Shadows of Berlin полностью

“That’s nice.” Rachel has just taken a dose of Miltown to level herself. To allow herself to participate in normal life. A normal wife.

“Not to ruin the surprise of this year’s present,” Aaron is telling her, “but it’s gonna be pot holders.”

“Pot holders,” she says. This fits. Usually gifts from her mother-­in-­law are meant to fill some deficiency that the lady has noted. A kitchen whisk. (Now maybe you won’t need a fork to beat an egg every time.) A set of eight Lucite coasters. (No more rings on your furniture!) Tupperware measuring cups. (Now you won’t have to guess!)

“Crocheted pot holders,” Aaron informs her. “It’s what you get for burning your fingers on the casserole dish that time she was over.”

“Two years ago and she still remembers.”

“What can I say? The woman never forgets.”

“Is that all she said?”

“Like what else?”

“I don’t know. Like anything.”

“Nope. Just pot holders,” Aaron answers. But she must wonder if that’s true. After how many years of marriage with no kids, his mother has stopped asking directly. But there’s usually something said. (Maybe it’s a blessing after all that you don’t have kids. They just break your heart.)

“Okay. I’ll send her a very enthusiastic thank-­you note,” Rachel assures him. She stands in front of the vanity’s mirror, a glass that by name is designed to flatter, and examines herself in Naomi’s black pencil dress, adjusting the satin opera gloves. Her lips are Pure Red from Elizabeth Arden, her face is powdered, her cheeks lightly rouged, her eyelashes thickened with mascara, her eyebrows shaped and defined by a brow pencil. The dress fits her in spots where she seldom notices the fit of clothing. Aaron steps up behind her in the dinner jacket he usually reserves for New Year’s Eve, knotting his bow tie. “Okay, now here’s a meydl mit a kleydl,” he says appreciatively.

“Zip me up, please, sir,” she whispers.

“Yes, ma’am.” Aaron obeys, cheerfully solicitous.

She eyes herself as he zips. “Now the pearls.”

Aaron connects her necklace at the back of her neck. “Yowza,” he proclaims.

“Yowza?”

“Yowza. Caramba. As in, holy mackerel, I’ve got Audrey Hepburn for a wife. Where’d the dress come from anyhow?”

“Your sister lent it. I was worried you’d think it was too much.”

Frowning his appreciation. “Nope. For once, the screwy kid got it right.” He slides his arms around her from behind and kisses her on the neck.

Rachel gazes back at their mirror image. Tonight she is content with this counterfeit image of herself. This beautiful counterfeit image. “I’m glad we’re doing this,” she informs him. “Really. It’s a good idea.”

“Yeah?” He is pleased.

“A perfect idea.”

“Well, I have them from time to time,” he can only admit. “So happy birthday, Mrs. Perlman.” He nuzzles her neck lightly. She reaches back to sift through his hair with her fingers. “Hey. You smell good.”

“I wonder why,” she replies. His gift that morning at the breakfast table had been a bottle of perfume. Moonlight Mist from Gourielli, though she suspects Naomi’s involvement in the choice, since her husband so often likes to compare perfume scents to paint thinner. One bottle smells like the next to him. “You have the tickets?” she asks softly.

Still nuzzling. “All taken care of by my dear friend Mr. Chernik,” he starts to say.

“Do you even know his first name?”

“I do, but it happens to be Rumpelstiltskin, and he’s very sensitive. As I was saying, my dear friend Chernik—­”

“Rumpelstiltskin Chernik.”

“Is going to meet us at the restaurant with tickets in hand. Air-­conditioned orchestra seating, no less. It’s all under control.”

In the cab, Aaron makes a small deal of lighting her cigarette for her. Something he very seldom bothers with any longer. She smiles. Puffs a bit of smoke back at him in a playful way. He smiles too, pretends a cough as a joke—­but then cracks the window. He’s happy but anxious. Anxious for things to go well. She can tell by the slightly pained but eager tone of his voice that he’s looking for distraction by suddenly devoting his attention to the cabbie, instructing him how and when to turn to avoid Midtown traffic. Rachel cracks her own window as well, and the smoke slips away into the night.

Her feter had telephoned her that afternoon when she had just stepped out of the shower and had to stand there, dripping, wrapped in a towel, as he’d sung an old Hebrew song for her birthday with a fair number of Yiddish colloquialisms intruding. Mazel Tov! he’d told her. Mit mazel zolstu zikh yern! Your new year should bring you luck! Though was his sudden ability to recall the date of her birth strategic? His tenor had been nothing but upbeat. The caring uncle! The last of her living blood relatives, and who knows for how long he can keep holding on, but never mind. Mazel tov, ziskeit! And then the show was over, and he’d hung up. It was as if nothing had happened, as if no painting in a ugly frame had appeared and then disappeared.