CHAPTER TWENTY
AS
the time for our departure drew close, my head full of streets, battlefields,
monuments, cathedrals, Spring waxing like a Dravidian
moon, heart beating wilder, dreams more proliferous, every cell in my body was
shouting Hosanna. Mornings when,
intoxicated by the fragrance of Spring, Mrs. Skolsky
threw open her windows, Sirota’s piercing voice (Reizei, rezei!) was already summoning me. It was no longer the old familiar Sirota, but
a delirious muezzin sending forth canticles to the sun. I no longer cared about the meaning of his
words, whether a curse or a lament, I made up my own. “Accept our thanks, O nameless Being divine …!”
Following him like one of the devout, my lips moving mutely to the
rhythm of his words, I swayed to and fro, rocked on my heels, fluttered my
eyelashes, splattered myself with ashes, scattered gems and diadems in all
directions, genuflected, and with the last eerie notes, rose on tiptoe to fling
them heavenward. Then, right arm raised up, tip of forefinger lightly touching the crown of
my head, I would slowly revolve about the axis of bliss, my lips making the
sound of the Jew’s harp. As from a tree
shaking off its wintry slumber, the butterflies swarmed from my noggin crying
Hosanna, Hosanna to the Highest! Jacob I
blessed and Ezekiel, and in turn Rachel, Sarah, Ruth and Esther. Oh how warming, how truly heartening, was
that music drifting through the open windows!
Thank you, dear landlady, I shall remember you
in my dreams! Thank you, robin
redbreast, for flaming past this morning!
Thank you, brother darkies, your day is coming! Thank you, dear Reb,
I shall pray for you in some ruined synagogue!
Thank you, early morning blossoms, that you should honour me with your
delicate perfume! Zov, Toft, Giml,
Biml….hear, hear, he is singing, the
cantor of cantors! Praise be to the Lord! Glory
to King David! And to Solomon
resplendent in his wisdom! The sea opens
before us, the eagles point the way. Yet
another note, beloved cantor … a high and piercing one! Let it shatter the breastplate of the High
Priest! Let it drown the screams of the
damned!
And he did it, my wonderful, wonderful
cantor cantatibus. Bless you, O son of
“Aren’t
you slightly mad this morning?”
“Yes, yes,
that I am. But I could be madder. Why not?
When a prisoner is released from his cell should he not go mad? I’ve served six lifetimes plus thirty-five
and a half years and thirteen days. Now
they release me. Pray God, it is not too
late!”
I took her
by the two hands and made a low bow, as if to begin the minuet.
“It was
you, you who brought me the
pardon. Pee on me, won’t you. It would be like a benediction. O, what a sleepwalker I have been!”
I leaned
out the window and inhaled a deep draught of Spring. (It was such a morning as Shelley would have
chosen for a poem.) “Anything
special for breakfast this morning?”
I turned round to face her. “Just think – no more slaving, no more begging, no more cheating,
no more pleading and coaxing.
Free to walk, free to talk, free to think, free
to dream. Free, free,
free!”
“But, Val,
dear,” came her gentle voice, “we’re not staying there forever, you know.”
“A day
there will be like an eternity here. And
how do you know how long or short our stay will be? Maybe war will break out; maybe we won’t be
able to return. Who knows the lot of man
on earth?”
“Val,
you’re making too much of it. It’s going
to be a vacation, nothing more.”
“Not for me.
For me it’s a breakthrough. I
refuse to stay on parole. I’ve served my
time, I’m through here.”
I dragged
her to the window. “Look! Look out there! Take a good look! That’s
“Come,
Val, come sit down. Have a bit of
breakfast.” She led me to the table.
“Okay
then, breakfast! This morning I’d like a slice of watermelon the
left wing of a turkey, a bit of possum and some good old-fashioned corn
pone. Father Abraham’s done ‘mancipated
me. Ise nevah goin’
back to
“What’s
more,” I said, resuming my own natural white trash voice, “I’m done writing
novels. I’m a member elect of the wild
duck family. I’m going to chronicle my
hard-earned misery and play it off tune – in
the upper partials. How do you like
that?”
She
deposited two soft-boiled eggs in front of me, a piece of toast and some
jam. “Coffee in a
minute, dear. Keep talking!”
“You call
it talk, eh? Listen, do we still have
that Poème d’Extase? Put it on, if you can find it. Put it on loud. His music sounds like I think –
sometimes. Has that far off cosmic
itch. Divinely fouled
up. All fire
and air. The first time I heard
it I played it over and over. Couldn’t shut it off.
It was like a bath of ice, cocaine and rainbows. For weeks I went about in a trance. Something had happened to me. Now this sounds crazy, but it’s true. Every time a thought seized me a little door
would open inside my chest, and there, in his comfy little nest sat a bird, the
sweetest, gentlest bird imaginable.
