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He holds him by the arm and brings him into the hall and sits him down in a chair. And Pitzela's son sits so tired and almost dead he can't move. And then Pitzela jumps up and gets excited and says: 'Look at him. A fine son, for you! Look, he's almost dead. Tell me if you wouldn't think he was my father and I was his son? Instead of the other way around? I ask you."
And he dances jigs. And he cracks nuts with his teeth. Mind you, a man 110 years old cracks nuts with his teeth! Can you imagine such a thing?" "No Feodor. It is amazing." "Amazing? Why amazing? Everything that happens different from what you know is amazing to you! You are very naive. You know what naive means? It is French." "I know what naive means, Feodor. Go on about Pitzela."
He has a long white beard and wears a yamulka and he has no teeth and one foot is already deep in the grave. If you saw Pitzela's son you would say: 'Why don't this dying man go home and sit down instead of running around like this? "And why don't he?" "Why don't he? Such a question! He don't because Pitzela don't let him. Pitzela is his father and he has to mind his father.
It was Pitzela's son's son and he was a man almost 70 years old. And it was a scandal at the funeral. Why? Because Pitzela laughed and coming back from the grave he said: 'Look at me, my grandson dies and I go to his funeral and if he had a son I would go to his, too, and I would dance jigs both times." A dark afternoon with summer thunder in the sky.
"You can go anywhere on Maxwell Street and ask anybody you meet do they know Pitzela and they will say: 'Do we know Pitzela? We know Pitzela all right. So what is there to be gained by calling him Chaim Yankel?" "Nothing, Feodor. It was a mistake even to think of it." "It was. Well, as I was telling you before you began this interruption about names, he is exactly 110 years old.
If I tell you his name is Yankel or Berella or Chaim Duvit do you know any more than if I tell you his name is Pitzela?" "No. We will drop the matter. I will call him Chaim Yankel." "You will call him Chaim Yankel! And what for? His name is Pitzela and not Chaim Yankel." "Thanks."
I'm full o' pep. Then if you ask him, 'How old are you, Pitzela? he says: 'Old? What does it matter how old I am? I am just beginning to enjoy myself. And when you talk about my dying don't laugh too much. Because, you know, I will attend all your funerals. When I am 300 years old I will be burying your grandchildren. And he will laugh. Do you like the story?" "Yes, Feodor.
How old are you? And Pitzela's son shakes his tired head and says: 'Eighty-seven years old, doctor. And the doctor gives strict orders. But Pitzela comes in and laughs. Imagine." "Yes, it's a good story, Feodor." "A good story! How do you know? I ain't come to the point yet. But never mind, if you like it so much you don't need any point." "The point, Feodor. Excuse me."
Can you imagine a man 110 years old? A man 110 years old is an unusual thing, isn't it?" "It is, Feodor. But I once knew a man 113 years old." "Ha! And what kind of a man was he? Did he dance jigs? Did he crack nuts with his teeth? Did he drink like a fish?" "No, he was an old man and very sad." "You see! He was sad. So what has he to do with Pitzela? Nothing. Pitzela laughs all day long.
"Naive means to be childish late in life. In a way you are like Pitzela, despite the difference in your ages. He is naive. You know what he wants?" "What?" "This Pitzela wants to show everybody how young he is. That's his central ambition. He don't talk English much, but when you ask him, 'Pitzela, how do you feel today? he says to you right back, 'Oi, me?
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