Simcha watched without tears when they lowered the coffin into the earth. But when Duddy freed his hand from his grandfather’s he saw that the palm was cut and bleeding and he wrapped a handkerchief round it. “Zeyda?”
The old man was muttering something in Hebrew. A prayer.
“Where’s my mother’s stone?”
He pointed it out. Lennie was already standing there.
“He did so much for me, you know,” Lennie said. “But I was always frightened of Uncle Benjy. There was something about him…”
“Easy. Take it easy, Lennie.”
“Towards the end, you know, I had a feeling he was making fun of me.”
“He loved you like a son. Everybody knows that. Let’s go, eh?” But Duddy lingered to take a last look at his mother’s stone. “We’re supposed to come here once a year, aren’t we? This year let’s try. We could come together.”
Duddy went home. They had heard about his uncle’s death in the mountains so they didn’t expect him with the movies, but his clients were annoyed because he didn’t even bother to phone.
I’ll get into bed, he thought, and never get out, not unless somebody comes for me. But nobody came and the heat made his head ache. He dreamt again about somebody else’s bulldozers clearing his land. He saw himself horribly mutilated in a road accident. Yvette came to the hospital, but it was too late. The doctors led her away. “He kept calling for someone,” they said. “A girl named Yvette. He’s left everything he owned in her name.” Go ahead, cry your heart out, you lousy bitch. another dream he was an old man of forty, toothless, bald, a drunk, and he stopped at a big rich house to ask for a cup of coffee. Yvette answered the door wearing a mink coat. She recognized him and sank to her knees, but Duddy wouldn’t stay; he freed himself from her embrace and limped away. “I’ve got the mark of Cain on me,” he told her. He woke with a cry of anguish. His bed floated like a raft amid a wash of orange peels, last week’s newspapers, cigarette butts, sticky glasses, and watery ice cube trays. As the piercing sun sought him through a haze and a vulture circled predatorily, the sea lifted him onto an island. “Where does the white man come from?” a girl asked. “I think he’s dying,” her brother observed. “Bring me to your head man,” Duddy said. “Capishe?” handsome, a scornful multimillionaire presiding over a banquet table, he heard whispering in the background.
“But why didn’t he ever marry?”
“They say that when he was very young…”
Sometimes the phone rang and twice the door.
“Yvette?”
Anxiously she ripped open the telegram.
THE WAR DEPARTMENT REGRETS TO INFORM YOU THAT DUDLEY KRAVITZ FELL WHILE LEADING HIS MEN OUT OF A TRAP IN KOREA. STOP. HE HAS BEEN AWARDED THE VICTORIA CROSS. STOP. HE ASKED THAT THE MEDAL BE SENT TO YOU. STOP.
THE PRIME MINISTER
There were broads, an endless spill of beauty queens for him and Friar, the merry movie-makers, as they wandered from country to country, but at the Academy Award dinner there were those who saw through his mask of forced gaiety “He hates all women so, poor devil.”
“But what an appetite! The comings and going from his house in one night. Jeez.”
A crowd gathered round the grizzled old lush who had expired on the Bowery pavement. Flies filled his battered face.
“Any identification?”
“Nothing in his pockets, except this.”
A faded photograph of Yvette.
“Let’s get him down to the morgue quick. He’s beginning to stink.”
On Fifth Avenue the hearse passed a Rolls-Royce going in the opposite direction. Inside, Hugh Thomas Calder pressed a french-kiss on Yvette.
“Why are you crying, my sweet?”
“I don’t know. I felt a chill just now.”
Aunt Ida’s face loomed so large he had to avoid the hairy ear again. “It’s psychosomatic,” she said. “He’s no cripple. It’s the only way he could get Yvette from you.”
“Wha’?”
“He’s got a whang that makes yours look like a mosquito bite. She’s crazy about him.”
A leering Mr. MacPherson waited round every corner. “You’ll go far, Kravitz. I told you you’d go far.” He tried to run, he wept for trying so hard, but his legs wouldn’t work.
