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ABA AWOKE FROM A DEEP, DREAMLESS SLEEP, SNIFFING THE SEASIDE odor of female sex fluids. He extended his left arm and squeezed gently the nude woman’s warm, ice-smooth breast, popping the nipple between his middle and index fingers. She hissed like an angry cat.
The woman was a creator of sounds. Sometimes the sound was an imitation, identifiable. More often her mysterious vocal cords whispered echoes of the familiar, pleasing the ear but teasing the brain, like an elusive word. He named them: Love Song of a Dinosaur, God’s Sigh, Thunder Squelched. Each challenged him to a poem. He failed, piling up cosmic litter, dumping garbage on the moon.
He turned his head and lightly kissed her shoulder. Even in this sunless room, her brown flesh shone. He finger-walked through her coarse pubic hair. She yawned, slowly diminishing the sound, like the fading notes of Taps. It was a familiar message. She did not wish to make love. Last night’s pleasure was still in her.
Stolz had tried to convert her to his way: however intense the pleasure, it can be exceeded. She answered with the humming sound of her own orgasm. Pressed for more precise explanation, she said:
“When I had enough, I had enough. Ain’t no sense in lookin’ fo’ mo’ than enough.”
He named the sound: The Fo’ Mo’ Than Enough Blues.
She curled into a fetal position, firming her buttocks into beckoning mounds. His palm read their contours. His brain, however, stunned him by recalling a newspaper account of a first-century city unearthed outside of Tel Aviv. Quick realization that Tel in Hebrew meant hill or mound made suspect his claim of being a pure sensualist.
The Marquis de Sade you are not, he conceded, followed by a mental picture of Nietzsche as a lion tamer, instructing: When you go to woman, do not forget the whip, which segued into: Is it perfume from her ass, that makes me so digrass?” The literary free association stiffened him. He thanked his friends for their labor of love, but asked: What now? They were silent. He smirked in superiority and quoth himself: I am a memory come alive, the title of a poem in which memory is an ever-replenishing corporeal organ of pleasure.
The woman’s fame had embarrassed him. When he had called the day following their first meeting, he had apologized for his ignorance. She had answered:
“That’s the good part, honey. Ain’t many dudes don’t want Leslie Jones. But you put eyes on Hannah Brown.”
Over the next two weeks, seated at a table three feet from Leslie and Willie, he had watched them make love as the notes of his tenor saxophone penetrated her welcoming wet voice. After each performance, Willie claimed her. Finally, Willie took an out-of-town booking.
On a Sunday morning in early fall, he had walked from the subway stop to 143rd Street and Lenox Avenue. Negro men and boys in dark suits, ties and felt hats and women and girls in colorful dresses and hats, jabbering happy sounds, left their churches, locked hands and strutted in celebration of their own beauty. They were not threatening, but he could not suppress memories of isolated nakedness in Polish streets. His breath came hard. He walked sideways, trying to diminish his visibility, trailing his fingernails along the buildings like a blind man.
Wearing only a white slip, she framed herself in the doorway, her chocolate flesh an opaque feast. She encircled his waist and pulled him inside. They kissed. He closed his eyes, inhaled her scent and imagined her tongue fed him camellia petals.
He cleared his throat to speak. She placed her index finger on his lips. She led him to the bedroom and stood rigid before him. He bent down, pulled the slip over her head, kissed it and threw it on the floor.
He undressed. She pulled him onto a lumpy bed. She lay on her back, eyes closed. His hands smoothed and clutched her heat. She did not touch him, or move until she pulled up her knees and spread her legs. He mounted and penetrated.
Suddenly, the inert body bumped and ground like a burlesque queen in her final turn. Camellia scent carried by a continual wheeeee broke against his face. The savage surprise pulled from him a long orgasm, drained of pleasure by his panic to retard it. Desperately he returned vicious thrusts, pleading for her satisfaction before he lost his erection. Five minutes later, when she announced her orgasm with a low, deep hum and bumps that nearly lifted them off the bed, he also flowed. He collapsed off her, thinking of Gide’s boast of having had fourteen Arab boys in one night.
