Oy, Caramba! Read online

  “C’mon!” exclaimed Yosl, insulted. “I’d expect that from a religious Jew.”

  “True, but, no . . .” Mendel argued. “I can’t. I don’t like it.”

  “C’mon! Cut it out!” said Yosl, unyieldingly. “Any other day of the year you can do as you wish, but not today, not on Yom Kippur.”

  Mendel bent to his plate, took a knife and fork, and felt as though he were offering a sacrifice in honor of Yom Kippur.

  A Man and His Parrot

  JOSÉ RABINOVICH (1903–1977)

  Translated from the Yiddish by Debbie Nathan

  Yoysef Rabinovich was born in Bialystok and immigrated to Argentina in 1924. He wrote for Di Prese as well as Nayvelt. He is the author of the poetry collection El violinista bajo el tejado (The Fiddler under the Roof), which appeared in 1970. “A Man and His Parrot” is an Isaac Bashevis Singer–like humorous tale about daily life with a mascot.

  IT IS BARELY six in the morning and the stars are still out, but Manuel has to get up.

  It isn’t a job that wakes him. That obligation used to get him right to his feet, but now? Now just getting dressed is drudgery. His pants, his shoes—they resist when he puts them on. His hands have become so powerless that they can hardly drag his clothes on. He and his clothes are mutual enemies. His feet, like an old man’s, don’t want to walk—they balk. He can’t stop yawning. What is he yawning about? Maybe he didn’t get enough sleep? On the contrary, he slept too much. If only someone would knock on the door and say, “Manuel, time for work!”

  He is itching to do something so his hands will turn back into hands. So his body will be hard and strong. So he will stop yawning. So he will be a real man! But since nobody comes to his door or into his heart, Manuel moves like a phantom, with his socks in one hand and a shoe in the other. In his hands, his clothes look like rags. His hands too.

  Manuel gets up to make maté for Matilda. He rolls the bitterness inside his mouth and catches it in his throat, unable to swallow but unable to spit it out either. And the harsh taste refuses to stay in his throat. It goes all through his body and is concentrated around his heart. What a life!

  Matilda needs a maté brought to her in bed and put in her hand to drink. His wife deserves this: after all, she is supporting them. It would be so good if he didn’t have to do this. His excuse is that she is not sustaining only them but also another life inside her. In such a case, a man should take care of his wife. He dotes on her a bit more to make it easier for her to carry the burden he put in her body.

  But ever since he became the housewife and she the breadwinner—even though she still seems like the same old Matilda—something has been piercing him like cats’ claws, destroying him. It’s a good thing to serve one’s wife a maté in bed. It’s an honor for the wife and no disgrace for the husband. But the terrible thing is that his wife knows that this is only a duty he is forced to carry out because she brings home the rent money. Too, she buys him socks on the street, and she—not he—instructs that money be taken from the box on the table to shop for what they need. That is why it’s no good bringing his wife a maté in bed. Still, he knows Matilda isn’t that kind of woman. She cares about him. She doesn’t mind going to work, or even that he is unemployed. She doesn’t think the things he imagines that she thinks. But she could be thinking them. After all, any woman would, and besides, Manuel is forcing her to think that way. It is thus no surprise that his clothes look like rags in his hands when he gets dressed at six o’clock to bring his wife a maté in bed.

  The stars are still in the sky, and it is still dark outside. It is winter. If it were summer it would already be light by now, bright and pleasant, and he would not have to turn on the electricity in the kitchen. Matilda can make maté in the dark. Manuel can’t, even though he would rather be in the dark. In the dark, the work doesn’t seem so distasteful.

  There’s maté, and sugar too, but no coffee to sprinkle in. What a numbskull he is—they were out of coffee yesterday too. And she can’t drink maté without it. Or maybe she can, but she claims she can’t. She usually says that everything he does is fine. But it seems to him that she really feels just the opposite yet doesn’t want him to feel bad that he’s the housewife. So she says she can’t drink maté without coffee so that he will be encouraged to learn how to run the house.

