Side Effects, page 9
This decided, Mendel came to see Iskowitz every day. The patient couldn't believe his good fortune to have such a devoted friend. Mendel always brought a substantial and well thought out gift. One that would help him make a score in the eyes of Miss Hill. Pretty flowers, a biography of Tolstoy (he heard her mention how much she loved Anna Karenina), the poetry of Wordsworth, caviar. Iskowitz was stunned by the choices. He hated caviar and never heard of Wordsworth. Mendel did stop short of bringing Iskowitz a pair of antique earrings although he saw some he knew Miss Hill would adore.
The smitten suitor seized every opportunity to engage Iskowitz's nurse in conversation. Yes, she was engaged, he learned, but had trepidations about it. Her fiancé was a lawyer but she had fantasies of marrying someone more in the arts. Still, Norman, her beau, was tall and dark and gorgeous, a description that left the less physically prepossessing Mendel in a discouraged state. Mendel would always trumpet his accomplishments and observations to the deteriorating Iskowitz, in a voice loud enough to be heard by Miss Hill. He sensed that he might be impressing her but each time his position appeared strong, future plans with Norman entered the conversation. How lucky is this Norman, Mendel thought. He spends time with her, they laugh together, plan, he presses his lips to hers, he removes her nurse's uniform-perhaps not every stitch of it. Oh God! Mendel sighed, looking heavenward and shaking his head in frustration.
"You have no idea what these visits mean to Mr. Iskowitz," the nurse told Mendel one day, her delightful smile and big eyes making him go a hundred. "He has no family and most of his other friends have so little free time. My theory is, of course, that most people don't have the compassion or courage to spend lots of time with a terminal case. People write off the dying patient and prefer not to think about it. That's why I think your behavior is-well-magnificent."
Word of Mendel's indulgence of Iskowitz got around and at the weekly card game he was much beloved by the players.
"What you're doing is wonderful," Phil Birnbaum said to Mendel over poker. "Meyer tells me no one comes as regularly as you do and he says he thinks you even dress up for the occasion." Mendel's mind was fixed at that second on Miss Hill's hips, which he couldn't get out of his thoughts.
"So how is he? Is he brave?" Sol Katz asked.
"Is who brave?" Mendel asked in his reverie.
"Who? Who we talking about? Poor Meyer."
"Oh, er-yeah. Brave. Right," Mendel said, not even realizing he was at that moment holding a full house.
As the weeks passed, Iskowitz wasted away. Once, in a weakened condition, he looked up at Mendel who stood over him and muttered, "Lenny, I love you. Really." Mendel took Meyer's outstretched hand and said, "Thanks, Meyer. Listen, was Miss Hill in today? Huh? Could you speak up a little? It's hard to understand you." Iskowitz nodded weakly. "Uh-huh," Mendel said, "so what'd you guys talk about? Did my name come up?"
Mendel, of course, had not dared make a move for Miss Hill, finding himself in the awkward position of not wanting her ever to dream that he was there so frequently for any reason other than to see Meyer Iskowitz.
Sometimes, being at death's door would inspire the patient to philosophize and he would say things like, "We're here, we don't know why. It's over before we know what hit us. The trick is to enjoy the moment. To be alive is to be happy. And yet I believe God exists and when I look around me and see the sunlight streaming through the window or the stars come out at night, I know that He has some ultimate plan and that it's good."
"Right, right," Mendel would answer. "And Miss Hill? Is she still seeing Norman? Did you find out what I asked you? If you see her when they come to do those tests on you tomorrow, find out."
On a rainy April day Iskowitz died. Before expiring he told Mendel once again that he loved him and that Mendel's concern for him in these last months was the most touching and deepest experience he ever had with another human being. Two weeks later Miss Hill and Norman broke up and Mendel started dating her. They had an affair that lasted a year and then they went their separate ways.