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you,” she answered, “but let’s not get too personal.”
He became one of her lovers. She never deceived him about that. There was Willie and perhaps others, whether long or short term he did not know. When he asked, the reply was a blues lyric sung over laughing lips: “She’s yours, she’s mine, she’s somebody else’s too.”
As a teenager, she had been a prostitute, or close to it. Men had given her money. She insisted that payment was not the object. She needed to be in their arms. He stopped asking about other men.
At her performances, he was awed by her ability to layer words with sounds of sadness or joy independent of their banal meaning, creating an emotional Esperanto. She was, he concluded, in a trancelike state of ecstasy which stunned her parishioners.
She took him to after-hours clubs in Harlem that opened at four AM, the mandatory closing hour for establishments that sold liquor, where famous Negro and white musicians played jazz and celebrities danced or listened. There, he had secured Joe Louis’s autograph for Harry, watched the British heiress Nancy Cunard dance with her hand on her black partner’s penis, talked briefly with an intelligent but insane actor who wanted to put on an all-Negro cast production of Macbeth, and was asked by Tallulah Bankhead: Do you still enjoy fucking?
He smoked marijuana with Leslie, but refused heroin. Pointing to her collapsed veins, he told her she was killing herself. She shrugged:
“It make me happy.”
“But I love you. I want to help you.”
“Don’t need no help. Didn’t ask.”
The only other irritation between them was the secret of her voice. His intellect would not allow such art to go unexplained or be explained as a dumb vessel carrying a treasure.
“When you sing, what do you feel?”
“I feel.”
“When you sing about a lynching, do you see a corpse on fire?”
“I’d puke.”
“What do you see?”
“I can’t see nothing. The spotlight blinds me.”
“You know people commit suicide after hearing Gloomy Sunday.”
“So.”
“You do that to them. Do you realize your power?”
“I don’t mean to make them do that. But the song does remind me of a funeral in a way.”
“Aha, you see a hearse.”
“Aba, I don’t see no fucking hearse. I had it. Now cut this crap or get lost. I sing what’s in my heart and that ain’t the same two nights in a row or two songs in a row.”
Eventually, he admitted that his supposed comfort at sharing her was a lie. I must, he concluded, marry her, immediately laughing at his Jewish cure for infidelity. He imagined the dialogue:
“Leslie, now that we’ve been married by a rabbi, you can’t have any other men.”
“You Jews have heavy laws.”
“Yes.”
“I guess I’ll pass on bein’ Jewish.”
The words She’s yours she’s mine, she’s somebody else’s too gave him no rest. Once they sprang whole and audible into his reading of a Yiddish poem. Afterward, his host, a manufacturer of corsets, congratulated him on mixing in a touch of English. Aba was, he said, in step with the American product of the future.
Desperate for exclusivity, he suggested they have a child. She laughed, then suddenly began to cry.
In her teens she had contracted gonorrhea. A local Negro doctor in Baltimore said he could cure her for fifty dollars. He had performed a hysterectomy.
“I wish that doctor was still alive so’s I could kill him.”
She had sobbed like a child. He had
cradled her in his arms and whispered to her the soothing words of assurance that there was nothing to worry about, with which his mother had calmed him:
“Zorg zuch nischt.”
The Yiddish escaped his lips, chasing away the reverie and presenting a nagging present. He looked at his watch: five after nine. At ten he was due in Sea Gate for a reading. He jumped out of bed, noting mournfully his creased, crumpled clothes.
On the subway he spit on his palms and smoothed his clothes. Correct dress, he thought. They expect a bum. Who else would come begging so early in the morning—and late yet?
Running from the Norton’s Point terminus toward Sea Gate, he saw a familiar back moving unsteadily, as if hurt.
“Moishe,” he yelled.
Catzker turned. He extended his arms to Stolz, keening:
“Oy, oy, oy.”
Stolz embraced him.
“What Moishe, what?”
“Oy, oy, oy.”
“Moishe, who died!”
“No one, Aba.”
“Then what?
Catzker told of Harry’s message from Menter.