  He sneaks into the kitchen on tiptoe so their parrot won’t see him. Damned parrot! They’ve put up with so much from each other; they’ve had a long-standing, bitter war. Who will be the victor? Who will survive? Manuel, of course. After all, he has more years left to live than the parrot. Still, the parrot has given Manuel so much heartache, so much real anguish, that he is letting it die of thirst. As long as the parrot screams “Master!” Manuel will not put water in the cage.

  The parrot is just another problem. He would let it scream if there were no neighbors in the courtyard—would let the bird yell “Master!” until it exploded, and who would care? If no one else could hear, Manuel would not be taking it to heart.

  Of course he would not feel happy about being mocked. After all, how can anyone be happy who peels potatoes, lights the stove, stokes the fire, cracks eggs, washes dishes, and also hears screaming right over his head, “Master! Master!”? It’s OK when the parrot screeches once then takes a break.

  But as soon as it notices Manuel, it starts up and will not stop. More than once, Manuel has been so enraged that he has felt like throwing a plate at the parrot’s head. He is sure that his neighbors are quietly quaking with laughter. And that even Matilda is laughing. Back before he was unemployed, she never laughed when the crazy parrot screeched “Master! Master!” until it got hoarse. That is because Manuel was the breadwinner then. He liked it that the parrot recognized him. Back then, everyone enjoyed the shrieking, even though there really was no reason to laugh. And now, since he has become unemployed, even Matilda has begun to snicker when the parrot starts in with its cheery screech. The more the bird screeches, the more his wife’s snicker reveals its teeth. But would she laugh if she knew about the relentless, bitter war being waged so stubbornly and silently by Manuel, so he won’t have to listen anymore—and by the parrot, so Manuel will put a drop of water in its bowl? Would Matilda laugh then?

  What is more, if Manuel thought it was merely in the bird’s nature to scream, the same way a rooster has it in him to crow, maybe he wouldn’t care. The neighbors wouldn’t laugh either. But everyone sees and hears how hard it is for the bird, who shrieks “Master!” as tragically as if someone were cutting its throat. The parrot’s labored cry to Manuel whenever he goes into the kitchen provokes laughter from wives in the other kitchens—so much laughter that the women could explode from it.

  When the bird lets out its mocking fury, Manuel would just as well heave the whole thing, parrot and cage, out the window and do it so hard that even the Messiah, were He to come, couldn’t revive the bird. But that would be the end of Manuel too, because people would run after him through the streets, as though he were a madman. Better to quietly carry the parrot out and get rid of it. But people would discover that trick too.

  The parrot has already been without water for three days. Manuel gives it seeds and little pieces of stale bread, but he wouldn’t be feeding the bird either if he weren’t scared about being seen starving it. So he merely denies it drink. They can see from outside the cage if the parrot has food or not. But no one can see the tin water bowl.

  Matilda drinks her maté and leaves for work. Manuel gives her a hug, just as he should. His situation demands it. He receives instructions on what to cook for lunch. He listens, smiling. His situation demands it.

  The parrot notices him and starts choking, screeching. “Master!”

  Manuel gives an involuntary glance at the sky, which is gloomy and on the verge of rain. Something about its appearance presses down on that place, the one in both beast and man, where anguish lies hidden. He goes back in the room, starts making the bed, and notices tiny infant’s undershirts beneath the p
illows. Matilda had been sewing them before she went to sleep and left them there. Tiny shirts. Manuel starts thinking. He cannot see anything in front of his eyes. Later, when he is again able to see, he rushes to give the parrot a drink of water.

  Innocent Spirit

  ALICIA STEINBERG (1933–2012)

  Translated from the Spanish by Andrea G. Labinger

  A haunting tale by the author of Musicians and Watchmakers (1971), who often wrote with an autobiographical trend in satirical, even irreverent ways, “Innocent Spirit” is a coming-of-age story about Jewish-Catholic relations in Argentina. Steinberg was also the author of Call Me Magdalena (2001) and The Rainforest (2006), among other works.

