The Complete Stories

by Bernard Malamud

  “Who knows?” He got off the bus.

  She called him to the window. “Don’t worry about your work, and get more fresh air. Build up your body. Good health will help your writing.”

  His face showed nothing but he pitied her, her daughter, the world. Who not?

  “Character is what counts in the pinches, of course properly mixed with talent. When you saw me in the library and stayed I thought, There is a man of character.”

  “Good night,” Mitka said.

  “Good night, my dear. Write soon.”

  She sat back in her seat and the bus roared out of the depot. As it turned the corner she waved from the window.

  Mitka walked the other way. He was momentarily uneasy, until he realized he felt no pangs of hunger. On what he had eaten tonight he could live for a week. Mitka, the camel.

  Spring. It gripped and held him. Though he fought the intimacy he was the night’s prisoner as he moved toward Mrs. Lutz’s.

  He thought of the old girl. He’d go home now and drape her from head to foot in flowing white. They would jounce together up the stairs, then (strictly a one-marriage man) he would swing her across the threshold, holding her where the fat overflowed her corset as they waltzed around his writing chamber.

  1953

  The Magic Barrel

  Not long ago there lived in uptown New York, in a small, almost meager room, though crowded with books, Leo Finkle, a rabbinical student at the Yeshiva University. Finkle, after six years of study, was to be ordained in June and had been advised by an acquaintance that he might find it easier to win himself a congregation if he were married. Since he had no present prospects of marriage, after two tormented days of turning it over in his mind, he called in Pinye Salzman, a marriage broker whose two-line advertisement he had read in the Forward.

  The matchmaker appeared one night out of the dark fourth-floor hallway of the graystone rooming house where Finkle lived, grasping a black, strapped portfolio that had been worn thin with use. Salzman, who had been long in the business, was of slight but dignified build, wearing an old hat, and an overcoat too short and tight for him. He smelled frankly of fish, which he loved to eat, and although he was missing a few teeth, his presence was not displeasing, because of an amiable manner curiously contrasted with mournful eyes. His voice, his lips, his wisp of beard, his bony fingers were animated, but give him a moment of repose and his mild blue eyes revealed a depth of sadness, a characteristic that put Leo a little at ease although the situation, for him, was inherently tense.

  He at once informed Salzman why he had asked him to come, explaining that but for his parents, who had married comparatively late in life, he was alone in the world. He had for six years devoted himself almost entirely to his studies, as a result of which, understandably, he had found himself without time for social life and the company of young women. Therefore he thought it the better part of trial and error—of embarrassing fumbling—to call in an experienced person to advise him on these matters. He remarked in passing that the function of the marriage broker was ancient and honorable, highly approved in the Jewish community, because it made practical the necessary without hindering joy. Moreover, his own parents had been brought together by a matchmaker. They had made, if not a financially profitable marriage—since neither had possessed any worldly goods to speak of—at least a successful one in the sense of their everlasting devotion to each other. Salzman listened in embarrassed surprise, sensing a sort of apology. Later, however, he experienced a glow of pride in his work, an emotion that had left him years ago, and he heartily approved of Finkle.

  The two went to their business. Leo had led Salzman to the only clear place in the room, a table near a window that overlooked the lamp-lit city. He seated himself at the matchmaker’s side but facing him, attempting by an act of will to suppress the unpleasant tickle in his throat. Salzman eagerly unstrapped his portfolio and removed a loose rubber band from a thin packet of much-handled cards. As he flipped through them, a gesture and sound that physically hurt Leo, the student pretended not to see and gazed steadfastly out the window. Although it was still February, winter was on its last legs, signs of which he had for the first time in years begun to notice. He now observed the round white moon, moving high in the sky through a cloud menagerie, and watched with half-open mouth as it penetrated a huge hen, and dropped out of her like an egg laying itself. Salzman, though pretending through eyeglasses he had just slipped on to be engaged in scanning the writing on the cards, stole occasional glances at the young man’s distinguished face, noting with pleasure the long, severe scholar’s nose, brown eyes heavy with learning, sensitive yet ascetic lips, and a certain almost hollow quality of the dark cheeks. He gazed around at shelves upon shelves of books and let out a soft, contented sigh.

