The Fixer by Bernard Malamud Read Free Book Online Page A

hesitation.
    â€œAch—really?—a country boy?—and a good thing,
may I say. The country virtues are not to be denied. I’m from the region of Kursk myself. I’ve pitched hay in my time. Do you come to Kiev as a pilgrim?”
    â€œNo, I came for work.” He paused. “Also, if possible, for a little education.”
    â€œExcellent. You speak well although with a provincial accent. But grammatically. Have you had some schooling?”
    Blast his questions, the fixer thought.
    â€œI’ve read a little on my own.”
    The girl was watching him through lowered eyelids.
    â€œDo you also read in the Holy Scriptures?” asked Nikolai Maximovitch. “I presume you do?”
    â€œI know the Psalms.”
    â€œWonderful. Did you hear, Zina?—the Psalms, wonderful. The Old Testament is admirable, the true prophecy of Christ’s coming and his redemption of us through death. However, it is in no way equal to the preachings and parables of Our Lord, in the New Testament. I have just been rereading this.” Nikolai Maximovitch glanced down at the open book and read aloud: “‘Blessed are the poor in spirit; for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.’”
    Yakov, grown pale, nodded.
    Nikolai Maximovitch’s eyes were humid. He had again to blow his nose.
    â€œHe always cries when he reads the Sermon on the Mount,” said Zinaida Nikolaevna.
    â€œI always cry.” Clearing his throat, Nikolai Maximovitch read on: “‘Blessed are the merciful; for they shall obtain mercy.’”
    Mercy, the fixer thought, it makes him cry.
    â€œâ€˜Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness sake; for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.’”
    Come already to the reward, thought Yakov.
    â€œAh, this is most moving,” Nikolai Maximovitch said,
having to wipe his eyes again. “You know, Yakov Ivanovitch, I am in some ways a miserable man, melancholic, a heavy drinker, yet something more than that although I recently set my clothes on fire while smoking a cigarette when a piece of hot ash fell on my trousers, and if Zina had not alertly poured a pitcher of water over me, I would now be a burnt corpse. I drink because I happen to be more sensitive than most—I feel much too keenly the sorrows of life. My daughter will attest to that.”
    â€œIt’s true,” she said. “He is a man of more than ordinary feeling. When our former little dog Pasha died of a distemper, Papa couldn’t eat for weeks.”
    â€œWhen Zina was a child, after her severe illness I wept every night over her poor crippled leg.”
    â€œIt’s true,” she said, her eyes moist.
    â€œI tell you this so that you may know the kind of person I am,” Nikolai Maximovitch said to Yakov. “Zina, please serve the tea.”
    She brought the tea to the marble-top table on a thick silver tray, with two clay pots of whole-fruit jam, raspberry and peach; and Viennese rolls, and butter.
    It’s mad, I know, Yakov thought. Tea with rich goyim. Yet he ate hungrily.
    Nikolai Maximovitch poured a little milk into his tea and ate a buttered roll. He ate with gulping noises, as though drinking what he ate. Then he sipped again from the hot glass and set it down, patting his snuff-swollen lips with a linen napkin.
    â€œI would like to offer you a modest reward for your timely assistance.”
    Yakov hastily put down his glass and rose.
    â€œI ask for nothing. Thanks for the tea and I’d better be off.”
    â€œSpoken like a Christian, but please sit down and listen to what I have to say. Zina, fill Yakov Ivanovitch’s glass and put plenty of butter and conserves on his roll.
Yakov Ivanovitch, what I have to say is this. I have an empty flat on the next story, recently vacated—the ten3ants proved entirely unsuitable—four fine rooms that need painting and repapering. If you care to undertake the task I offer forty rubles,