  HIGH SCHOOL IS over. There are farewells, laughter, and tears. All my lies are still intact. I’m a student of unknown origin, with no religion, no important ancestors. I wear a serious, responsible expression. I shine my shoes regularly. I wash my hair with a shampoo whose fragrance I’ll never forget: it’s the scent of springtime, which invades me as I bathe under the shower that’s warmed by an alcohol burner and sing Bing and Frankie tunes while getting ready to go to a party. I’m a klutzy dancer, but I dance till I drop. I have fleeting romances whose greatest attraction consists of describing them to Rosario on the phone.

  But no, that came later, much later: right now I’m one of those girls who wear cotton anklets and low-heeled shoes and stare at Ana Cristina’s silk stockings and high heels out of the corner of their eyes. I go back and forth, whirling between lessons, recess bells, and B-plus grade-point averages. My mind is full of holes where knowledge ought to be. I focus on Señorita Granate’s tits as she recites Alfonsina Storni’s verses for us in literature class. Granate must have her bras made to order at the Venerable House of Porta. Another thing I’ll never forget is the day when Señorita Granate, who taught us algebra in senior year, came to class with a black eye. Matilde hid behind the abnormally large head of a student who enrolled in the school on the minister’s recommendation.

  “God punished her,” Matilde whispered, choking on her own laughter. “God punishes . . .”

  Catholicism is the only decent religion. Judaism is ridiculous and embarrassing; Protestantism is trivial and foreign. Helen and Mary Brown, the two English Protestant girls in our class, are friendly. They smile at me endlessly, as if begging my pardon for their aberrant faith. When winter comes they start knitting sweaters that they never finish; when the real cold sets in, Mary shows up in a strange green felt scarf with embroidered roses on it. We all watch her with the most uncompromising malice; finally, Matilde strikes the right note (no metaphor intended) and figures it out: the scarf is the Brown family’s piano keyboard cover. This incident demolishes my idea that all English people are rich. That, and the humbleness of the Browns’ house in Villa Devoto, the shadowy figures of the parents, two British phantoms that cross the decrepit dining room where we have tea.

  In our group there are twenty-two more or less devout Catholics, two Protestants, and one Greek Orthodox girl. Isabelle (God knows why they gave her that French name; she’s Greek) does what she can to garner some prestige for her religion; to accomplish this, she insists on its great similarity to the Roman Apostolic Church. Isabelle’s Spanish is labored, as if all the syllables were accented. She says that in the rituals of her religion, it’s not only the priest who drinks the consecrated wine but also the faithful, all from the same chalice.

  “And-it’s-not-dis-gus-ting,” she adds.

  In any case, there are very few truly religious girls, and among those I count as Catholics there is at least one freethinker and an agnostic. They’re atheists, in fact, but you can’t say that word at school. The religion teacher holds out some hope of saving those who belong to other creeds, if one day they come to embrace the True Faith, but for atheists there is no salvation.

  Sometimes I’m a fervent Catholic. I believe that after I die, I’ll go to heaven or hell, or maybe purgatory, but for sure I’ll go someplace. I believe that the Jesus of statues, religious stamps, and picture books exists and that he spends all day watching me to see what I’m doing. And yet I sin. I sin and sin again; I strike my chest and say, “Oh my God I am heartily sorry.”

  After graduation I land a substitute position in a convent school. I’m fascinated by the corridors of immaculate mosaic tiles, the stained-glass doors leading to the chapel. Sometimes I arrive early and chat with the sister who acts as doorman. The girls at the school claim that she’s the soul of goodness: she lets the students escape at night to meet their boyfriends. Only two get pregnant and are returned to their parents. No one can explain this phenomenon because the girls would sooner kill themselves than denounce their Galician angel of mercy. The doorman sister was born in Galicia and has only one desire in life: to go back to her country before she dies. She tells this to me while placing a little package in my hands.

  “It’s stale pan dulce,” she says. “But if you add milk and eggs to it, you can make a very tasty bread pudding, exquisite . . .” and she closes her eyes as if in ecstasy. “A very good, pious woman gave it to me . . .”

