The Day My Mother Cried and Other Stories: and Other Stories

I Am Not She

156 I Am Not She y friend Bernice and I traveled to the city just about every Saturday or Sunday. Mostly Saturdays. With us it was like a religious rite, one of those thou shalts which was not only easily doable but cheap. We would catch the LIRR around ten, get to Penn Station threequarters of an hour later, take the Fifth Avenue bus uptown to the Metropolitan Museum, and arrive in time to catch the cafeteria line that started moving around noon. Most times we packed our own lunch and just ordered coffee. From time to time, I would bring with me a miniature bottle of Scotch whiskey, usually J&B, and toast myself gloriously with a Scotch and water prior to unfurling our tuna sandwiches and prune Danish . Bernice was never too happy with my miniaturized happy hour, which she said gave me a two- or three-hour buzz that, in her words, slowed me down to a crawl. I never thought it did slow me down, but one does not argue with Bernice about anything relating to the Met. She and her late husband, who had been a painter and a pretty good one, I thought, spent their Saturdays and most of their Sundays ambling through the museum like they were the landlords. And in a way I suppose they were. They hardly ever missed an exhibition, even those where there was an extra fee, which never sat well with Bernice. She paid of course but not without a grumble. It’s not that Bernice is a grumbler but she was never very happy spending money even if most of it came out of my wallet. I was always amazed, as I still am today, how much data on the Met has been sequestered into Bernice’s head. I am not referring to I Am Not She | 157 the special exhibitions and collections that were transported to the museum from all parts of the globe. Most of these were augmented by films either created by the Met or by the countries from which the collections came. There was no admission charge for these films, which pleased me, of course, but left Bernice ecstatic. Additionally there were audio devices rented to viewers that guided them through the exhibition. There was a modest charge that Bernice never allowed me to spend. “Don’t you think I can give you a tour of the exhibition as good as the manufacturer who makes these goddam things?” she would ask quizzically. I never answered. It was not only that in her head were stashed away the facts and figures relevant to the exhibitions, permanent or temporary. She knew where everything was or should have been. She knew the locations of all the museum restaurants, elevators, staircases, benches, sales areas, bargain sales areas. She knew shortcuts to the toilets, elevators, escalators (I think there was only one), rest areas, water fountains. She was an encyclopedia. One of our oddities, I suppose, was that whichever way we went and whatever exhibits we visited, we would end our day’s tour inevitably and unchangeably at the Temple of Dendur. The temple was built in Nubia in approximately 15 bce by the Roman emperor Augustus. It was given to the United States by Egypt in 1965 and in 1967 was turned over to the Metropolitan Museum. In 1978 the temple was installed in the Sadder wing of the museum. To Bernice and me, it was a kind of watering spot to rest and rehabilitate ourselves after the multihour tour we completed. It was not that we were exhausted by the day’s jaunt, but it was always deliciously restful. No crowds, hardly any sounds or noise, no walls, no gapers, no gawking. And a bounty of space. The temple and its large gateway extend over an expanse of more than an acre, I would guess. There’s lots of sunlight. The outside wall of the temple area is all windows. There is a small parapet, perhaps two feet high, that extends over most of the temple space. This serves as seating. And for meditation, at least for 158 | William D. Kaufman Bernice and me. After the Dendur experience, it was back to the Fifth Avenue bus. From time to time, largely on weekdays, we would change our itinerary and visit a museum other than the Metropolitan. Not very far from the Met were the Whitney...