“It’s all a lot of foolishness, no doubt, to you—”
“On the contrary, fascinating, and very revealing, dear. About Sandy, if you want my opinion, you’re not in love with him. Of course that may change. George was much nearer the real thing—not that I approve of George, I hasten to say. That was your blind-kitten stage—following the first pair of feet you could smell and hear. It’s one of the risks of being attractive, you can get snatched up by some George or other and married while you’re still a blind kitten, but in your case—”
“Marsha, he’s terribly sweet and fine—”
“Yes, yes, to be sure. You’re well out of it, dear. Poor guy. He came close to grabbing himself off a good thing. Kitten-snatching has its points. Except, of course, it’s such a horrible humiliation when the snatch fails.”
“Well, I’m not sure I agree about George, but—anyway, don’t you think I ought to stop seeing Sandy? I do.”
Marsha sat upright and glared at her. “Are you INSANE?”
“But—I’m not at all sure I love him—or that he loves me. You’re right about that. Besides, his family will never have any part of me. He’s just killing time with me, until—”
“LET HIM!” Marsha turned to the ceiling again. “What’ll I do with her? Margie, you see the shows with this fellow, you sit in the orchestra, you go to the good night clubs, he doesn’t try to make you—what do you want, eggs in your beer? Sweetie, you’re like a dumb Indian sitting on oil land, I swear you are. Everything else aside, what a connection he is!”
“Connection for what? I don’t want to work as a Lamm’s salesgirl—”
The doorbell rang. Marsha glanced at her watch. “Ye gods, the folks already. D’you know we’ve been jawing for hours?” She rolled off the bed as the bell rang again. “Coming, coming!—Damn them, they forget the key five nights out of six. Come on and meet them, Marge.”
Marsha’s father was small and white-haired, her mother was big and blond, and they were both carrying brown paper bags. Mr. Zelenko’s dull purple suit was not very pressed, nor his flowered red tie very straight. “Well, well,” he said with a good-natured grin which completely changed the sad set of his face, “so this is the famous Marjorie Morningstar.”
Mrs. Zelenko gave her husband a jolt with an elbow that staggered him. “All right, Big Mouth, that was supposed to be a secret.” She smiled graciously at Marjorie. “Hello, dear. You might as well know that in this family there are no secrets. But outside these walls, they could rake the flesh off our bones and we wouldn’t talk.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Marjorie said.
“Food?” said Marsha, nosing into the paper bags her parents put down on the sofa.
“Delicatessen,” said the mother. “We didn’t have dinner. How about you?”
“I had a couple of dogs at Nedick’s but I’m starved,” said Marsha.
“Fine. Get a few plates, glasses, and a bottle opener,” said the mother. “It’s all here.—You’ll join us, Margie?”
“I had dinner, thank you.”
Mr. Zelenko said, “Nonsense. A glass of beer and a corned beef sandwich, what is that? Strictly kosher, by the way, only kind of delicatessen we eat, it’s the freshest and the purest, you know.” He pulled a fat green pickle out of a paper bag and took a large bite of it.
“Hog, wait for the rest of us,” said Mrs. Zelenko, taking a bright green enamel Buddha off a gate-leg table, and unfolding the table.
“Hors d’oeuvre doesn’t count,” said Mr. Zelenko, dropping into a dilapidated armchair. He brandished the pickle at Marjorie. “Margie, my dear, we’re going to have to work over your religious problem. First off, we’ll have you read some Ingersoll, I think—then Haeckel, maybe a little Voltaire—and soon you’ll be enjoying ham and eggs like any other sensible person.”
“Let the girl alone,” said Mrs. Zelenko, tying an apron over her billowing red skirt and embroidered peasant blouse. “She has principles, let her stick to them. You could do with a few principles yourself.—Come on, let’s eat.”
Marjorie was strangely reminded of Mi Fong’s restaurant as she sat at the tiny table in the cramped living room with the Zelenkos, eating potato salad, cold cuts, and pickle. The room was dimly lit like the Chinese place, though the prevailing color was orange rather than red. It was decorated with an astonishing variety of foreign materials and objects—among them a metal African mask, a coconut, a bird cage without a bird, a large brass hookah, a small ragged rug hung on the wall, a huge round Mexican copper plate, and the Chinese screen painted by Mrs. Mi Fong, a blurry affair on which the dragons and the ladies in kimonos appeared to have melted and run together before hardening. There was an exotic smell, too, a mixture of old settled-in Turkish tobacco smoke, aging musty upholstery, spicy food, and the pungent furniture polish of the piano. The piano dominated the room; indeed, it took up almost half the floor space, black, shiny, and portentous.
