Shadows of berlin, p.25
Shadows of Berlin, page 25
Naomi shakes her head lightly. “Whatta ma-roon,” she says. “How lucky you are to have snapped him up, Rach.”
Inside, Naomi tells them to make themselves at home as she pries the cork from the Chianti, pouring it out into three goblets that actually match. Rachel leaves her pumps by the door and sits stocking-footed on the sofa, removing her cigarettes from her purse. She’s amazed at how clean the place looks. All the mess is stored in closets maybe, but still the surfaces are free of the standard clutter. The rug’s been vacuumed. And Naomi’s small dining table is set for a crowded four. There’s a large, elegantly shaped pottery ashtray with a red-gold glaze on the coffee table that Rachel’s never seen before, and she tugs it closer as she lights up. Aaron, on the other hand, is still the wandering Jew, roving the boundaries of his sister’s apartment. He’s so antsy that he can’t sit, so he paces without destination, hands still stuffed in his pockets. “So where is he?” he wants to know.
“Tyrell?” Naomi says, raising her eyebrows as she hands her brother a glass. “He’ll be here soon,” she assures him.
“Tyrell, Tyrell,” Aaron repeats, jingling the change in his pockets as if he’s talking to himself. “What kind of name is ‘Tyrell’ anyhow?”
With a glance, Rachel spots a glimmer in Naomi’s lake-deep eyes and the slight up-curve at the corner of her mouth. “It’s a name” is all she says as she delivers Rachel’s goblet to her. But there’s definitely something she’s not saying. An agenda.
“Sounds Irish,” Aaron says after a hefty swallow of wine. “Is he an Irishman, this one? Should I brush up on my faith ’n begorrah?”
But Naomi is busy uncorking the white. “Aaron, can you just take a pill or something?”
“Oh, I can do many things,” Aaron answers with mildly menacing assurance. “Many things.”
Naomi snorts, and then the oven dings pertly. “Ah! That’s my cue!” She grins, delighted again, and returns to the stove with a pair of heat-stained oven mitts.
Rachel drinks. The taste of the Chianti mixes with the taste of tobacco in her mouth. Actually, she misses the clutter and chaos of the place, and she’s happy to see that at least the bookcase retains it. A frantic old-time mess. Books shoved this way and that, stacked atop each other, dust jackets ripped and tattered from the friction and overuse. She envies Naomi these shelves. She herself can never hold on to books. Books, letters, gloves, fountain pens, checkbooks, one earring out of the set, cigarette lighters, they simply slip through her fingers and are gone.
“Ten more minutes for the chicken!” Naomi sings out. Returning from the stove, she seats herself on the blanketed sofa beside Rachel with her wine goblet and lights up a cigarette, blowing smoke. “Hey, shtoomer. Can you quit your pacing, please?” she demands of her brother. “You’re wearing a hole in my rug.”
“Yeah, yeah, like I haven’t heard that before,” he says and falls into his impression of their mother. “‘Quit your pacing and sit. You’re wearin’ a hole in my rug, for heaven’s sake.’” He says this, dumping himself down on the sofa and puffing out a long breath. “So speaking of the crazy lady, does she know about your latest? Mister Faith ’n Begorrah?”
“Maybe.” Naomi shrugs.
“Which means no.”
“I don’t believe I need my mother’s approval,” she explains to Rachel. “Unlike some people.”
“Oh, yeah? Tell that to the woman who bore you, why don’t you?”
“I believe that we live in a world of individual freedoms, where people are responsible to themselves alone,” Naomi declares.
“Sure, well, that’s because Ma dropped you on your head when you were a baby.”
“Aaron.” Rachel scolds him with a slap on his leg.
“What? Ouch. It’s true. I get assaulted for the truth now.”
“It is true,” Naomi admits with a sigh. “She tripped over a throw rug in the bedroom and ker-plop.”
“Yeah, and ever after, it was ‘I hate that rug. It’s a cursed rug,’” he says, mimicking their mother again.
“Cursed,” says Naomi, “but she never got rid of it.”
“Get rid of it?” Aaron’s mimic rises in pitch. “I should get rid of a rug while it’s still perfectly good?”
“So instead, for nearly thirty years, she walks around it.”
