“Yes,” said his mother with peculiar emphasis, “she did too. They told her once — but you never saw a bear?”
“In a book. There were three bears.”
“Yes, you told me about them. Well, in Europe the gypsies — gypsies are men and women, dark people. They roam all over the world.”
“Why?”
“It pleases them.”
“You asked me about a bear.”
“Yes. Sometimes these gypsies take a bear along with them wherever they go.”
“Do they eat porridge?” He had said the last word in English.
“What’s porridge?”
“My teacher said it was oatmeal and farina, you give it to me in the morning.”
“Yes, yes. You told me. But I’m not sure. I know they like apples. Still if your teacher—”
“And what did the bear do?”
“The bear danced. The gypsies sang and shook the tambourine and the bear danced.”
David hugged himself with delight. “Who made him?”
“The gypsies. They earned their money that way. When the bear was tired, people threw pennies in their tambourine— Now! I was telling you about your aunt. Someone told her that if she crept up behind the bear and rubbed her hands on his fur, she would stop sweating under her palms. And so one day while the bear was dancing—”
She stopped speaking. David had heard it too: a step outside the door. A moment later someone knocked. A voice.
“It is only I–Luter.”
With an exclamation of surprise, she opened the door. Luter came in.
“I went away without my head,” he said apologetically. “I’ve forgotten my gift.”
“It’s a pity you had to take all that trouble again,” she said sympathetically. “You left it in the bedroom.” She picked up the parcel from the chair.
“Yes, I know,” he answered, resting it on the table. He looked at his watch. “I’m afraid it’s too late for me to go now. I couldn’t get there before nine and then how long can one stay, an hour.”
David was secretly annoyed to see him sit down.
Luter opened his coat and with an expression of anxious indecision on his face regarded David’s mother. His eyes had a brilliance and restlessness greater than usual. David was again aware of the difficult curves of the man’s face.
“Take your coat off,” she suggested. “It’s warm here.”
“If you don’t mind,” he slipped it from his shoulders, “Now that I have nowhere to go.”
“Won’t they be disappointed when they see you’re not coming?”
“No, they’ll know that the black hour hasn’t seized me.” He laughed. “Please go on with your work, don’t let me interfere.”
“I was merely washing some dishes,” she said. “I’ve finished now, except for these pots.” She picked up the red and white can of powder in the corner of the small shelf above the sink, shook some of it into a pot, and rubbed the inside vigorously with a dish rag, stooping over with the effort.
David, who was leaning from the side of his chair could see Luter and his mother at the same time. Absorbed in watching his mother, he would have paid little attention to Luter, but the sudden oblique shifting of Luter’s eyes toward himself drew his own gaze toward them. Luter, his eyes narrowed by a fixed yawn, was staring at his mother, at her hips. For the first time, David was aware of how her flesh, confined by the skirt, formed separate molds against it. He felt suddenly bewildered, struggling with something in his mind that would not become a thought.
“You women,” said Luter sympathetically, “especially when you marry must work like slaves.”
“It isn’t quite so bad as all that. Despite the ancient proverb.”
“No,” said Luter meditatively, “anything may be lived. But to labor without thanks that’s bitter.”
“True. And to labor even with thanks, what comes of it?”
“Well,” he uncrossed his legs, “nothing comes of anything, not even millionaires, but esteem gives the trumpeter breath — esteem and gifts naturally.”
“Then I have my esteem,” she laughed, straightening up and turning around as Luter arranged his mouth more firmly. “I have esteem that grows.” She regarded David with an amused smile.
“Yes,” said Luter with a sigh, “but everyone can have that kind of esteem. Still, it’s good to have children.” And then earnestly, “Do you know I have never seen a child cling so to his mother.”
David found himself resenting Luter’s comment.
“Yes, I’m sure you’re right,” she agreed.
“I think so,” he said warmly. “Why, my cousin’s children — the very relative I was going to visit to-night — they are home only when they sleep and eat. At night after dinner, they are up in some neighbor’s house,” he lifted his hand to emphasize the point, “playing with other children the whole evening.”
“There are other children in the house,” answered his mother. “But he seems to make friends with none. It has only been once or twice,” she turned to David, “that you have been in Yussie’s house or he here, has it not?”
David nodded uneasily.
“He’s a strange child!” said Luter with conviction.
His mother laughed condoningly.
“Though very intelligent,” he assured her.
There was a pause while she emptied the dishpan into the sink; the grey water muttered down the drain.
“He looks very much like you,” said Luter with the hesitance of careful appraisal. “He has the same brown eyes you have, very fine eyes, and the same white skin. Where did you get that white German skin?” he asked David playfully.
“I don’t know.” The man’s intimacy embarrassed him. He wished Luter would go away.
“And both of you have very small hands. Has he not small hands for a child his size? Like those of a prince’s. Perhaps he will be a doctor some day.”
“If he has more than hands.”
“Yes,” Luter agreed, “still I don’t think he’ll need labor for his bread like his father, or even like myself.”
“I hope not, but only God knows.”
“Isn’t it strange,” he said suddenly, “how Albert has seized hold of the theatre? Like a drunkard his dram. Who would have believed it?”
“It means a great deal to him. I could hear him beside me gnashing his teeth at a certain character.”
Luter laughed. “Albert is a good man, even though the other workers think him odd. It is I who keep the peace, you know.” He laughed again.
“Yes, I do know, and I’m grateful to you for it.”
“Oh it’s nothing. A word here, a word there smooths everything. Truth is, I might not have been so ready to protect him, if I hadn’t known you, that is, if I hadn’t come here and been one of you. But now I take up his interest as though he were my own brother. It is not always easy with so strange a man.”
“You’re very kind.”
“Not at all,” said Luter. “You have repaid me. Both of you.”
Picking up several dry utensils she crossed the kitchen to the pantry. There she pulled open the door, bent over and hung them on the nails inside. Luter’s head tilted, his gaze flitting to her bosom. He cleared his throat with a pecking sound.
“But say what you will, Albert is — what shall I say, a nervous man — till you know him, of course. But I can see why you’ve never gone out with him anywhere,” he ended sympathetically. “You’re a proud woman with a great deal of feeling, no?”
“No more than anyone else. What has that to do with it?”
“I’ll tell you. You see, Albert, well—” he smiled and scratched his neck, puzzled. “Even in the street, he behaves so strangely. You know better than I do. He seems to look for jeers in the faces of passersby. And when you go with him — I go with him every night — it’s as though he finds some kind of pleasure walking behind a cripple or a drunkard or any kind of freakish person — I don’t know what! One would think it made him feel safer. He wants people on the street to look at someone else. Anyone else, instead of himself. Even a water wagon or street gamblers give him this odd satisfaction. But why do I talk this way when I like him so much.” He paused and laughed quietly.