Old Men at Midnight Read Online Free PDF Page B

the park on one of the paths that went through the zoo. In front of the lions’ cage he opened his notebook and with care drew the head of the lion that had roared the week before and now lay still. He drew the mane and the mouth and the whiskers and the leather nose and the eyes nearly closed to yellow slits.
    He said, “That Reb Binyomin lion.”
    “You mean Reb Binyomin made lions like that?”
    “For ark.”
    “He made the lions for the ark.”
    “Ark in wooden shul. We make leopards, deer, eagles, lions. Bright purples and greens and golds. I give this to Rachel,” he said, indicating the drawing.
    We headed for the subway. When we got off at our stop after the ten-minute ride, it was raining heavily. We waited in the entrance of the station for it to let up, and then, in a drizzle, started across the parkway. We were on the other side when it began to rain again, and we stopped for shelter at Mr. Wolf’s newsstand.
    “Wet enough?” Mr. Wolfe said in his high voice from behind the stacks of newspapers. He was on a stool. His right arm cradled in the palm of his left.
    I said, “I’m okay, Mr. Wolf.”
    He looked at Noah. “And how are you, fella?”
    The rain turned torrential. I said, “He’s okay too.”
    An occasional car came along the street, splashing rain. The stores were closed and there were no pedestrians. Rain struck the puddles on the sidewalk and the rivulets near the curbs, forming small lakes and streams. I saw Noah gazing at the rain and rivulets. What was he seeing?
    I asked, “Mr. Wolf, do you carry notebooks without lines?”
    He reached into a shelf behind the stacks of newspapers and brought out an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven-inch unlined notebook.
    “This is what you want?”
    “Thank you.”
    Noah had continued to stare out at the rain.
    “You just come to America?” Mr. Wolf asked him.
    Noah, aware that he was being addressed, turned to me.
    “I’m his English tutor,” I said.
    Mr. Wolf looked at Noah. The rain had begun to let up.
    “Well, lots of luck,” Mr. Wolf said to Noah.
    We went up the street and crossed the trolley tracks at President Street and walked to my house. Only an occasional car made its way through the puddles. This was the first day of rain in weeks. It added to the steaminess.
    “Noah, come inside for a minute.”
    We went up the front steps. The hydrangea bushes were wet. Inside he gave me the drawing of the lion to give to Rachel, and I gave him the new notebook.
    “Draw in this,” I said. “Don’t draw in your notebook.”
    “I buy new notebook.”
    “My present to you,” I said.
    He looked at me and then after a moment nodded. He held the notebook, closed and opened and closed his fingers over it. The Hebrew notebook he folded under his left arm. The pencil was in a pocket somewhere. I let him out the door and watched him walk away under the dripping maples.
    There was no one home. I turned on the living-room fan and took Noah’s drawing upstairs and left it on Rachel’s bed. You looked at the drawing and saw only the head, but you envisioned the lion’s restlessness, his immense power, his colossal shape.
    I went to my bathroom, and then to my room and turned on the fan. I got out of my clothes and, wearing only my underwear, crossed to my desk. I took out my notebook and must have sat there a long time. I remembered my father and Jakob Daw in the room whispering and then the harp woke me and I slipped into my housecoat and Rachel was at my door.
    She held the drawing. “Is this Noah’s?”
    I nodded.
    “I like it.”
    “It’s a lion.”
    “I know what it is, Ilana.”
    “Rachel, go find something to do, please.”
    “I’ll make another drawing for Noah.”
    I could hear her singing along the hallway and down the stairs.
    She brought the drawings to supper.
    “That’s Noah’s,” she said.
    My mother said admiringly, “That’s a lovely drawing.”
    “He’s very good,” my stepfather said.
    “Look what I’m giving