LaPointe shrugs. “I don’t know. Isn’t all that handled in your partnership agreement?”
“Well… that’s the problem. Actually, Moishe and I aren’t partners. In the legal sense, I mean. And I have a nephew. I’d hate to see him come along and screw Moishe out of the business. And, believe me, he’s capable of it. Of working for a living, he’s not capable. But of screwing someone out of something? Of that he is capable.”
“I don’t understand. What do you mean, you and Moishe aren’t partners? I thought he started the business, then later took you on as a partner.”
“That’s right. But you know Moishe. He’s not interested in the business end of business. A beautiful person, but in business a luftmensh. So over the years, he sold out to me so that he wouldn’t have to be bothered with taxes and records and all that.”
“And you’re afraid that if you die—”
“—cholilleh—”
“—he might not get the business? Well, David, I told you I’m no lawyer. But it seems to me that all you have to do is make out a will.”
David sighs deeply. “Yes, I was afraid of that. I hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. I’m not a superstitious man, don’t get me wrong. But in my opinion a man is just asking for it, if he makes out his will while he’s still alive. It’s like saying to God, Okay. I’m ready whenever you are. And speaking personally for myself, I’m not ready. If a truck should run over me—okay, that’s that. But I’m not going to stand in the middle of the street shouting, Hey! Truck-drivers! I’m ready!”
As LaPointe steps out onto the blustery street, turning up the collar of his overcoat, he meets Moishe, returning from seeing Guttmann to his car. They fall into step and walk along together, as they usually do after games.
“That’s a nice young man, Claude.”
“He’s all right, I suppose. What did you talk about?”
“You.”
LaPointe laughs. “Me as a crime? Or me as a sin?”
“Neither one, exactly. We talked about his university studies; how much the things he learned turned out to reflect the real world.”
“How did I fit into that?”
“You were the classic example of how the things he learned were not like it is in the real world. The things you do and believe are the opposite of everything he wants to do with his life, of everything he believes in. But, oddly enough, he admires you.”
“Hm-m! I didn’t think he liked me all that much.”
“I didn’t say he likes you. He admires you. He thinks you’re the best of your kind.”
“But he can live without the kind.”
“That’s about it.”
They have reached the corner where they usually part with a handshake. But tonight Moishe asks, “Are you in a hurry to go home, Claude?”
LaPointe realizes that Moishe is still hungry for talk; the short walk with Guttmann couldn’t have made up for his usual ramblings with Father Martin. For himself, LaPointe has no desire to get to his apartment. He has known all day what he will find there.
“How about a glass of tea?” Moishe suggests.
“Sure.”
They go across the street to a Russian café where tea is served in glasses set in metal holders. Their table is by the window, and they watch late passers-by in the comfortable silence of old friends who no longer have to talk to impress one another, or to define themselves.
“You know,” Moishe says idly, “I’m afraid I frightened him off, your young colleague. With a young girl on his mind, the last thing in the world he needed was a long-winded talk about sin and crime.” He smiles and shakes his head at himself. “Being a bore is bad enough. Knowing you’re boring but going ahead anyway, that’s worse.”
“Hm-m. I could see you had something stored up.”
Moishe fixes his friend with a sidelong look. “What do you mean, I had something stored up?”
“Oh, you know. All through the game you were sending out little feelers; but Father Martin wasn’t there to take you up. You know, I sometimes think you work out what you’re going to say during the day, while you’re cutting away on your fabric. Then you drop these ideas casually during the pinochle game, like they just popped into your head. And poor Martin is fishing around for his first thoughts, while you have everything carefully thought out.”
“Guilty! And being guilty I don’t mind so much as being transparent!” He laughs. “What chance does the criminal have against you, tell me that.”
LaPointe shrugs. “Oh, they manage to muddle along all right.”
Moishe nods. “Muddle along. System M: the big Muddle. The major organization principle of all governments. She seemed like a nice girl.”
LaPointe frowns. “What?”
“That girl I met in your apartment yesterday. She seemed nice.”
LaPointe looks at his friend. “Why do you say that? You know perfectly well she didn’t seem nice. She seemed like a street girl, which is all she is.”
“Yes, but…” Moishe shrugs and turns his attention to the street. After a silence, he says, “Yes, you’re right. She did seem like a street girl. But all girls of her age seem nice to me. I know better, but… My sister was just her age when we went into the camp. She was very lovely, my sister. Very shy. She never… she didn’t survive the camp.” He stares out the window for a while. Then he says quietly, “I’m not even sure I did. Entirely. You know what I mean?”
LaPointe cannot know what he means; he doesn’t answer.
“I guess that’s why I imagine that all girls of her age are nice… are vulnerable. That’s funny. Girls of her age! If she had lived, my sister would be in her early fifties now. I can’t picture that. I get older, but she remains twenty in my mind. You know what I mean?”
LaPointe knows exactly what he means; he doesn’t answer.
Moishe closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Ach, I don’t think I’m up to stumbling around in these parts of my memory. Better to let these things rest. They have been well grieved.”
“Well grieved? That’s a funny thing to say.”
“Why funny, Claude? You think grief is shameful?”
LaPointe shrugs. “I don’t think about it at all.”
“That’s odd. Of course grief is good! The greatest proof that God is not just playing cruel games with us is that He gave us the ability to grieve, and to forget. When one is wounded—I don’t mean physically—forgetfulness cauterizes and heals it over, but there would be rancor and hate and bitterness trapped under the scar. Grief is how you drain the wound, so it doesn’t poison you. You understand what I mean?”
LaPointe lifts his palms. “No, Moishe. I don’t. I’m sorry… but I’m not Father Martin. This kind of talk…”
“But Claude, this isn’t philosophy! Okay, maybe I say things too fancy, too preciously, but what I’m talking about isn’t abstract. It’s everyday life. It’s… obvious!”
“Not to me. I don’t know what you’re talking about when you say grief is good. It has nothing to do with me.” LaPointe realizes that his tone is unfriendly, that he is closing the door to the chat Moishe seems to need. But this talk about grief makes him uncomfortable.
Behind his round glasses, Moishe’s eyes read LaPointe’s face. “I see. Well… at least allow me to pay for the tea. That way, I won’t regret having bored you. Regret! There’s a little trio often confused: Grief, Remorse, Regret! Grief is the gift of the gods; Remorse is the whip of the gods; and Regret…? Regret is nothing. It’s what you say in a letter when you can’t fill an order in time.”
LaPointe looks out the window. He hopes Father Martin will get well soon.
They shake hands on the sidewalk in front of the Russian café, and LaPointe decides to take one last walk down the Main before turning in. He has to put his street to bed.