Clean Olive Oil

by Mark Budman

Len stood with his right hand in the pocket of his leather coat, watching the glowing electric Menorah out of the corner of his eye. In his left hand he held a paper shopping bag. The mall crowd swirled around him like water in a just-flushed toilet bowl.

In another few minutes, he would dip into the bag to take out the cheap Jennings semiautomatic he'd bought the day before at the gun show and shoot himself. At least they would notice him then. But maybe not. Those Americans are too unpredictable. That’s why he couldn’t make any friends in his five years in this country.

“Happy Hanukkah.”

The man who said that was thin and taller than Len’s six feet. His skin was tight on his round, rosy face with clear blue eyes, and his beard and dense mustache were white and long. He wore a long woolen overcoat and a round hat trimmed with white fur.

“Thank you, but I’m not Jewish,” Len said, fighting the urge to pull the gun out and finish it all right now. He didn’t want to splatter the stranger’s expensive clothing with his blood, though.

“But didn’t you come from Russia?”

“Not everyone is Jewish in Russia,” Len said. “But how did you know where I am from?”

Usually the Americans would flinch every time Len mispronounced a word and cut the conversation short unless they had to continue. Len had all time in the world to pull that trigger.

“I overheard you talking with your wife. I know a few words… She’s a beautiful woman, your wife. An honest face. Such a regal posture, too. Is she a ballet dancer, by any chance?”

Tomorrow Vera won’t be my wife anymore, Len thought. Not my wife and not my only friend. Even if I live, she’ll be just an alimony taker. If I can pull this off, then she’ll be a widow.

Suits her fine for what she’s done.

“If you want to talk, I’ll be waiting for you at Sears until three p.m.,” Vera had said earlier today. “We can go to a quiet cafe from there. I’m still open for negotiations.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Len had said, trying to set his voice to “firm.” “I will never forgive you.”

“I have not done it. You’re just imagining things.”

“Liar.”

“I will be waiting for you.”

“Actually, I am of a Greek descent,” Len said aloud now, extending his hand. “My name is Leonid Papathomas.”

“Michael Baretz,” the man shook his hand. His handshake was strong, almost to the point of bone-crushing, and his hand was feverishly hot. “How ironic, a Jew greeting a Greek on the first day of Hanukkah… Are you from Odessa? All Russian Greeks live in Odessa.“

“No. I’m from Novorossiysk.”

“Novorossiysk,” Michael repeated smoothly. “Sounds funny to the American ear.”

“It would be even funnier if you knew what’s in my bag,” Len said despite himself.

“A jar of olive oil?” Michael said, not even glancing at the bag.

“How did you know?”

“I just imagined what would be the funniest thing for a Greek man to carry on Hanukkah.”

“Why?”

“Don’t you know about Hanukkah? It commemorates the defeat of the Greek conquerors by the ancient Jews. The Greek king made the sacrificial oil in the Temple dirty and that’s how it all started… Is your oil kosher?”

“How can I tell?”

“There should be a little 'U' in a circle on the jar.”

Len pulled out the jar. He was safe. The gun lay beneath it and was wrapped in paper. There was no U on the jar. He had no idea why he'd bought it half an hour before, while wandering aimlessly around the mall. Maybe because it was Greek oil.

“That’s even more true to life. Unclean oil. Unfit to light the Menorah.”

Len imagined the jar breaking and oil mixing with his blood. It would be really dirty then. Unfit for anything.

“Well, you’ll have your Christmas in a couple of weeks,” Michael said. “You and Vera.”

“Not me.”

“What do you mean, not you? Take it from the man who is older than you. It will always be there. Christmas is always Christmas. ”

Len laughed despite himself. “Why would a Jew talk like that?”

“Because I see what this holiday does to Gentiles. I’ve been surrounded by them all my life. And my life is longer than you might think.”

“So, what does it do to us?”

“It makes you forget and forgive, my friend. Forget and forgive. But I’d better be going. Merry Christmas.”

“Happy Hanukkah,” Len said, watching the man disappearing into the crowd a bit faster than Len thought possible. How did he know Vera’s name? Probably overheard our conversation… "My friend. Forget and forgive." Len checked his watch. Two forty-five. He could still get to Sears on time if he walked fast.

-- MB
©2000 Mark Budman

Mark Budman was born and raised in the former Soviet Union. He is an omnivorous writer; he writes fiction (both literary and genre) and poetry in two languages. His English-language fiction and poetry have appeared in Mississippi Review, Exquisite Corpse,Web Del Sol's In Posse and La Petite Ezine, Entrezone and about 40 other magazines in the U.S., Canada, England and Australia. Exquisite Corpse nominated him this year for the Pushcart Prize. He is the publisher of a professional flash-fiction (short-shorts) magazine, Vestal Review http://www.vestalreview.net, now a Web Del Sol's "Hot Link" and a LitLink listing.