The Fixer by Bernard Malamud

meat dumplings so delicious it seemed to the fixer he would have done the job for the food alone.
    One night Zina limped up the stairs, expressing surprise he was working so late. She asked Yakov if he had eaten since lunch, and when he said he was not hungry she suggested, nervously laughing, that he eat supper with her, Papa having already retired and she liking company. The fixer, greatly surprised by the invitation, begged off. He had, he explained, too much to do, and apologized for his clothes. Zina said not to mind that. “Clothes can be shed in a minute, Yakov Ivanovitch, but whether they are or not cannot change a man’s nature. He’s either kind or he isn’t, with or without clothes. Besides I don’t care for excessive formality.” He thanked her but said he couldn’t take the time off from work. There were two more rooms to do. The next evening she came up again and somewhat agitatedly confessed she was lonely; so they ate together in the kitchen downstairs. She had dismissed Lidya and throughout the meal talked constantly, mostly of her childhood, the young ladies’ school she had attended, and the pleasures of Kiev in the summertime.
    â€œDays are long and hot, but nights are languorous and starlit. People refresh themselves in their flower gardens and some walk in the parks, drink kvass and lemonade, and listen to the symphonies. Have you ever heard Pag - liacci , Yakov Ivanovitch? I think you would love Marin-sky Park.”
    He said he did not mind parks.
    â€œThe Contract Fair opens in the spring, it’s most entertaining.
Or if you like there’s a cinematograph to go to on the Kreshchatik.”
    Her eyes darted glances as she spoke and when he looked at her she glanced away. Afterwards the fixer, made nervous by her chatter, excused himself to go back to work, but Zina followed him up the stairs to watch him paste on the wallpaper she had selected, bunches of blue roses. She sat on a kitchen chair with her legs crossed, the good one over the crippled, and cracked and ate dried sunflower seeds, rhythmically swinging her leg as she watched him work.
    Then she lit and awkwardly smoked a cigarette.
    â€œYou know, Yakov Ivanovitch, I couldn’t possibly treat you as an ordinary common laborer for the simple reason that you aren’t one. Certainly not in my eyes. Really you are a guest who happens to be working here because of Papa’s idiosyncratic ways. I hope you realize that?”
    â€œIf you don’t work you don’t eat.”
    â€œQuite true, but you are more intelligent and even genteel—at any rate, sensitive—please don’t shake your head over that—than the average Russian laborer. I can’t tell you how exasperating they can be, particularly Ukrainians, and really we dread having repairs or improvements made. No, please don’t deny it, anyone can sense you are different. And you told Papa you believe in the necessity of an education and would like to further your own. I heard you say that and approve very much. I too love to read, and not only romances. I’m sure you’ll find excellent opportunities for yourself in the future, and if you are alert may some day be as comfortably off as Papa.”
    Yakov went on papering.
    â€œPoor Papa suffers dreadfully from melancholia. He gets quite drunk by nightfall and has no appetite, to
speak of, for supper. He usually falls asleep in his chair, Lidya removes his shoes, and with Alexei’s help we get him to bed. At night he awakes and says his prayers. Sometimes he undresses himself, and it’s almost impossible to find his clothes in the morning. Once he put his socks under the rug, and I found his drawers, all wet, in the water closet. Usually he isn’t awake till midmorning. It’s hard on me, of course, but I can’t complain because Papa’s had a difficult life. And there’s no one to keep me company in the evening but Lidya and at