The Hired Girl(115)

Mrs. Rosenbach concurred. She said if I would move to Anna’s apartment for the week, they would give me eight dollars instead of six. Mrs. Friedhoff said apprehensively that the older two Mrs. Friedhoffs are awful fussy — she said particular, but I know she meant fussy — and her last housemaid left the house a mess.

I didn’t want to go, but I couldn’t say so. “What about Malka?” I said, thinking, What about David?

“Malka has agreed,” said Mrs. Rosenbach. “The house is beautifully clean, and she’ll be able to manage without you for a few days.”

My heart sank. I could see that though they seemed to be asking me, I had no choice. Everything had been decided.

“You’ll have your own room,” Anna assured me, “and I have an Irish girl to do the cooking, so you won’t be bothered with that.” She brightened. “And you’ll see your little cat.”

I did want to see Moonstone. And I pitied Mrs. Friedhoff, but I couldn’t help worrying whether Mrs. Rosenbach found out that David took me to the opera. I wondered if I was being banished. But there was no way I could ask, so I said, “I’ll get my things.”

Mrs. Rosenbach said, “Moritz,” urgently, as if she were reminding Mr. Rosenbach of something.

Mr. Rosenbach folded his newspaper and looked up at me. He indicated the sofa across from his chair. “Sit, sit.” He stroked his mustache, darted a mischievous glance at the ceiling, and said unexpectedly: “There is a passage in Boccaccio . . .”

I didn’t know what Boccaccio was, and I guess it showed in my face. Mr. Rosenbach answered my unspoken question. “An Italian writer of the fourteenth century. I have him only in German, so I can’t lend you the book.” He spread his hands palms up, as if in apology. “It’s a very interesting passage. Boccaccio narrates the story of a Jew in the court of Saladin the Great.”

I nodded as if I knew about Saladin the Great, but I didn’t, and again Mr. Rosenbach helped me out. “Saladin was a great sultan and a follower of the prophet Mahomet. He wanted to borrow a large sum of money from the Jew, so he questioned him before a court full of powerful Christians and Mahometans. He asked him which was the true faith: the Jewish faith, the Christian faith, or the faith of Mahomet.

“The Jew was confounded. I’m sure you can imagine why. If he said that the Jewish faith was the true one, the Christians and the Mahometans would join forces against him, and he would lose his worldly goods, if not his life. If he praised the Christian or the Mahometan faith, he denied his God.”

I was curious now. “So what did he do?”

“He told them a story.” Mr. Rosenbach leaned forward. The newspaper slid off his lap and fell to the floor, but he paid it no heed. “There was once a rich man with three virtuous sons. The father owned a beautiful and precious ring. All of his sons longed to possess it; each son came to the father in secret and begged for this inheritance. The father, loving all his sons alike, could not bear to disappoint any of them. He paid a skillful jeweler to make two perfect replicas of the ring. When at last he died, each son came into his inheritance. Each son believed that he was his father’s heir and favorite; each son believed that he had the true ring and that his brothers’ rings were merely imitations.”

I began, “But which one —?”

“Ah, you come to the heart of the story! You want to know: which was the true ring! But a mystery lies at the heart of the story; not a solution. The Jew explained to his audience that the truth as to which was the real ring was lost in the mists of time. So it is with religion: every Christian, every Jew, and every Mahometan believes he inherits the true faith. That is the major point of the story. The minor point is that the Jew, because of his wisdom, survived.”

He beamed at me. Mrs. Rosenbach stirred restlessly. “Moritz,” she said, “would it not be better to say plainly what you mean? I’m sure the girl has no idea —”

“By no means,” answered Mr. Rosenbach. “I’m sure Janet understands me perfectly, or will when she has had a little time to think.”

I cast down my eyes and tried to look modest and knowing, but the truth was, I was at sea. I sneaked a glance at Mrs. Friedhoff; she was as baffled as I was. Mr. Rosenbach’s gaze was kindly, but he was also wearing what I think of as a teacher look: that encouraging, expectant look teachers give you when they’re counting on you for the right answer.

Then — quick as the flash of a firefly — I knew. Heaven only knows how I managed it, but I read Mr. Rosenbach’s thoughts; I swear I did. I spoke with absolute certainty. “The story’s a metaphor. All three sons believed they had the right ring, but there was no proof they were right. But all three rings were precious and beautiful, because they came from the father, and the father loved all three sons.” I saw that Mrs. Rosenbach looked dissatisfied, so I simplified it for her. “Mr. Rosenbach’s asking me to respect his faith. He’s telling me, in a kind way, not to try to turn Oskar into a Catholic. And I won’t. I mean, I know better now.”