"That's some story," Moscowitz said when Koppelman finished relating this tale about the shallowness of Lenny Mendel. "It goes to show how some people are just no damn good."
"I didn't get that out of it," Jake Fishbein said.
"Not at all. The story shows how love of a woman enables a man to overcome his fears of mortality if only for a while."
"What are you talking about?" Abe Trochman chimed in. "The point of the story is that a dying man becomes the beneficiary of his friend's sudden adoration of a woman."
"But they weren't friends," Lupowitz argued. "Mendel went out of obligation. He returned out of self-interest."
"What's the difference?" Trochman said. "Iskowitz experienced a closeness. He died comforted. That it was motivated by Mendel's lust for the nurse-so?"
"Lust? Who said lust? Mendel, despite his shallowness, may have felt love for the first time in his life."
"What's the difference?" Bursky said. "Who cares what the point of the story is? If it even has a point. It was an entertaining anecdote. Let's order."
The Query
(The following is a one-act play based on an incident in the life of Abraham Lincoln. The incident may or may not be true. The point is I was tired when I wrote it.)
I
(Lincoln with boyish eagerness beckons George Jennings, his press secretary, into the room.)
Jennings: Mr. Lincoln, you sent for me?
Lincoln: Yes, Jennings. Come in. Sit down.
Jennings: Yes, Mr. President?
Lincoln: (Unable to suppress a grin) I want to discuss an idea.
Jennings: Of course, sir.
Lincoln: Next time we have a conference for the gentlemen of the press…
Jennings: Yessir…?
Lincoln: When I take questions…
Jennings: Yes, Mr. President…?
Lincoln: You raise your hand and ask me: Mr. President, how long do you think a man's legs should be?
Jennings: Pardon me?
Lincoln: You ask me: how long do I think a man's legs should be?
Jennings: May I ask why, sir?
Lincoln: Why? Because I have a very good answer.
Jennings: You do?
Lincoln: Long enough to reach the ground.
Jennings: Excuse me?
Lincoln: Long enough to reach the ground. That's the answer! Get it? How long do you think a man's legs should be? Long enough to reach the ground!
Jennings: I see.
Lincoln: You don't think it's funny?
Jennings: May I be frank, Mr. President?
Lincoln: (Annoyed) Well, I got a big laugh with it today.
Jennings: Really?
Lincoln: Absolutely. I was with the cabinet and some friends and a man asked it and I shot back that answer and the whole room broke up.
Jennings: May I ask, Mr. Lincoln, in what context did he ask it?
Lincoln: Pardon me?
Jennings: Were you discussing anatomy? Was the man a surgeon or a sculptor?
Lincoln: Why-er-no-I-I-don't think so. No. A simple farmer, I believe.
Jennings: Well, why did he want to know?
Lincoln: Well, I don't know. All I know is he was someone who had requested an audience with me urgently…
Jennings: (Concerned) I see.
Lincoln: What is it, Jennings, you look pale?
Jennings: It is a rather odd question.
Lincoln: Yes, but I got a laugh off it. It was a quick answer.
Jennings: No one's denying that, Mr. Lincoln.
Lincoln: A big laugh. The whole cabinet just broke up.
Jennings: And then did the man say anything?
Lincoln: He said thank you and left.
Jennings: You never asked why he wanted to know?
Lincoln: If you must know, I was too pleased with my answer. Long enough to reach the ground. It came out so fast. I didn't hesitate.
Jennings: I know, I know. It's just, well, this whole thing's got me worried.
II
(Lincoln and Mary Todd in their bedroom, middle of the night. She in bed, Lincoln pacing nervously.)
Mary: Come to bed, Abe. What's wrong?
Lincoln: That man today. The question. I can't get it out of my mind. Jennings's opened a can of worms.
Mary: Forget it, Abe.
Lincoln: I want to, Mary. Jesus, don't you think I want to? But those haunting eyes. Imploring. What could have prompted it? I need a drink.
Mary: No, Abe.
