The tightrope walker
is not much more than a kid.
His name is Solomon Paprinski
his brother is the shammes at the Temple.
Solomon stops
in front of the large building
and chooses two lampposts
fifty yards apart.
There: these two.
Just a few feet
from the main door.
Solomon opens his suitcase
pulls out his steel wire
fixes it
straight
taut
by climbing
up the lampposts.
The street is ready:
the wire is fixed.
What else does he need?
Courage.
Solomon Paprinski
pulls out a bottle
swallows a good mouthful of cognac
then
climbs up.
Solomon Paprinski
gets into position
and starts walking.
Perfect.
Overhead.
Light as a feather.
Solomon Paprinski
never takes a step wrong:
he’s the best tightrope walker
New York has ever seen.
And today
he has decided:
he’ll be here
every day
morning and evening
to do his exercise.
Wire taut
straight between the lampposts
there
a few feet
from the new doorway.
For
now
in this city condemned to talk
they have even opened
an entirely new
gigantic
place in Wall Street
and it’s called
“STOCK EXCHANGE.”
Literally it means
that goods are exchanged.
But inside
there are no goods!
At most, you’ll see their name
written everywhere
as if, over the door of a shop,
were the words BREAD EXCHANGE
but no bread inside,
or FRUIT EXCHANGE
but not even an apple core inside.
What really matters
of course
is the value, not the object.
“A clever idea!” Emanuel said;
“a New York idea” Mayer thought.
The point is that rather than bargaining over
iron at the Iron Exchange
cloth at the Cloth Exchange
coal at the Coal Exchange
oil at the Petroleum Exchange
they have made a single
immense
enormous
New York Exchange
a synagogue
with ceilings higher than a synagogue
where hundreds, crowds, armies
from morning to evening
talk
speak
bargain
yell
nonstop;
from morning to evening
talk
speak
bargain
yell
nonstop;
from morning to evening
nonstop
since the incredible thing
—at least so it seems to Mayer—
is that there inside, in Wall Street
there’s no iron
there’s no cloth
there’s no oil
there’s no coal
there’s nothing
and yet
there’s everything
hurled about
between mountains
torrents
of words:
mouths open
which blow blow blow air
and talk
and speak
and bargain
and yell
from morning to evening nonstop and
there outside
in front of this temple of words
every day
from today
Solomon Paprinski
will do his tightrope exercise.
Who knows whether the air
blown out from all those mouths
will ever end up causing a blizzard
that will dash him
to the ground.
It’s the only thought
that Mayer Bulbe
manages to formulate
as he walks
with his striped leggings
along the sidewalk in Wall Street
toward the main door.
The entrance door.
In fact:
it’s not true
that this is his only thought.
His other thought
is that
Philip
his nephew
will certainly like Wall Street, for sure:
he will, yes.
And Mayer is right.
For Philip
—Emanuel’s son
born in New York:
not even a drop
of Germany or of Alabama
in his blood—
is a talking machine.
Remarkable.
Philip, in his uncle’s eyes, is another mystery.
He is the son of an arm
but doesn’t lift a finger:
his talent is all in his lips.
At the age of twenty
Philip manages words
tackles arguments like no one else
he raises questions and provides—on his own—the answers:
“Dear Rabbi Strauss,
I have a question to put to you, if it’s not indiscreet.
Our family, as you know, owns a bank.
And this, dear Rabbi, makes us rather special
where the term ‘special’ has a whole range of values,
values about which I have no wish nor need to trouble you.
There remains, dear Rabbi Strauss, among all these motives for
excellence,
the incontrovertible fact, Rabbi, that a family of bankers
enjoys that facility for monetary investment
that few others can boast,
and I use this verb because I know I must not impute to myself
the tiniest amount, not of ostentation, Rabbi Strauss,
but nor even of that general degree of vanity
that one forgives in families where wealth has been acquired, inherited, or
such like.
Now, dear Rabbi, our prosperity—if I may put it that way—as a bank
is without doubt translated into a preeminent role
even within a small community:
we indeed support the Hebrew school, Rabbi Strauss,
and then the hospital and the orphan asylum,
without this support ever once being the subject of any form of negotiation.
Perfect.
I have had an exchange of views with my relatives.
And therefore I come to request your verdict:
do you not think, in your wisdom,
that it is imprudent to harbor the thought
that anyone who invests money in good works should feel ashamed
rather than demonstrating pride, Rabbi Strauss, about what they have done?
What would you say, in all honesty, to someone who hides himself
almost in revulsion
instead of inviting others to do the same and support the Temple?
Would you consider it fit behavior
to look away as if to say that alms giving is some kind of crime?
I see you nod in agreement, and this fills me with delight:
I agree with you, Rabbi Strauss, fully,
that giving money to the Temple
must be a matter of pride, not of embarrassment,
and—like you—I believe it so much, Rabbi Strauss,
that without doubting your approval I will tell the shammes to move
our family
from the twenty-third row to at least the fifteenth.
With which, begging your pardon, having other matters to attend to,
I offer you my respects, dear Rabbi, and take my leave.
Good-bye.”
There.
Perhaps because he plays tennis
—always has done—
and in tennis the ball must always remain in play
must never go out of court:
always up, Philip
always aiming high, Philip
always in the air, Philip
and that’s what he does, very well;
he plays tennis with his conversations
with his words
never letting the ball drop.
That’s how he talks about economics, Philip
talks about politics, Philip
talks about finance, Philip
and about Judaism
and about culture
and about music
and about fashion
and about horses
and about painters
and about cooking
and about landscapes
and about girls
and about values
and about friendship
and about New York, above all.
Philip was born here:
“I don’t believe there’s a better city in the world
dear Uncle, sir: New York
offers to my eyes the best of America and the reflection of Europe
I don’t know what you think
but if you ask my opinion on the matter
I would say that New York is to planet Earth
what Olympus was to ancient Greece:
a place that is divine and at the same time human, dear Uncle, sir;
or, if you prefer me to speak in Hebrew vein
I will say that it is like the ner tamid
that burns without holy oil:
a creation of man and at the same time a miracle;
so that to those who dislike this city one can only say
that it is like denying the light of the Sun, dear Uncle, sir;
and if you are of this view then I implore you not to tell me so:
you would lose much of the esteem that I hold for you
so that
while curious to ask you
I prefer in the end not to know
and spare you the embarrassment of telling me
with which
begging your pardon
having other matters to attend to
I offer you my respects
dear Uncle, sir
and take my leave.”
Astonishing.
New, Philip.
Completely new, Philip.
Son of New York, Philip.
Yes
there is no doubt
he will like Wall Street.