There had been another religious pamphlet in 1955. I never knew who slipped it into the pocket of my waiter’s jacket. It could have been anyone. Harry Burger, enjoying his pranks. Mrs. Mendelson, trying to be helpful in her confused way. Nora Dowling, because she cared and because she understood what the pamphlet meant. Evelyn Lourie, who had a reason.

The brochure was about the risks of interfaith marriage, especially between Jews and Christians.

I took it to Avrum. He read it, then handed it back to me.

“Such nonsense,” he mumbled. “Throw it away.”

“Who do you think did it?” I asked.

He looked at me in his curious, questioning manner. “Why should I know such things? Better to ask yourself. Who do you think it was?”

He knew about Amy, that we had been dating. “Amy’s mother,” I said.

He did his whole-body nod. “So? She’s a mother.”

“She must be trying to tell me something,” I suggested.

“Ja,” he groused. “Maybe she does not want her Jewish daughter to have Irish babies. Let her worry.”

“Babies?” I said. “What babies?”

“It could happen,” Avrum replied philosophically.

I stared at him in disbelief. “We’re just friends. We’re just seeing one another.”

Avrum smiled wisely. “Yes, seeing. I know. I know. By the tree on the mountain.”

I was surprised. “How do you know that?”

He pointed to his eyes with his finger. “I see what I see.” He reached and patted my shoulder. “Don’t be such a worry one. No one else looks. I would know if they did, wouldn’t I? What do I do all these days? I look. I listen. I see everything. I hear everything. Everything.”

“Nothing happens,” I said defensively. “We just talk.”

“Ah, talk,” Avrum sighed.

“Talk,” I repeated.

We sat for a moment without speaking. Avrum closed his eyes and raised his face, like someone happily warmed by the sun. I thought he was hearing the first, clear rush of Amelita Galli-Curci’s voice. I started to stand.

“No, stay,” he said without opening his eyes.

I sat back on the bench and waited.

“Do you not remember what I told you?” Avrum asked.

“Sir?”

“When I told you about her? Do you not remember?” His eyes were still closed.

I knew he was talking about Amelita Galli-Curci. In the first days of our friendship, he had not mentioned her name. He had talked of the operas he loved, of such performers as Enrico Caruso and John McCormack and Lily Pons, but not of Amelita Galli-Curci. And then one day he had said, casually, “So, did Harry tell you about me?”

“Yes, sir. Some things.”

“Then I will tell you the truth, not the lies of that mean old son of a bitch Harry Burger,” he had replied firmly.