Witz полностью

Attorneys-At-Law

The Goldenbergs? Are they brothers? Were they husband and wife, or father and son, mother and daughter, or father and daughter or mother and son? Or else just irrelative? What? May I ask who’s calling, asking who wants to know? Israel doesn’t, he never did, he’s never met them, not even sure they exist, ever existed. He’s now the firm’s senior partner, seniormost, and whoever the Goldenbergs were, if they were, he’s sure they’re long dead, they should be. Forgotten. Goldenberg? I don’t know. Goldenberg? Never heard of him, her, or them. Sorry. Wish I could help you.

I don’t know them from Adam. But his name was Goldberg…

Though perhaps, Hanna wastes thought on later nights — she’d never ask Israel, how to admit to that ignorance after a generation of marriage, she thinks — perhaps they weren’t people at all, rather those two golden mountains, the Poconos, and the silver valley between, where her mother and she’d vacation when she was young and could still swim the lake. One rumor among the secretaries was that the name was originally GOLDENBERG, GOLDENBERG, & GOLDENBERG, ATTORNEYS-IN-LAW, as one of the Goldenbergs had been a woman who’d taken her husband’s — and partner’s — last name, and that the third Goldenberg, Goldenberg Sr., had been Goldenberg’s — Goldenberg Jr.’s, the husband’s — older brother, they’d gossip: meaning they were in-laws, Goldenberg and Goldenberg the wife of Goldenberg, Goldenberg’s brother, née Silbertal as it’s said, and so — with lawyerly respect for the precise, the fineprint — they were attorneys-in-law, as well. Who knows. Though it’s also been said that Israel had started his own practice from nothing, and that the first order of business was to think up two names, to put up front, on the sign, on the stationary, to keep himself humble, in clients.

Quiet. He’s working. Don’t disturb.

In front of that sign the length of the wall, an ergonomic chair keeps the form of a woman at sit: obese, spine troubles around L-4, L-5 and lets everyone know, circulation problems in the buttocks, venous leg ulcers, ingrown toenails, bad breath. A desk keeps the chair. High and wood.

Israel loses himself to his planner: liquids, inks and shavings, rushed meals, spilled coffees and creamers, grains of sugar and sweeteners, unlettered doodles, a scribble of numbers the sum of all times.

Just how late is he? Enumerate this: it’s either the fifth or the sixth day of a week in the third, ninth, or twelfth month depending, December/Kislev whichever way you look at it, he more like squints at his watch though it’d stopped three hours ago. And his eyes. Hymn. Or maybe he’s already dead.

He looks at the hands writ on the wall, he’s alive.

Later, he looks again: the hands are two roots, growing further apart until they’ve grown near, again intertwine. Now it’s nearly a handful of hours past that twinning, their mingle. Fingers, two hands of them, scratch at his beard. He glances up from his planner, prints thumbs into face. Thinking about the time in his secretary’s office. Her clock he bought with the rest of her furniture.

And so he gets up and goes to her office and checks her clock to make sure it’s the same and it is, give or take and he’s taking, a sweet from her snack-drawer, sucks it on his way back to his chair.

Through the window, the sun passes: his fountainpen as the gnomon of the sundial that is his desk, and with it he scribbles a shopping list, oneitemed on an empty matchbook atop his planner at an angle of shadow equal to the latitude of his office, floors high at the top, how he’s risen.

Why not dictation — he’s thinking about calling up Loreta at home, having her take this down: Challah, two loaves.

And then, remind me again, what’re the names of my daughters? Loveneedy, Liv wants hugs and kisses. Judith does the best she can better. Give Simone her space. Easy does it Isabella. Zip it Zeba get a grip. Like father like mother as Asa. Be good to Batya, make nice to praise her effort. Don’t be meaner, support Rubina. How to remember, he’s asking, how could I forget.

And then those two loaves. Period, Paragraph. Loreta, his wife’s called: read it back, he’d ask.

Where’s his coat? She would know. On a hanger hanging in the closet doublebreasted. On the coatrack hobbled in the corner. No. Draped over his chair right behind him. And his glasses? Lost atop his head.

His coat, which none of his kinder’ll ever fit into; the youngest of them could be cradled in one of its pockets, in which she’d find an empty matchbook on which’s been penned a reminder.

Buy challah, it says.

Rolled in a receipt from last week.