An Ermine in Czernopol

by Gregor von Rezzori

  “Interesting,” said Wolf von Merores. “Anything else?”

  “He wants to speak to your papa. I told him he should wait until you came. Other than that, nothing unusual.”

  “Mail?”

  “A few letters. I’ve set out everything that requires signing.”

  “Thank you, Seligmann,” said Baronet Wolf. “I’m going back for a few minutes to wish Mama good morning. Then you can let Brill in to see me.”

  He set off into the dark labyrinth of the rear wing. Stopping outside one of the doors, he gave a careful knock, and when he heard someone invite him in, he swept open the door and bounded lithely to his mother and, as he was well bred, kissed her hand. The old lady in her peignoir was in the process of shaping her Eton crop with a curling iron. A few experiments with bleaching agents had given her hair a somewhat violet tinge.

  “You are incorrigible, Mama,” said Wolf, patting her on the hand. “How often do I have to repeat how happy I am that we can afford a hairdresser, thank God.”

  “Why should I give good money to that Figaro when I can do the same thing myself? Or is it maybe for making an impression on people? I’m telling you, I don’t give a damn what people say. I’ll do my hair the way I want and that’s that.”

  “It’s not on account of the people, Mama, please. Only, you’ll burn the tips of your pretty hair. And the money you save on that you spend anyway on sweets you shouldn’t be eating . So it’s really on account of your liver. Emancipation is fine and good, but one has to consider one’s health.” He smiled and kissed the tips of her fingers. “Papa is doing well?” he asked.

  “From what I hear he is.”

  “Now, there’s a striking example of tender marital affection, by God, Mama,” laughed Baronet Wolf. “That really makes me want to attend to your wishes.”

  “Stop it, you rascal. Papa is happy when I leave him alone, assuming that he’d even recognize me if I went in there. My behavior is only out of consideration, you impudent rascal. Actually, you should take it as an example not to marry too old. Look, you’re almost forty. If you keep waiting another few years you shouldn’t be surprised if you wind up with a young wife when you’re seventy-five.”

  “Can we change the subject, Mama,” said Baronet Wolf with cheerful tenderness. “You know there’s no sense in trying to convince me. You know what my heart says.”

  “Nebekh,” replied the old lady. “You make me sick with your sentimentalities, by God. Take my advice and put it out of your head. And you better be on time for dinner tonight. The Fokschaners are coming.”

  “With daughter, I presume?”

  “Don’t be difficult. She has twenty million—at least.”

  “If you need a new fur, Mama, all you have to do is tell me. You don’t have to work so hard to earn it, Frau Marthe Schwerdtlein!”

  Mama Memores playfully threatened to whack him with the hot curling iron, and Wolf once again laughed and kissed her rings.

  “Don’t be late, you cheeky thing!” she called after him as he hurried off.

  In the hallway he paused in front of a dark mirror and carefully brushed his hair, then stepped into the study, where Usher Brill was waiting, visibly impatient.

  “Please excuse my tardiness, Herr Brill,” said Wolf von Merores kindly. “We weren’t expecting you. May I offer you some cognac? My sympathies concerning the incidents last night, by the way. They should really take more energetic action. Kavalla cigar?”

  Usher Brill observed him thoughtfully. “A fine yingl you’ve turned out, Leibish,” he said. “Manners like a count.” He rocked his pale reddish head. “That’s an unusual development with young people these days. But don’t go to any trouble on my account. I’d like to speak with Hirsh Merores.”

  “I’m sorry, Herr Brill,” said Wolf. “You know that Papa hasn’t been receiving anyone for years.”

  “And what is that? Too fine for everybody?” asked Brill. “Or does he have gout?”

  “Papa has completely withdrawn from the world—it’s been some time now, Herr Brill. Please take the feelings of an old man into consideration. He is given almost exclusively to pious thoughts.”

  “That’s quite a trick, with his career,” said Usher Brill.

  “We don’t hide the fact that thanks to my aged father’s business acumen we have attained a certain wealth and standing,” said Wolf with dignity. “So it’s all the more praiseworthy if my old papa, following the faith of our fathers, expresses thanks for the blessings that have been bestowed upon us in such abundance. I assume that in an analogous case you, Herr Brill, would expect your son to exhibit the same respect for your feelings as I feel for my father’s. He’s a friend of mine, by the way. A very sympathetic young man.”

