The Fourth Cup of Tea

"I'm sorry, Adam. I'm going to be late. I'm heading to the car," his father's voice sputtered apologetically from the phone. "I want you to sit with your grandmother until I arrive."

Adam, at the ripe age of twenty, whined and groaned like a child of seven. The youngest of four siblings, he desired above all to be a carefree adult, unshackled from all familial ties. Funnily enough, this very yearning often spawned melodramatic tantrums, unimaginably preposterous for a young man such as himself, which only increased the intensity of the friction and frequency of the interactions between Adam and those he wished to repel. Now his brow furrowed powerfully, spawning an astonishing map of angry cracks and creases.

Adam's father, though physically unable to see the alarming tectonic developments on the forehead of his son, was nonetheless alerted by the whining and groaning that had preceded the quakes.

"Adam, listen to me for a moment. I have something to tell you. Grandma Mazal… was diagnosed with dementia last month. It's a very early diagnosis, but there is no cure."

"Are you still there?" his father asked.

"Yes."

"Do you understand what this means? Eventually, Grandma Mazal will lose touch with reality, and—"

"But she never wants to see me," said Adam. "She never talks about anything. Can't I wait outside until you come?"

"You won't have too many chances to be with your grandmother. Now is the time to cherish what little time—"

A cacophony of street noise erupted from the phone, drowning his father entirely. It sounded like a garbage truck was racing an ambulance through a construction site.

"What? I can't hear you," said Adam.

"Go sit with her!" his father shouted. "I'll come soon."

Adam swore. He pocketed his phone and then began a slow, dejected ascent of the stairs. As he climbed, he unconsciously ran his hand on the black metal railing. As a blundering adult, he barely registered the sensation, but as a child, his heightened sense of touch had relished every bump and groove on the chipped railing with its peeling paint. Reaching the peak, Adam impatiently brushed off a multitude of prickly shards of dried paint from his hand, the same splinters he had once joyfully plucked one by one from his palms as a child.

Sighing as though he were about to attend a funeral, Adam knocked on the door.

There was no answer. Glad for the excuse, Adam waited a full five minutes before his second attempt. This time, Grandma Mazal yelled "One moment" and a few moments later arrived to open the door.

"Adam," said his grandmother, peering at him through myopic eyes. "I was expecting your father."

"He's running late," said Adam. He stood awkwardly at the door.

"Oh," said Grandma Mazal. "Well, come in, come in."

They sat in the vast living room. Adam's grandfather, Aryeh, had been a very successful painter. He had come to Israel from somewhere in Europe (Adam could never quite remember where) with nothing but the clothes on his back. Grandpa Aryeh had earned everything he owned stroke by stroke, hour by hour, with his paintings. They covered the walls, each portraying dozens of amorphous blobs—splotches, ripples, unfinished shapes—in varying colors. They had never made sense to Adam. He truly could not understand why anyone would willingly purchase one and choose to hang it in their home. Yet these paintings had paid for the enormous, sprawling house in Katamon where they now sat.

Grandma Mazal resumed smoking her cigar. In Adam's earliest memories, Grandma Mazal was there, smoking cigars. Despite his absence, Adam could visualize Grandpa Aryeh sitting in the twin armchair beside her, sniffing disapprovingly at the smoke. It was not difficult to imagine his grandfather. Grandpa Aryeh's skin, his clothing, his glasses, and his eyes were all different tints and hues of the same dull, boring grey. Perhaps he had chosen his occupation as a painter to compensate for his unfortunate complexion.

Grandma Mazal was the manlier of the two. She had a robust, plump figure, her short hair was balding and her dark skin was darkened further by cigars, and mottled by age. She resembled a mobster from an old movie, downing a smooth, long drag of smelly smoke from her cigar as if it were a refreshing drink. Adam wished that his grandfather were here instead.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Adam refused to be the first to break it. He stared at his fingernails instead, mesmerized by their chewed, uneven edges and the black wads of filth cowering beneath them.

"So," said Grandma Mazal. She allowed the word to linger for a moment. It hovered in the room with the tangling tentacles of smoke from her cigar. "How are you?"

"All right."

"How's the military?" she grunted.

"You know," Adam laughed uneasily. "Nothing new."

Adam was nearly two years into his mandatory military service. He served as a medic at the Shalishut in Ramat Gan. His training had been minimal, and the most he was officially permitted to do was treat an ingrown toenail. But even the thought of performing such a repulsive task made Adam squeamish, so he always found someone else to handle those cases. The majority of his actual work involved turning away soldiers who were faking illnesses to receive sick days. During his free time on base, he idled endlessly on his phone and smoked pot with other soldiers serving in equally pointless and unnecessary roles.

