Editor’s Note: The Last Hotel: A Novel in Suites by Sonia Pilcer. This is the third installment of her tales of the Upper West Side in the 1970s. Look for it every Friday. To read the previous installment, click here; to read the first, click here. Of this work, the author Hilma Wolitzer has observed: “‘The Last Hotel’ is a 20th Century ark filled with survivors of history and gentrification. Sonia Pilcer brings them all vividly to life with gentle wit and a generous heart.”
Suite 36
As Pincus entered his room, the orange glow of the setting sun lit up the white walls. He heaved a long sigh of relief. Dropped his heavy briefcase on his bed. Lying down next to it, he stared up at the ceiling, whose cracks he’d memorized like a map of the world. He’d made it to another Shabbes.
For most of his life, Pincus had lived in Washington Heights with the other Jews, originally from Germany and Austria. A walk down Fort Washington Avenue, all you heard was broken English and Yiddish. Kissinger had grown up around the corner.
When his father Max had sent him to Yiddish school, no one had suspected that it would become his passion. His longing for a lost people he never knew, a lost self, perhaps, a very nearly extinct culture. He spent most of his waking moments reading old and some new Yiddish texts. He translated several books a year, while he kept his job at the Jewish Daily Forward, where he’d worked since 1958.
Then the yekkers started to leave Washington Heights because of ‘die nishgutnicks.’ Shvartzehs, Puertoricans, Dominicans entered. Pincus wouldn’t move. This was their neighborhood too. He had grown up among immigrants on the Lower Eastside. He enjoyed the vitality of Broadway. It was just one subway to work: the IND, which he picked up on 168th Street to the 28th Street stop and a brisk walk across town.
But after Sylvie died, the apartment grew too large. Too many rooms, too much dust. Every corner, especially the kitchen, which he avoided, reminded him of their life together. He had to move.
Originally, he had found the Last Hotel in the Yellow Pages, taken by its name. Over the phone, he spoke to the manager in Yiddish.
“We have only a small studio apartment. Suite 36.”
“Thirty-six!” Pincus gasped.
Eighteen was the numerical value of Chai, the Hebrew word for life, for luck. According to Gematria, thirty-six was double Chai. “Le Chaim.” May it be so. It was beshert. Written in the stars.
“Thirty dollars a week for a studio.”
“Oh, yes. That’s fine.”
“Come today,” Saul commanded. “With a check.”
The sun had set. It was good that Pincus had prepared his table earlier, two white candles in the silver candlesticks Sylvie had found at an antique store in the West End. Two crystal glasses and a bottle of red wine, the challah wrapped in a cloth embroidered by Sylvie.
He lit the candles, covering his eyes. After reciting the blessing, he stood, eyes still covered.
He remembered his mother Helah lighting candles in their home. Covering her eyes, she prayed, then walked over to his father, who had washed up, his wet hair combed back. “Gut shabbes, Max.” She kissed him on the lips. Then he went around the table, laying his hands first on his sister Ella’s head, then on Pincus’ head, blessing them both. Then Max sat down at the head of the table like a czar, though he had worked through the night in their store, and would open it again tomorrow at sunset. But on Shabbes, he recited the prayer for grain from the earth, salting the challah, breaking pieces off and passing them around.
He opened his eyes. “Shabbat shalom!” He turned to Sylvie. “Mine ziskeit.”
Taking a large magnifying glass from a shelf, Pincus laid it over his prayer book. So difficult to read. If he couldn’t read, how could he live? The doctor had convinced him to have the cataract operation on his good eye. “You’ll see how much your vision will improve,” he said. Sure. Now his good eye was worse than his bad eye. He could hardly read The New York Times. A shandeh! Scandal. Pincus squinted through his page-sized magnifying glass at Yedid Nefesh. The love song between God and one’s soul. He sang the Hebrew psalm with a robust voice, so unlike his normal near-whisper.