“Right,” Aaron agrees. “Like it’s a land mine or something.” He half laughs at the thought of this. The homey exchange with his sister at their mother’s expense has blunted his edge. The shared memory. The shared ridicule even. Then there’s a knock on the door. A confident knock. Not overly polite and not overly aggressive, but solid in its intention. The knock of a person who knocks on a door with self-assurance, whether the door opens or not.
“That’s Tyrell,” Naomi announces, a swift excitement lighting her face. She sets down her wine and cigarette and eagerly crosses the floor.
Aaron stands in an obligatory manner. “Faith ’n begorrah,” he grumbles into the bowl of his goblet, taking a deeper swallow, but then quite literally, he begins to choke on his own words.
His sister must thrust herself up on her tiptoes to kiss the man now standing in the threshold of the apartment. “Hello, darling.” She smiles at him. The man smiles back at her and then smiles half blankly into the room. “This,” Naomi announces, looping her arm around his, “is Tyrell Williams.”
“How do you do,” the man says. His voice is deep, and he is over six feet tall. Must be over six feet tall. Dressed in a handsomely fitted gabardine suit. His features are striking. Powerful. Sculpted, one might call them. His hair is perfectly barbered. And he is Black.
Rachel jumps to her feet in the space opened by her husband’s gaping stare and sticks out her hand. “I’m Rachel,” she says.
“Very pleased to meet you,” Tyrell replies, shaking firmly.
“My sister-in-law,” Naomi informs him, as if this might be a surprise, and then turns to Aaron. “And this is my fuckhead brother, Aaron,” she says, but her voice is without rancor or sarcasm. Without mischief or satisfaction. It’s as if she calls him a fuckhead in a concerned, almost fretful manner.
Aaron snaps to quickly and juts out his hand as well. “Aaron Perlman,” he introduces himself in a soldierly fashion. “Pleasure.”
“Pleased to meet you too,” Tyrell insists.
“My sister’s got quite a mouth on her,” Aaron points out, maybe not so much of a compliment this time, more half an excuse and half a reprimand.
To which Tyrell replies, “So I’ve noticed.” Smiling, in a pleasant sort of way, though his eyes, Rachel can see, are watchful.
And then there’s only a splinter of silence before Naomi declares, “Supper’s almost ready. I’m going to pour you a glass of wine.”
20.
A Dinner Roll
Out of the oven, the chicken Kiev receives cooing accolades from Tyrell and Rachel, but not so Aaron. Naomi places it on the hot pad at the center of the table with her oven mitts on and invites Tyrell to carve it into slices, addressing him as “Boyfriend.” Aaron looks on sullenly, causing Rachel to fill in for the empty spot he’s occupying. “It smells delicious,” she declares and gets busy helping Naomi with the vegetable dishes. Mashed potatoes seasoned with paprika and minced garlic, and asparagus served with a cream of mushroom sauce, looking as bright as fresh oil paint on a palette. Rachel notes the tins of Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup lying in the garbage pail.
“It all smells so wonderful,” she confirms again, sinking a large serving spoon into the corner of the mashed potatoes. Naomi is setting out a basket of dinner rolls and covering them with a striped tea towel to keep them warm as they sit down to eat. Tyrell assists Naomi with her chair in a gentlemanly fashion, forcing Aaron, who is midsit, to quickly hop over and follow suit with Rachel. “Thank you, Husband,” Rachel offers him.
Naomi raises her glass of Chianti for a toast that serves as a blessing. “Blessed is he who creates the fruit of the earth. Or in this case, the fruit of the vine,” she says with a smile. “L’Chaim.”
“L’Chaim,” Rachel echoes pleasantly.
Tyrell declines to attempt “L’Chaim” but is smiling when he says, “To your health.” Aaron? Nothing. He just takes a deep swallow from his goblet. But as the dishes are passed and plates filled, he begins to raise himself from his silence. A friendly barracuda.
“So what do you do, Mr. Williams?” Aaron is interested to learn.
“He’s a lawyer,” Naomi answers for him. “Just graduated from Columbia Law School.”
“Well.” Tyrell smiles in modest correction. “Actually I’m not a lawyer yet. Not yet,” he repeats. “I still have to pass the bar.”
“Oh, but you will pass it,” Naomi assures him. “I know you will. You’re brilliant. He’s brilliant,” she assures all.
