The Collected Stories

falling into the hands of a gold digger.
    The woman looked at him inquisitively and cocked an eyebrow. “Since I decided to live, I’ll take you just as you are.”
    “How is this possible? How can it be?” Harry asked himself again and again. They spoke of getting married and of breaking through the wall that divided their two apartments to make them into one. His bedroom was next to hers. She revealed the details of her financial situation to him. She was worth about a million and a half. Harry had already told her how much he had. He asked, “What will we do with so much money?”
    “I wouldn’t know what to do with money myself,” the woman replied, “but together, we’ll take a trip around the world. We’ll buy an apartment in Tel Aviv or Tiberias. The hot springs there are good for rheumatism. With me beside you, you’ll live a long time. I guarantee you a hundred years, if not more.”
    “It’s all in God’s hands,” Harry said, amazed at his own words. He wasn’t religious. His doubts about God and His providence had intensified over the years. He often said that, after what had happened to the Jews in Europe, one had to be a fool to believe in God.
    Ethel stood up and so did he. They hugged and kissed. He pressed her close and youthful urges came throbbing back within him.
    She said, “Wait till we’ve stood under the wedding canopy.”
    It struck Harry that he had heard these words before, spoken in the same voice. But when? And from whom? All three of his wives had been American-born and wouldn’t have used this expression. Had he dreamed it? Could a person foresee the future in a dream? He bowed his head and pondered. When he looked up he was astounded. Within those few seconds the woman’s appearance had undergone a startling transformation. She had moved away from him and he hadn’t noticed it. Her face had grown pale, shrunken, and aged. Her hair seemed to him to have become suddenly disheveled. She gazed at him sidelong with a dull, sad, even stern expression. Did I insult her or what? he wondered. He heard himself ask, “Is something wrong? Don’t you feel well?”
    “No, but you’d better go back to your own place now,” she said in a voice which seemed alien, harsh, and impatient. He wanted to ask her the reason for the sudden change that had come over her, but a long-forgotten (or a never-forgotten) pride asserted itself. With women, you never knew where you stood anyhow. Still, he asked, “When will we see each other?”
    “Not today any more. Maybe tomorrow,” she said after some hesitation.
    “Goodbye. Thanks for the lunch.”
    She didn’t even bother to escort him to the door. Inside his own apartment again, he thought, Well, she changed her mind. He was overcome with a feeling of shame—for himself and for her, too. Had she been playing a game with him? Had malicious neighbors arranged to make a fool of him? His apartment struck him as half empty. I won’t eat dinner, he decided. He felt a pressure in his stomach. “At my age one shouldn’t make a fool of oneself,” he murmured. He lay down on the sofa and dozed off, and when he opened his eyes again it was dark outside. Maybe she’ll ring my doorbell again. Maybe I should call her? She had given him her phone number. Though he had slept, he woke up exhausted. He had letters to answer, but he put it off until morning. He went out onto the balcony. One side of his balcony faced a part of hers. They could see each other here and even converse, if she should still be interested in him. The sea splashed and foamed. There was a freighter far in the distance. A jet roared in the sky. A single star that no street lights or neon signs could dim appeared above. It’s good thing one can see at least one star. Otherwise one might forget that the sky exists altogether.
    He sat on the balcony waiting for her to possibly show up. What could she be thinking? Why had her mood changed so abruptly? One minute she was as tender and talkative as a bride in love; a moment later she was a stranger.
    Harry dozed off again, and when he awoke it was late in the evening. He wasn’t sleepy, and he wanted to go downstairs for the evening edition of the morning paper, with the reports of the New York Exchange; instead he went to lie down on his bed. He had drunk a glass of tomato juice before and swallowed a pill. Only a thin wall separated him from Ethel, but walls possessed a power of their own. Perhaps this is the reason some