Lincoln: Yes.
Mary: I said, no! You've been jittery lately. It's this damn civil war.
Lincoln: It's not the war. I didn't respond to the human being. I was too preoccupied with getting the quick laugh. I allowed a complex issue to elude me just so I could get some chuckles from my cabinet. They hate me anyhow.
Mary: They love you, Abe.
Lincoln: I'm vain. Still, it was a fast comeback.
Mary: I agree. Your answer was clever. Long enough to reach his torso.
Lincoln: To reach the ground.
Mary: No, you said it the other way.
Lincoln: No. What's funny about that?
Mary: To me it's a lot funnier.
Lincoln: That's funnier?
Mary: Sure.
Lincoln: Mary, you don't know what you're talking about.
Mary: The image of legs rising to a torso…
Lincoln: Forget it! Can we forget it! Where's the bourbon?
Mary: (Withholding the bottle) No, Abe, You won't drink tonight! I won't allow it!
Lincoln: Mary, what's happened to us? We used to have such fun.
Mary: (Tenderly) Come here, Abe. There's a full moon tonight. Like the night we met.
Lincoln: No, Mary. The night we met there was a waning moon.
Mary: Full.
Lincoln: Waning.
Mary: Full.
Lincoln: I'll get the almanac.
Mary: Oh Christ, Abe, forget it!
Lincoln: I'm sorry.
Mary: Is it the question? The legs? Is it still that?
Lincoln: What did he mean?
III
(The cabin of Will Raines and his wife. Haines enters after a long ride. Alice puts down her quilting basket and runs to him.)
Alice: Well, did you ask him? Will he pardon Andrew?
Will: (Beside himself) Oh, Alice, I did such a stupid thing.
Alice: (Bitterly) What? Don't tell me he won't pardon our son?
Will: Ididn't ask him.
Alice: You what!? You didn't ask him!?
Will: Idon't know what came over me. There he was, the President of the United States, surrounded by important people. His cabinet, his friends. Then someone said, Mr. Lincoln, this man has ridden all day to speak to you. He has a question to ask. All the while I was riding I had gone over the question in my mind. "Mr. Lincoln, sir, our boy Andrew made a mistake. I realize how serious it is to fall asleep on guard duty, but executing such a young man seems so cruel. Mr. President, sir, couldn't you commute his sentence?"
Alice: That was the correct way to put it.
Will: But for some reason, with all those folks staring at me, when the President said, "Yes, what is your question?" I said, "Mr. Lincoln, how long do you think a man's legs should be?"
Alice: What?
Will: That's right. That was my question. Don't ask me why it came out. How long do you think a man's legs should be?
Alice: What kind of question is that?
Will: I'm telling you, I don't know.
Alice: His legs? How long?
Will: Oh, Alice, forgive me.
Alice: How long should a man's legs be? That's the stupidest question I've ever heard.
Will: Iknow, I know. Don't keep reminding me.
Alice: But why leg length? I mean, legs are not a subject that particularly interests you.
Will: Iwas fumfering for words. I forgot my original request. I could hear the clock ticking. I didn't want to appear tongue-tied.
Alice: Did Mr. Lincoln say anything? Did he answer?
Witt: Yes. He said, long enough to reach the ground.
Alice: Long enough to reach the ground? What the hell does that mean?
Will: Who knows? But he got a big laugh. Of course, those guys are disposed toward reacting.
Alice: (Suddenly turns) Maybe you really didn't want Andrew pardoned.
Will: What?
Alice: Maybe down deep you don't want our son's sentence commuted. Maybe you're jealous of him.
Will: You're crazy. I-I. Me? Jealous?
Alice: Why not? He's stronger. He's smoother with pick and ax and hoe. He's got a feel for the soil like no man I've seen.
Will: Stop it! Stop it!
Alice: Let's face it, William, you're a lousy farmer.