  “I can imagine you’d like that lout,” said Brill, bitterly. “My whole life I’ve dreamt of having competitors that easy.”

  “I wouldn’t know in what branch we might compete, Herr Brill,” answered Wolf, not without a tinge of irony.

  “Jews are always competitors, by God,” Brill sighed heavily.

  “Nobody is tougher than your own people. And toughest of all are your own children.”

  “How may I be of service?” asked Wolf von Merores, slightly irritated but controlled.

  “I want to speak with Hirsh Leib, not with you, you jackass. It’s information I need. This isn’t a matter for little boys still wet behind the ears.”

  “As I said, I’m very sorry,” stated Wolf patiently. “Papa isn’t receiving. Incidentally, I’ve been familiar with the running of all the businesses for years now. Of course I don’t have the experience of my revered father. Nonetheless, I am in a position to offer information that is at least more up to date. What is it about, Herr Brill?”

  Brill looked long and thoughtfully at young Merores, who withstood his gaze casually and calmly, with just a hint of old, knowing melancholy in his almond-shaped eyes.

  “I don’t need any stock tips,” Brill said at last. “I need some information, yingl, you understand! For tips and other shmontses I’m smart enough myself. But confidential information is a matter for old people. I want to speak with Hirsh Leib.”

  Wolf von Merores continued responding with his eyes full of old melancholy, while Brill went on: “Back then, when I was so young as you, we listened to the old people. We worked hand in hand and not against each other. The sons, they still learned from the experiences of their tatehs. From the old people they took the experience and put it into practice. These days the young people are quicker and brighter and more up to date than what their parents were, they’re already like that while they still go caca in their nightshirt. So the old folks can just sit in their room and daven. These days they aren’t worth anything anymore. The businesses are bigger and faster and everything is efficient. But for something solid, I, Usher Brill, still turn to the old people.”

  Wolf von Merores got up. “Be so kind as to wait a minute, Herr Brill,” he said, before stepping out. “I’ll be right back.”

  After a short while he came back. “Please come with me,” he said.

  They went through the dark corridor to the rearmost wing of the house. Wolf stopped outside a door and listened, his hand on the handle, for the length of a few breaths, and then carefully opened the door. “Please step inside,” he whispered into Brill’s ear.

  Usher Brill entered a room that was almost completely dark and crammed full with the most diverse pieces of furniture. The air was stuffy. Hirsh Leib Baronet von Merores was sitting at the end of a long table, blind, a tefillin box strapped to his forehead and a fringed tallis draped over his shoulders.

  Brill couldn’t help but be gentle as he approached the old man, while Wolf carefully shut the door and stood there, waiting. Hirsh Merores mumbled a quiet singsong to himself, and after the two had waited for a while in vain for the blind man to notice them, Wolf finally went up to him, placed his hand gently on the old man’s shoulder, and said: “Papa, Usher Brill wants to speak to you.”


  The blind man felt for the teffilin on his forehead and took it off. “Brill?” he asked, with a high-pitched, old-man’s voice. “Where is Usher Brill. I’m listening!”

  “Zayt mir gezint, Hirsh Leib Merores!” said Brill. “It’s been so many years since we’ve seen each other.”

  “Brill?” the old man piped. “Where is Brill? I’m listening!”

  “Here I am, Hirsh Merores, here!” said Brill, with urgency. “Here I am, standing in front of you, after many long years, to be asking a question, one old man to another …”

  “Brill!” repeated old Merores, listening to the sound of the name. “Where is Usher Brill?”

  “Nu, where is he supposed to be if he’s talking to you right here!” said Brill, already a little impatient. He looked to Wolf Merores for help, but found only the same old melancholy in the younger man’s eyes.

  “Here I am, Hirsh Merores,” he cried as loud as he could, “right here in front of you!”

  Wolf von Merores placed a calming hand on his arm. “Please restrain yourself, Herr Brill. Papa is blind but not deaf.”

  “Brill!” said old Merores, fading away. He began to sing quietly.

  Usher Brill looked to Wolf Merores.

  “Come on,” said Wolf. “Let’s leave the old man alone.”

  He placed the tefillin straps in his father’s hand. “I’ll just turn on a little more light, Papa,” he said tenderly, then shoved the table lamp a little nearer and switched it on—a senseless waste of electricity, Brill thought to himself, but which seemed to calm the blind man.