“Principles, she says I have no principles, Margie,” said Mr. Zelenko, holding a pastrami sandwich in one hand and a pickle in the other, and biting at them alternately. “People who think they have principles are either fools or hypocrites. Therefore, they’re fair game for enlightened people like me, because all hypocrites should be destroyed, and even the Bible tells us not to suffer fools. Of course this gives me an advantage over most people, but I can’t help that.”
“That’s how it happens he’s a multimillionaire,” said Mrs. Zelenko to Marjorie.
“I thought you didn’t believe in the Bible,” Marjorie said to the father. She was drinking beer with her cold cuts, and beginning to enjoy herself very much. There was something delightfully fresh and gay about an improvised delicatessen supper at eleven at night. She could not conceive of such a lark in her own home. The hot dinner at seven came as certainly as sunset, and thirty days out of thirty-one her parents were asleep at ten.
“I don’t, but it has some bright sayings in it,” said Mr. Zelenko. “A book doesn’t survive four thousand years without having an occasional gleam of merit. I prefer The Greek Anthology for wisdom, and Plato for profundity, and Darwin and Einstein for factual information, of course.” Mr. Zelenko while saying this made himself another sandwich containing some six layers of sliced tongue.
Marsha said, “Oh, shut up, Alex, you’re shocking Margie. Pass that beer.”
Marjorie was more shocked to hear Marsha call her father by his first name than she had been by the fun poked at the Bible. In her own house her parents’ first names were sacrosanct; they were Papa and Mama even to each other. When they used “Rose” or “Arnold” it was a sign that a fight was coming on.
Mr. Zelenko passed the beer. “So far as being a multimillionaire goes,” he said, “I’ve been defeated by two things—lack of connections, and scale. Mainly scale. My ideas, executed on the scale of millions, would have made millions. Executed on the scale of a few hundreds, they’ve lost the hundreds. I’m like a battleship with sixteen-inch guns that can’t fight because it only carries buckshot.”
“How was the concert?” Marsha said.
“Horrible. Frances is falling apart,” said Mrs. Zelenko. “I think she was drunk. She could go to jail for what she did to the Bach Chaconne.”
“I liked it,” said Mr. Zelenko, taking a long drink of beer.
“Oh, you, Mr. Tin Ear,” said his wife angrily.
“Who is Frances?” said Marjorie.
Marsha mentioned the name of a famous concert pianist.
“We went back afterwards,” said Mrs. Zelenko. “I’m telling you she was shaking as though she had Parkinson’s disease. And her breath! Frances always did like her nip, but it’s getting out of hand.”
“Maybe you should try her brand of whiskey,” said Mr. Zelenko mildly. “Forty-two cities, booked solid through December—”
“I am not a concert pianist,” snapped Mrs. Zelenko. “And that’s why I can play Bach. When I play, it’s as though Bach is listening, Bach himself, not twelve hundred yawning
potbellied mink-coated perfumed idiots who don’t know a piano from a ukulele.”
She threw down her napkin, marched to the piano and struck a chord which startled Marjorie right out of her seat. Mrs. Zelenko crashed ahead into music that was obviously Bach: arid, tremendously powerful, and icily formal. The playing, to Marjorie, seemed masterly. It was unfortunate that the room was so small; the effect was something like sitting inside the piano. The slamming and crashing went on and on, and every time Mrs. Zelenko hit a certain high note the African mask on the wall came alive with a weird brief ping. Marsha and her father continued to eat while they listened to the music. At one point Mr. Zelenko winked at Marjorie, leaned toward her, and shouted, making himself barely audible above the blast-furnace din of the piano, “I knew I’d needle her into playing. Marvelous, isn’t it? Ten times as good as Frances, really.”
“It’s lovely,” Marjorie screamed.
“She’s an authentic genius,” Mr. Zelenko bellowed. “There’s no room for playing like that on the concert stage. That’s a dirty mountebank’s racket.”
“Shut up while I’m trying to play,” yelled Mrs. Zelenko, not pausing her impassioned pounding.
