With the exception of Ben Kartman, no one played a more decisive part in shaping the future of my business than Ira. In spite of the initial impression he made on me, and my obvious reaction, he continued to come into the store, and we became friends. He was an amazing reader with an excellent library of books and recordings, and he had an uncle, he told me, who was a lover of opera and might be persuaded to buy books and records from me.
One morning I received a phone call from the uncle, Dr. Lionel Blitzsten, who asked if I had a recording of the Verdi Requiem with Pinza. It was a rich, full, commanding voice, and I was glad to be able to reply that I did. He suggested that I bring it over immediately.
Fortunately, he lived not far from the shop, but in a world of opulence such as I had never encountered. On arrival, I was sent by the maid to wait upstairs in the master bedroom. The room was fitted out like an 18th century drawing room. One wall was entirely covered with books. Later I discovered that because of illness, he did most of his entertaining here. I waited nervously, and noticing money lying on top of the dresser, retreated across the thick Turkish rug to the threshold and stayed there.
He came up the stairs quickly—a man in a hurry, I thought. But I was unprepared for his appearance, a kind of giant panda, very short and bald, with perhaps a few grey hairs straying about the temples, and wearing awesomely thick glasses (he had been going blind for years). His breathing was difficult (his lungs had a way of constantly filling up from his exertions) and I was later informed that his heart, too, was giving out. Platoons of doctors had struggled to keep him alive over the years.
What was really arresting (and somewhat terrifying) about this fat, puffing little man was the face. Above the glasses, the skull seemed all forehead; beneath, the clean-shaven skin was baby pink and the mouth shaped like a rosebud and just as red. That was it, the mouth ... and when he spoke, the voice was musical, no longer deep, but rather high in pitch.
Our initial transaction was completed in a moment. The Doctor looked at the records, asked the price, made his way to the dresser, gave me two ten dollar bills, thanked me, and vanished as quickly as he had appeared. I walked down the stairs and left quietly, but my heart was pounding.
It was several weeks before Dr. Blitzsten called again, very late in the evening. I recognized the sing-song quality characteristic of his speech as he asked for several books. I had all of them except the one he particularly wanted ... he said he needed it to refresh himself with a certain passage.
“Well, never mind,” he said, “I’ll get the book elsewhere tomorrow. Would you mind awfully delivering the others tonight?”
Again the maid let me in and sent me to the bedroom. I waited in the doorway until the Doctor motioned me in and asked me to deposit the books on a small table beside the bed. He was sitting up in bed supported by a backrest, a blinking Buddha in white, blue-trimmed pajamas and covered with a thin, fine blanket. As I started to introduce myself, he waved his hand and began to talk.
So far as I knew, I had never before met a psychoanalyst, and I had the feeling that my every word and move would be subject to his scrutiny and probably found wanting. As I answered his questions carefully, politely, haltingly, I became increasingly jumpy and nervous. My words wouldn’t come together as they usually did. I found myself making the most ridiculous errors, catching myself up only to discover that I was blushing. I was in the wrong place and I wanted to go home.