Read Rhyming Life and Death for Free Online

the roof, that window on the left, the one with no light on, she’s really terribly sorry, no, she’s not sorry, but . . . well. It just so happens this is where I live. Upstairs.
    If there’s no light on, the Author smiles, that must be a sign that there’s nobody waiting for you so you can still come for a walk?
    No, Joselito is waiting for me, I think he mustbe looking at the clock every few minutes by now, if I’m only a little bit late he always gets angry with me and gives me a guilt trip, where have you been, what did you do, how could you, you should be ashamed of yourself.
    Joselito?
    A cat. A devil in cat’s clothing.
    But the Author does not give up. Why don’t we go for a walk anyway before you climb up to that roof of yours? Then I’ll have a word with this Joselito. I’ll give you a note for him. Or should I grease his little paw with a bribe for you? Just let me take you to a special place that’s less than five minutes from here? It’s very near, at the end of the street and then to the left, come with me and let me show you something and tell you a little story (holding her elbow lightly now, almost absent-mindedly). Here, look, right here, on the spot where they’ve put up this boutique, many years ago stood the Pogrebinsky Brothers’ pharmacy, where once, when I was six years old, my Uncle Osya, my mother’s brother, left me behind, he simply forgot me, and it was more than an hour later that he came back, shouting at Madame Pogrebinskaya, the pharmacist, What sortof irresponsible behaviour is that, roaring at me,
Ti paskudniak
, little devil, don’t you dare disappear like that again, waving his fist at me and threatening to hit me. But before Uncle Osya came back, when I was alone with the pharmacist and the intoxicating smells, she had taken me into a dark little back room and explained to me in a whisper about all sorts of drugs and poisons and how they all work. Ever since then I have had a weakness for poisons and I’m fascinated by cellars, storerooms and all sorts of secret cubbyholes. (While he is talking, the Author releases her elbow but drapes his arm over her shoulder. She trembles, doesn’t know what she should do or say, and decides to do nothing.)
    Tell me, am I boring you?
    No, of course you’re not boring me, what a thought! Rochele Reznik exclaims in alarm. For me this is an experience, it’s as though you’re giving me a preview of your next story, one you haven’t written yet. Or even one that you’ve started and haven’t finished. Of course, you don’t have to tell me. I’m sorry I asked, you should never ask a writer questions like that. (He removes his arm, but first squeezes her shoulder and presses her to him.)
    Very carefully, as though walking barefoot in the dark, Rochele Reznik continues, Take me, for instance, I don’t believe in coincidences any more. There have been moments lately when I’ve had a sudden feeling that everything that happens – literally everything, without exception . . . but I’m not sure I can explain. Don’t you ever think that nothing, I mean nothing, happens by chance?
    A budding shoot, a falling leaf,
    A baby born, an old man dead,
    Say not it’s chance – a vain belief,
    But put it down to fate instead.
    The Author cites these forgotten lines by Tsefania Beit-Halachmi that have suddenly popped up in his memory. Rochele Reznik says: I actually met him several times, at various family celebrations. He had a pink, round face, like a blancmange, with very red lips, always smiling, like a cherry in the middle of the blancmange, and soft fingers that smelled of perfume and were always pinching children’s cheeks in a limp, unpleasant way.
    Who?
    Beit-Halachmi. The poet. His real name wasn’t Tsefania, it wasn’t Beit-Halachmi either. It was something totally different, something like Avraham