Secondly, I wish the Caucasus had been swallowed by the earth before I heard of it! I can’t show my face at the Exchange. How come? It’s very simple. Yesterday I’m there when Todres says to me: “Listen here, my fine friend, just where is this Caucasus of yours?” “Where should it be?” I say. “It’s in the Caucasus.” “Well,” he says, “I’ve been searching the map for it. Your oil fields are a lot of baloney.” “What do you mean by that?” I say. “I mean,” he says, “that there’s no town called Caucasus anywhere. You won’t even find it in the Bible. Just how does a Jew come to another Jew with a business deal made of whole cloth? And meant for whose ears? For Rothschild’s! Do you have any idea who Rothschild is?” “Of course I do,” I say. “What makes you think I don’t? Just don’t go blaming me. I only passed on the information.”
Off I go to look for Long Cape. I find him sitting in the cafeteria with all the Jews and put him over the barrel. “Suppose you tell me, old man,” I say, “where this business of ours is supposed to be.” “You’re asking me?” he says. “It’s in your hands. You’re the one bringing the customer.” “That’s not what I meant,” I say. “I’m talking about the oil fields. Where are they? How do you get there? What’s the nearest town?” “To tell you the truth,” he says, “I don’t rightly know. You’ll have to ask my partner.” So we go and ask Weird Name and he tells us to ask Red Nose. Red Nose says he doesn’t have a clue; he only knows what he heard from Fat Lips, which is that Long Cape has a business in the Caucasus; he’ll be hanged if he knows where. In a word, the more we tried getting to the bottom of it, the more everyone pointed the finger at someone else until I was left holding the bag. Naturally! Who else would they stick with it?
Do you understand now, my dear wife, what I’ve been through? With luck like mine I might as well be buried alive. It doesn’t matter what I try. At first everything goes hunky-dory, the winning ticket is in my pocket, any day now I’ll cash in my chips — and then the wheel gives one more spin and it all blows up in my face. I reckon I’m not meant to strike it rich. Everyone in Yehupetz makes good but Menakhem-Mendl. The world parties and leaves me out in the cold, watching it count the millions I’m not allowed to touch.
But perhaps I haven’t found the right combination. No one knows when his luck will look up. It’s bound to happen if you wait long enough …but as I’m feeling low, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. Give my greetings to your parents and write me how you are. And kiss the children for me and tell me what’s new in Kasrilevke.
Your husband,
Menakhem-Mendl
P.S. Misery loves company. The next man’s troubles makes your own easier to bear. Take the fellow sharing my room. He was a provisioner who owned stores and houses and now he’s in Yehupetz suing the government. He’s hoping for a settlement, a big one, but meanwhile he’s broke and staying with me. If he wins his case, God willing, he’ll keep me in mind.
I have another roommate, too, who’s even worse off. He’s a writer who writes for the papers and is working on a book; I’m putting him up until he’s done. Now and then the landlady pities him and brings him a glass of tea. And there’s a third fellow, a real pauper. Why, the writer has nothing on him! I can’t tell you myself what he does. He’s a part-time agent, part-time matchmaker, and part-time actor, besides being a singer and an exterminator. And a jolly Jew he is, though he’s dying of hunger and doesn’t have a cent! When you see so many troubles, you forget your own. Please write about your health and the children, bless them, and about your parents and everyone else.
Yours, etc.
To my dear, learned, & illustrious husband Menakhem-Mendl, may your light shine!
First, we’re all well, thank God. I hope to hear no worse from you.
Second, what did I tell you, you damned fool? You should kiss every word I write! “The wise man blesses the whip that flogs him,” says my mother. A fine businessman you’ve turned out to be, you and your rotten gang of provisionals, ragpickers, scribblers, singsongers, and mice chasers — what a laugh! I can’t think of better company in which to sit in a Yehupetz boarding house throwing rubles out the window.
Well, at least you show signs of coming to your senses. You say you reckon you’re not meant to strike it rich. Do you still doubt it, Mendl? I’ve been shouting at you at the top of my lungs to put all that nonsense aside. May my life be as hard and your brains stay as addled as you’ll ever see a million rubles. Forget it, Mendl! Forget there’s a Brodsky in the world! You’ll only be the better for it. “Keep your eyes on the ground, not the clouds”—isn’t that what our holy books say? Stop envying the Yehupetz Jews and their parties. Let them party till they croak. They can break every bone in their bodies! As always I am,
Your truly faithful wife,
Sheyne-Sheyndl
Tell me, my dear Mendl, what’s gotten into you that you suddenly remembered Kasrilevke? And since when do you worry about my health? A body might almost think you miss us. My mother would say, “Let the calf run free, it will come home by itself when it’s hungry.” I’m waiting for a telegram telling me when you’ll arrive. It’s about time. I pray this is my last letter.
An Honorable Profession: Menakhem-Mendl Becomes a Writer
To my wise, esteemed, & virtuous wife Sheyne-Sheyndl, may you have a long life!
Firstly, rest assured that I am, praise God, in the best of health. God grant that we hear from each other only good and pleasing news, amen.
Secondly, I’ve had it with business: no more Exchange, no more deals, no more Semadenni’s. They’re all a sneaking, thieving swindle! I have a brand-new profession, a much finer and more respectable one. I’m happy to say I’ve become a writer. In fact, I’m writing already.
How, you ask, do I come by literature? It seems I was born for it.
If you recall my last letter, I mentioned a writer who is staying with me in my boarding house. He writes for the papers and makes a living from it. The way it’s done is, he sits and writes and sends it off and gets a kopeck a line when it’s printed: the more lines, the more kopecks. Well, I thought it over and asked myself: Good lord, what does he do that I can’t? What’s the big trick? After all, I went to school just like he did and have a better handwriting — why not give it a try and toss off a line or two for the Jewish papers? What can I lose? No one will chop off my head. The worst that can happen is, I’ll get no for an answer.
And so I sat down and wrote a letter to the editor with my autogeography — how I played the market in Odessa and Yehupetz, and how I sold my soul for fool’s gold, Londons and stocks & bonds and every horse I could bet on, and how I went from rags to riches and back again, seventy-seven times a millionaire and seventy-eight a beggar. I cut no corners, wrote everything down to the last detail, and sent off ten pages. If they liked my writing, I said, they could have as much as they wanted.
Don’t think that a month and a half didn’t pass without an answer. The paper wrote that it liked my writing and wanted more. If it was as good as the sample I sent, it would print it and pay me a kopeck a line. What do you say to that? I sat down and figured out that in summer, when the days are long, I can knock out a thousand lines per day. That’s a ten-spot right there — and there are thirty days in a month! Not bad, a starting salary of 300 rubles…. Straightaway I went out, bought a ream of paper and a bottle of ink, and got to work. And since I’m busy writing, I’ll be brief. God willing, I’ll write more in my next letter. Meanwhile, may He grant you health and success. Give my fondest regards to your parents and to the children, each and every one.