Witt: (Trembling with panic) Yes, I admit it! I hate farming! The seeds all look alike to me! And the soil! I can never tell it apart from dirt! You, from the east, with your fancy schools! Laughing at me. Sneering. I plant turnips and corn comes up! You think that doesn't hurt a man!?
Alice: If you would just fasten the seed packets to a little stick you'd know what you planted!
Will: Iwant to die! Everything is going black!
(Suddenly there is a knock at the door and when Alice opens it, it is none other than Abraham Lincoln. He is haggard and red-eyed.)
Lincoln: Mr. Haines?
Will: President Lincoln…
Lincoln: That question-
Will: Iknow, I know… how stupid of me! It was all I could think of, I was so nervous.
(Haines falls on his knees weeping. Lincoln also weeps.)
Lincoln: Then I was right. It was a non sequitur.
Will: Yes, yes… forgive me…
Lincoln: (Weeping unashamedly) I do, I do. Rise. Stand up. Your boy will be pardoned today. As will all boys who made a mistake be forgiven.
(Gathering the Haines family in his arms)
Your stupid question has caused me to reevaluate my life. For that I thank you and love you.
Alice: We did some reevaluating too, Abe. May we call you…?
Lincoln: Yes, sure, why not? Do you guys have anything to eat? A man travels so many miles, at least offer him something.
(As they break out the bread and cheese the curtain falls.)
Fabrizio's: Criticism and Response
(An exchange in one of the more thought-provoking journals, in which Fabian Plotnick, our most high-minded restaurant critic, reviews Fabrizio's Villa Nova Restaurant, on Second Avenue, and, as usual, stimulates some profound responses.)
Pasta as an expression of Italian Neo-Realistic starch is well understood by Mario Spinelli, the chef at Fabrizio's. Spinelli kneads his pasta slowly. He allows a buildup of tension by the customers as they sit salivating. His fettuccine, though wry and puckish in an almost mischievous way, owes a lot to Barzino, whose use of fettuccine as an instrument of social change is known to us all. The difference is that at Barzino's the patron is led to expect white fettuccine and gets it. Here at Fabrizio's he gets green fettuccine. Why? It all seems so gratuitous. As customers, we are not prepared for the change. Hence, the green noodle does not amuse us. It's disconcerting in a way unintended by the chef. The linguine, on the other hand, is quite delicious and not at all didactic. True, there is a pervasive Marxist quality to it, but this is hidden by the sauce. Spinelli has been a devoted Italian Communist for years, and has had great success in espousing his Marxism by subtly including it in the tortellini.
I began my meal with an antipasto, which at first appeared aimless, but as I focused more on the anchovies the point of it became clearer. Was Spinelli trying to say that all life was represented here in this antipasto, with the black olives an unbearable reminder of mortality? If so, where was the celery? Was the omission deliberate? At Jacobelli's, the antipasto consists solely of celery. But Jacobelli is an extremist. He wants to call our attention to the absurdity of life. Who can forget his scampi: four garlic-drenched shrimp arranged in a way that says more about our involvement in Vietnam than countless books on the subject? What an outrage in its time! Now it appears tame next to Gino Finochi's (of Gino's Vesuvio Restaurant) Soft Piccata, a startling six-foot slice of veal with a piece of black chiffon attached to it. (Finochi always works better in veal than either fish or chicken, and it was a shocking oversight by Time when reference to him was omitted in the cover story on Robert Rauschenberg.) Spinelli, unlike these avant-garde chefs, rarely goes all the way. He hesitates, as with his spumoni, and when it comes, of course it is melted. There has always been a certain tentativeness about Spinelli's style-particularly in his treatment of Spaghetti Vongole. (Before his psychoanalysis, clams held great terror for Spinelli. He could not bear to open them, and when forced to look inside he blacked out. His early attempts at Vongole saw him dealing exclusively with "clam substitutes." He used peanuts, olives, and finally, before his breakdown, little rubber erasers.)