“You who love my soul, sweet source of tenderness, take my inner nature and shape it to your will… Let your sweet love delight me with its thrill. Because no other dainty will my hunger still–“
He looked up at Sylvie again. It was a good likeness. The painter had caught her shiny brown hair, intelligent brown eyes, her smile, which was warm and generous. She was not a beauty, thanks God. What a neshomeh Sylvie had, a sweet soul like no other. She laughed at his jokes, no matter how many times he told them. That’s true love. How he missed her. Every day of his life.
He lit the Yortzeit candle on April 22nd, the day the cancer finally took Sylvie after a year of suffering. But he never stopped thinking of her, talking to her. He sighed again. Oh, Sylvie. Why had his Maker seen fit to take his love from him?
People said to him, “Go out. For God’s sake, live a little!”
Saul brought it up to him. “Pincus, isn’t your shiveh over yet?”
Even Sylvie urged him. “Pinkeleh, find yourself a woman,” she told him. “You’ll get crazy if you don’t. You won’t eat. And who’s going to take care of you if you get sick, God forbid. Not me. Enough is enough. Stop with your krechts. I don’t want sainthood.”
I need a woman like a loch in kop. A hole in the head. He poured wine into their two glasses. Raising one glass, he recited the blessing for the fruit of the vine. “Mine Sylvie,” he sighed, clinking the other glass.
After a few minutes, he walked into his kitchenette. He turned on his hot plate. Reaching for a can of beef stew from the cupboard, he poured the contents into an aluminum saucepan, placing it on the hot plate. Then he emptied his briefcase on the bed. Five Yiddish titles poured out. He picked one up. A Peretz book. He began to leaf through the pages. Very interesting. Several minutes passed. Oy vey! Pincus rushed to check that his pot didn’t burn the hotel down.
What was that? Pincus stopped and listened. There was a soft knock on his door! Who could it be? He placed his magnifying glass and prayer book down on the table. Another knock! “A minute,” he called.
Who would come at such a time? He looked down at himself, tucked his shirt in his pants, put on his jacket, then opened the door.
“Gut Shabbes.” A voice with a feminine lilt greeted him.
He opened the door slowly. The woman looked vaguely familiar. Who was this?
“Don’t look at me like you don’t know me,” she said. “I’m your neighbor. Faye Meyer in Suite 32.”
“Oh, yes. Near the elevator.”
“Is this a one-bedroom?” she asked.
“No, a studio.” He stood still as a statue.
“What do you pay, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Thirty dollars a week,” he answered.
“Mine has an ‘alcove,’ whatever that is. Where you can your hide your bed, I suppose.” She laughed. “I pay forty-five. How long have you been here?”
Pincus thought about it. “Eight years.”
“Oh,” Faye said. “I’ve only been here two years.”
He stepped back. “What can I do for you?”
“You can wish me a good Shabbes,” she said. “Actually -–“ She handed him a black covered pot. “Here.”
“What’s this?”
“Can I come in?” she asked.
“Why not?” he answered, adding a little joke. “Unless you’re a golem.”
Faye entered like a fire engine, or was it the color of her hair? Her silver bracelets made a ringing sound as she walked around the room. “Very nice,” she said.
She stopped in front of the painting, which filled the wall above his couch.
“That’s Sylvie,” he said as if he was introducing her.
As she took it in, especially the ruby stone ring, Pincus studied Faye. Her red hair fell in long waves around her face. Tight-fitting black slacks showed off her hips, which were ample.
“I made a brisket with carrots and potatoes, but there’s too much for one person. I thought you might like to share some with me.” Faye raised the lid of the black pot.
Pincus stared into the pot.
“So have a ‘lek un a shmek’ as my grandmother Lyla used to say. A smell and a taste.”
“Gut,” Pincus sniffed. “Very good.”
“Come,” she said, taking his hand. Then she looked down at the table and noticed the two glasses.
“What’s this?”
“That’s Sylvie’s glass.”
“Sylvie?”
“My wife.”
“I don’t understand,” Faye flustered, thinking of her visitation. “I thought that –“
“We were married for twenty-two years. She was 54 years old when she died.”