"You're just like your father," said Grandma Mazal. "When he was a jailer in the military, he would always come home saying, 'All right' and 'Nothing new.'"

"Maybe that's because nothing interesting about being a jailer or a medic."

Grandma Mazal sniffed loudly. "Indeed."

After a few moments, she added, "Your grandfather was a combat soldier in Golani. He fought in the Yom Kippur War. I suppose that qualifies as interesting."

Her scorn surprised Adam, but he did not miss a beat. "A true Hero of Israel," he declared.

Grandma Mazal cackled her approval. "You know, it's just about the only impressive thing your grandfather accomplished."

"What do you mean?" asked Adam.

Grandma Mazal straightened in her seat and looked at her grandson. For the first time this visit, Adam held her gaze. Her dark, wrinkled eyes, usually stern and aloof, regarded him with an animated excitement, as if she were seeing him for the first time.

"No one in the family knows what I am about to tell you," said Grandma Mazal. "I've been carrying the burden of this secret for almost my entire life. A close friend of mine knew, but she passed several years ago. I am so close to the end… will I really succumb to the temptation after so long…?"

"Well, come out with it," said Adam. "You cannot say all that and not tell me!"

Grandma Mazal stared at him with her mouth open, displaying a stained silver tooth. She hesitated for a while longer before finally saying, "Your grandfather is a fraud."

"What do you mean?" Adam gestured wildly around the room. "These aren't his paintings?"

"Of course they are. He spent his whole life painting them—even though they are entirely worthless."

"Worthless?"

"Entirely. I doubt anyone in their right mind would pay a single cent for one. Surely, they are worth less than the cost of the canvases, paint, and brushes required to make them."

"So how did you buy this house?" Adam cried. "Where did you get the money from?"

"Ahh, you ask the right questions, boy! Not too sorry to hear your old grandfather was a worthless charlatan, are you? You come from a long line of men—all of them losers. Perhaps I should tell your father as well. He might find it comforting…"

"Come on, grandma!" said Adam. "Where did the money come from?"

"It was me," Grandma Mazal said simply. "I earned the money. I made all the money, and received none of the credit."

"How?" asked Adam. "Did you work?"

"Of course I worked!" His grandmother admonished. "You foolish child. Just like your father. Both of you have never known poverty, hardship, or need. Every idiotic desire, every senseless craving your father had as a child was immediately indulged. It made him cocky—and soft. He loved being the richest boy in his class. Nowadays he slouches about, living off my hard-earned money and always praising his grandfather for all the wealth and glory he created with nothing but his talent."

"Grandma," Adam spoke slowly, with the wariness of a child asking whether a fairy tale is mere fiction. "How did you make the money?"

"In a variety of ways," Grandma Mazal smiled crookedly. "Gambling. I'm a spectacular poker player. Stock trading and investments. You know, it was very different back then. You would call your broker and tell them what to buy, and then wait for the newspaper to see how it went. Ha! I've seen the trading platforms you have today; they kill all the fun. All the suspense. And, I also dabbled in some other things…"

"What other things?"

"Never you mind. Some things will go with me to my grave."

Grandma Mazal's cigar had gone out. The lighter made a crinkle sound as she lit it. The flame hovered under the cigar, its tongue stretching upward excitedly, yearning to lick the tobacco, leaving a black patch of death in its wake.

"And my dad doesn't know?" asked Adam.

"No," said Grandma Mazal.

"Why?"

"Your grandfather and I met when we were seventeen. We married a year later. We came from nothing. When I say nothing, I mean it. Other families made their aliyah to Israel with great wealth. Until I met your grandfather, I had lived my whole life in an apartment with two tiny rooms. I had seven brothers and sisters. It was horrible. I did not finish high school. Later, I was not drafted into the military.

"As bad as it was for me, your grandfather Aryeh had it worse. When he courted me, I assumed he was well-off because he was Ashkenazi (That is how it was, even though it is not considered 'proper' to speak bluntly these days). He dressed nicely. He was well-mannered. Only after we married did I realize his complete and utter incompetence. His father, your great-grandfather, could not retain a job for more than a month, and neither could Aryeh. He dressed nicely, but he wore clothes he scavenged from donation centers. He was courteous, sure, but what did that matter? We lived in a tiny apartment. I had more breathing room when I was living with seven siblings. I was miserable.

