A Settled Account at the Dreidel Table

‘A borrowed seat always asks to be paid for.’

By the time the departure board changed Berlin to Vienna from delayed to further delayed, Miriam Fuchs had rebuilt the corner of her gate seat into a small office: exhibition notes, restoration photographs, a paper cup of coffee gone cold, and her laptop balanced over one precise knee.

The man beside her had been conducting a quiet war with his phone for twenty minutes.

Each attempt to send his email failed. Each failure made his mouth set more firmly. He wore a dark wool coat powdered at the shoulders with snow and carried a narrow leather case that suggested tools rather than business papers. At last he looked toward her screen with the restrained misery of someone considering an indignity.

“Forgive me,” he said. His German carried Vienna in its softened edges. “Does the airport offer working internet to anyone, or only to people who have committed worse sins than I have?”

Miriam considered him. He was perhaps thirty-five, handsome in the orderly, inconvenient manner of an old building that had survived several governments. “It works intermittently.”

“Then it has chosen a profession in public administration.”

Against her better judgment, she smiled. “You need to send something?”

“A reply to Prague. They have offered me a commission, but apparently require enthusiasm before boarding begins.”

She studied the boarding area. There were still forty minutes before the revised estimate, and her own work could wait. “You may use mine. Five minutes.”

His surprise was so immediate that she almost regretted it.

“Five,” he repeated. “I am Natan Weiss, and I will not steal your bank accounts.”

“Miriam Fuchs. I have no bank accounts worth stealing.”

He accepted the laptop with care, which counted in his favor. While he typed, she watched sleet stripe the windows beyond the runway. Vienna was waiting for her with a Hanukkah exhibition at the Jewish Museum’s smaller gallery, six fragile broadsides, and a curator who regarded schedules as moral instruction. She had rented a short-let near the canal because it was close to the archives and had a clear departure date. Clear departures were useful. They asked nothing after the work was done.

Natan sent the message, then closed the computer without examining anything else.

“You restore signs,” she said, indicating the case.

“Old shop fronts, painted lettering, municipal plaques. Things people stop seeing until they vanish.” He handed her the laptop. “Prague wants a survey of railway signs before they renovate the station.”

“And will you take it?”

“If they answer before the flight leaves.”

The answer came after they landed, in the form of a message he read while they waited for luggage. His face changed only slightly, but she saw satisfaction enter his posture.

“Congratulations,” she said.

“Thank you. January second.” He slipped his phone away. “A train at eight in the morning. Prague has already arranged to own my first week of the year.”

Her own phone rang before she could reply. The property manager’s voice arrived breathless and officious: a burst pipe, water through two floors, the building closed until repairs could be assessed. Her booking was canceled. A refund would be processed within seven business days.

Miriam stood among suitcases and exhausted travelers, listening to the finality of it.

“No,” she said. “That is not acceptable.”

“It is plumbing,” the manager replied. “Plumbing is rarely acceptable.”

When the call ended, Natan was still there.

“Your room?” he asked.

“Apparently has become an indoor pond.”

He glanced toward the snow-dark windows, then toward the arrivals hall. “My family has a spare bedroom above our shop. Weiss Paper Goods, in Leopoldstadt. It is not luxurious, but it is dry.”

Miriam knew better than to accept lodging from a stranger whose surname she had learned beside a gate socket. “That is generous. Also absurd.”

“It can be both.”

“There will be a condition.”

“There is,” he admitted. “My aunt is holding the first Hanukkah dinner tomorrow. She believes I have been living alone too long. If you came as my girlfriend, she might finally stop introducing me to dentists and widows.”

Miriam stared at him. “You are asking a displaced conservator to impersonate your romantic life for a bed.”

“I am offering a bed to a woman who lent me a laptop. The romantic life is an unfortunate administrative attachment.”

“That description makes it worse.”

“Does it?”

“Yes.”

He drew a tram ticket from his coat pocket, turned it over, and borrowed her pen. In neat black ink, he wrote: 1. The bed is not payment.

Then he offered it to her.

Miriam took the ticket and added beneath it: 1. Pretending to be your girlfriend is not a favor.