“Oh, how terrible! I had no idea.” Faye gasped. “How long ago was it?”
“Eleven years,” Pincus answered matter-of-factly.
“Oh.” Faye paused. “You talk like it just happened. Like you’re still in mourning.”
“I never stop missing her,” he admitted sorrowfully.
Faye stood up. “I’m sorry.”
“No,” said Pincus. “It’s all right.”
“I should go. I just thought maybe we could have a little time without all the others, especially that Lenny with the big mouth. I can’t stand his cigars! To see if we could get along.” She wanted to tell him about the vision she had of Sylvie, but was afraid he’d think she was crazy.
Pincus mumbled something inaudibly.
“I was thinking it could be nice,” she continued wistfully. “We’re neighbors. We could help each other. But I see I made a mistake.”
She reached for her pot of brisket.
Pincus held on to it.
“If you give me a bowl,” she said, “I can leave you some of the brisket.“
“To be honest, after such a long time, I don’t know how to talk with a woman,” he declared awkwardly. “I recognize your effort –“
“Oh, do I get E for effort?”
“Why do you say that?”
“It’s just an expression.”
Pincus put down the black pot on the table. Then he removed Sylvie’s glass and brought it to the sink. He found another wine glass and gave it to Faye. “May I?”
He poured wine into her glass. “Let’s say the blessing.”
Together they recited the prayer, finishing “… borey pre hagafen…” Bless the fruit of the vine. Then they clinked glasses and drank the wine.
“Manischewitz.” Faye winced.
“What else?”
“Let me heat this up,” she said, standing up, moving her zoftik hips. “You don’t mind?”
She removed the pot of can stew, then set her black pot, turning the burner low so it could simmer slowly. The flame slithered as they regarded each other frankly.
Not bad for an alte kocker, thought Faye. He had a good head of silver hair, thick and curly. Probably at least ten years older than her, maybe fifteen. But age was a number, like hers, didn’t have to be a prison cell.
She stared at the painting of Sylvie and that ring. As a work of art, it wasn’t much. Oh, but to be loved like that!
It was as if Pincus was slowly awakening from a deep sleep. In the dream, he was blind to the world. He had walked the streets of Manhattan with his eyes on his shoes, looking up only to check the traffic light. Gotenyu! A woman stood before him. A mature, full-bodied voman. Faye was like a Henry Moore statue with huge brosts, a soft stomach, ach, a knish. Vagina. Oy vey! Pincus shut his eyes tightly. He was undressing his neighbor.
“I better check the brisket.” Faye sidled away from Pincus, swinging her zoftik hips. She raised the lid and a cloud of heavenly smells descended over the kitchen. Pincus sighed, remembering the smell of his mother’s kitchen.
The brisket was a masterpiece. Soft, sumptuous pieces of beef in a thick gravy, sauce-soaked potatoes, onions, and carrots. Such a thing! The meat soft as butter. You didn’t even need a knife! Pincus had never liked other briskets than Sylvie’s, but Faye’s forced him to reconsider.
“I’d love to have a drink,” Faye said after they finished dinner. “What do you have besides the Manischewitz?”
Unworldly until this very moment, Pincus had nothing else.
“Just a minute,” Faye announced, standing up. “I’ll get something from my apartment.”
A look of desperation crossed Pincus’ face. “Don’t worry. I’ll be right back.” She grabbed her keys and ran out.
At the table, Pincus sat unmoving as if afraid that if he moved, it would all end. He was stupefied by his mazel. Luck. Astounded by his own stupidity, his self-denial, and martyrdom. He couldn’t get the vision of Faye’s brosts out of his mind. He’d forgotten what it was to desire.
Faye returned with a bottle of Absolut, another with a brown liqueur, and a container of Half and Half. “Kahluah,” she said, pointing to the bottle like a schoolteacher. “Pincus, have you ever had a White Russian?”
“I don’t really drink,” he said.
“It’s like coffee au lait.”