  When Leo’s eyes fell upon the cards, he counted six spread out in Salzman’s hand.

  “So few?” he asked in disappointment.

  “You wouldn’t believe me how much cards I got in my office,” Salzman replied. “The drawers are already filled to the top, so I keep them now in a barrel, but is every girl good for a new rabbi?”

  Leo blushed at this, regretting all he had revealed of himself in a curriculum vitae he had sent to Salzman. He had thought it best to acquaint him with his strict standards and specifications but, in having done so, felt he had told the marriage broker more than was absolutely necessary.

  He hesitantly inquired, “Do you keep photographs of your clients on file?”

  “First comes family, amount of dowry, also what kind promises,” Salzman replied, unbuttoning his tight coat and settling himself in the chair. “After comes pictures, rabbi.”

  “Call me Mr. Finkle. I’m not yet a rabbi.”

  Salzman said he would, but instead called him doctor, which he changed to rabbi when Leo was not listening too attentively.

  Salzman adjusted his horn-rimmed spectacles, gently cleared his throat, and read in an eager voice the contents of the top card:

  “Sophie P. Twenty-four years. Widow one year. No children. Educated high school and two years college. Father promises eight thousand dollars. Has wonderful wholesale business. Also real estate. On the mother’s side comes teachers, also one actor. Well known on Second Avenue.”

  Leo gazed up in surprise. “Did you say a widow?”

  “A widow don’t mean spoiled, rabbi. She lived with her husband maybe four months. He was a sick boy she made a mistake to marry him.”

  “Marrying a widow has never entered my mind.”

  “This is because you have no experience. A widow, especially if she is young and healthy like this girl, is a wonderful person to marry. She will be thankful to you the rest of her life. Believe me, if I was looking now for a bride, I would marry a widow.”

  Leo reflected, then shook his head.

  Salzman hunched his shoulders in an almost imperceptible gesture of disappointment. He placed the card down on the wooden table and began to read another:

  “Lily H. High school teacher. Regular. Not a substitute. Has savings and new Dodge car. Lived in Paris one year. Father is successful dentist thirty-five years. Interested in professional man. Well-Americanized family. Wonderful opportunity.

  “I know her personally,” said Salzman. “I wish you could see this girl. She is a doll. Also very intelligent. All day you could talk to her about books and theayter and whatnot. She also knows current events.”

  “I don’t believe you mentioned her age?”

  “Her age?” Salzman said, raising his brows. “Her age is thirty-two years.”

  Leo said after a while, “I’m afraid that seems a little too old.”

  Salzman let out a laugh. “So how old are you, rabbi?”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  “So what is the difference, tell me, between twenty-seven and thirty-two? My own wife is seven years older than me. So what did I suffer?—Nothing. If Rothschild’s a daughter wants to marry you, would you say on account her age, no?”

&
nbsp; “Yes,” Leo said dryly.

  Salzman shook off the no in the yes. “Five years don’t mean a thing. I give you my word that when you will live with her for one week you will forget her age. What does it mean five years—that she lived more and knows more than somebody who is younger? On this girl, God bless her, years are not wasted. Each one that it comes makes better the bargain.”

  “What subject does she teach in high school?”

  “Languages. If you heard the way she speaks French, you will think it is music. I am in the business twenty-five years, and I recommend her with my whole heart. Believe me, I know what I’m talking, rabbi.”

  “What’s on the next card?” Leo said abruptly.

  Salzman reluctantly turned up the third card:

  “Ruth K. Nineteen years. Honor student. Father offers thirteen thousand cash to the right bridegroom. He is a medical doctor. Stomach specialist with marvelous practice. Brother-in-law owns own garment business. Particular people.”

