The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz

  Duddy didn’t fall asleep until shortly after seven and he was late for his appointment with Mr. Cohen.

  “Sure. That’s right, Duddy. My Bernie’s going to be bar-mitzvah in three weeks’ time. I’m sorry I couldn’t ask you to the dinner, but… well, you know. At second cousins we put a stop to it. Listen, come to the ceremony anyway and have a schnapps.”

  Duddy showed him the write-up in the Star the paragraph from Mel West’s column. He told him that when Farber’s daughter got married he was making a movie of it. He went on and on hopefully about Mr. Friar, and how lucky he was to have such a talented director. “All my productions will be in color. A lasting record like,” he said. “For your grandchildren and their grandchildren after them.”

  “It’s O.K. for Farber. His girl’s marrying into the Gordons. They can afford it.”

  “You say that without even asking me a price. I’ll bet you think it would cost you something like three thousand dollars for the movie.”

  “What? Are you crazy? Do you know how much it’s costing me just for the catering?”

  “You see. But it wouldn’t cost that much. I can make you a top-notch movie for two thousand dollars.”

  “The boy’s mad.”

  “But on one condition only. You mustn’t say a word to Farber about the price we made. It’s a special.”

  “Look, when I want to see a movie I can go to the Loew’s for ninety cents. My Bernie’s a fine kid, but he’s no Gary Cooper. I’m sorry, Duddy.”

  “All right. No hard feelings. I just felt that since Bernie is such a good friend of the Seigal boy and I’m doing that bar-mitzvah in December —”

  “That cheapskate Seigal is paying you two thousand dollars for a movie?”

  “He should live so long I’d make him such a price. Well, I’d better go. I’ve got another appointment at eleven.”

  “All right, smart guy. Sit down. Come on. Sit down. You’re trembling like a leaf anyway. There, that’s better. I oughta slap your face.”

  “Wha’?”

  “I happen to know that you’re not making a movie for Seigal. O.K.?”

  “Are you calling me a liar?” Duddy demanded in his boldest voice.

  “Sit down. Stop jumping around. Boy, some kid you are. Now, for a starter, how do I even know that a kid who’s still wet… wet?… soaking the ears can make a movie?”

  “Mr. Friar is a very experienced director.”

  “Sure. He’s Louis B. Mayer himself. Duddy, Duddy, what’s he doing here making bar-mitzvah pictures with… with a boy?”

  Duddy flushed.

  “Have you got lots of money invested?”

  “Enough.”

  “Oi.”

  “It’s going to work. It’s a great idea.”

  Mr. Cohen sent out for coffee. “O.K., Duddy, we’ll see. I want you to tell me straight how much it would cost you to make a color movie of the bar-mitzvah.”

  Duddy asked for a pencil and paper. “About nine hundred to a thousand,” he said at last.

  “Lies. You lie through your ears, Duddy. O.K., your costs are six hundred dollars let’s say.”

  “But —”

  “Shettup! I’d like to see you get a start and I’ll make you a deal. You go ahead and make me a film of Bernie’s bar-mitzvah. If I like it I’ll give you a thousand dollars for it. If not you can go and burn it.” Duddy took a deep breath.

  “Before you answer remember I should have thrown you out of the office for lying to me. Think too of the prestige you’d get. The first production for Cohen. I could bring you in a lot of trade. But it’s a gamble, Duddy. I’m a harsh critic. There are many academy award winners I didn’t like and if I don’t care for the picture…”

  “I can make you a black-and-white for twelve hundred dollars.”

  “Get out of here.”

  “Look, Mr. Cohen, this is a real production. I have to pay for the editing and the script and —”

  “All right. Twelve hundred. But color, Duddy. And only if I like it. Come here. We’ll shake on it. What a liar you are. Wow!” Mr. Cohen pinched his cheek. “If you’re going to see Seigal now about his boy’s bar-mitzvah you have my permission to say you’re making one for me. Tell him I’m paying you two thousand. He can phone me if he wants. But listen, Duddy, he’s not like me. Don’t trust him. Get five hundred down and the rest in writing. Such a liar. Wow!”