“I used to be a Bolshevik,” he joked. “Now I’m a Czarist!”
What a sweet taste had the White Russian. Pincus drank two glasses, and found himself beaming. To be talking with a woman again! He felt a boyish glee as he heard about that shmendrik husband of hers. “I’ve been divorced a long time,” she said. Faye had a daughter in Denver. Pincus’ daughter lived in London, where Sylvie’s people were from.
“Faye, are you a faigeleh?” Pincus asked. “The little bird that flies out in the field. There’s a beautiful Yiddish song, ‘Faigeleh.’”
“Actually I am. It’s what my grandmother called me.”
“Faigeleh…” He pronounced the word with tenderness.
“Pinkeleh,” she answered.
“That’s what Sylvie calls me,” he said.
“I’m sorry.” Faye pulled away. “There I go again, saying the wrong thing.”
“No, no!” Pincus said, stroking her smoky hair like the forest. A person could get lost there. “I like that you called me Pinkeleh.”
They looked at each other, then he turned away bashfully. Vot did a mensch say who had been with one woman, Sylvie, and then for eleven years, gornisht. Nothing. He was a young boy masquerading as an old Jewish man. He took Faye’s hand. “So you know a little momehloshen? Our mother tongue. Yiddish?”
“A bisel. Just a few words from my zeyde. But I love the sound. It always makes me laugh.”
“I’ll teach you,” he said.
“You’re a teacher?” she asked.
“I’m a translator, actually. But since my cataract operation, I don’t see so well. I translate Yiddish.”
“I teach French literature at Hunter,” she told him.
“My boss’ daughter goes there,” he added.
“My zeyde used to read the Bintel Brief so he could tell us everyone’s business.”
He rolled his eyes. “I edited and rewrote most of the letters. You wouldn’t believe what some people write. I can’t even tell you.” He blushed, his cheeks turning bright pink.
“You should see how some of my students write.”
They laughed at the same time, ending up in each other’s arms. He kissed her softly on the lips. Baruch Hashem! He still remembered! She kissed him. They embraced for several minutes. Faye gently pulled away.
“Did I do something wrong?” he asked.
“No, no. It’s just that…” She hesitated, then smiled. “Would you like to see my apartment?”
He looked disoriented. ”What?”
“It’s maybe a little more comfortable.” She dropped her eyes shyly.
Slowly, stealthily, they opened Pincus’ door, turning to look in each direction to make sure none of the neighbors saw them. They snuck from his place to hers, tiptoeing like teenagers out after their curfews. Down the long hallway, a suspenseful distance of five doors. Hastily, she dug out her keys and unlocked her door. When it closed behind them, both gave a gasp of relief and exhaustion.
Pincus smiled at the sight of Faye’s flickering Shabbes flames.
“I like to light the candles,” she said, “though I’m not really religious.”
“Come.” Pincus took her arm in a courtly old world manner. They sat down on her couch, holding hands. He kissed her.
“Pinkeleh,” she said softly.
“Faigeleh.”
“You have such nice hair,” she said, touching his silver locks. “A widow’s peak.”
The lights from the candles glowed softly. Pincus took Faye into his arms, kissing her in a way he had forgotten about for twenty years. Her lips were luscious to him, like her brisket. He fell upon her with twenty years of passion in his embrace.
Faye drew back.
“What’s wrong?”
“We should wait, get to know each other a little more…”
He drew back. “You’re right. Yes.”
“You’re not supposed to say that,” she teased. “But that’s probably good.”
“It’s better that way,” he said breathlessly.
“Let’s dream about each other,” Faye whispered in his ear.
“Yes, yes, I will,” Pincus said, slowly backing out of her livingroom. He opened the door. “A gutte nacht, my Faigeleh.”
* * *
Next week: Meet Saul and Henry in The Lobby.
Sonia Pilcer is the author of six novels including The Holocaust Kid. The Last Hotel will be published in December by Heliotrope Books, available at Amazon.com. Visit Sonia Pilcer’s web site here.