"The only hope we had was his painting. It was a burning passion for both of us. What little space we had in our apartment was occupied by large easels and dozens of fat jars containing cheap, noxious paint. He painted, and I encouraged him. For the first few years, I truly believed he would succeed. I worked at the supermarket. As a cashier. Slaving away in that pitiful, pathetic job, I made more money than Aryeh ever did. What little amount I could save was spent on more canvases and wretched jars of paint.

"Then we had our first child, your uncle Elad. After the birth, I sunk into despair. I was deeply unhappy. I lost all faith in Aryeh then and never regained it. At the end of the month, we would spend all our—no, my—my spare money on supplies for his painting. But I had had enough. I started telling Aryeh that we had no money, that I needed it all for Elad. In reality, I was saving it under the tiny mattress in his crib. After a few tense months, I went to the casino.

"I was a natural. The people there, the gamblers, they loved me," Nostalgia lit her face, casting away all but the darkest shadows between her wrinkles. "I made so much money that first night. I went home, giddy with happiness, and showed it to Aryeh. He was appalled. He called it dishonorable, wrong, unbecoming of a woman. We argued all night.

Afterward, I kept gambling as much as I pleased. Aryeh yielded. He could not stop me. Besides, he enjoyed our new luxurious life. At times, I lost grand sums of money. I bet on this house, I risked losing it several times over. But in the end, it all turned out splendidly. Look around us. It's all mine. Unbecoming of a woman, indeed!"

"So why keep it a secret?" Adam had been dying to ask this question throughout her story. Only his growing interest and horror had kept him from interrupting.

"Well. There was, of course, the matter of my other sources of income. I laundered the cash through some of his hideous paintings. We faked a few lucrative sales, and it had the side effect of making Aryeh famous. A local celebrity. Finally, he was a true artist, respected by his peers. And it was all a lie.

"But the real reason it remained a secret is that Aryeh insisted upon it. Eventually, he accepted that I would provide for us in whatever methods I saw fit. But he would never let me tell. He was so ashamed, you see. It was his ego that I had destroyed, his manhood that I had upstaged. Even now, at our age, if it were to be revealed, it might very well kill him." Grandma Mazal laughed again. "So this must remain our secret, yes?"

"Of course…" Adam's head ached terribly. He was bewildered. What was she saying now? Why was it necessary to keep the secret, considering—

"I'll make tea!" Grandma Mazal cried joyfully, interrupting his chain of thought. She sprang from her chair with astonishing spryness. She loomed above Adam like a large boulder teetering on the edge of a precipice and leaned down to plant a dry, heavy kiss on his forehead. Adam blushed. As far as he could remember, it was the first time she had ever kissed him.

Adam stared at the paintings while he waited. He could not think. If nothing else, the psychedelic display of misshapen blobs on the wall before him offered a fitting distraction for his exhausted, blundering mind. After a while, his grandmother shuffled back from the kitchen, bearing a tray with a pot of boiling louisa tea and decorated china teacups.

"Grandma, why did you bring four glasses?" asked Adam.

The tray wobbled frighteningly as she placed it on the table.

"What do you mean?" Grandma Mazal wagged an emphatic finger at her grandson, once again reproaching him with her towering gaze. "One for you. One for your father and Grandpa Aryeh, who should..." She glanced at her thick, veiny wrist. She was not wearing a watch. She shook her head in annoyance. "Who should be here any minute now. And one for your grandmother! After everything I have told you today, do you not agree that I deserve the fourth cup of tea? Look at how callously I am denied my share of things, even things I made myself." She chuckled out an old, wet expulsion that sounded more like a cough.

Adam was about to say that of course she deserved her share of the tea, that he had meant something else entirely when asking the question, when his father knocked on the door. Grandma Mazal shot Adam one final, mischievous grin and raised a ringed finger to her cracked lips. His father joined them, and for the remainder of the visit, Grandma Mazal did not interact with Adam at all, except to say goodbye.

On the drive home, Adam's father asked cautiously, "How did it go with your grandmother?"

"All right," said Adam.

A few minutes later, he said, “Dad?”

"Hmm?"

"Did Grandpa Aryeh really make all his money selling paintings?"

"He sure did," Keeping his gaze on the road, his father smiled to himself. "Your grandfather was a real genius, you know. A one of a kind. I miss him every day."

After all, what did it matter? Adam thought later. His father would remain blissfully ignorant and forever proud. And Grandma Mazal had enjoyed confessing her secret—boasting to someone at last, finally receiving credit for her deeds and misdeeds—all with the added thrill of rebelling against her husband, the man they had buried nearly a year ago.