It was time to buy our tickets. Having spent his last rubles on telegrams, my new colleague was out of cash. “I tell you,” he said, “most people would be happy to earn in a month what telegrams cost me alone.” Would you believe it? That’s the kind of money there is in matchmaking! And since the train wasn’t about to wait, I laid out my last rubles on his ticket. Every business has its expenses. We exchanged addresses, bid each other a fond farewell, and went our ways — he to Yarmilinitz and I to Yampeli.
Arriving in Yampeli, the first thing I did was check out Moyshe-Nisl Kimbek. “All things considered,” I was told, “he’s no worse than he is.” “Has he many children?” I asked. “Many children,” I was told, “are for poor Jews. Rich Jews have only one.” “What sort of child is it?” I asked. “A daughter,” I was told. “Grown-up?” “Enough for two.” “With a dowry?” “Double your money.” “How’s that?” I asked. I poked around — tap-tap here, tap-tap there — and got nowhere, so I put on my good jacket and went to see the man himself.
I could describe his home for you, but what would be the point? It was as full of finery as a rich Jew’s home should be, and his family — pure gold! I introduced myself, explained why I had come, and was received royally and served with tea, honey cake, a delicious marmalade, and a bottle of vishniak. The father, Moyshe-Nisl, appealed to me at once: a good-natured fellow, without a mean bone in his body. And I took a liking at first glance to his wife Beile-Leah too, a fine, quiet, pious woman with a double chin. They tried to feel me out about the match. Was the young man of good character? In what direction did his talents lie? …How was I supposed to answer when I didn’t know myself! But a Jew with some learning is quick on his feet, and so I told them: “Let’s settle your side of it first. I need to know how much you’re putting up. And I want a look at the principal.”
Well, he hears that, Moyshe-Nisl does, and says to his wife: “Where is Sonitshke? Tell her to come.” “Sonitshke is getting dressed,” says Beile-Leah, getting up and going out and leaving me with Moyshe-Nisl. We helped ourselves to a drop of vishniak, had some more marmalade, and made small talk. What about? Don’t ask me. Last year’s snow and the price of rice in China! “How long have you been a matchmaker?” Moyshe-Nisl asks, pouring me another glass of vishniak. “Since my wedding,” I tell him. “My father-in-law was a matchmaker too. So was my father. In fact, all my brothers are matchmakers. There’s practically no one in our family who isn’t …” I didn’t even crack a smile, although I could feel myself turning red. Don’t ask me where I dreamed up such malarkey. But what choice did I have? As your mother would say, “If you’re knee-deep in mud, keep on crawling.” All I wanted was a break from God to pull the match off, earn my share fair and square, and split it with Lebelski. Why shortchange the fellow? It could be argued of course that the whole commission belonged to him — but where would that leave me? Nothing would have happened without me; wasn’t my investment worth something too? I wasn’t telling all those lies just for my sake. Who could say it wasn’t God’s plan for Lebelski to lose his lists, for me to find them, and for all three of us to make a bundle?
I was thinking all this when in walks Beile-Leah with the young lady — I mean, Sonitshke: a big, healthy, pretty, generously proportioned girl like her mother. I took one look at her and thought: “My God, that’s a tontshke of Sonitshke!” She was dressed, Sonitshke was, rather strangely, in a long evening gown that made her look middle-aged, not because she was old but because …but you wouldn’t believe the size of that child! Naturally, I wanted a word with her to see what kind of creature she was. Some chance I had with a father who wouldn’t stop talking! This time it was about Yampeli — and you’ll never guess the things he said. Yampeli, he said, was a town of bad-mouths, of backbiters, of grudge-bearers, of nasty-noses, every one of whom would gladly drown his neighbor in a spoon of soup. He would have gone on and on if his wife hadn’t cut him short and said: “Moyshe-Nisl! Haven’t you talked enough? Let’s ask Sonitshke to play the piano.” “Just say the word,” says Moyshe-Nisl with a wink at Sonitshke. And so she goes and sits at the piano, Sonitshke does, opens a big book, and bangs away for dear life. After a while her mother says: “Sonitshke! How come you’re playing all those haytoads? We’d like to hear The Volga Boatman, pozhaliste!” Well, Sonitshke begins playing that piano so fast that you can’t even follow her fingers — and all the while her mother is feasting her eyes on her, you can see her wanting to say: “How’s that for only two hands!” After a while she and her husband slip out of the room and Sonitshke and I are left alone. Now’s the time for a little chitchat, I think — let’s find out at least if the girl can talk. I’ll be blamed, though, if I could think of a thing to say! I rose, walked around the room, stood behind her, and finally said: “Excuse me for interrupting, Sonitshke, but there’s something I’d like to ask.” “Naprimer?” she answers in Russian, turning around with an angry look. “Naprimer,” I say, “suppose I asked: what is your heart’s desire? I mean, for example, what kind of husband would you like to have?” “Viditye,” she says to me a bit more softly, lowering her eyes. “Sobstevenno, I’d like him to have a degree, but I know that’s ponaprasno. Po krayne meri, he should be an obrazaveto, because even though Yampeli is considered a fanatitcheski place, we all have a Russian obrazovanye. An utshebe zavadyenye may be out of the question, but there’s not a barishnye who wouldn’t like to be znakome with Zola, Pushkin, or dazhe Gorky …” So she says to me, my beauty, half in Yiddish and half in Russian, although the Russian was more like two-thirds.
At this point her mother returned. “Everything in good measure!” she says, followed by Sonitshke’s father, and the three of us get down to brass tacks: how big should the dowry be, and where will the get-acquainted meeting be held, and when is a good time for the wedding. I was about to go to the station to send a telegram when Moyshe-Nisl takes my arm and says: “Stay a while longer, Reb Menakhem-Mendl! First have a meal with us. You must be hungry.” We washed and sat down to table, and had another glass of vishniak, and Moyshe-Nisl Kimbek’s mouth didn’t shut for a second. It was Yampeli this, and Yampeli that, and Yampeli, Yampeli, Yampeli. “You simply can’t imagine,” he says, “the kind of town this is. It’s a lying, loafing place! Take my advice and don’t say a word to anyone. Above all, don’t tell them who you are and where you’re from and why you’re here — and whatever you do, don’t mention that you know me. Do you hear that, Reb Menakhem-Mendl? You don’t even know me!” He must have repeated that ten times.
Well, off I went to send a telegram to my partner in Yarmilinitz as per agreement. The message was perfectly clear: Goods inspected first-class six thousand cable offer where do we meet. The answer arrived the next day — strangely phrased: Up ante ten gets half six suggest Zhmerinka cable back. Not understanding a word of it, I ran to my Moyshe-Nisl. He reads it and says: “What kind of Jew are you? It’s crystal clear! The man wants ten thousand for his three. You can write him back that he’s too smart for his own good. It’s double or nothing. And tell him,” he says, “that he’ll be beaten to it if he doesn’t get off his rear end.”