Isaac Schmidt's Musings on Karl Silbermann; Or, Our Golden Boy

Chapter I

You can only live once. If only Karl knew that, miserable scumbag that he is, mused Isaac over a cup of hot coffee.

Karl Silbermann was the glittering son of two immigrant grocers in Buffalo. The two grocers in question were Ehud and Hannah Silbermann, who had trudged to, and for, the land of liberty. The golden boy of weary parents in their golden land, he could do no wrong. When he and Isaac had broken the Silbermanns' silver menorah, Ehud and Hannah had only laughed at their dear son's antics. Isaac's parents grounded him for a month.

Those were the days, admitted Isaac wistfully. He was no longer the slight, trusting boy who used to search for cookies at night but instead now a wary man, still slight yes, but imposing with stern lips and a sharp and almost supercilious manner that he could hardly take to be his own. Those were the days when he played with the devil's child, oblivious to the danger. Isaac Schmidt was more careful now. He had to be.

He put down his coffee. It was too strong. What was he to do? There was a restaurant but he could catch the smell of roasted meat from his table outside. He decided not to invite temptation. Breaking kosher was something that Isaac prided himself on never doing. He got up and surveyed the street. Most people drank their coffee inside the café but not Isaac. He was drowning in the sea of melancholy and had given up swimming against the tide.

Isaac was now a doctor—an anaesthetist, to be exact. As he walked along the street, he smiled. He ended others' pain to try and forget about his own. At that moment, though, he reasoned that he was comparing apples to oranges; different kinds of pain existed. He would have gone to a psychiatrist for his but he had noticed that all his classmates in medical school who decided to specialise in psychiatry were somewhat—abnormal, to put it nicely. He did have a reputation to uphold. He shrugged off the thought with a wry smile. He had done very well. They—he and Karl—had done very well. He lived where rich people lived and played golf with them. Why he did so was beyond even him, as golf was an incredibly unstimulating sport. Chess was better. Who would have thought that Isaac Schmidt would become a man of golf? Perhaps it was because he was bored. Yes, that was it. He was bored. No matter; that was a simple problem. He would work more. He would read more--even more than his two-books-a-day routine. He would go to Israel. Yes, he must. The thought impressed itself firmly in his mind. Isaac had to go to Israel. His brain generated reasons instantly. People kept on asking him if he had been to Israel. He might have studied the Torah but his Modern Hebrew was patchy, to put it well. He would have an excuse to not visit Karl.

With a feeling of perversity, Isaac decided to spite himself and pay Karl a call. Karl lived nearby in a Colonial house. He had bought it for his doting parents and lived there because they could not bear to live apart from their darling, golden boy (otherwise, he would have attached himself to Isaac, regardless of Isaac's feelings on the matter). It was a nice house, Isaac admitted as he walked up to it. It was one of those brownstone houses with a yellow, creamy tinge. At any rate, he liked it more than its Chief Inhabitant. Karl was Chief Inhabitant because his very presence consumed all space and attention, his parents being lifeless old folks who were only too happy to drink from his honey-like brilliance. Isaac knocked on the grey door, only to be received by Chief Inhabitant himself.

'Isaac, what a pleasant surprise!' Karl had a good smile, the sort of smile that could fool one into thinking that he had feelings, Isaac mused. It was because his eyes smiled along with his mouth. Yes, that was it. He wore a lemon-coloured cable-knit jumper over a blue-and-white striped dress shirt—Karl was the only dark-haired man Isaac knew who actually looked good in yellow, Isaac had to admit—and white trousers, complete with mustard canvas shoes. Isaac barely had time to register Karl's golden wristwatch before that illustrious figure enveloped him in a hug before and held him off at arm's length.

'Isaac,' he frowned, 'sometimes I think that you don't take our "bromance" seriously. Honestly, perhaps I had better start a campaign to liberate the doctors! What are hospitals turning into these days—prisons?'

'Oh, they've always been prisons,' Isaac laughed softly. 'But thanks for finally realising.'

'You're welcome,' said Karl with his smug smile as he led Isaac to the lounge. Isaac liked the lounge. The walls and rugs were a very pale lemon-like colour that Isaac initially mistook for white when he first visited, but the sofa, on which Karl promptly sat, was properly yellow. Isaac sat next to him and told him that he had a nice place.

'I love it even more each time I come,' he whispered confidentially to his best friend.

Karl was flattered, even pleased. He told Isaac that he really should come more often. He needed someone to keep him sharp at chess. And, besides, he added diffidently, he was very fond of Isaac.

Isaac grumbled in mock sadness, 'It's funny how I have never suspected any fondness on your part, Karl. But I can't come. I'm taking leave—to go to Israel.' There was silence as Karl gazed at Isaac in amazement.

Finally he smirked, 'Then I'll have to come too. Somebody needs to keep an eye on you. But why on Earth do you want to go to Israel? We're Americans born and bred. Religion is all nice and dandy, but, I must admit, you take it far too seriously.'

'I'm not going to Israel because of religion. I'm going because—I need—I want—well, I'm not quite sure.'

Karl held Isaac's hands and tried to wear a serious expression as he said, 'You poor thing! I guess you feel really confused about everything. That's alright. It happens to the best of us.' At this a small smile peeked from poor-thing Isaac and Karl could no longer keep up his pretence of gravity. He simply smirked, 'See, I know what makes you happy. And I'm such a good friend. You tell me that you're going overseas and I instantly volunteer to come with you. It's alright, Isaac; I know you love being friends with me; you don't need to say it.'

At this, Isaac laughed in spite of himself, 'You haven't changed at all, Karl. Still as arrogant as ever.'

The arrogant man had the decency to look somewhat offended for a second or two before his smirk widened even more as he shrugged and replied, 'I know that, for all your rather harsh evaluations of my character, you really do like it. It's alright, Isaac.'

Isaac decided to not bother reasoning with such an irredeemably arrogant friend. 'Well, I suppose I shall have to like it, Karl, if you really are coming with me. And maybe I'm going to Israel because of religion partly. You wouldn't like it.'

'Oh, I'm sure I will,' Karl said nonchalantly. 'I, at least, accept other perspectives gracefully.' Silence took its place at the front of the queue but Karl did not seem the least perturbed. He merely smiled cheerfully around the room, waiting for Isaac to speak.

Isaac spoke slowly and deliberately as he met Karl's gaze steadily. 'I hope you aren't trying to make me out to be a religious fanatic yet again. But, still, Karl, sometimes it's hard to believe that you left the faith.'

Karl checked him with great surprise, 'How can you leave something that you never believed? But, I see that this upsets you. You've always been my best friend, even if you do read your Torah every day. It's actually kind of cute. And my parents, of course, read their Torah too but they understand that I am different—enlightened—in an alternative way,' he added hastily as Isaac almost burst.

'You sure are enlightened,' muttered Isaac, catching sight of the Silbermanns' golden menorah. Trust the Silbermanns to let the atheist choose the family menorah.