“No! No, Moishe! With Heshele’s life he does not play.”
“But how?”
“The police.”
“Yes, let us go.”
“Just me, Moishe.”
“Why?”
“Think of it dramatically: one murderer turns in another. It satisfies the audience’s deep yearning for retribution.”
“You are not a murderer, Aba. Stop talking nonsense.”
“Ah, but I am, Moishe. It can’t be expunged. Even self-defense is no defense against dreams that come in the night. And besides, if something goes wrong, what do I have to lose? What lies ahead? Mourning Jews murdered in Germany? I have no readers. I have no family. A few friends may cry before telling jokes. Heshele will say Kaddish. What more could I ask?”
“No, Aba, together.”
“Insane man, does it require two to talk to the police? You must not be involved in this. Walk with me to the station, but wait outside.”
Inside the precinct house, Stolz told a uniformed policeman that he wished to see the head man. He refused to explain, except that it was very important and he was not crazy. He was shown to a small room, where was a man who resembled W.C. Fields was seated behind a desk. The man stood up. His body was lean and wiry, completely at odds with his head. He offered his hand:
“I am Detective Shay.”
“Aba Stolz.”
“You have some information for me?” The detective spoke slowly, precisely, as if brackets constrained each word.
“Yes.”
“Well?”
Aba coughed.
“Do you have some water?”
Shay left the room and brought back a paper cup filled with water. Aba gulped, spilling some on his shirt. He patted it dry, thinking, Good-bye four wrinkles.
“Arson,” he blurted.
“What?”
“Arson. Planned by a man named Victor Menter.”
“How do you know?”
“I was to commit it.”
“Who else?”
Aba told of the freaks, aware that he would probably be taken for a madman. But the detective listened intently.
“Have you told this to anyone else?” he asked.
“No.”
Shay stood and pointed his index finger at Stolz.
“Don’t. You never know who’s listening. Menter is a powerful man. You’re a brave man and you’re lucky you came to me. Keep it that way. Now go about your business like nothing happened. Leave everything to me. On your way out, give your name and address to the cop behind the desk, just like it was a run-of-the-mill thing. And remember, it’s just between us for now.”
Aba asked Moishe to accompany him to the house where they awaited the great poet. At the entrance, they embraced.
“I love you, Moishe.”
“And I you.”
“Life is strange, but in the end there is clarity.”
“Oy, a Stolz theory. You don’t have time.”
“Let Heshele grow straight and tall,” Aba said.
“That is your job, too.”
Catzker watched his friend mount the cement steps of the red brick house. There was a slight tear in the back of Aba’s shirt. Tomorrow, he commanded himself, you will buy him a new one.
Stolz pressed the white bell button. The perforated golden metal beside it challenged: “Who dat?”
“Aba Stolz.”
“Say again.”
“Aba Stolz.”
“Yeah.”
He was buzzed in. A tall Negro women holding a sponge in one hand and an envelope in the other bore down on him. She handed him the envelope and stood, hands on hips, while he read its contents.
Dear Mr. Stolz,
We waited for you for two hours then decided to go for a sail on the bay in my boat which we had planned anyway after your reading. There were very important Jewish people here. They are influential in business and other places. They were anxious to hear your poetry. They were disappointed and, it hurts me to say, insulted.
If an accident befell you, you could have called. Being a poet does not mean you can’t act like a mensch. Jews as good as you were here. Make no mistake about that.
I was embarrassed. My wife ran to the bathroom to hide her tears for being made a fool in front of important people.
I will no longer gather fine Jews to hear you read. I still appreciate your ability but I have lost respect for you. If I recall correctly our arrangement it was for $5. I give you $10 to show you I am not angry, just disappointed that one Jew can treat another Jew like this.”
Stolz waved the bill in front of his eyes, thinking, Five dollars for reading, ten for not. I am on my way to becoming a rich man.
The woman whistled, and said:
“Iffin I had dat, I’d get me some real Sunday dresses.”
“I think that’s what I’ll do,” Stolz replied.