At home Irwin waited with a briefcase on his lap. “We’ll expect you in court first thing tomorrow morning.”
“But —”
Even a white wig failed to disguise the judge’s red fussy face. Mr. MacPherson’s laughter squirted across the court room.
“Please!”
Duddy woke with a shriek. He staggered out of bed, tripping over a pitcher and spilling stale orange juice on the floor. He sat down at the kitchen table and filled a bowl with corn flakes. He poured the milk without looking and realized too late that it had curdled. Duddy knocked over the bowl with his fist and started for the bedroom again. He stepped into the spilt orange juice and for hours afterwards in bed he couldn’t get his toes unstuck. He wept bitterly before he sank into a stupor again. I ought to get up, he thought, but he kept putting it off. I’d do it, he thought, if I could just get up and get out of here. But he’d have to brush his teeth, wash, wipe up the orange juice, clean out the fridge, do the dishes, shop — shave, don’t forget shave — the office, and all for what? He fell asleep again and dreamt he saw Yvette in bed with another man. It could have been Bernie Altman, he wasn’t sure, but she was certainly enjoying it. Duddy woke with a bone and pulled the sheet over his head. His toes were stuck together again. He sat up in bed, rummaged around for some empty cigarette boxes, and stuffed silver paper between his toes. I’d still get up, he thought, and do everything, but there’s no toilet paper. Next time he woke the room was dark and outside it was raining hard. The thunder and lightning excited him, but after the storm the heat seemed more oppressive. I’ll wait here, he thought, until somebody comes with good news. But nobody came and when he woke again it was dawn. There was a mosquito in the room. Sliding his arm stealthily under the sheet, he reached down for a newspaper, but orange juice had seeped through all the papers within reach. They were stuck to the floor. Duddy pulled his pillow over his head and began to concoct a delightful dream about Linda and himself going out horseback riding and getting caught in a storm. He got to the part where they take refuge in the barn quickly enough — and he was interrupted by the discovery that now his fingers were sticking together. Duddy tried wiping them on the sheets, he licked one finger dry with infinite care, but afterwards his fingers still tended to stick together. His feet had begun to ache too. The silver paper had formed into hard balls and was cutting into the tender flesh. His mouth tasted stickily of stale orange juice. I was just going to get out of bed too, he thought, but I’m not going to get up just because of the orange juice. If I get up it will be because I want to get up. He fell asleep again, but he couldn’t wangle his way back into the barn with Linda. That dream was lost. He lived through what he could remember of The Maltese Falcon, the part of Bogart. But when he got to the point where the police come to wake him up he could no longer remember the name of the actor who played the nasty cop. Regis Toomey was one, but the other… Duddy could see his face so clearly and he could remember him from She Wore a Yellow Ribbon umpteen other movies, but he couldn’t remember his name that prevented him from continuing with the Falcon story. Five times he got to the point where the cops come to wake him up, once he almost had the name, and three times he tried to substitute other actors for whosits, but it didn’t work. He woke again around noon, freed the silver paper pellets from his aching toes, and dozed off and dreamt that he had brushed his teeth, washed, wiped up the orange juice, cleaned the fridge, done the dishes — and woke to discover that he was still in bed and had to go to the toilet something terrible. He slept only fitfully now — two, three minutes at a time — and woke again from a dream that he had, indeed, gone to the toilet. He had a headache. He leaped out of bed and ran to the toilet. Quickly he urinated, soaked a t
owel in warm water, grabbed it, and got back into bed. He washed his sticky hand and both feet and triumphantly pulled the sheet over his head again when there came a pounding at the door. Go away, he thought. F– off. But the pounding persisted and he got out of bed to answer the door, stepping into the orange juice again. It was a registered letter for him. A large, serious-looking envelope.
“They’re suing me,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“What time is it, kid?”
“One-thirty-two approximately.”
“Tuesday?”
“Thursday, buster. Where have you been?”