  Duddy drove for fifteen minutes before he figured out that he had no advance and nothing in writing from Mr. Cohen. The film would cost him at least five hundred dollars — more, when you considered the work and time it would take — and there was no guarantee of a return on his investment. That lousy bastard, Duddy thought, and he makes it sound like he was doing me a favor. He went to see Seigal at home and his wife talked him into letting Duddy make the picture. Seigal paid an advance of two hundred and fifty dollars and signed an agreement to pay fifteen hundred in all if he liked the film and another six hundred even if he didn’t want it. It was a mistake to see Cohen at the office, Duddy thought afterwards. You’ve got to get them at home with the wife and boy there.

  He phoned Yvette and told her he was sending her a check for three hundred dollars in the morning. He said he was making the movie for Mr. Cohen, but he didn’t tell her that if Mr. Cohen didn’t like it there was no deal. He was so happy about Seigal, too, that he didn’t realize until he got home that the Seigal bar-mitzvah was six weeks off and even if he got paid right away it would be too late. He still had to raise twenty-five hundred dollars to pay Brault and twenty days was all the time he had. In the next three days Duddy visited eight potential clients. They were interested. Nobody showed him the door exactly, but first they wanted to see one of his productions.

  “You can’t blame them,” Duddy told Mr. Friar. “We’ll have to rent a screening room or something for the Cohen picture. I want to send out lots of tickets.”

  “When’s the bar-mitzvah?” Mr. Friar asked.

  “Two weeks from Saturday,” Duddy said, rubbing his face with his hands.

  “I’d like to start looking at some of the locations tomorrow.”

  “Wha’?”

  “Can you take me to the synagogue?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “I say, old chap, you do look down in the mouth. Haven’t you been eating?”

  “Sure. Sure I have.” Jeez, he thought, even if Cohen likes the picture that money will be too late too.

  “We’ve got to hit them with something unusual right in the first frame. Have you ever seen Franju’s Sang des Bêtes?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “It was a documentary, old chap. A great one. We could do worse than to use it for our model.”

  “It’s got to be good, Mr. Friar. Better than good, or I’m dead.”

  Mr. Friar could see that Duddy was depressed. He gave him his most genial smile. “Come on, old chap, I’m going to take you out for a drink. But this time it’s definitely on me.” In the bar Mr. Friar tried to amuse him with scandalous stories about celebrities, but Duddy didn’t even smile once.

  “I want you to think about that picture, Mr. Friar. I want you to think about it night and day. It’s got to be great.”

  Mr. Friar assured him that he kept a notebook by his bed and marked down all his creative ideas, even if he had to get up at three A.M. to do it. “I’m thinking of the part when the boy is up there reading his chapter from the Torah. I see a slow dissolve into the boy’s racial memory. We could begin with the pain of the baby’s circumcision and —”

  Duddy jerked awake. “Hey, you can’t show a kid’s pecker in this picture. There are going to be women and children there.”

  “Remember,” Mr. Friar said severely. “No artistic interference.”

  “Right now I can see myself waiting on tables again.”

  “Let’s have another,” Mr. Friar said.

  They had one more and then Duddy called for the waiter and paid the bill. Outside, Mr. Friar was not as loquaci
ous as usual. He seemed self-absorbed.

  “Thanks a lot for the drinks, Mr. Friar.”

  “Don’t mention it. À demain.”

  3

  Duddy was exhausted. I’ll sleep in tomorrow morning, he thought. I need the rest. But he woke with a scream at three A.M. from a dream that was to become a recurrent nightmare. Bulldozers, somebody else’s surveyors, carpenters and plumbers roared and hammered and shouted over the land round Lac St. Pierre. Irwin Shubert held an enormous plan in his hands. He smiled thinly.

  “Waaa…”

  Somebody shook him. “Duddy, wake up! Duddy! It’s me. Lennie.”

  Max rushed into the room. “What’s going on here?”

  “It’s Duddy. He had a nightmare.”

  “You O.K.? You want a Coke or something? Tea?”

