“Would you like a little schnapps?” Goldman asked, and Mullaney suddenly thought of McReady and the burglary charge and of the jacket at the New York Public Library.
“Well, I really ought to be going,” he said.
“Come,” Solomon said, “it’s a b’rokhe.”
Mullaney followed Solomon to a round table at the rear of the temple. The table was set with a white cloth. A small dish of cookies rested on the table alongside a fifth of Four Roses. Two dozen shot glasses were turned upside down in a loose circle around the bottle. An old man there was already pouring for some of the others.
“Come,” Solomon said, “it’s very good for the intestinal tract.”
“Well, just a little,” Mullaney said. He was still wearing the yartmoulke, and he wondered whether he was supposed to take it off now that the service was over. None of the other men seemed to be removing theirs, however, so he touched the back of his head once again (the yarmoulke sat so feathery light on his skull that he was certain it had fallen off), adjusted the cap, and then accepted the glass Goldman offered. The synagogue seemed so suddenly dark, had it been this dark when he’d entered not an hour ago?
“L’chaim,” Goldman said. “To life.”
“L’chaim,” the men repeated, and raised their glasses. To life, Mullaney thought. McReady had used those identical words in the cottage last night, l’chaim, to life.
“To life,” he said aloud, and drank.
The stained-glass window above the altar suddenly erupted in dazzling brilliance, showering incandescent bursts of color into the room (The earth was without form and void, Mullaney thought in that instant, darkness was upon the face of the deep, and the Spirit of God was moving over the face of the waters — and God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light), blue and purple, green, a penetrating shaft of yellow, glowed intensely for only an instant, illuminating the faces of the men and the whiskey glasses they held to their lips. And then an explosion rent the silence of the room, just above the temples low ceiling, and Mullaney pulled his head into his shoulders and thought They’ve come to blast me out with bombs and mortars, I’m finished.
“Rain,” Goldman said, and shook his head. “Why does it always rain on the shabbes?”
“It is the Lord’s will,” Solomon said, peering through his thick glasses, tilting his head to one side, listening as the rain drops began pattering on the temple roof. The men sipped their whiskey silently. Another streak of lightning illuminated the magnificent stained-glass window, the rolling blue and green sea capped with white, the darker blue beyond, the nascent world’s blackness, the dazzling yellow pane of light, let there be light. Thunder boomed above. The drops fell more heavily now, beating on the roof of the old building. Solomon poured more whiskey into Mullaney’s glass and said, “You know what happened to my Uncle Aaron, he should rest in peace?”
“We all know what happened to your Uncle Aaron,” Goldman said.
“The khoshever gast doesn’t know.”
“The khoshever gast doesn’t want to know,” Goldman said. “It’s a hundred times he’s told this story already, Cohen, nu?”
“A thousand times,” Cohen said. “Ask Horowitz.”
“A million times,” Horowitz said, and held out his glass for a refill.
“If the Lord didn’t want it to rain, would it rain?” Solomon said.
“The rain has nothing to do...”
“If the Lord didn’t want it should be thundering and lightening, would he make it thunder and lighten?” Solomon asked.
“The Lord works for Solomon,” Cohen said. “The Lord does all these things only so Solomon can tell us about his Uncle Aaron in Bialystok.”
“In Belopol’ye,” Solomon said.
“Wherever, and don’t tell us again because it’s time we all went home.”
“In the rain?” Solomon asked incredulously.
“Better in the rain than your Uncle Aaron’s story again.”
“You want to hear it or not?” Solomon said. “Listen, if you don’t want to hear it, believe me, I won’t tell it.”
“We don’t want to hear it,” Horowitz said.
“Do you want to hear it or not?” Solomon asked.
“He said already no.”
“Because if you don’t want to hear it, I won’t tell it,” Solomon said.
“I already heard it,” Cohen said.
“True, but did the khoshever gast hear it?”
“Did you?” Cohen asked Mullaney.
“No,” Mullaney said, certain he had not.
“Perhaps he would care to hear the story?” Solomon said.
The men all turned to Mullaney. They wore entreating looks upon their faces, but none of their eyes pleaded so eloquently as Solomon’s behind his magnifying lenses.
“Yes,” Mullaney said gently, “I would like to hear about your uncle, Mr. Solomon.”
“Oi vei, he’s meshuge,” Horowitz said, and gulped his whiskey.
“It happened that my Uncle Aaron, he should rest in peace, was a no-good, always fooling around with women, cheating at cards, a regular gambler, anyway, which is forbidden in the Holy Book...”
“Where is it forbidden?” Cohen said.
“I don’t know where, but it’s forbidden, believe me. Otherwise there would be gambling houses in every Jewish ghetto, you think Jews don’t like to gamble?”
“I don’t like to gamble,” Horowitz said, shrugging, “and it happens I’m a Jew.”
“I once played a number, God forgive me,” Goldman said.
“Well, my Uncle Aaron, he wasn’t a once-upon-a-time numbers player because, first of all, in Russia they didn’t have the numbers racket like here in New York, and also he was a cardplayer and a horseplayer from when they used to run the races.”
“Where did they run the races?” Cohen asked.
“I don’t know where, but in Russia in 1912 they had a big racetrack like all over the world, what do you think it was an uncivilized nation?”
“I’m saying where did they have a racetrack?”
“The Czar had a racetrack.”
“Where?”
“In Moscow.”
“Where in Moscow?”
“I don’t know, I’ll look it up. If the rabbi was here, he could tell you because it happens he’s from Moscow himself.”
“The rabbi, it happens, is in Livingston Manor,” Cohen said.
“When he comes back, he’ll tell you where the racetrack was. Do you mind terribly, Cohen, if I continue with my story?”
“Please continue, I only heard it already a thousand times.”
“And a thousand times you made the same interruptions.”
“Forgive me, Solomon,” Cohen said, and executed an elaborate bow. “Forgive me, Melinsky,” he said to Mullaney, and made another bow.
“So my Uncle Aaron, on this fateful day in 1912, he had been playing a game of cards with a couple of merchants from the village...”
“Bialystok, it happens,” Cohen said, “is a big city.”