FICTION
LEONARD KRIEGEL
Immigrants
"He
give me," the old man says.
"You asked him? Just like that? And he gave it to you?"
The woman stares at the old man as if she doesn't believe him. She
does believe him, but she cannot keep the incredulity out of her voice.
"I asked him. Once. And he give me. Just like that. Yes."
The old man's voice sounds youthful, victorious. But the old man's
face looks even older than the seventy-four years he has been alive. His
face is the face of a man in his late eighties - ridges and lines, as if a stone
cutter had methodically chipped away at it down all the years of his life .
A face never finished, the woman thinks. She would like to tell the old
man that his face has never been finished. She would like to tell him
what fascinates her about his face is that it reminds her of a half-finished
painting with gray empty splotches. But she says nothing to the old man.
Instead, she tells herself that someday she will put the face on canvas
where it will stare out on the world, forever unfinished.
"It's amazing, isn't it?"
"What?" the old man says. "What's amazing?"
"The whole thing," the woman says, the breath of concern still
kissing her voice. The woman stirs her coffee with a bent back spoon, its
handle twisted so that her right forefinger presses against the side of the
stem to keep it balanced. The woman drinks her coffee black, without
sugar. But she likes the stirring motion and she likes staring down at the
dark gyrations.
"Twenty-five thousand," the man says, nodding.
"Twenty-five thousand," the woman repeats, still stirring the coffee
with her bent spoon.
"And that was real money in them days," the old man adds, tri–
umphantly. "Remember, we're talking more than thirty years back,
Alicia. "
"And he asked no security in return."
"Nothing," the old man says. "Not a red cent."
"Nothing," the woman repeats. She shakes her head. "It's hard to
believe."
She is a very attractive woman and she looks at least ten years
