Fabula X.

Fabula X.

۞

  Cancer Yehoudah. Tax them five per cent higher. No VAT at weekends. Ten per cent higher during the four day week. Monday through Thursday, Tiwday through Thor-day. All of them at war against each other every single day. Without a Naviah lover, another Yiddish concocter was struggling for an answer. 

  “A drastic disease requires a drastic cure,” said Mister Gid to his one-and-only daughter, Rebecca. 

  “Oh me, oh me, oh my,” groanèd Rebecca. “Cure me, my father.” 

  Gideon Cohen was all over the show, swaying from to-to-fro, drunk on his own medicine. Rebecca was dying slowly, aging quickly. It painèd Mister Cohen to his ruddy heart that his sole heiress might not have a claim to his malachim throne, his shabbat blessèd home. He struck the basest of metals with the gawel. 

  “Aurum, aum'ha!” he exclaimèd. 

  “Malachah,” coughèd Rebecca. 

  She was dying for another sip of what was killing her father. He wouldn't allow her the privilege. His work took precedent over her. If only he wasn't so selfish they might have understood each other. 

  “I'm just yet to finish the formula, Rebecca.” 

۝