The letter was from his Aunt Ida. Inside, in another large envelope, was the letter from his Uncle Benjy. Duddy laid it on the palm of his hand, trying it for weight. It’s not a letter, he thought, it’s a goddam book. He flung it onto the pinball machine and turned on the shower. He drank cup after cup of black coffee and finally he went to the office. “Any calls, doll?”
Creditors, canceled orders, indignant clients. Hugh Thomas Calder had called twice.
“Get him on the line for me, please.”
Mr. Calder wanted to know why Duddy hadn’t called in such a long time. He suggested that they have dinner together that night. “Can do,” Duddy said. He went to Mr. Calder’s house and they dined alone there.
“You’re not in a very talkative mood tonight,” Mr. Calder said.
“What do you want from me, Mr. Calder?”
“I enjoy your company.”
“Come off it. I amuse you. That’s what you mean.”
“You’re a friend of mine. I take a fatherly interest in you.”
“Yeah,” Duddy said, “then how come you never introduce me to any of your other friends?”
“They might not understand you.”
“You mean I might try to make a deal with them like I did with you over the scrap and that would embarrass you. I’m a little Jewish pusherke.
Mr. Calder didn’t answer.
“If I was a white man I wouldn’t say that. You guys never say what’s on your mind. It’s not — well, polite. Right?”
“You’re acting like a young man on the verge of a nervous breakdown.”
“Bullshit.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Would you excuse me if I went home? I don’t feel well.”
But Duddy couldn’t sit at home. The apartment was too depressing and he did not feel up to reading Uncle Benjy’s letter. He went to the office and looked at his bills. The sum they added up to was terrifying. Duddy unlocked the desk and took out the map of Lac St. Pierre. He found Yvette’s first letter and the photographs of the lake. I’d like to see the day she ever got a job as a photographer, he thought. Boy. He sat there chewing on a pencil and trying to think of somebody he’d like to see. Bernie Altman was out of town, Hersh wasn’t home. Duddy went to a bar around the corner. I wonder, he thought, if — objectively speaking — I could be blamed for the death of MacPherson’s wife? I never even met her. He drove down to Waverly Street and parked outside Hersh’s house. An hour, two hours, passed before he showed up.
“Hersh!”
“Hi, Duddy, how are you?”
Duddy began to cry.
“Hey, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Get in, please.”
They drove to the nearest bar.
“How’s Yvette these days?” Hersh asked.
“Aw. We’re through, you know. We’ve had it.”
“That’s too bad. I’m sorry to hear it.”
“They’re a dime a dozen. Don’t you get involved. Take my advice.”
“I’m sailing for Europe next Wednesday.”
Duddy’s eyes filled. He had to blow his nose. “I must be becoming an old lady,” he said. “This afternoon I heard somebody say that the Dodgers’ lead had been cut to half a game and I burst into tears. Hey, did you ever see The Maltese Falcon?”
“Yeah.”
Duddy asked him if he could remember the name of the guy who had played the other cop. Regis Toomey was one.
“Ward Bond.”
“Ward Bond! That’s it. Ward Bond.”
“Are you going to cry again?”
“Naw. I’m awright. Honest. Listen, there’s something I want to ask you. I — About MacPherson. It’s true, I made the phone call. His wife died, you know.”
“Look, we were kids then. How were you to know —”
“We used to phone them all the time, didn’t we? All the guys did. You never phoned.”
“I was something of a sissy in those days.”
“Next Wednesday. Jeez. Will you write me, Hersh?”
“Sure.”
“Aw, you’ll never write me.”
“Sure I will. I promise.”
“You’re my only friend.”
“You don’t look so hot, Duddy. Maybe you ought to see a doctor.”
“How was I to know that his wife would answer the phone?” he asked, his voice breaking.
“Let’s go for a walk.”
“You’ll never write me,” Duddy said. “You’ll forget all about me.”
“Come on, Duddy. Let’s get out of here.”
“If I had known that his wife was going to get out of bed to answer the phone,” Duddy said, “I never would have — Let me send you money when you’re in Paris. Let me help you.”
“I’m your friend, Duddy. You don’t have to give me money.”
“I’m going to write you every week. Even if you don’t answer my letters.”