  “Listen, Duddy. Listen closely. I want you to try to remember everything about your dream.” Lennie grabbed a pencil and paper. “Anything that comes into your head you tell me. I’ll analyze it for you.”

  “Jeez.”

  “Go ahead. Tell him.”

  “I dreamt I was screwing this broad,” Duddy said.

  “That’s my boy.”

  “Were there any doors? Did you have to go through passages to get to her? What made you —”

  “There was a bed like. Her cans were something out of this world…”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Lennie said, putting his pencil and paper away.

  “What’sa matter?” Max asked. “Aren’t you interested in that kind of dream? Go ahead, Duddy. I’m listening.”

  “Are you making tea?”

  They couldn’t get to sleep again. Max and Lennie sat at the kitchen table and Duddy made one of his huge and intricate omelets.

  “I don’t get it,” Max said, getting out his backscratcher. “If you were in bed with this broad why did you scream?”

  “She bit my toe.”

  “Even if you didn’t dream that,” Lennie said, “it’s a very significant remark.”

  “Hey,” Max said, “what did you put in this omelet?”

  “It’s great,” Lennie said. “Duddy makes the best omelet this side of the Rio Grande.”

  Lennie said that yesterday in the operating theater he had seen a baby delivered for the first time. He described it for them and said that three students had fainted. Max made both his boys laugh with his story of the drunken American who had got into his taxi and asked to be taken to where the king lived. He wanted to see the palace. “Can you beat that?” Max asked.

  Duddy’s imitation of Mr. Friar brought tears to Lennie’s eyes.

  “You know what,” Max said, thumping the table. “I’m taking Sunday off. We’re going out for a drive and a first-class feed. The three of us.”

  “Atta boy.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lennie said, “but I’ve got a date.”

  “Can’t you break it?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Well,” Max said, “maybe next Sunday. We don’t see enough of each other. I’m your father. You’re supposed to come to me with your problems.”

  Lennie frowned. “I’d better turn in,” he said. “I’ve got an early class tomorrow.”

  “You go to bed too, Duddy. I’m going to sit up for a bit.”

  “I’ll sit with you. ‘Night, Lennie.” Duddy made more tea.

  “Do you know anything about Lennie that I should know?”

  “No. Why?”

  “There’s something funny going on.”

  “Aw. It’s your imagination.” Duddy started to tell him about his adventures as an “indie,” but Max wasn’t interested. “Daddy, have you ever thought of getting married again?”

  “What?”

  “Jeez. Don’t get angry. I thought maybe you were lonely like.”

  “Nobody could ever replace your mother for me,” Max said sternly. “You’re a funny kid. I can’t figure you. Out of left field you come running with the craziest questions.”

  “I don’t remember her very well. I was only six when she…”

  “You missed out on plenty, brother. Plenty. Minnie was some wife.”

  There was a picture in the living room of Max and Minnie on their wedding day. He wore a top hat and her face was in the shadow of a white veil. But her smile was tender, forgiving. It looked to Duddy as if she had probably used to laugh a lot. He could remember her laugh, come to think of it. Something rolling, turning over dark and deep and endless, and with it hugs and gooey kisses and a whiff of onions. He remembered too that Max had held him pinned down to the bed once, saying over and over again, “Easy, kid. Easy,” while Minnie had applied Argyrol drops to his nose. Once more Duddy was tempted to ask his father if Minnie had liked him, but he couldn’t bring himself to risk it.

  “Omelets weren’t coming out of our ears in those days,” Max said. “I used to come home after work and for a starter there’d usually be chopped liver and what gefilte fish she made! Ask Debrofsky. Ask your Uncle Benjy even. He was crazy about Minnie. You’d be surprised how often he used to come here in the old days. We used to sit around the dining room table after dinner on a Friday night cracking nuts and waiting for the eleven o’clock news. Your mother used to keep up with all the radio programs. On Monday night we’d sit together in the living room, me with my books on electrical studies and Minnie making cookies with one ear open in case you should start bawling your head off, and together we’d listen to the Lux Radio Theater. That’s still an excellent program, but without Minnie — We used to play parchesi a lot, too, and Chinese checkers, and if I had the boys round for a poker game they loved it. Minnie would make us latkas open up some herring she’d pickled herself and the boys were so happy that when she came round to collect for a raffle for the new synagogue or something nobody ever made a smart remark. The boys,” he said, his voice filled with marvel, “would even buy up a whole book just because it was Minnie, and a dollar was a dollar in those days.