“No,” Tyrell disagrees in a good-natured way, slicing his asparagus. “That is not true. Far from it.”
“It is true,” Naomi replies, then turns to Rachel with a confidential smile. “You should see him play chess.”
“Oh? You play chess?” Aaron asks, as if this might interest him, the man who’s played checkers his entire life.
“I play a bit of chess, sure,” Tyrell admits.
“He practically put himself through law school with it,” Naomi announces, and here’s the chicken tuck of Aaron’s chin jerk.
“You play for money?” he asks.
Tyrell must pick up on the ambivalence, because his answer is constrictive. “I’ve made a couple bucks,” he confesses. “But I’ve lost a couple too. More than a couple.” He smiles. “There are plenty of people whom I’ve played who are ten times better than me.”
“He means the Russians,” Naomi kibbitzes. “There’s a whole crowd of all these old farts from Leningrad or wherever over in Washington Square. But you’ve nearly beaten what’s-his-name,” she reminds him. “The grand master.”
“Yaakov,” Tyrell says and frowns lightly.
“Right. That’s him. Yaakov.” She pronounces the name as if it’s the name of a new Soviet secret weapon. The Yaakov Bomb.
“Really. A grand master.” Aaron grins with a touch of malice. “So how much did he take you for?”
“Nothing. Yaakov doesn’t play for money. And I’ve never ‘nearly’ beaten him.” Tyrell pokes his fork into the food on his plate. “Not by a long shot. I had him on the run for a minute or two maybe, but that was just luck.”
“Okay, if you insist,” Naomi surrenders. “But this from the man who doesn’t believe in luck.”
“I agree,” Rachel hears herself say. “I don’t believe in luck either, Mr. Williams.”
“True,” her husband confirms, chewing. “She doesn’t. You never hear her say, ‘good luck,’ my wife. Not even ‘break a leg.’” And then, “So,” he says, chewing. “Mr. Williams.” Swallows. “If you don’t mind me asking. How old are you?”
“He’s thirty,” Naomi answers.
“And who am I asking, you?” Aaron says to his sister. “I think if the man is thirty years old, he can speak for himself.”
“That’s right. I think I can,” Tyrell assures Naomi firmly. “I’m actually thirty-one,” he says and takes a bite of his chicken. “This is delicious, Naomi,” he tells her, eliciting a girly grin that might even qualify as starry-eyed.
But Aaron is still stuck on Tyrell’s age. “Thirty-one,” he says with a frown. “Isn’t that a little late, you know, for just graduating college?”
“Well, not really college. Law school, I think, is considered to be graduate studies,” Tyrell corrects mildly, thoughtfully. “But you’re right. It is late.” To this he nods in agreement. “I started late, you might say. I had an undergrad degree from City College—”
“On full scholarship,” Naomi interjects.
Tyrell simply smiles over the top of that fact. “In engineering,” he finishes. “Worked for a firm uptown for a while. But. I don’t know.” He scratches his head, frowning. “Swimming in electrical schematics and all, day after day? After a while, I was looking for a change. And then,” he says, “Uncle Sam decided I should spend twenty-four months in Korea with the Eighth Army, Second Infantry Division. It wasn’t till afterward that I went back to Columbia for law on the G.I. Bill.”
“He was in combat,” Naomi cuts in sharply, informing her brother with reverent relish. “Against the Red Chinese.” The words Red Chinese are spoken as if a more lethal opponent on earth cannot be imagined, though oddly her eyes are still smiling.
“Really?” says Aaron, eyes flat. A frown of stilted interest. “I didn’t realize that, ya’ know, everybody over there was actually fighting.”
A small, infinitesimal pause as Tyrell absorbs this remark before he answers. “Actually, you’re correct about that, Mr. Perlman,” he says. “I wasn’t sent there to fight. I was sent there as a pack mule. The army didn’t put Negro troops in the front lines,” he says. “Instead they had us in the rear, hauling supplies and digging latrines. Dug a lot of latrines, I can tell you that,” he recalls with only a tiny glimmer of polite bitterness.
“Aaron went to school on the G.I. Bill too,” Rachel hears herself announcing, but that’s all she can manage to say.
“Yeah, though not exactly for a real degree,” Naomi points out. “Not exactly at Columbia University.”