“You’ve got to calm down, Duddy. You’ve been working too hard.”
He gave Hersh a lift home. “I’m going to come and see you there,” Duddy said. “I can go to Paris too.”
“Sure. Why not?”
“You’d be embarrassed to see me there. All your friends in Paris will be intelligent. Artists like.”
“Duddy. Listen, Duddy —”
But Duddy stepped on the gas and drove off.
“Duddy!”
Hersh pursued him for thirty or forty feet before he gave up. Duddy skidded around the corner, turned into St. Urbain Street and parked the car. He rested with his forehead pressed against the steering wheel and stared at the clutch.
5
Lots of painful facts came to his attention the next morning at the office. He had ruined himself up north, nobody wanted him to show movies any more.
“You’re not reliable.”
“Sure you say you’ll come. That’s what you said last time.”
His bills, long overlooked, had reached insupportable proportions. There were enough lawyers’ letters around for him to paper the walls with. There was no money coming in either. He had no prospects.
“There’s only one thing to do,” his lawyer told him. “Declare bankruptcy.”
“Wha’?”
“Have you any other assets?”
Duddy thought of the deeds Yvette held. “No,” he said.
“You go bankrupt, that’s all.”
“Listen, I’m not a failure. I don’t want people —”
“People! Failure! Everyone’s gone bankrupt at least twice. Think of it like a Purple Heart, that’s all. There’s no disgrace.”
“But —”
“Next year you go into business again. It’s simple.”
“After all that work.”
But it was the only solution. So Duddy drove back to his office, gave the girl two weeks’ notice, and cleared out his desk. Clearing out required several trips. For now that he was broke he did not omit to take the typewriter, all the office supplies, including a dozen boxes of paper clips and the wastepaper basket, and, naturally, his map of Lac St. Pierre.
Twice during the week he picked up Uncle Benjy’s letter, but he could not bring himself to read it. He began to sleep until noon and go from one downtown movie to another. At night he usually hung around Eddy’s.
“Here it comes,” Eddy would say. “St. Urbain Street’s Nine-Day Wonder.” B
ut he let Duddy have anything he wanted on credit. “Until your ship comes in,” he’d say.
“I think you’ve got the sleeping sickness,” Max said. “Listen, why don’t you go to New York for a week. A vacation. Poppa pays.”
“Aw.”
“Go see the Wonder again. Maybe he’ll put something your way?”
“On Schnorrer’s Day?” Duddy asked.
“A word from the wise. Before, a swelled head was bad enough, but now when you couldn’t rub two cents together to save your life and you bum around like a haunted house —”
“Lay off, Max,” Eddy said.
Whenever one of the men wanted to knock off for an hour Duddy took over the taxi. That kept him in spending money. That, too, was how he happened to run into Mr. Cohen one night.
“Duddy, it’s you!”
“A big deal.”
“What are you doing driving a taxi? Look at you.”
“Where do you want to go, please?”
Mr. Cohen got in beside him in the front seat. “Look at you. Oi.”
“Is there a law against driving a taxi?”
“But you, Duddy. You? No, it can’t be.”
“I went into bankruptcy.”
“Gangster. What did you clear on it?”
“I’m broke. Honest.”
Mr. Cohen clacked his tongue. “Come to the house,” he said. “I want to speak to you.”
“I’ll take you there, but I’m not going in.”
“You can’t have a drink with me? The family’s up north. I’m all alone.”
Once settled in the furnished basement, Mr. Cohen removed his shirt, pulled off his shoes, and started all the fans going. He stood behind the bar, looking at Duddy and clacking his tongue. “Here,” he said, handing him a drink. “Now tell me about it.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Are you going to start lying again? Don’t you ever tell the truth?”
“I had some bad luck.”
“Who hasn’t had some bad luck? Tell me what happened.”
“I’d rather not talk about it. O.K.?”
“You know what you look like in those old clothes? A communist. A potential menace.”
“Thanks.”
“I had such hopes for you, Duddy. I thought you’d go so far and look at you. A boy with your get-up-and-go.”