Dudka

He married Sonechka early, out of love. He loved her passionately only for the first two years. Then he lost interest but didn’t even notice it. He wasn’t thinking about love and women as a rule. He didn’t have time for it! But when he “made” a hundred thousand, his heart was jolted. Women started to materialize out of thin air. Here, a fresh, pink cheek with a dimple was emerging, there, a lavish feminine arm was looming, exposed up to the shoulder, or a bare neck was sparkling with its whiteness. . . . These and other seductive images disturbed his imagination.

And so it happened. . . . He was drinking his midday coffee at Leybakh’s. A diamond was shining like morning dew on his simple but expensive tie. Close to his heart, a Patek Philippe watch was ticking. An elegant gold chain was resting on his vest.

She came in and gracefully took a seat by a table. Dudka felt a heavy blow to his heart.

He immediately reminded himself, however, that there are twenty thousand in his pocket for coffee and kerosene, and felt encouraged.

“Most importantly, is she Jewish or Russian?” he was asking himself. “I prefer and desire a Russian one . . . I know what a Jewish woman is, but I’ve never had an affair with a Russian. Dudka, you deserve an affair with a Russian woman at this point. Remember that you have twenty thousand and don’t be an idiot. But she’s so pretty! Russian eyes, not like my Sonechka’s, but really, purely Russian. Jewish eyes, after all, always express suffering! Yes, most definitely, these are Russian eyes,” he decided, “the eyes of the Russians of the steppes, grey and devilishly beautiful. . . . I want a Russian kiss,” he said to himself with passion. . . . “Dudka! But what will Sonechka say if she finds out? It would be a nightmare! A nightmare!”

“Ah, I’m so tired of Sonechka all the time,” he dismissed the tiresome thought, “and actually, I have never cheated on her! When I do cheat, that’s when I will pay the price. There it is again, Jewish suffering. This has to be done cheerfully, Dudka!”

“Very well, cheerfully, I agree,” Dudka thought, “but how would I get to know her? How do I begin? Should I smile? Just smile for no reason? This Russian woman will think I’m too bold. She may even yell at me. Oh my God, such a mouth she has! Such wonderful Russian teeth! These are your teeth, Dudka, in her mouth!”

He jumped up abruptly, as if he were stabbed in his side; he made a step toward her and, as aristocratically as he could, picked up the kerchief that she had dropped . . .

“My lady,” said he, passing her the kerchief in such a way that she would notice his three-carat diamond, “My lady, may I have the pleasure of handing you your kerchief?”

“Thank you,” said the stranger in a silvery voice, bowing graciously to Dudka.

“I would like,” Dudka said gallantly, straightening the diamond on his tie, so as to draw her attention to it, “to pick up your fallen kerchief for all eternity.”

“You would tire of it very quickly,” the stranger replied, smiling indulgently at such a strange desire.

“You may be wrong, my lady,” said Dudka, and was terribly happy and truly prepared in that moment to pick up the kerchief innumerable times. . . . “Test me. . . .”

“No, I am not as cruel as that,” she replied harmoniously, as her fork pierced the steak, which the server brought her . . .

“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” Dudka said gallantly, stealthily approaching her in his mind, as if he were approaching a dose of painkillers that also promised him a profit of five thousand.

“A Russian woman,” he was passionately thinking at the same time, falling all the deeper in love with the stranger. “A true Russian—not a hot face, as it is with Jewish women. It is cold, frozen, and yet it warms you up from head to toe.”

The conversation was taking off. Dudka, using purely Russian expressions, asked for permission to sit by her table, and when he was granted permission, he took out, as if casually, the Patek from his vest pocket, innocently looked at the watch and said:

“Out of all watches, my lady, my favorite are Patek watches. Perhaps you’ve heard of it, a business in Geneva. It’s terribly difficult to get one of them these days, but I managed to. . . . And reasonably . . . for fifteen hundred. Stylish, wouldn’t you say? Very compact. You can hardly tell it’s a watch.”

