Broken Necks/The Imposter

The soft, crackle of the rain surrounded by umbrella. It is true. I now carry an umbrella. I find an increasing tendency when writing of myself to tell pleasant lies. And unless I watch closely the words I set down, the characteristics I describe or to which I confess pertain to a figure ten years younger than myself.

On this day as it rained I thought, "There are fewer and fewer things to do and places to visit in town." Then I recalled an old Jew who used to run a tin shop, in a Maxwell street basement. A delightful old man. Calm, white bearded, clever fingered. It was his habit to talk about God. He had been educated as a Rabbi in his youth. The sense of humor which often turns Jews into sardonic and pessimistic creatures had blown up the pious soul of the rabbinical youth.

On holidays I would sit in the clean and tiny flat behind his shop and he would talk. I recall some of his sentences. . .. "I watch people in the street. They run around like little bugs. And when somebody or something steps on them they roll over on their backs and that is the end." Again I remember. "What do you suppose God is? A dream men have made up so as not to be afraid of sleep. Sleep is too dark, yes? We will fall asleep some time and have beautiful dreams. They say this to each other and feel better. . . .? One day he said to me: "How can anyone be angry or excited? Stop to think, and what happens? You always smile. I am happy because my mind tells me life is nothing and there is nothing important enough in the world to make me unhappy."

It was raining and I walked curiously in Maxwell street, looking for a basement tin shop again. Years had passed. The street vaguely reminded me of an old suit I had once worn. Perhaps the old tinsmith had died. But he had had a wife, a stout woman ten or fifteen years younger than himself. A round face, small, twinkling black eyes and compressed lips, as if she were always on the verge of saying something. But I remembered her as a silent woman.

The place was where I left it almost eight years ago. The steps leading down from the sidewalk wabbled a bit more as I walked on them. And the old man was sitting behind his bench dozing.

He woke as I greeted him in Yiddish.

"Hello, Reb Duvid; come away from your dreams."

He had allowed these familiarities because my Yiddish, remembered from an embattled ghetto childhood, contained only profane or scurrilous phrases. The old man opened his eyes and looked at me with a frown.

"Eh... eh?" he grunted. I saw he thought I was a customer.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"Don’t you remember me, Reb Duvid?"

He drew a pair of specs from his work apron and fitted them on his nose. After regarding me for a minute, he shook his head.

"Do you want something?" he repeated.

"We used to be friends," I persisted. "Long ago. Eight years."

"Ai yai," he clucked his tongue. "So it is you? Ai yai."

"Well, you haven’t changed much," I began.

He continued to cluck and wag his head as he came from behind the counter.

"How is your father and mother?" he inquired. I looked at him with surprise. I was certain I had never mentioned my family to him.

"Very fine," I answered. "And with you, how goes it?"

"Hm, all right." He paused and stared at me again. "You... you want something?" he asked with a puzzled expression.

"Evidently you don’t remember me," I explained.

He stroked his beard and pouted his old lips.

"It seems to me I do, and it seems to me I don’t," he answered.

I explained to him my visits years ago and recalled our talks. He listened and nodded.

"That was before my wife died," he agreed. "Yes, I used to have the shop here. I’ve been here now for sixteen years. Eight years ago I was here, too."

"And I don’t exist in your mind?" I pursued.

"It is some mistake," he smiled hopefully. "There is another man who has a tin shop on the other side of the street. He makes keys, too. I don’t make keys. There is no money in it. Maybe it’s that man."

I nodded as if agreeing.

"Yes, maybe I have made a mistake. But wait a minute. Perhaps you will remember when I say that I always called you Reb Duvid. It’s not your name, but..."

"Names I have had called me so much,” he answered, "that how can I remember one more than the other. It must be across the street you want him."

"Thanks," I said. "I'll try across the street. Goodbye. I'm sorry I woke you up from your dreams, Reb Duvid."

"Ai, yai," he clucked, smiled and returned to his chair behind the work counter. I watched him as I opened the door. His bearded face was again lowered, his eyes closed and a smile over his lips. He was almost dozing.

The rain crackled softly around my umbrella once more.

"He's forgotten me," I thought, feeling more and more surprised over the misadventure. "This is curious. I remember almost every word of his talk and mine eight years ago. And to him I am part of a blur that includes customers, store, windows, rainfall. I felt like a dead man when I was talking to him now. He looked at me and said: "You are wrong, you never existed."

I was walking rather pensively down the street when I noticed the sign of a tin shop. I stopped in front of it and stared into the gloomy basement interior. An old man with a white beard was puttering around. Curiosity led me down the steps. The old man, bent and shrivelled, looked up as I opened the door. His rheumy eyes watered, his hand shook.

"Ah, hello, hello?" he exclaimed in a hoarsened voice. "My old friend. Well, well, come in. Where have you been? Ai, how many times I've thought of you."

I stood looking at him. It was incredible. There was no vestige of my old friend the tinsmith in this figure. His face, body and voice had changed as if a new man had entered. As I shook hands with him he grew more and more unfamiliar. I felt there must be some involved mistake. I sat for a half hour with him in the tiny flat back of the shop, listening to his talk. And despite all logic and fact, I continued to feel a curious sense of loss as he talked. Somehow the dreamy old white-bearded one who didn't know me remained in my mind the friend of my youth for whom I had been seeking. And this garrulous old woman, bent and trembling with age—a strange imposter.