  Salzman looked as if he had read his trump card.

  “Did you say nineteen?” Leo asked with interest.

  “On the dot.”

  “Is she attractive?” He blushed. “Pretty?”

  Salzman kissed his fingertips. “A little doll. On this I give you my word. Let me call the father tonight and you will see what means pretty.”

  But Leo was troubled. “You’re sure she’s that young?”

  “This I am positive. The father will show you the birth certificate.”

  “Are you positive there isn’t something wrong with her?” Leo insisted.

  “Who says there is wrong?”

  “I don’t understand why an American girl her age should go to a marriage broker.”

  A smile spread over Salzman’s face.

  “So for the same reason you went, she comes.”

  Leo flushed. “I am pressed for time.”

  Salzman, realizing he had been tactless, quickly explained. “The father came, not her. He wants she should have the best, so he looks around himself. When we will locate the right boy he will introduce him and encourage. This makes a better marriage than if a young girl without experience takes for herself. I don’t have to tell you this.”

  “But don’t you think this young girl believes in love?” Leo spoke uneasily.

  Salzman was about to guffaw but caught himself and said soberly, “Love comes with the right person, not before.”

  Leo parted dry lips but did not speak. Noticing that Salzman had snatched a glance at the next card, he cleverly asked, “How is her health?”

  “Perfect,” Salzman said, breathing with difficulty. “Of course, she is a little lame on her right foot from an auto accident that it happened to her when she was twelve years, but nobody notices on account she is so brilliant and also beautiful.”

  Leo got up heavily and went to the window. He felt curiously bitter and upbraided himself for having called in the marriage broker. Finally, he shook his head.

  “Why not?” Salzman persisted, the pitch of his voice rising.

  “Because I detest stomach specialists.”

  “So what do you care what is his business? After you marry her do you need him? Who says he must come every Friday night in your house?”

  Ashamed of the way the talk was going, Leo dismissed Salzman, who went home with heavy, melancholy eyes.

  Though he had felt only relief at the marriage broker’s departure, Leo was in low spirits the next day. He explained it as arising from Salzman’s failure to produce a suitable bride for him. He did not care for his type of clientele. But when Leo found himself hesitating whether to seek out another matchmaker, one more polished than Pinye, he wondered if it could be—his protestations to the contrary, and although he honored his father and mother—that he did not, in essence, care for the matchmaking institution? This thought he quickly put out of mind yet found himself still upset. All day he ran around in the woods—missed an important appointment, forgot to give out his laundry, walked out of a Broadway cafeteria without paying and had to run back with the ticket in his hand; had even not recognized his landlady in the street when she passed with a friend and courteously called out, “A good evening to you, Dr. Finkle.” By nightfall, however, he had regained sufficient calm to sink his nose into a book and there found peace from his thoughts.

  Almost at once there came a knock on the door. Before Leo could say enter, Salzman, commercial Cupid, was standing in the room. His face was gray and meager, his expression hungry, and he looked as if he would expire on his feet. Yet the marriage broker managed, by some trick of the muscles, to display a broad smile.

  “So good evening. I am invited?”

  Leo nodded, disturbed to see him again, yet unwilling to ask the man to leave.

  Beaming still, Salzman laid his portfolio on the table. “Rabbi, I got for you tonight good news.”

  “I’ve asked you not to call me rabbi. I’m still a student.”

  “Your worries are finished. I have for you a first-class bride.”

  “Leave me in peace concerning this subject.” Leo pretended lack of interest.

  “The world will dance at your wedding.”

  “Please, Mr. Salzman, no more.”

  “But first must come back my strength,” Salzman said weakly. He fumbled with the portfolio straps and took out of the leather case an oily paper bag, from which he extracted a hard, seeded roll and a small smoked whitefish. With a quick motion of his hand he stripped the fish out of its skin and began ravenously to chew. “All day in a rush,” he muttered.

  Leo watched him eat.

  “A sliced tomato you have maybe?” Salzman hesitantly inquired.

