You’re disturbing me on a holiday, what’s so important, what’s the emergency, a fire, pogrom, has the Messiah arrived?
B holds out His hand.
O, the pawnbroker’s saying as if he’s surprised — though it’s only resignation hidden, this ritual yet another act, a tallis cloak or spare tefillin cover (whatever kind you’re interested in, he’ll oblige with wait). As he has all day, he’ll see what he can do, and by the looks of Him — Him, too. Having been retired to readiness ever since B’s very entrance, the customary ring, his own sleepy slowness merely a shtick, allowing whosoever here to pawn the pretense of advantage, and so now just offering the most requisite of prayers: shoptalk, this Kaddishing of weights & measures, the formulaic preparation of an Amen’s delay — all to enable him a sizing up, as if for B’s coffin, a suitable shroud; him ensconced behind his cage, already putting on his visor and adjusting, always, the scales of his enterprise both the honest and those used to weigh by his daughters and the wife — what he wants, the mark in his palms of the object not yet his a suppurant stigma: what he could get, he’s calculating, conniving, there is no can’t, and those thoughts and others like them not motivational, but true and believing, felt so long he’s convinced, convicted upon his own recognizance of B’s desperation, which he’ll share for half; all such thoughts, hopes, prayers, and dreams accompanied by the various commercial ablutions: such as, the sacred wicking of the moustachebeard, the ritual liplick, the calming of the throat into a fist that’s tightly held…hymn, he’s beginning so soon with the setup, the Blessed Art bumble — so it’s a spoon you want to sell me, nu? Business. That’s something else altogether. Everything. Come in, come closer, that’s it?
A spoon, He says, silver, and an heirloom, worth more to me than to you: hard times have forced…
Forced me, too…says the mensch, he’s heard it all, listened to little, to none — now examining the pawn under a glass, a loupe unlidded and wedged over an eye within the rim of a wrinkle. It’s a spoon, he’s saying, that I can tell for myself, silver, not much. Hymn. A bit tarnished, isn’t it?
As if to noncommit, intereshting.
How? He wants to know, what do you mean…B wanting His money but more His calm, doesn’t want to impress Himself on anyone’s memory — anonymous charity, isn’t that what they say, that it’s the highest form of help…
Nicht, I mean nothing, a bit touchy, aren’t you, neurotic, the shpilkes, and this on a yomtov, it’s unfortunate. You seem good people, though — have you ever been told such things…what am I talking, bet you get that all the time: presentable as you are (but suck it up, will you, tuck that in), and sensitive, too, compassionate’s what they used to say, and with character, such a nice boy that face, such hands, without parents, am I right, a tragedy, always too young, always too soon…an orphan, it must be difficult, and for that you have my condolences, my very best, you’re assured — but forgive me, your spoon, a triflele lefele…so it’s kosher, as an antique it’s echt, not by much. As a keepsake, I’d say it’s worth something. Tell me, how much?
A hundred…He’s thinking as an initial offering high enough, which means there’s still ample low to spare for his greed, the pawnbroker’s — the long, thin fingers refusing to knuckle under, stirringup the cracked teacup mouth, the eyes above unsalted butterpads over the unleavened skin — this alterhocker whose fix seems to be in…an even hundred, thinking that’s fair, as if assuring Himself He does and He doesn’t, B saying it twice, once for each zero on the count of His breath, which is horrible, hungry.
As if to say to the mensch — here’s my pride, bubeleh, now bargain me down what you will.
Ach, the pawnbroker moans, why, it’s a sin…don’t sell yourself short, and he slams his head on the bars of his cage, clatters between them the visor. Tell you what, he counters, I’ll give you three hundred and, hymn, a daughter of mine in marriage (you know how many I have — nu, I don’t either), you have maybe plans for tonight, my wife’s making break the fast, such a cook as you wouldn’t believe!
