"I'm yeah, a rabbi," says Lev, and looks at Hawkeye for a minute or so, as he chatters. "Like—" they're gearing up to explain, but then Hawkeye's changed subjects. "Well, nu, Motke doesn't like, hold with that kind of thing, mostly, at least ... feh, not as a spectacle thing, done as a punishment? It's against ... I mean, he said, the koschey he apprenticed under insisted that it was no desecration of the body if the stiff asked for it beforehand, and Motke holds like that too. But the regular practise until we did away with the tzar in the rest of the city, too, was to dissect any poor sod what couldn't pay for a funeral, and he never held like that." Lev shrugs. They follow Hawkeye through the door of the clinic, and looks around for where they might sit.
On Hawkeye's formal introduction, they look up, cocking their head to one side. Benjamin, eh? But then, were he an Alexander or a Leonard, that too would be interesting.
"No, he's no surgeon," they reply to the question about the husband. "Maan alter's a physician. He like ... well, he says he delivers babies and debrides leg ulcers and sees that the old and the sick have relief other than what they get when gathered unto our people, and he deals with those what aren't quite ready to go and be so gathered, and hang around after the body's in the ground. He says his hands have always been a little too stiff for surgery."
But as to the question of their name, they pause, study Hawk for a second or two, and decide that he can be trusted with the full shpiel right away.
"Know'st thou what a rose is?" they ask. "Uhm, maybe like, not. Maybe by where thou'rt born, we're called something else. If thou'rt like my husband, I'm called Lev, or Leyb, and to thee, the part of my jardinière what's relevant is that I'm a man what fifty years ago would've been a legal bachelor all his life, on account of wanting a husband and not a wife. If thou'rt like my sister-in-law, who wears payos and made my khavrusa her wife, then to thee I'm Lyubov, and the part what's relevant is yes, I'm a limp-wristed boy and a faygela, and also something like a woman of the women whom the midwife saw as in need of bris. And I presume, and like, forgive me such bold presumption, thou'rt no heterosexual, so mind not what they'd call me."
He doesn't run out of breath at all, talking in a measured and deliberate way, the rhythm perfectly accommodating pauses for breath. He's clearly used to public speaking, and he's been taught to be good at it, too.
no subject
"I'm yeah, a rabbi," says Lev, and looks at Hawkeye for a minute or so, as he chatters. "Like—" they're gearing up to explain, but then Hawkeye's changed subjects. "Well, nu, Motke doesn't like, hold with that kind of thing, mostly, at least ... feh, not as a spectacle thing, done as a punishment? It's against ... I mean, he said, the koschey he apprenticed under insisted that it was no desecration of the body if the stiff asked for it beforehand, and Motke holds like that too. But the regular practise until we did away with the tzar in the rest of the city, too, was to dissect any poor sod what couldn't pay for a funeral, and he never held like that." Lev shrugs. They follow Hawkeye through the door of the clinic, and looks around for where they might sit.
On Hawkeye's formal introduction, they look up, cocking their head to one side. Benjamin, eh? But then, were he an Alexander or a Leonard, that too would be interesting.
"No, he's no surgeon," they reply to the question about the husband. "Maan alter's a physician. He like ... well, he says he delivers babies and debrides leg ulcers and sees that the old and the sick have relief other than what they get when gathered unto our people, and he deals with those what aren't quite ready to go and be so gathered, and hang around after the body's in the ground. He says his hands have always been a little too stiff for surgery."
But as to the question of their name, they pause, study Hawk for a second or two, and decide that he can be trusted with the full shpiel right away.
"Know'st thou what a rose is?" they ask. "Uhm, maybe like, not. Maybe by where thou'rt born, we're called something else. If thou'rt like my husband, I'm called Lev, or Leyb, and to thee, the part of my jardinière what's relevant is that I'm a man what fifty years ago would've been a legal bachelor all his life, on account of wanting a husband and not a wife. If thou'rt like my sister-in-law, who wears payos and made my khavrusa her wife, then to thee I'm Lyubov, and the part what's relevant is yes, I'm a limp-wristed boy and a faygela, and also something like a woman of the women whom the midwife saw as in need of bris. And I presume, and like, forgive me such bold presumption, thou'rt no heterosexual, so mind not what they'd call me."
He doesn't run out of breath at all, talking in a measured and deliberate way, the rhythm perfectly accommodating pauses for breath. He's clearly used to public speaking, and he's been taught to be good at it, too.