He let her hold the watch, leaned in closer as she was looking at it, and he fell even deeper in love with her, having smelled her hair. Then, having lost his head for a moment, he invited her for a cup of Turkish coffee. And after the coffee, some ice cream. All this was favorably accepted. He seemed preoccupied while eating the ice cream. How best to share his feelings? If he were sitting with a Jewish woman, everything would be settled in a couple of minutes. He knows his own people. But a Russian? Damned if he knows what he can talk to her about. Surely, she doesn’t understand the Jewish soul, raised on misery. Russians cannot stand this misery! And precisely in this must lie the Russian woman’s charm. She is easy in other ways as well. Just try to get with a Jewish woman! Dudka tried once and had to get married! But with a Russian woman, one can say “I have kissed you, I no longer wish to kiss you, and so farewell!” But a Jewish woman will call her father, her mother, and all her relatives after just one kiss. All this is fine, but how can I interest her, how can I attract her? Here I must play on the chords of a Russian heart!

“What are you thinking about?” the stranger asked harmoniously.

In reply, Dudka quietly laughed and said:

“I will never tell you. It is unthinkable for me to confide my thoughts to you!”

“Are these thoughts so terrible?” the stranger was smiling in turn.

“Yes,” Dudka said with sudden sharpness and determination. “I was thinking that ice cream, for example, is a definitely Russian dessert. Jews could not have invented ice cream. Jews eat plum or raisin compote and k . . . k. . . pudding. In any case,” he added, looking at her, “I have to say that I prefer the Russian to the Jewish, even though I am a Jew myself.”

“Well played!” he praised himself.

“Why is that?” the stranger was surprised.

“Such is our character,” he said humbly, burning with love. “Let’s take Jewish behavior as an example. Have you ever heard two Jews talking? You may think, gevald, they’re being murdered! And what about ten Russians? You can’t even hear them. And so much more! Who is always conspicuous? A Jew! You can’t even hear a Russian! Among the speculators, for instance! Russians are the most desperate speculators and everybody knows that they cashed in hundreds of millions, but have you ever heard of a Russian speculator? Jews also cashed in, though a thousand times less, but everyone is talking about them! And why is that? Because these fools are too conspicuous; they yell, scream, holler; on the streets, they don’t walk but leap about! I have to admit, I love Russians.”

“I am talking like a scoundrel,” Dudka thought, “but how can I not be a scoundrel with her? And no one can hear anyway, and she may like me. All Russians are antisemites, right? My God, such eyes she has! Such lips!”

“Excuse me,” she said, “but you are an antisemite!”

“I’ll tell her that I’m an antisemite,” thought Dudka, “What do I care? Nobody will sue me for it!”

“Yes, I am an antisemite,” he said with nobility. “We Jews are not tolerant of our people’s flaws. You, Russians, are much more forgiving toward your people than we are.”

“It seems that you took me for a Russian,” the stranger broke into laughter. “But you are mistaken. I am from a shtetl . . . near Bender!”

“Really,” Dudka exclaimed with amazement, “What do you know? I would never have guessed! Really?” he said again, having already lost interest in her and looking into her face.

And all of a sudden, it was as if a screen was lifted from his eyes. Real Jewish eyes, expressing eternal suffering! How did he not recognize them immediately? And her face is hot, Jewish.

“An affair with a Jewish woman!” he thought with horror. “Even if she was as beautiful as Venus, I wouldn’t want to! She will pour sulfuric acid on my Sonechka if she lets me kiss her even once. She probably has dozens of aunts and uncles, two grandmothers, cousins. . . . She may demand my hundred thousand too. I have to get out of here!”

He rose, disappointed, sadly paid for the coffee and ice cream, and said goodbye quite unceremoniously. Does he have to be ceremonious with a Jew?

“Ah, you, Dudka,” he was cursing himself on the street. “You didn’t recognize a Jewish woman! Idiot!”