  “Light,” he mumbled. “Yes, light.”

  “What?” asked Brill, half out loud. “Is he completely …” He placed his index finger on his forehead and twisted it, as if boring inside.

  Wolf signaled to Brill to walk out with him.

  “God is just!” said Brill. “And not a day more than seventy years old …”

  At the door he turned back one more time. Did he notice the beauty of the picture before him? The lamp with its dome-shaped shade of green silk. A flood of greenish gold, set upon by the heavy umber tones of the surrounding darkness, had taken refuge in the face of the old man, who had turned toward the light, his head angled upward as if blindly sniffing out a path, the one thing he could see, the mildly painful labor of a long search for God that is never fulfilled. His prayer shawl was draped over his shoulders, white with narrow black stripes, with folds and wrinkles that called to mind Oriental grandeur and opulence, and the curls of his white beard shone with a silken splendor.

  “Usher Brill!” he said, his voice sounding like a child’s, in a register from his head, and began to giggle. “The bokher!”

  In the dark passageway Brill grabbed the young man by the sleeve. “As I live, I didn’t know a thing about this,” he said. “Just a few years back he was still a lively man …”

  “It really is very painful,” said Wolf. “I can remember the last time I went riding with Papa for a vigorous gallop across the fields of Klokuczka …”

  “Riding!” said Usher Brill, mockingly. “On the office stool, I bet!” He pulled Wolf close to him. “Now you tell me: What’s with old Paşcanu? Is he bankrupt or not?”

  The eyes in front of him contained nothing but the same old melancholy. Brill was breathing heavily, almost panting.

  “You are known and respected in the marketplace as a careful businessman, Herr Brill,” said Wolf von Merores after a while. “Very cautious, impressively so. You may have heard of certain government business deals. You will also have heard of some payment difficulties involving the daughter, Frau von Tildy—most unfortunate. You should not expect any personal information from me about the individual in question. After all, if I am not mistaken you know him much better than I do. In short, Herr Brill: What is it precisely that you want me to tell you?”

  “Old Paşcanu is a wolf,” Brill gurgled. “A wolf is a dangerous animal.” Young Merores couldn’t help chuckling. “When it comes winter, and the wolf, he sees there’s nothing more to eat, he turns into a tiger.”

  Wolfi Merores now smiled openly and full of kindness. “With this transformative illustration you’re saying that under certain circumstances Herr Paşcanu is capable of anything … Well, Herr Brill,” he shrugged his shoulders high, “I wouldn’t deny the truth of that. The daring feat, Herr Brill, the measured risk—forgive me, but in our profession, among businessmen, that seems to be the Attic salt, and one of the reasons, just en passant, why I have not already retired to the country. Perhaps a man of your age—forgive me, but you do belong to the younger members of my papa’s generation—perhaps a man of your age, in this time of tempestuous progress, which also has great impact on the financial world, really ought to leave the reins to the younger generation in order not to be overly taxed by the complexities of technical and scientific developments and so on.”

  “What do you mean, tax?” asked Brill. “What does any of this have to do with taxes, you nebbokhant?”

  “‘Taxed’ in the sense of burdened, not in the sense of levies and tariffs. What I meant to say was that you shouldn’t have to deal with the burdens of all the new technologies, that it might be better to hand the reins over …”

  “You want maybe for me to hand the reins to you snotfaces!” Father Brill roared. “You little scamps? I’d sooner have a stroke right here and now …”

  “That will inevitably happen soon enough if you keep getting so excited,” said Wolf von Merores, in complete command of the situation. “You will permit me to have my secretary see you out, my time is sadly limited. Pleasure to see you, Herr Brill.”