  “No.”

  The marriage broker shut his eyes and ate. When he had finished he carefully cleaned up the crumbs and rolled up the remains of the fish, in the paper bag. His spectacled eyes roamed the room until he discovered, amid some piles of books, a one-burner gas stove. Lifting his hat he humbly asked, “A glass tea you got, rabbi?”

  Conscience-stricken, Leo rose and brewed the tea. He served it with a chunk of lemon and two cubes of lump sugar, delighting Salzman.

  After he had drunk his tea, Salzman’s strength and good spirits were restored.

  “So tell me, rabbi,” he said amiably, “you considered some more the three clients I mentioned yesterday?”

  “There was no need to consider.”

  “Why not?”

  “None of them suits me.”

  “What then suits you?”

  Leo let it pass because he could give only a confused answer.

  Without waiting for a reply, Salzman asked, “You remember this girl I talked to you—the high school teacher?”

  “Age thirty-two?”

  But, surprisingly, Salzman’s face lit in a smile. “Age twenty-nine.”

  Leo shot him a look. “Reduced from thirty-two?”

  “A mistake,” Salzman avowed. “I talked today with the dentist. He took me to his safety deposit box and showed me the birth certificate. She was twenty-nine years last August. They made her a party in the mountains where she went for her vacation. When her father spoke to me the first time I forgot to write the age and I told you thirty-two, but now I remember this was a different client, a widow.”

  “The same one you told me about, I thought she was twenty-four?”

  “A different. Am I responsible that the world is filled with widows?”

  “No, but I’m not interested in them, nor, for that matter, in schoolteachers.”

  Salzman pulled his clasped hands to his breast. Looking at the ceiling he devoutly exclaimed, “Yiddishe kinder, what can I say to somebody that he is not interested in high school teachers? So what then you are interested?”

  Leo flushed but controlled himself.

  “In what else will you be interested,” Salzman went on, “if you not interested in this fine girl that she speaks four languages and has personally in the bank ten thousand dollars? Also her father gu
arantees further twelve thousand. Also she has a new car, wonderful clothes, talks on all subjects, and she will give you a first-class home and children. How near do we come in our life to paradise?”

  “If she’s so wonderful, why wasn’t she married ten years ago?”

  “Why?” said Salzman with a heavy laugh. “—Why? Because she is partikiler. This is why. She wants the best.”

  Leo was silent, amused at how he had entangled himself. But Salzman had aroused his interest in Lily H., and he began seriously to consider calling on her. When the marriage broker observed how intently Leo’s mind was at work on the facts he had supplied, he felt certain they would soon come to an agreement.

  Late Saturday afternoon, conscious of Salzman, Leo Finkle walked with Lily Hirschorn along Riverside Drive. He walked briskly and erectly, wearing with distinction the black fedora he had that morning taken with trepidation out of the dusty hat box on his closet shelf, and the heavy black Saturday coat he had thoroughly whisked clean. Leo also owned a walking stick, a present from a distant relative, but quickly put temptation aside and did not use it. Lily, petite and not unpretty, had on something signifying the approach of spring. She was au courant, animatedly, with all sorts of subjects, and he weighed her words and found her surprisingly sound—score another for Salzman, whom he uneasily sensed to be somewhere around, hiding perhaps high in a tree along the street, flashing the lady signals with a pocket mirror; or perhaps a cloven-hoofed Pan, piping nuptial ditties as he danced his invisible way before them, strewing wild buds on the walk and purple grapes in their path, symbolizing fruit of a union, though there was of course still none.

  Lily startled Leo by remarking, “I was thinking of Mr. Salzman, a curious figure, wouldn’t you say?”

  Not certain what to answer, he nodded.

  She bravely went on, blushing, “I for one am grateful for his introducing us. Aren’t you?”

  He courteously replied, “I am.”

  “I mean,” she said with a little laugh—and it was all in good taste, or at least gave the effect of being not in bad—“do you mind that we came together so?”