that did all the shouting, about her cat.
You see, Maud had this old cat, a fat black thing she called Bear who she would set on the counter every now and then as if producing a magical treasure. Bear was pretty old and mostly slept next to the stove, winter or summer, all day and night long. But when he was on display, oh, how that kitty enjoyed it, and he had the oddest habit of ramming people with his head. It was Bear’s way of saying hello and we all liked him well enough, but not the way Maud did. Every time she hefted that beast onto the counter, she would nod with absolute pride, “Bear comes from the Old World.” This never failed to set Silver off. He would pound his fist, shout, holler, and generally make an ass of himself (which as you know he was hardly ashamed of in the first place), insisting that Maud stop lying about her cat. “ You know good and well that cat is not from the Old World. Staten Island, maybe! Blarney County or wherever your people come from? No no no, that is impossible!” This hardly fazed Maud, who would just repeat stubbornly, “Bear comes from the Old World,” with old Bear all the while lowering his head and bonking everyone in sight just to punctuate her point. Ah, but it was a gas to witness.
That night, however, it was too cold even to enjoy the usual display, and I think Bear just wanted to return to his nest by the stove. After Silver had settled himself down and gotten his behind pretty well roasted, he pulled his pants back up, gave Sherpa and me a squint, and said, “You fellows are making me cold again just looking at you. What, have all the bars in the Bowery closed for the winter?” Sherpa was shivering too hard to answer, while I just glared at the saloon doors and made a face. Silver didn’t care, giving his usual excuse: “This is America, land of the cowboy, land of the free.” I wanted to lasso him and tie him to a train track at that moment, but then Silver suddenly slapped the counter and said, “I know what you boys should do! The Minsk is playing at the carriage house tonight. It’s a good one too, ‘The Golem.’ If that schmuck Davidoff doesn’t ruin it, that is. Come along.”
Sherpa and I barely budged. The poor Cubano was frozen to the stair railing, I think, while I hardly wanted to see a play in a foreign language in some horse barn down at the end of a rat-infested alley. Silver had put his coat and ridiculous Russian hat back on and looked like a bear himself, but he was halfway to the doors before he noticed neither of us were following him. He turned, whistled, and said again, “Come along. It will be warm. What else can anyone do in this cold?” Neither of us was convinced, and with a sigh, Silver surrendered and said the one thing that was guaranteed to rouse us: “There will be women there. Actresses. A good Jewess may be a good Jewess, but an actress is an actress also. I’ll introduce you afterwards.”
We were halfway down the alley, booting rats out of the way and pulling our hats lower, as Silver explained the play. “A golem is like a puppet, a puppet without strings but with the name of god under its tongue. Golems used to be created all the time by wizards too lazy to do chores, too poor to afford help, or too ugly to find a wife. Good to be a wizard, eh? Maybe that damned cat is a golem? More like a wizard he is. Hmmmm.”
As Silver pondered the kabalistic secrets of Bear, we reached the end of the alley, where it opened into a small, cobblestoned square of sorts. The tenements blocked the whole area off, and the way they loomed above, a few lit windows, mostly dark ones, a few voices or cries falling down upon us, it felt as if we were at the very bottom of the world. We could hear the crowd chattering inside the carriage house, the usual buzz of neighbors meeting, greeting, and gossiping, while a lank man all in black stood huddled inside the doorway. Silver bustled all of us inside—“These are my friends, Adler, no charge. Good man, good man”—and like everyone else, we shuffled towards the big wood stove along the back wall. I wondered if Silver would bare his ass again, but he was too busy chatting up everyone to bother. It seemed so familiar, yet so different, to be in the playhouse. I felt the old rush of the Extravaganza surging in my veins, but with the foreign tongues and accents and clothes, it felt also so wonderfully alien. Also, so wonder fully warm. Sherpa was just beginning to unwind himself from his layers, and I could still hear Silver bemoaning Maud’s lunacy, when the lamps were dimmed and the curtain rose. I expected to see some kind of evil sorcerer lazing about a castle chamber or maybe his puppet monster, but instead, I saw Roza Ellstein for the first time. She was dusting a mantle. As she dusted, she sang to an accompanying violin from behind the backdrop, and I have never heard such a voice before or since. The richness, the quiet joy (she was obviously playing some kind of contented wife), everything seemed not so much a song of the voice but a sound emanating from her whole body. I could have sworn her fingers themselves let loose in song as she dusted. I couldn’t comprehend a single syllable, but I understood everything. Or thought I did, until she turned and faced the audience. It was then that her two amber-then-green eyes played across all of us. I could feel Sherpa stiffen next to me, and I knew, knew, I was truly at the bottom of the world, and above the earth itself was the woman on stage, seeing all in multiple hues as she dusted a mantle piece with singing fingers.
I hardly remember the rest of the performance or the other performers either. There was of course the monster, played later I found out by Davidoff, and performed so stiffly and horribly it almost made for a good effect. I didn’t then know the real play, and whatever inventions or distortions the writer had made were beyond me. Silver would often hiss at one of Davidoff’s grosser translations, “Idiot! The man is an idiot,” but I didn’t care. How could I? I stared at the housewife, at her eyes, and I could tell once and once only she met me with her own eyes and knew I was a stranger to the carriage house, to her world. Of course, there was no blinding flash, at least for her at the moment, and she stayed in character, but I knew. The benches were filled that night, but I stood, I stood for the entire performance, and it was only when the curtain fell, blocking the wife from my sight, that I felt my leg about to buckle. I grabbed poor Silver’s shoulder pretty hard as I struggled to remain standing and applaud at the same time, then I fairly shouted in his ear, “You must introduce us. You must.” He smiled, nodded, then looked up and saw my expression, and his whole demeanor shifted, becoming very intent and businesslike. Silver understood it was a matter of seriousness, of matchmaking, even, and told me quietly with a pat on the hand, “Of course. But first, please stop breaking my arm.”
Ah-hah, and thank you: I too have felt like applauding at the conclusion of Robert’s account. Though Robert, in his later years, may well have been waxing eloquent to the Harbingers’ Club, that he stood for the entire performance was nigh on a feat. H. Leivick’s “The Golem,” first published in 1921, ran upwards of four hours! Of course, especially considering Rouncival’s description of the opening scene, which differs completely from Leivick’s poetic script, the golem he witnessed may very well have been the creation of another, now entirely forgotten author. The production could also have been simply, as Silver seemed to believe, the victim of Davidoff’s incompetent direction. For the sake of our own sanity, let us drop any such conjectures and know only that, yes, Robert was instantly enchanted by Roza Ellstein, and enchanted to such an extent that he collapsed when the curtain finally separated him from the wife on stage.
A Top Hat ON THE Doorknob
While we are not yet ready ourselves to leave the Silver Stage behind, please allow me to retrieve a prop before I continue with Robert and Roza’s soon-to-blossom romance. You no doubt have noticed the top hat hanging from the closet handle here. The closet actually contains many of Sherpa’s later, magnificent costumes. Though some are quite extraordinary, we simply don’t have the time now to display them.
So, you see, an ordinary top hat, often worn by amateur magicians at children’s parties, small fairs, and so on. And yes, young sir, it is very much a laughing matter, whether perched on my head or crowning another’s. Rouncival felt the same way, despising it and the ubiquitous wand so many of his fellow artificers displayed on stage. Robert never actually wore this hat except