Evidently it was one of Bach’s longer compositions, for after ten minutes it showed no signs of letting up. Marjorie’s head began to throb. Marsha and her father had between them disposed of all the food and beer, and now they were lolling on the sofa, smoking Turkish cigarettes, and listening with half-closed eyes. Despite the discomfort of the too-loud piano Marjorie was deriving some enjoyment from the music, to her surprise. She had always considered Bach a composer of mere dry jigging exercises, but she now heard, or thought she heard, moments of passionate melody and traces of a magnificent colonnaded structure of sound. But she half suspected that she was simply trying to appreciate something that was not there. It was hard to be sure of anything except that her ears were ringing and the top of her head evidently trying to open across the middle.
Mrs. Zelenko rose half off the piano stool, raised her hands over her head, and came down to strike a shattering chord. The African mask pinged and fell off the wall. The doorbell rang.
“Oh, God, hold off, Tonia, it’s the Angel of Death,” said Mr. Zelenko. He went to the door and shouted, “Yes?” From outside came a high-pitched angry cackling in French. He responded with equal irritation in the same tongue, and for a while a Gallic debate yammered back and forth through the closed door. Then the outside voice faded away, still shrieking.
“She sounds hoarse tonight,” said Mrs. Zelenko.
Mr. Zelenko smiled at Marjorie. “She lives across the hall. Frenchwoman, probably eighty-five years old, but strong? I saw her carry a leather armchair up the stairs by herself. Lives on oatmeal and skim milk, and reads yesterday’s papers that the other tenants throw out. I think she’s a millionaire.”
“Oh, Alex, don’t be dumb, the Angel’s no millionaire,” said Marsha.
“Look, baby, I once caught her picking the financial page out of our garbage pail and we got to talking stocks. The woman knows every firm that’s passed a dividend in the last five years—I’m in the Street myself,” he said in an aside to Marjorie. “I can tell when somebody knows what it’s about.” He hung the African mask back on the wall and took down a balalaika that hung beside it. “Well, we can still have a little civilized music.—How about some cherry brandy, Tonia?”
When Mrs. Zelenko brought the bottle of cherry brandy out of a back room she also brought a large picture in a leather frame which she handed to Marjorie. “You’ve seen her on the stage, I suppose,” she said casually.
It was a photograph of Gertrude Lawrence inscribed To Tonia Zelenky, pianist extraordinary.
“Gosh, that’s a wonderful thing to have,” said Marjorie.
“It’s just a joke, her writing it ‘Zelenky,’ ” said Marsha’s mother. “She was always calling me that. She knew how to spell my name.”
Mr. Zelenko took a sip of the cherry brandy and began to sing a Russian song, accompanying himself expertly on the balalaika. After a few bars his wife and daughter joined in; they sat on either side of him on the sofa, swaying slightly to the music, and harmonizing with careless sweetness. Marjorie, curled up on an armchair, felt tears rising to her eyes. The song was plaintive, but more than that, there was a strange pathos about the Zelenkos themselves, the little white-headed man with a face curiously expressing cynicism and childishness at once, flanked by the fat bright unattractive daughter and the wife who played the piano better than concert pianists and treasured an autographed picture of Gertrude Lawrence.
Mr. Zelenko began a gay dance melody. Marsha jumped up and clumsily did some steps, arms akimbo, head tossing. Then she broke off and said, “Alex, Alex, stop, I’ve got a marvelous idea. Tonia, you know The Mikado score, don’t you?”
“Well, I haven’t played it in years, but sure—”
“Come on. Marjorie Morningstar will now do My Object All Sublime.”
“Wonderful,” said the father, tossing aside the balalaika and pouring himself more cherry brandy.
Marjorie said “No, no,” as Marsha tugged her out of the armchair, but Mrs. Zelenko was already at the piano, running through snatches of The Mikado.
“Come on!” Marsha said. “A real opening-night performance, now. Do all the things we talked about.”
The mother struck up My Object All Sublime with grandiose vigor. The space was narrow for capering, but Marjorie went into her number and did her best. When it was over the Zelenkos clapped and cheered.
“Why, she’s another Gertrude Lawrence,” cried Mrs. Zelenko. “Honestly, it’s Gertie all over again, the way she holds her head and uses her eyes—”
“You’ll have a million dollars before you’re thirty, baby,” said Mr. Zelenko. “Come to me and get it invested. Don’t be like all the other stars and die broke.”