  Herr von Merores himself regaled the members of the Lawn Tennis Club with the story of this visit, much to their amusement, and word soon spread across the entire city. What Herr von Merores did not relate, but what his secretary, young Seligmann, did convey a little later, was that Baronet Wolfi himself had been very distracted while looking over the mail that Seligmann had brought him in a special pouch made of calf’s leather—the Merores were proud of having remained true to the religion of their fathers and of being one of few noble families of Israelite origin in the former Imperial-Royal Monarchy, and so they also kept their leather goods kosher. At that point Wolfi had once more gone to visit his mother. Seligmann, whose secretarial duties included obtaining a signature for any document that required immediate attention, had risked the danger of provoking his employer’s displeasure and followed him. There he had overheard the old lady say the following:

  “I’m telling you, the whole thing is a shameless rumor that old rogue Paşcanu leaked out so that people would think he still has some kind of deal with the government, so that under cover of that rumor he can make some lousy proposals. Why is old Brill interested in him? It’s not for any contracts with the army—please, not with the goods he carries! I can tell you what he’s after, and it’s the same thing young Brill is after, too, namely some kind of measly commission and that’s all. If I’m not mistaken, he’ll want to sell the leftover jewelry he has lying around, otherwise why would he need Perko? By the way, you could give him a nod so he would show you first—there might be something for me there. Of course only the really clear stones … Go ahead and fix him up with young Brill, so he can be a shlattenshammes for old Paşcanu just like his tateh. Something like that isn’t to be mentioned in the same breath with the likes of us, that’s child’s play. Don’t rack your brains about the other business—I’m telling you, the delegation from the army has to do with Tildy, that meshuggener, according to what Constantin Tarangolian whispered to me yesterday in confidence. Evidently, Petrescu wants to conduct a purge so to make all the officers swear allegiance to the nationalist program. But under no circumstances will Constantin allow that; he says Petrescu can twist and turn as much as he wants as far as he’s concerned, he can clean up the cavalry like the Augean stables and purge people like Turturiuk, but he can’t start anything like that, or the prefect will undermine him. So you don’t
need to let yourself get mixed up in what young Brill says or break your skull over why the old man suddenly wanted to see Papa, not when I have information straight from the horse’s mouth. Because what could those two possibly have with old Paşcanu? Listen to me. Especially seeing as Perko is getting mixed up as well. If they start talking about building border fortifications, then I’ll let you know in time to send out feelers to the right people. All that’s going on now is that the nationalists want Petrescu as minister of war so they can get their clutches on the army. That’s why the whole business with Tildy is good for them, yes, but also not good for them, because it’s still too early. That’s why Constantin says he’s dead set against the whole business—because where is he going to wind up if a scandal happens here, with more minorities than natives? He’ll do what he can to see that Petrescu chokes on the whole business, and that they make the man disappear, so our prefect can go on working here in dulcie jubilo without their pestering him with things like that. So go ahead and let the Brills gather the crumbs from under old Paşcanu’s table: by our standards it can only be a bagatelle of no import whatsoever, and it’s more than likely that all anyone is going to wind up with is a crick in the neck from that old ganef of a sheepherder. With such a punim as he wears day in and day out, and nothing but debts front and back, I’m sure he can run around a long time playing the army supplier. Papa always said that the man was quick to grab the best bits of whatever deals they made together, but one day even he will have gone to the well once too often, especially if he’s already starting to dump his load of jewels on the market. So don’t work yourself up into a lather over that. Just make sure you’re on time for dinner with Lily Fokschaner, you jail-breaker, you.”

  Against his usual custom, Seligmann, who had chanced to overhear the entire speech when he stood at the door (his knocking had gone unnoticed), felt obliged to share this information with Bubi Brill, who had been his friend since childhood. He was, furthermore, attached to Bubi’s sister, Riffke; in fact, the two of them were discussing certain common intentions. Bubi listened carefully to what the secretary told him, and then answered: “That is outstanding! So my old man was so scared he wouldn’t touch that deal with a ten-foot pole, you should have seen him running around the house and biting his fingernails because he was so scared it hurt. But what’s the risk if old Paşcanu wants some security for the stone he’s entrusting, that’s understandable. I’ll just sign over a few drafts in his name. And if he’s under pressure, so much the better: then I can talk to him about all the expenses, and so on. That the whole thing is just a maneuver on his part was clear to me from the beginning, the moment I heard about this business from Mama. Wolfi Merores isn’t the only Jew with a mother. What do I care how he’s going to pay for the other stone? I’ll be setting the whole thing in motion here once and for all. I’ll take a commission from the gentlemen in Amsterdam, that’s enough for me, I don’t need one from him as well. And if he does shell out—look, he’s capable of anything, what with the connections he still has, just between you and me—well, all the better. Then he’ll pay me as well, you’ll see. And Perko, I hear, is one interesting character, yes?