A Jew in a Christian nation, he always felt oddly dispossessed at Christmas time. Never mind the euphemistic Chanukah bush he and Sarah had put up for the kids when they were small and still believed in Santa Claus. Never mind the gifts and the greetings exchanged. Try as he might to convince himself that the season had less to do with religion than with people being kind to each other, he could never shake the knowledge that this was not his holiday. He had once invited Carella and his family to a seder, and Carella had later confessed that he’d felt oddly out of place, even though Meyer had himself conducted the traditional ceremony in English.
Carella would hide Meyer in his basement in a minute and fight a thousand Nazis who tried to break down the door. Carella would break the head of anyone who made the slightest derogatory remark to Meyer. Carella would defend Meyer with his honor and his very life. But he had felt strange celebrating Passover with him. A measure of their friendship was that he’d been able to admit this.
In much the same way, Meyer had once asked Carella if all his Christmas cards read “Seasons Greetings” or “Happy Holidays” or “Yuletide Joy” or the like, or were these just the cards he sent to Meyer and other Jewish friends each year? Did Carella send other cards that read “Merry Christmas”? And if so, was it to spare Meyer’s feelings that he sent the generic card? Carella told him all his cards were similarly antiseptic because what he was celebrating each December was not the birth of Christ, but instead the peace he hoped would prevail at Christmas time-a view he was sure would provoke a flood of letters from people he didn’t know. Meyer said, “In fact, I’ll write you a letter, you heathen!”
Thus encouraged, Carella went on to wonder aloud why he sent Christmas cards at all since he knew in his heart of hearts that Christmasin America, at least-was simply a commercial holiday designed by merchants eager to recoup losses they’d sustained during the rest of the year.
Meyer asked him if he was using the word “merchants” in an anti-Semitic way, and Carella said, “Vot minns anti-Semitic?” and Meyer said, “In that case, I wish to remind you that ‘White Christmas’ was written by a Jew.”
Carella said, “Giuseppe Verdi was a Jew?” Thus encouraged, Meyer said, “‘A Rose in Spanish Harlem,’ too.” All amazed, both men went out to drink fervent toasts to Mohammed and Buddha.
That was too many Christmases ago.
This year, they shared a guilt that had something to do with what each considered a solemn duty to protect and preserve. A lonely old man had been befriended by someone who’d later drugged him and hanged him. A nineteen-year-old black quasi-hooker had been drugged in the same manner and then stabbed to death, most possibly by the same person who’d slain the old man. That person was either still here in this city, or else in Houston, Texas, or else only God knew where. For all they knew, he himself might be dead by now, killed in a bar fight or a motorcycle crash, murdered by a stiffed hooker or a miffed lover. Until they knew for certain, both cases sat in the Open File, neither resolved nor any longer under investigation, exactly like the Danny Nelson assassination.
But then, on the last day of November, Carella opened the morning paper.
The article was headlined “Jenny Redux.”
Norman Zimmer, whose “Tea Time” is still running after 730 performances, has announced the acquisition of all rights to ‘Jenny’s Room,’ a musical he plans to revive here next fall.
‘Auditions will start this week,’ he said, ‘with rehearsals planned for the spring. We’re looking for an L.A. tryout in late June, early July.’ Mr Zimmer added that negotiations were already under way with a top female star whose name he refused to divulge.
For those with long memories, ‘Jenny’s Room’ was first produced in 1927, as a vehicle for Jenny Corbin, a popular musical comedy performer of the day. It did not fare well with the critics and closed within a month. Mr Zimmer is certain this will not be its fate this time around.
‘I’ve worked too hard acquiring the rights,’ he said. ‘The original copyright holders have all passed on, and it was a matter of tracking down whoever had succeeded to their ownership. We found one of them in London, another in Tel Aviv, a third in Los Angeles.’
The quest ended happily five days ago when the last of the successors, a woman named Cynthia Keating, signed on the dotted line, right here in the big bad…
Carella spit out a mouthful of coffee.
He found a listing for a Zimmer Theatrical downtown on The Stem and called the office shortly after nine A. M. A woman told him Mr Zimmer would be at auditions all day today, and when Carella told her he was a detective investigating a homicide-the magic word-she gave him an address for Octagon Theater Spaces and told him the auditions were being held down there, she didn’t know in which studio. “They don’t like to be bothered, though,” she added gratuitously.
