entire war in Culver City, while the rest of the world was going insane, and all I got to show for it is the Good Conduct Medal. So what do I know anyhow? I’m just a Jew from Flatbush.”

“Don’t say that. I hate it when you say that.”

“Well, it’s the truth,” he says, getting steamed. “Sorry to tell you.” Then he frowns down at his kung pao shrimp. “Don’t believe me? You can look at my birth certificate.”

Rachel’s eyes dampen, and she stirs her rice with the chopsticks absently. The oil gleams on the lo mein. “You don’t understand.”

“Yes, I think we’ve established that. Of course. The idiot husband doesn’t understand because you never tell him anything. It’s all some unspeakable thing, and anytime I dare mention a word about it, all I get is ‘You don’t understand.’”

“Because you don’t. You can’t.”

“And this is exactly what I mean! You shut me out. You say you hate when I say that I’m just a Jew from Flatbush, but that’s how you make me feel. Like some fucking schlemiel from the neighborhood.”

Rachel freezes up, glaring at the table. Aaron returns to his plate, scowling, sticking his fork into the rice, but she remains tightly contained.

“It’s the space heater,” she says.

Chewing. “What?”

“I get cold, so I bought the space heater. That’s why the electric bill is high.”

Aaron slumps, but his voice is charged. “Rachel, forget about the farkakteh electric bill, will you?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m so much trouble! I’m sorry I’m not somebody better. I’m sorry I’m only me. Only a worthless Stück!” she cries.

“And now you’re angry with me for no reason! I don’t know what I did or said or didn’t say to set you off, and I don’t even know what you’re talking about. Whattaya mean by ‘stuck’ anyway? I got no idea. It’s like this morning when I asked about your birthday, and suddenly ka-­boom.”

“It’s too much.” Rachel feels herself falling apart. “Too much,” she repeats. Ein Stück! A piece, the Germans called them. Less than a human. “Who cares about my birthday? You have to make a big tsimmis because a person turns another year older? There are plenty who didn’t, who never will. Who cares if I do?”

“Who cares? I care,” Aaron informs her. “I’m your husband, for god’s sake. And I think that your birthday should be a big tsimmis. Please. All I want to do is something nice for you. Why is that so frigging impossible?”

“You never wanted me to paint,” she suddenly declares, a full-­bore accusation that leaves Aaron looking confused, maybe constipated.

“I never what?”

She repeats the accusation but more slowly this time, so the Jew from Flatbush can understand. “You never wanted me to paint. You didn’t approve. You didn’t want a wife who was an artist. It was embarrassing for you,” she decides. “You wanted a wife like your mother was a wife, to cook and clean and be a hausfrau.”

A half cough at the shock. And then an angry expression screws up his face. “Well, if that’s true, I certainly didn’t get one, did I?”