“An argument already,” Natan said.

“A settled account,” she replied.

The following evening, Miriam stood in the narrow hall above Weiss Paper Goods while Natan adjusted the cuff of his shirt for a second time.

“That is not an illness,” she said. “You may stop doing it.”

“It is not the cuff. I am preparing to be questioned by people who have known me since infancy.”

“Then I have been misled. You described dinner.”

“I described it mercifully.”

Below them, the shop had closed early. Through the glass-paneled door she saw shelves of notebooks, envelopes, fountain pens, all arranged with the grave order of objects expected to outlast their owners. A blue-and-white paper chain crossed the counter. Beside the door, two notices stood in brass frames: WEISS PAPIERWAREN WILL CLOSE ON 31 JANUARY. THANK YOU FOR NINETY-THREE YEARS.

She read them twice.

“Your shop is closing?”

“After the holidays.” He examined his cuff as though it contained an answer. “My aunt will explain it to anyone who lets her.”

“Does that have something to do with Prague?”

His attention moved to the stairs. “We are meant to be a happy couple for three hours, Miriam.”

“That is not an answer.”

“No. It is a request.”

Miriam drew out the tram ticket. Beside their first disputed account, she wrote: 2. Questions postponed for convenience.

“That is not how accounting works,” he said.

“Then you should disclose more reliable figures.”

“Later.”

“That word is the whole problem.”

Rebekka Weiss opened the flat door before they knocked. She was an imposing woman in a dark green blouse, silver hair caught in a low knot, and welcomed Miriam with a handshake that made hospitality feel like an agreement already signed.

“So this is Miriam,” she said. “Natan has suddenly remembered how to arrive on time. I should have invited you years ago.”

“We have only just met,” Miriam said, then caught Natan’s look.

“Recently,” she amended. “Recently enough to improve him.”

Rebekka’s mouth formed a brief approving line. “Excellent. Come in before the latkes lose all self-respect.”

The dining table held six adult relatives besides Rebekka, each supplied with an opinion and a glass of wine. The first candle shone beside a brass menorah, catching on blue plates and the silver handle of the serving spoon. Questions began before Miriam had folded her napkin.

“How did you meet?” asked a woman introduced as Natan’s cousin Elisa.

“At a conference in Berlin,” Natan said.

“On paper conservation,” Miriam added, startled by how readily the lie assembled itself. “He corrected a catalogue label.”

“It was wrong,” Natan said.

“It was spectacularly wrong.”

“You liked that about me.”

“I admired the confidence.”

Laughter travelled round the table. Rebekka served another latke onto Miriam’s plate with unmistakable approval.

“And who asked whom to coffee?” Elisa asked.

“He did,” Miriam said.

“She did,” Natan said at precisely the same moment.

Miriam turned to him. “You offered.”

“You were shivering.”

“Because it was November.”

“An important distinction,” Rebekka said. “A man who notices weather has possibilities.”

He met Miriam’s eyes, amusement easing his formal manner. “I did offer.”

“Then I accepted,” she said. “We may record the facts in that order.”

The apartment door opened during dessert. Gitta Weiss arrived with a crimson velvet Santa cap under one arm and a plastic badge reading SANTA, PLEASE SEE MANAGEMENT.

“I have spent four hours telling senior managers that their bonus wishes are outside my jurisdiction,” she announced. “Adult department-store work is a moral education.”

Rebekka introduced her, and Gitta accepted a glass of wine before studying Miriam and Natan with brisk professional interest.

“Four arguments and no honest sentences; that is not romance, it is municipal administration.”

She could not know the ticket in Miriam’s pocket bore only two marks. Gitta, apparently, considered precision a vice when comedy was available.

“You just arrived,” Natan said.

“I have ears. Also eyes. Corporate events have trained both into weapons.”

Rebekka set down the serving dish. “Miriam should know about Prague, at least. He leaves on the second.”

Miriam looked at Natan. “You leave on the second?”

“It is a survey,” he said. “The terms are still being discussed.”

“It has paperwork and a railway departure,” Rebekka said. “Those usually deserve discussion.”

“How long?” Miriam asked.