The Other Side of the World by Jay Neugeboren Page B

me guess—you did have a mother and father. Most of us, I’m told, have mothers and fathers.”
    â€œMaybe,” Seana said. “Depends upon how you define your terms.”
    â€œThere’s something to be said for that,” Mister Falzetti said. “For example: if you think of that young black man’s strength of character and the fact that he only knew his father for a single month of his life, and if you then consider the lives Nick, or even Charlie here, have had—young men who’ve never had to dream up their fathers, it tells you something.”
    â€œTells you what?” Seana asked.
    â€œThat’s correct,” Mister Falzetti said, and he refilled Seana’s wine glass. “But tell me about Shulamith, if you will, since it’s a middle name you’ve chosen to keep. Are there Jews in your lineage?”
    â€œThere are Jews everywhere,” Seana said.
    â€œTrue enough,” Mister Falzetti said. “There may even be Jews in my family, from a time when the Moors overran Southern Europe and mingled with the Italians and Spanish. Did you know—forgive the tangent, but did you know that the Roosevelts—Franklin, Theodore, and Eleanor—were descended from Dutch Jews named Rosenfeld? Rosen- veldt , to be exact.”
    Seana sat down next to me and squeezed my arm. “Oh Charlie, let’s blow this joint, okay?” she said quietly, mocking me affectionately with my own phrase.
    Mister Falzetti poured himself more wine. “Now, your father’s short story about The Protocols of the Elders of Zion coming true, is, in my opinion, his single most brilliant creation,” he said. “It rivals the best in Roth—in any of them: Henry, Philip, or Joseph—and it’s a damned shame he only wrote one novel, because that novel is a real knockout. I always thought he could have been another Nabokov, the mind and gift he had.”
    â€œHas,” I corrected.

    â€œAh—your father’s still alive then, which makes me happy for you both,” Mister Falzetti said, “although it cannot but be hard on you at times, Charlie—to be in the presence of his unrequited ambitions. Or did he live vicariously through your books, Ms. O’Sullivan?”
    â€œDid you live vicariously through your son, Mister Falzetti?”
    â€œOf course not. If anything, the reverse is true—Nick admired me more than was good for him.”
    â€œA shame, for if only you’d emulated him…”
    â€œYou’re quite good at repartee,” Mister Falzetti said. “But then words are your métier—the unapologetic and cruel wit of your characters is often the most endearing element in your novels. Now Nick could be word-clever too, of course, even if he never—”
    â€œNick’s dead , Mister Falzetti,” I said, finding myself unable hold back—to keep my irritation from showing. “So why don’t you just give it a rest, okay? Nothing any of us can do will bring him back.”
    â€œOh I know that ,” Mister Falzetti said. “But I was told that you let him go, Charlie—that you held onto him for an instant before he made the plunge.”
    â€œ Hey—come on! ”
    I started to stand, but Seana pushed me down, stood, and lifted her wine glass so that it was only an inch or two from Mister Falzetti’s nose. “Now I bet you’re the kind of guy who puts himself to sleep some nights by imagining there’s a touch of evil about you that makes you truly fascinating,” she said, “when the truth is that you’re really just a creep.”
    â€œAnd you’re the kind of woman Evelyn Waugh might have adored—a mean-spirited Catholic fabulist,” Mister Falzetti said and, very gently, he nudged Seana’s glass aside and moved past her to the fireplace. “The reason I preferred Plain Jane to Triangle ,” he continued, “is