"His name?" said Feodor Mishkin. "Hm! Always you want names. Is life a
matter of names and addresses or is it something else?"
"But the story would be better, Feodor, with names in it."
The rotund and omniscient journalist from the west side muttered to
himself in Russian.
"Better!" he repeated. "And why better? If I tell you his name is Yankel
or Berella or Chaim Duvit do you know any more than if I tell you his name
is Pitzela?"
"No. We will drop the matter. I will call him Chaim Yankel."
"You will call him Chaim Yankel! And what for? His name is Pitzela and not
Chaim Yankel."
"Thanks."
"You can go anywhere on Maxwell Street and ask anybody you meet do they
know Pitzela and they will say: 'Do we know Pitzela? We know Pitzela all
right.' So what is there to be gained by calling him Chaim Yankel?"
"Nothing, Feodor. It was a mistake even to think of it."
"It was. Well, as I was telling you before you began this interruption
about names, he is exactly 110 years old. Can you imagine a man 110 years
old? A man 110 years old is an unusual thing, isn't it?"
"It is, Feodor. But I once knew a man 113 years old."
"Ha! And what kind of a man was he? Did he dance jigs? Did he crack nuts
with his teeth? Did he drink like a fish?"
"No, he was an old man and very sad."
"You see! He was sad. So what has he to do with Pitzela? Nothing. Pitzela
laughs all day long. And he dances jigs. And he cracks nuts with his
teeth. Mind you, a man 110 years old cracks nuts with his teeth! Can you
imagine such a thing?"
"No Feodor. It is amazing."
"Amazing? Why amazing? Everything that happens different from what you
know is amazing to you! You are very naïve. You know what naïve means? It
is French."
"I know what naïve means, Feodor. Go on about Pitzela."
"Naïve means to be childish late in life. In a way you are like Pitzela,
despite the difference in your ages. He is naïve. You know what he wants?"
"What?"
"This Pitzela wants to show everybody how young he is. That's his central
ambition. He don't talk English much, but when you ask him, 'Pitzela, how
do you feel today?' he says to you right back, 'Oi, me? I'm full o' pep.'
Then if you ask him, 'How old are you, Pitzela?' he says: 'Old? What does
it matter how old I am? I am just beginning to enjoy myself. And when you
talk about my dying don't laugh too much. Because, you know, I will attend
all your funerals. When I am 300 years old I will be burying your
grandchildren.' And he will laugh. Do you like the story?"
"Yes, Feodor. But it isn't long enough. I will have to go out and see
Pitzela and describe him and that will make the story long enough."
"It isn't long enough? What do you mean? I just begun. The story ain't
about Pitzela at all. So why should you go see Pitzela?"
"But I thought it was about Pitzela."
"You thought! Hm! Well, you see what good it does you to think. For
according to your thinking the story is already finished. Whereas
according to me the story is only just beginning."
"But you said it was about Pitzela, Feodor. So I believed you."
"I said nothing of the sort. I merely asked you if you knew Pitzela. The
story is entirely about Pitzela's son."
"Aha! This Pitzela has a son. That's interesting."
"Of course it is. Pitzela's son is a man 87 years old. Ask anybody on
Maxwell street do they know Pitzela's son and they will tell you: 'Do we
know Pitzela's son? Hm! It's a scandal."
"The editor, Feodor, forbids me to write about scandals. So be careful."
"This scandal is one you can write about. This Pitzela's son is such a
poor old man that he can hardly walk. He has a long white beard and wears
a yamulka and he has no teeth and one foot is already deep in the grave.
If you saw Pitzela's son you would say: 'Why don't this dying man go home
and sit down instead of running around like this?'
"And why don't he?"
"Why don't he? Such a question! He don't because Pitzela don't let him.
Pitzela is his father and he has to mind his father. And Pitzela says:
'What! You want to hang around the house like you were an old man? You are
crazy. Look at me, I'm your father. And you a young man, my son, act like
you were my father. It's a scandal. Come, we will go to the banquet.'
"What banquet, Feodor?"
"Oh, any banquet. He drags him. He don't let him rest. And he says: 'You
must shave off your beard. For fifteen years you been letting it grow and
now it's altogether too long. How does it look for me to go around with a
son who not only can't walk, but has a beard that makes him look like
Father Abraham himself?'"
"And what does Pitzela's son say?"
"What can he say? Nothing. The doctor comes and tells him: 'You got to
stay in the house. You are going out too much. How old are you?' And
Pitzela's son shakes his tired head and says: 'Eighty-seven years old,
doctor.' And the doctor gives strict orders. But Pitzela comes in and
laughs. Imagine."
"Yes, it's a good story, Feodor."
"A good story! How do you know? I ain't come to the point yet. But never
mind, if you like it so much you don't need any point."
"The point, Feodor. Excuse me."
"Well, the point is that Pitzela and the way he treats his son is a
scandal. You know why? Because he uses his son as an advertisement.
Pitzela's son, mind you, is so weak and old that he can hardly walk and he
carries a heavy cane and his hands shake like leaves. And Pitzela drags
him around all over. To banquets. To political meetings. To the Yiddish
theater. All over. He holds him by the arm and brings him into the hall
and sits him down in a chair. And Pitzela's son sits so tired and almost
dead he can't move. And then Pitzela jumps up and gets excited and says:
'Look at him. A fine son, for you! Look, he's almost dead. Tell me if you
wouldn't think he was my father and I was his son? Instead of the other
way around? I ask you.'"
"And what does Pitzela's son say, Feodor?"
"Say? What can he say? He looks up and shakes his head some more. He can
hardly see. And when the banquet talking begins he falls asleep and
Pitzela has to hold him up from falling out of the chair. And when the
food is done and the dessert comes Pitzela leans over and says to his son:
'Listen. I got a treat for you. Here.' And he reaches into his pocket and
brings out a handful of hickory nuts. 'Crack them with your teeth,' he
says, 'like your father.' And when his son looks at him and strokes his
white beard and sighs, Pitzela jumps up and laughs so you can hear him all
over the banquet hall. But the point of the story is that two weeks ago
Pitzela went to his grandson's funeral. It was Pitzela's son's son and he
was a man almost 70 years old. And it was a scandal at the funeral. Why?
Because Pitzela laughed and coming back from the grave he said: 'Look at
me, my grandson dies and I go to his funeral and if he had a son I would
go to his, too, and I would dance jigs both times.'"