Shadows of Berlin полностью

But Leo only shrugs. “It’s nothing. A gesture on your beautiful wife’s birthday, that’s all. So go. Enjoy. And happy birthday, ketsl,” he adds. “Mit mazl zolstu zikh yern.”

“A sheinem dank, Leo,” she replies.

“Ha! I love that this girl speaks Yiddish! Ir zent a sheyn shtern,” he tells her, calling her a shining star before he motions to Abe. “Abe. Take this lovely lady and her husband to their table, will ya? And remember. My party tonight.”

Abe’s been on the staff since Leo opened the place after Prohibition and is as much a fixture at Charades as the Comedy & Tragedy ashtrays that everybody steals. As much a fixture as the Moroccan leather booths or the Tiffany chandeliers. His belly’s as big as a barrel now, his forehead is livid with liver spots, and his earlobes have flattened and elongated like an elephant’s. But even after twenty years of Sure, Mr. Blume and Whatever you say, Mr. Blume, he still sounds genial and pleased to serve. “Sure thing, Mr. Blume,” says Abe with a smile. “Whatever you say.”

The Best Table in the House features snow-­white linen, gleaming silverware, and Comedy & Tragedy dinner plates rimmed in gold leaf. A flame flickers in a red Venetian lowboy candle lamp. Izzie is one of the middle-­aged waiters schlepping hash here since Roosevelt’s first term. He is resplendent as a grand duke in a crimson Eton jacket with epaulettes and golden aiguillette as he oversees the delivery of their highballs by a young runner, also in livery but without the tinsel. Aaron, however, is disconnected. He looks slightly petulant, so Rachel is smiling for both of them.

“A vodka gimlet for the lady,” Izzie is announcing, “and for the gentleman, a whiskey sour.”

“Yeah, thanks, Iz,” Aaron replies dully. “We’ll start off with a couple of the marinated herrings.”

“Yes, sir. Perfect choice.”

“So what’s the tuna tonight? Off the trucks or off the docks?”

“Tonight? The trucks,” Izzie regrets to report.

“Forget it then,” Aaron instructs. “We’ll do the poached salmon with the eggplant. And make sure Monsieur Bouillabaisse in the kitchen goes easy on the fennel, okay? You tell him that comes from me, okay?” he adds.

“Absolutely, Mr. P. Be back in a jiff with your appetizers.” Izzie and the runner exit, but Aaron only huffs and lights a Lucky with a snap of his Zippo.

“What’s the matter?” Rachel finally asks.

Deadpan. “Nothing.”

“That is untrue.”

“Nothing is the matter,” Aaron insists. “It’s only why did he have to do that?” he wants to know, followed by his gravel-­voiced impression of Leo. “‘It’s my pawty—­soup t’nuts.’ Like I can’t pay for my own dinner.”

“He’s being generous.”

“Oh, sure. Mr. Generosity, that’s Leo Blume all right. The big man’s gotta make everybody else look small. Always looking for the lever,” he says, yanking on the imaginary lever. “Always looking for the upper hand.”

Rachel filches one of his Lucky Strikes, and a runner appears out of nowhere to light it. “Oh, thank you,” she says with a smile, but then the smile departs as she returns to her husband. “So are we going to enjoy our evening,” she wonders, “or are you going to sulk through it?”

He gives her a sideway glance like maybe he’s considering coming around. “Haven’t decided yet. Honestly, it could go either way.”

Rachel breathes in, tries to remain calm. Glances around the restaurant. “Where’s your chum Rumpelstiltskin with our tickets? I thought he was supposed to meet us here.”

Izzie suddenly appears at tableside and clears his throat. “Pardon, Mr. P., but Pauli says you got a call up at the bar. A gentleman by the name of Chernik?”

Aaron turns to Rachel, vindicated. “Ah. Ya’ see now? There he is. My pal.”

“You want I should have the kid bring you a phone?” Izzie inquires, but Aaron waves the suggestion off as ludicrous.

“Nah, I’m not a big shot, Izzie, like you-­know-­who. I can get up and walk to the phone like the rest of us peasants do.” He pats his wife on her shoulder reassuringly. “Be right back.”

Rachel swallows. Alone at the table, her mind wanders toward shadow.

He’s not so bad, your husband, I suppose. Not so bad.

She looks over to find her mother seated across the table from her in Aaron’s spot, dressed in her furs and finery, a woman at the height of her renown. At least the poor man is trying to make you happy, Eema reminds her. He’s making an attempt. Of course we both realize, I’m sure, that the boy is neither milchidik nor flaishidik—­neither dairy nor meat—­but that’s not necessarily bad. As men go? You could do worse.

“Were you ever happy, Eema?”

Was I?

“With my father?”