“No, well, that’s true,” Aaron agrees. An admission. “Not exactly that. Two semesters at N.Y.S. Applied Arts, Brooklyn.”
“So you were in the service too, Mr. Perlman,” Tyrell adds chivalrously, trying to keep things from disintegrating.
“The service? Yep,” Sergeant Perlman answers. “For the big one. Duration plus six. Though I was stationed stateside. In California.”
“A fortunate man,” Tyrell says plainly.
Naomi, however, scoffs. “Yeah. Keeping Culver City safe for democracy.”
“Naomi,” Rachel breathes.
“No, it’s okay.” Aaron raises his palm. “She’s right. I wasn’t exactly raising the flag on Iwo Jima.” And then he makes his confession. “I was in the Three-Ninety-Fourth Quartermaster Detachment, Mr. Williams. Technical services. I coordinated logistics with the U.S.O. Victory Circuit on the West Coast.”
“Sounds like fun to me,” Tyrell offers.
“More fun than hand-to-hand combat.” Naomi nods, scooping another helping of the mashed potatoes onto Tyrell’s plate. “Wouldn’t you agree, Aaron?”
“Oh yeah. Much more fun,” Aaron replies. “For me it was just hand-to-hand with the caterers,” he says with a sharp downturn of his lip. “But I’m confused. Maybe somebody can explain to me how hauling supplies in the rear and, well, digging out latrines qualifies as combat duty.”
“Aaron,” says Rachel. “There’s no reason to ask such personal questions.”
“No, it’s okay,” his sister insists firmly. “I’m proud of how Tyrell served his country.” Turning to Tyrell, she prompts him. “Tell him, Tyrell. Tell him about the Chongchon River.”
Tyrell frowns. “Naomi.”
“Please. He needs to know. How many times have you said that America’s forgotten about the war in Korea, like it never happened. We all need to know,” she says.
A breath. “Okay. If, uh, if that’s what you want.” Tyrell swallows some wine and scratches his head again, as if activating the memory. “The Second Infantry Division,” he says. “We’d, uh, we pushed the NKs… I mean, the North Koreans… We’d pushed them back. Past the Thirty-Ninth Parallel and all the way to the border with China on the Yalu River. So we thought, okay, we had ’em pretty well whipped. That’s what everybody believed, I guess. The brass even commenced what they called the ‘Home-by-Christmas’ offensive,” he tells them. Rachel can see the pain of this memory drifting across the man’s eyes. “But things don’t always go according to plan in the army. Do they, Mr. Perlman?”
“They do not,” Aaron must agree.
Tyrell takes a breath. “One night at the end of November… Well, it was a bit of a surprise, if I can put it that way, when a few hundred thousand Chinese regulars came screaming across the river with their bugles blowing. We were…” he starts to say and stops. Searching for the correct word perhaps as he shakes his head. “We were overwhelmed,” he says. “Half the division was simply—annihilated.” It’s the only word he can find to describe it. “Out of the forty-two men in our platoon, I was one of only six who made it out alive. The rest of them? I don’t know. Maybe they’re still there lying in those mountain fields. Nothing but bones by now, I suppose.”
A dead silence reigns over the room. It settles as if those bones have been scattered across the table.
“Helluva story,” Aaron admits quietly, staring into his wine before taking a frowning swallow. His face is flushed.
“Not a very happy story for the dinner table,” Tyrell tells Naomi, as if to say, I told you not to push me on it.
Naomi absorbs this and sucks in a breath. “I’m gonna open that second bottle of wine,” she announces.
The meal continues with the passing of side dishes and the refilling of glasses. But Rachel can see that her husband’s face has darkened. His color has settled into a flush of male embarrassment. He’s quit his interest in the food on his plate and pours more wine. “Mr. Williams,” he begins, even though his sister hasn’t finished talking about how she got her recipe for the chicken from The Joy of Cooking. “This old guy. ‘Yaakov’ you called him,” Aaron begins. He speaks the name into the air as if to consider it more clearly. “The great grand master or whatever. He’s a Jew?” Aaron wonders. “I mean, ‘Yaakov.’ It sounds like a Jew’s name, am I right?”
“I really don’t know, Mr. Perlman,” Tyrell answers, tending to his plate. “I’ve never asked him.”
