ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER
213
door. Someone else wanted a private look at Bessie. In his confu–
sion , he brushed past the newcomer, and later he could not be sure
whether it had been a man or a woman.
Downstairs he was told that the services would begin in a half
hour. He went out into the street to avoid meeting any of Bessie's
relatives.
It
was too cold and he was shivering, so he went into a lun–
cheonette and ordered coffee. He warmed his hands on the cup,
took a sip , and stared into the coffee as if expecting to discover in
the hot fluid the solution to the riddle.
All the old altercations with Bessie, all the friction between
them had vanished , leaving in their wake the pure love that had once
been theirs.
If
only he could have looked at her a few moments
longer! He sat there , drunk with the intoxication he had known from
the very beginning with her. He was falling in love with her again,
and it was no longer winter but the spring of twelve years ago. The
snowflakes falling outside reminded him of blossoms; a blinding
stream of sunlight filtered through a split in the overcast skies.
But it was too late. One could no longer cause Bessie either
good or evil. She lay there upstairs like a queen, independent of
everyone , bestowing her grace equally upon all. He'd been prepared
for every countermove in the chess game of love, except this. With
one stroke she had checkmated him. In the wrinkles around her eyes
and lips lingered an expression of triumph. He realized it only now:
she had gained the upper hand completely. His heart pounded no
longer but felt as if an unseen hand were squeezing it . He'd forgotten
that one could lose absolutely. He hadn't reckoned with the kind of
power that in one second erases everything petty and ambitious.
The clock in the coffee shop showed five minutes to eleven, and
he went back to the funeral parlor. A crowd had gathered in the
chapel. The coffin rested in its appointed place amid the wreaths of
flowers . The electric candles were lit. All the benches were taken,
save the last. Looking around, he saw unfamiliar faces . A woman
sobbed with a laugh-like cry. A man honked his nose and wiped his
spectacles. The women were whispering to one another, which
reminded him of a women's synagogue during the Days of Awe. He
sat down in an empty place . A rabbi in a tiny skullcap over a shock
of freshly pomaded hair spoke with customary words, booming the
biblical phrases with the usual mournful intonations: "He is the
rock, His work is perfect : for all His ways are judgment: a God of
truth and without iniquity, just and right is He ." Afterward, the can–
tor chanted the prayer, "God is full of mercy." Dramatically, he