“I told you she was marvelous, didn’t I?” said Marsha. She seized the brandy. “Come on, we’re drinking to the new star.” She poured three glasses full, handed them around, and raised her own high. “Here’s to Marjorie Morningstar, 1940’s toast of New York—discovered by poor little Marsha Zelenko!”
“What are you talking about, 1940?” said the father scornfully. “Why seven years? She’ll be on top of the heap in 1938, mark my words! Here’s to you, Marjorie!”
Marjorie blushed, smiled, bowed her head. Mrs. Zelenko downed her brandy and said, suddenly looking thoughtful, “Marsha, don’t you think Mr. Klabber might be interested in Marjorie?”
“Why, I hadn’t—Say, that’s a marvelous idea, absolutely marvelous,” Marsha exclaimed. “Gad, he’ll go mad over her.”
“Who’s Mr. Klabber?” said Marjorie.
“Oh—somebody,” said Marsha, with a broad wink at her mother.
“A connection,” said Mr. Zelenko, looking mysterious.
“I’ll just get him to come to The Mikado,” said Marsha.
“That’ll do it. He only has to see her perform once,” said Mrs. Zelenko.
“Oh please, this isn’t fair, tell me who he is—”
Marsha shook her head. “If nothing came of it you’d only be disappointed. No, sugar bun, forget it. Drink your brandy.”
When Marjorie left half an hour later the Zelenkos were in the midst of a violent discussion of modern art. Marsha, even as she accompanied her to the door, was shouting, “Alex, you know perfectly well Rouault is a commercial phony. ’Bye, Margie, it’s been heaven, see you at lunch, okay? And how about Picasso’s ceramics, Alex, for Christ’s sake?” The door closed.
On the dim landing outside the apartment Marjorie paused, buttoning her coat. She was startled in a moment to see a pair of eyes glittering at her from a crack in the door across the hallway. Nervously she headed for the stairs, and as she did so a crone in a shapeless brown garment that was neither a dress nor a slip nor anything else Marjorie could recognize darted at her, shaking a bony finger high in the air. “I am old,” she squeaked, “I am seeck perso
n. I vant sleep. Good people all asleep now. You bad people like them.” She pointed at the Zelenkos’ door. “Stay up late, noise, noise, noise—” This, clearly, was the Angel of Death. Marjorie, her spine prickling, dodged past her and ran down the stairs. The Angel screeched after her, “Bad people! Bad! Bad! BAD!”
The night was chilly, and the moon shone pallidly over Ninety-second Street. Walking home, and riding up in the elevator, Marjorie kept wondering who Mr. Klabber might be; a movie talent scout was her most hopeful guess.
When she came into the apartment she received a smart shock. Uncle Samson-Aaron was in the living room, drinking tea with her parents. It was the first time he had come—had been allowed to come—to visit them at the El Dorado. He was a ghost from the Bronx past.
Chapter 8. THE UNCLE
“Havaya, Modgerie?” said Uncle Samson-Aaron, his fleshy red cheeks shining. “Havaya? Say, our Modgerie has become a something, a lady. Ven ve hear about a vedding, Modgerie?”
“Hello, Uncle, you’re looking well,” Marjorie said, wondering whether he would pull a Hershey bar out of his pocket and give it to her, as he always had since her babyhood.
“I look vell? Thank you, I look like a cholera. You look vell. You look, I don’t know, a few years ago I held you on my knee and now you look like a regular wampire from the movies—”
“Sit down, Marjorie, have some tea,” said her mother. “Have another piece of cake, Samson-Aaron.”
Uncle Samson-Aaron leaned forward and cut himself a vast triangle from the chocolate cake on the coffee table. His paunch, always huge, now appeared to extend out beyond his knees. His blue serge trousers and brown jacket were shiny tight, and the skin on his hands and face was shiny tight. He grinned his sweet foolish scraggly-mustached grin at Marjorie. “Uncle Samson-Aaron, same old gobbage pail, hey Modgerie?” He forked a piece of cake the size of a fist into his mouth.
Marjorie warily accepted a cup of tea from her mother and sat. The presence of Samson-Aaron in the El Dorado was disturbing; she was anxious to find out what it meant.