He watched her face consult with her ears as to what she had heard. She was worried. She had been instructed to hand over an envelope and had already overstepped her boundaries with a personal comment to a crazy man who was worth ten dollars to her employers. That made him important. He could report her for sass, which would mean her job.
Her eyes pleaded with him to forget she existed. God, he remembered praying when he saw hooligans on a Warsaw street, make me invisible. God had not heard his prayers, which was as it should be, because he probably did not exist. But if he did, Aba Stolz would show Him something about answered prayers.
“Just jivin’, Mama. Rest easy.”
His Negro slang, lying like bacon grease on his schmaltz-coated tongue, produced the buffoon accent of a low Jewish comic. Leslie could imitate perfectly. Yet, Yiddish in her mouth sounded anti-Semitic. Authenticity, he had concluded, does not give license to shout Jew in a crowded world of anti-Semites.
The maid, he realized, was now sure of dismissal, since his words, meant to soothe, were in her ears anti-Negro. From your mouth to God’s ears was the eternal Yiddish plea. He left quickly, getting out of the God business.
He walked out of the gate and onto Surf Avenue. He heard the ocean and children’s shrieks. Not my world, he thought, closing his eyes and experiencing blindness. An arm doubled over his, crushing his flesh. Vince was beside him.
“Don’t say nothin’. Just walk.”
What about screaming, he thought, is that OK? How did he know it was me? He knows. He knows. I know. I knew. An eye for an eye. A murder for a murderer. He heard Ronald Colman’s words on the way to the guillotine: It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done. … Strange, he thought, a perfect English accent. Inside me is a polished goy.
Vince shoved him into the passenger seat, locked the door and slid behind the wheel. He turned toward Stolz and smiled. Were his eyes more zealous than usual? Yes. Yes. It is in anticipation of killing. He probably gets an erection. He looked for a bul
ge, but saw none. Maybe I’m not his type.
The car moved slowly up Surf Avenue.
“Where are we going?” Stolz asked.
“Just for a ride.”
“You’re taking me for a ride.”
“You seen too much gangster movies.”
“How’s Menter?”
Vince’s right arm swung off the wheel. The back of his hand crushed Stolz’s nose. It spurted blood on his shirt and pants. Vince wiped his hand on Stolz’s shirtsleeve. Stolz held a handkerchief to his nose. The sight of his own blood, as usual, brought him to the edge of passing out. Pins and needles danced on his scalp. His head became weightless, floating. He closed his eyes to avert a blackout. He felt giddy.
“The Polish pogromchiks hit harder,” he said derisively.
“Don’t gimme dat kike shit.”
“Where is Menter locked up?”
“Locked up, my ass! You t’ink a shitass like you can get Vic? Don’t make me laugh. You’ll see soon. We goin’ to see him. So be a good boy and maybe he’ll be good to you.”
“No!” Stolz screamed.
“You t’ought you could get Vic. What a jerk.”
Indeed a jerk, Stolz thought. A dead jerk, who saved no one, nothing.
They were on a highway, passing signs to Canarsie.
“We going to Canarsie, Vince?”
“Yeah. Somethin’ to do before we see Vic.”
“How are you going to kill me?”
“You jerk! If I was goin’ to, I wouldda done it long ago. I do what I gotta, den we go see Vic.”
He tries to keep me calm, not to make trouble, not to try to jump out of the car, Stolz thought. Or maybe …
Life, a wriggling worm, itched his testicles. He scratched. Life felt good. Vince grabbed his arm.
“No moves, get it.”
“Just an itch, Vince,” he said. “Life.”
On the way to the gallows, Stolz pondered, what should one think. Will it hurt? Is there a God? Can I escape? No. Death is the only subject. Proximity provides light. A once-in-a-lifetime privilege not to be squandered.
The country from which no traveler has returned, Stolz lectured to a fascinated bust of Shakespeare, is not a country at all. It is the last thing we see on earth. What did you see, dear William? A nurse’s hand? A cup of broth? Your second best bed? A horse bearing down on you? That’s your view of eternity. No vast landscape. A cup. A horse. A finger. Furthermore, sirrah, we do not travel. Eternity is brought to us. Mine will be a gun or a knife.
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