  “Montreal wasn’t what it is now, you know. For kids these days everything’s a breeze. I remember when the snow in winter was often piled higher than a man on the streets. There was a time back there when they had horses to pull the streetcars. (That’s why even today they say horsepower and measure an engine’s strength by it.) Hell, they tell me that new rabbi in Outremont, Goldstone I think his name is, runs a sort of marriage clinic where he gives sex talks. In my day all you had to do was mention the word sex to a rabbi and you’d get a clap on the ear that would last you a week. Look at you,” he said, his anger rising, “eighteen years old and driving a car of your own already. My father never even bought me a bicycle. O.K., I didn’t pay for your car, but I could have, you know.” Max paused, searching Duddy’s face for skepticism. But Duddy merely grinned. “Boy, if I got into half as much trouble at school as you did the zeyda have taken off his belt to me. Aw, kids these days. Softies.” Max replaced his backscratcher in the kitchen drawer and got up and yawned. “Why don’t we turn in?”

  “Tell me more about Maw.”

  “Some other night.”

  “O.K., I’ll just do the dishes and then —”

  “The noise’d wake Lennie. They’ll keep. C’mon to bed. Hey,” Max said, “I almost forgot. The Boy Wonder will see you at eleven-thirty tomorrow.”

  “Jeez. No kidding.”

  “A promise is a promise.”

  Duddy embraced Max. He punched him softly on the shoulder.

  “Just be punctual,” Max said, “and don’t make trouble,” and he started for his bedroom.

  “One minute. That means I’m ready, doesn’t it, Daddy? That means you think I’m like O.K. now.”

  “Don’t make trouble. That’s all I ask. This is a special favor the Wonder is doing me.”

  “I won’t make trouble, Daddy. You’ll be proud.”

  4

  Jerry Dingleman, known to many as the Boy Wonder since Mel West had done a complete column on him, was a man with many offices. His most impressive office was on the top fl
oor of his gambling establishment on the other side of the river, but on Wednesday mornings he did business in a poky little office off the Tico-Tico dance floor. The Boy Wonder was only a St. Urbain Street boy to begin with, he remembered well his own early hardships, and he liked to lend a helping hand. Time was precious, however, and so he limited his consideration of favors to Wednesdays. Wednesday was known to his inner circle as Schnorrer’s Day and from ten to four the supplicants came and went. Third cousins once removed and just off the train from Winnipeg came. Chorines too old even for the streets tried him and crackpot inventors who claimed to have been at F.F.H.S. with him came at least once a month. Cops who wanted to borrow against the pay-off and side men too far hooked to ever play again were among the Schnorrer’s Day regulars. The collector from the Liberal Party and aged lushes with lice crawling over their faces sat in the same stiff-backed chair opposite the Wonder’s maplewood desk. When the Jewish General Hospital went out on a building campaign it sent a representative too.

  The Boy Wonder was a God-fearing man and he didn’t smoke or drive his car or place bets on the Sabbath. His father had spent ten years in prison and his Uncle Joe had been shot down on the street during the bad days, but Jerry Dingleman had never been involved even indirectly in any bloodshed or spent a day behind bars. Not before the time of his personal trouble, anyway.

  His legs were twisted and useless. At the age of twenty-eight the Boy Wonder had been struck by polio and when he got out of bed many months later he could walk only with the help of crutches. He never once spoke about his illness but there were lots of stories about it. Mel West had printed the one about the insurance policy. The Wonder, it seems, had carried a polio policy worth fifty thousand dollars and, according to West, when the doctors told him he would never walk again the Wonder had replied with a tough smile, “Yeah, but I beat Lloyd’s. I never lose a bet.” This led West to compare Dingleman with F.D.R. and the Boy Wonder barred him from his clubs for two years.