“Ah sir,” spoke the Pandit “will you hear my story of woe.”
Hans Tuosist had come to fifty second street in the hopes of finding his missing button, and since class loomed back at Lehman College, he had little time for the romantic humming of the road.
So, if the Pandit sang of the songs of his youth or gave a merry eye over the green rivers of his native country, then was it an honour for the son of immigrants to give ear to a fellow Kievan.
“Sorry sir,” Hans sighed “I’ve got to dash, perhaps you’d speak to me tonight, come to the Lexicon on Bleecker Street and we’ll drink tea.”
“No, no,” exclaimed the Pandit “I have little time. And old and feeble as I am, I must find my daughter protection. Spare any trinket or words of comfort for her sake.”
This Pandit was a wrenched soul, down from his greasy ankles, up to his torrent of white hair. A gentleman forced onto the street for many years and sleeping with pigs and rats had turned his mind muddy.
But Hans, never a man for charity, who’s heart became metallic at the sight of self-pity, felt contempt rise up from the pit of his stomach.
“Pandit,” he replied “I have no time for strangers, friends yes but…”
“Do you wish for a wise word or a spell of passion,” inquired the old man “Name your price, and I’ll tear out my tongue to give it to you.”
Hans lingered, knowing the respect his mother and father gave to men of the synagogue, feeling they were now watching him with opera glasses.
“I want love,” Hans answered.
“Love?”
“A warm hand to hold in winter, a woman smiling at the sight of me. Knowing that I’ve earned the right to call her my own.”
A silence and the old man slunk back down to the pavement.
“Oh sir, that is impossible to deliver, you ask for what I can never give.”
Hans smiled inside, knowing that since his price wasn’t met, he could leave.
But then he spied the golden locket swaying around the old man’s neck.
“What’s that?” he asked.
In a blur, the Pandit held the locket in his fist, pressing it against his breast “No, sir I dare not give it away. For this is my soul, my flesh, all that is tender.”
Hans with no effort, ripped the locket from the old man’s fingers and snapping it open, beheld the grey and creamy photograph of a woman, milk skinned, deep eyed, smoothed mouthed, and he felt his heart glow and his appetite growl.
“Oh, she’ll do,” he said, pocketing the locket.
“Alright old man,” he went on “I’ve claimed my prize. You want your daughter safe when you’re gone? She’ll live with me; for I can win anything when I have the mind for it. And no, I don’t think I’ll invite you to the wedding.”
