HA! HA! HA! And they claim to be the “Newspaper of Record”! Not a word about Gustav Mahler. No mention of the favorable reviews of my books by You Know Who. What about Emperor Franz Josef and my first-prize flute? Most surprising of all, not a single line dedicated to the events at the Metropolitan Opera or my world premiere. Do they think it was all a fantasia?

Should I write a letter of protest to the editors? But how to mail it to their offices? We have here no stamps mit volleyball athletes. I have, alas, discovered what so many others have before me: that wall between us and those we love. Miss Esther! The half-Finn! The Fleming! We may shout. We pound with what are now metaphorical fists. We might even gather our thoughts and attempt to penetrate our darlings’ dreams. There is no availing.

What does it matter? Let those below live their lives and think what they think. All here is sympathisch. True, it is not the existence that people imagine. No milk and no honey. No grapes. Nor do we meet the great or the near-great. Forget about dalliances. Forget about having, with B. Spinoza or Émile Waldteufel, a tête-à-tête. Though once, at a distance, off on a cloud of their own, I believe I glimpsed Bloch, Bruch, and Blanter, the three great musical B’s. Now and then there drifts toward me the sound of laughter, a thumping, and beer hall melodies: Can there be non-Jews on the premises?

Humans! Men and women, children and babes! If only you knew. What we are allowed is the one person most precious to us, the one material object that has the most meaning, and even one wee little pet. Hence, Hymena.

Mee-how?

“I do not know, my kitten. There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than—”

“Mr. Goldkorn! If you please . . . ?”

Ah, that is the former Miss Litwack. She wishes me to assist with her fingernails. Also, should fortune smile, the nails of her toes.

“Coming! Coming, you Turkish delight!”

Do you see her there, with legs crossed, en dishabille?

“Make it snappy.”

Look. Look again. That flash of light. Gott im Himmel! A garter trolley.

Thus, my dears, heavenly bliss. To pass the time we may look down on the blue and white earth. The to and fro of all its busy people. Then angels float by with their songs. We hear the music of the spheres.

“Are you going, Mr. Goldkorn, to take all day?”

“Coming, you gummy bear! You little sweetmeat!”

For the nonce I shall blow on the nails of this lovely. To help dry the paint. Later, at my repose, I shall blow over the embouchure of my Rudall & Rose. What shall it be today? Perhaps Köchel number 299, the concerto for harp and flute.

TUWATT! TWIRPFF! TOODLEDEDOO!

This for amusement is a game that we play. First I make the musical notes; then the heavenly host cover, with their wingtips, their ears.

“Yoo-hoo! I’m waiting! Yoo-hoo! My fingers are wet!”

“Coming, Miss Litwack. Coming, my Clara. Ach! How pretty you are. What a beauty. Here is Leib Goldkorn. Your husband. With all privileges. So give me your hand. There. Is that how you like it? And there. Is it good? I am on my knees before you. A paroxysm? Shush. Shush. Strictly forbidden. But, oh, my Liebchen, you have instead the whole of my heart.”