  The students attend Mass in the chapel every morning at seven. I envy the students, the nuns—I envy their habits, the uniforms, the watery soup, the frigid mornings at Mass . . . that’s what being Catholic is! The crucified Christ smiles at them when I’m not looking; as soon as I turn my back, he changes his suffering expression to a companionable smile and offers them the Kingdom of Heaven.

  I don’t know if the doorman sister ever returned to Galicia. But she surely ascended to heaven after she died, and Saint Peter let her in without asking to see her papers, while he opened the package of stale pan dulce that Sister had just deposited into his hands.

  Someone’s getting married, and we’re invited to the reception. It’s a Jewish wedding, but that doesn’t matter, as long as I don’t mention it at school. After the marriage ceremony we find ourselves seated at long tables, waiting for the food. They’ve put me next to a group of fancily dressed, heavily made-up young ladies. I have my illusions that later on somebody will ask me to dance, which doesn’t happen. As it’s a spring evening, I’ve arrived bare legged (without those wretched anklets). My tablemates are talking about guys, whether certain guys have phoned them or not.

  “Hey,” says a coral-painted mouth to an ear adorned with a costume jewelry hoop. “Hey, guess what! He called me.”

  “Who?”

  “Moishe.”

  I’m flabbergasted. I don’t understand why a girl would get so excited about someone named Moishe. But they pay no attention to me. It seems that Moishe has been playing hard to get and hasn’t called that girl for the past few days. She doesn’t call him either, so he won’t get a swelled head, and the tactic seems to have been successful: at last he calls and asks her out. They keep on discussing similar situations between other girls and other guys. It looks like these people spend half their time sleeping and the other half phoning or not phoning one another.

  At first I eavesdrop surreptitiously, looking down at my plate or at some bottle, but without realizing it, I’m gradually inching closer, and as I become more intrigued by the conversation, I tilt more and more in their direction, staring directly at the one who’s talking, shifting my eyes back and forth like at a tennis match.

  “And then what?” asks the coral-colored lips.

  A pair of gray eyes, corresponding to the vermilion mouth that was about to respond, glares at mine. My cheeks are burning; tears spill down my face. I want to disappear or explode like a bomb beneath the table and make all the horrible young ladies go flying through the air.

  After a while, I watch them out of the corner of my eye. They keep on chatting brightly; they’ve forgotten me, just as you forget a fly that you’ve just shooed away a few seconds before.

  When the dinner is over, I get up from the table and don’t approach anyone else. I don’t sit in the chairs that ring the dance floor either. I just stand there, gazing at some random obj
ect as if it fascinates me. After a while I move to another spot and start thinking about another object; for example, the wedding cake, made of cardboard, or the huge Star of David formed by tiny lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling.

  The following Monday at school, I mention that I’ve been to a wedding, and they ask me in what church the religious ceremony was held.

  “They didn’t get married in church,” I reply. “They’re agnostics.”

  “It isn’t true.”

  “It’s true.”

  “It can’t be. It simply can’t be.”

  “Yes, it’s a fact. Matilde leaves her used sanitary napkins under the dresser. The maid complains, and rightfully so.”

  “But it can’t be.”

  And yet something tells me that it can. I remember how Matilde carries around a cruddy piece of paper in her pocket, and when you ask her what she’s got there, she shows you the contents: face powder. And an equally cruddy piece of string, the kind you use for tying packages, sticks out of the collar of her school smock. I try to pull it off, thinking it got caught there by mistake. But it’s tied in a knot.

  “What’s that, Matilde?”

  Matilde smiles, pokes her hand around inside the neck of her smock, and shows me a medal of her favorite saint dangling from the string. I remember my visit to her house, the pile of empty bottles on the patio. Anything is possible.

  Then I’m not the only one who’s miserable?

  But we never discuss our respective misery. In our class there are at least two girls who are driven to school by a private chauffeur. It’s a sure bet they don’t leave used sanitary napkins under their dressers. And they don’t carry a thermos with hot coffee and milk into their bedrooms either, in order to be able to get up in the icy mornings, when it’s colder inside the house than out.