‘Think it out!’ he would chirp.
‘Think it out to the end!’ And I
would, by God. Never any effort
involved. Like an etude gliding off a glacier….”
As I was
slooping up the soft-boiled eggs a peculiar smile hovered about my lips.
“What is
it?” she said. “What now, my crazy one?”
“Horses. That’s what I’m thinking. I wish we were going to
Such a
beautiful Spring morning. Did I mention Shelley? Too good for his likes. Or for Keats or Wordsworth. A Jacob Boehme morning,
nothing less. No flies yet, no
mosquitoes. Not even a cockroach in
sight. Splendid. Just Splendid. (If only she would find
that Scriabin record!)
Must have been a morning like this that Joan of Arc passed through
Chinon on her way to the king.
Rabelais, unfortunately, was not yet born, else
he might have glimpsed her from his cradle near the window. Ah, that heavenly view which his window
commanded!
Yes, even
if MacGregor were to suddenly appear I could not fall from grace. I would sit him down and tell him of Masaccio
or of the Vita Nuova. I might even read from Shakespeare, on a
frangipanic morning like this. From the Sonnets, not the plays.
A
vacation, she called it. The word
bothered me. She might have well have
said coitus interruptus.
(Must remember to get the address of her relatives in
There was nothing to keep me chained indoors any
longer. The novel was finished, the
money was in the bank, the trunk was packed, the passports were in order, the Angel of Mercy was guarding the tomb. And the wild stallions of Gogol were still
racing like the wind.
Lead on, O kindly light!
“Why don’t
you take in a show?” she said, as I was making for the door.
“Maybe I
will,” I replied. “Don’t hatch any eggs
till I get back.”
On the
impulse I decided to say hello to Reb.
It might be the last time I’d ever set foot in the ghastly place of
his. (It was too.) Passing the news stand at the corner I bought
a paper and left a fifty cent piece in the tin cup. That was to make up for the nickels and dimes
I had swiped from the blind newsie at Borough Hall. It felt good, even though I had deposited it
in the wrong man’s cup. I gave myself a
sock in the kishkas for good measure.
Reb was in
the back of the store sweeping up.
“Well, well, look who’s here!” he shouted.
“What a morning, eh?
Doesn’t it make you feel like breaking out?”
“What are
you up to?” he said, putting the broom aside.
“Haven’t
the faintest idea, Reb. Just wanted to say hello to you.”
“You
wouldn’t want to go for a spin, would you?”
“I
would, if you had a tandem. Or a pair of fast horses.
No, not today.
It’s a day for walking, not riding.”
I pulled my elbows in, arched my back, and trotted to the door and
back. “See, they’ll carry me far, these
legs. No need to do ninety or a
hundred.”
“You seem
to be in a good mood,” he said. “Soon
you’ll be walking the streets of
“
“Miller, I
envy you.”
Brief pause.
“I say,
why don’t you visit Maxim Gorky while you’re over there?”
“Is
“Sure he
is. And I’ll tell you another man you
ought to look up, though he may be dead by now.”
“Who’s
that?”
“Henri
Barbusse.”
“I’d sure
like to, Reb, but you know me … I’m timid.
Besides, what excuse would I have for busting in on them?”
“Excuse?” he shouted. “Why, they’d be delighted to know you.”
“Reb, you
have an exalted opinion of me.”
“Nonsense! They’d
greet you with open arms.”
“Okay,
I’ll keep it in the back of my noodle.
I’m toddling along now. Paying my last respects to the dead. So long!”
A few
doors distant a radio was blaring away.
It was a commercial advertising “Last Supper” tablecloths,
only two dollars a pair.
My way lay
along
Moving
along I thought of the Buddenbrooks
family and then of Tonio Kruger. Dear old Thomas Mann. Such a marvellous
craftsman. (I should have bought
a piece of Streuselkuchen!) Yes, in the photos I’d seen of him he looked
a bit like a storekeeper. I could
visualize him writing his Novellen in
the back of a delicatessen store, with a yard of linked sausages wrapped around
his neck. What he would have made of
A street
car rattled by. I caught a glimpse of
the motor-man’s flowing moustache as it rushed by. Presto!
The name leaped to mind like a flash.
Knut Hamsun. Think of it, the
novelist who finally earns the Nobel Prize operating a street car in this
God-forsaken land! Where was it again –
I noticed
a bench at the kerb. (Most
unusual thing.) Like the angel
Gabriel, I lowered my ass. Ouf! What was the sense in walking one’s legs
off? I leaned back and opened my mouth
wide to drink in the solar rays. How are you? I said, meaning
I closed
my eyes, not to snooze but to summon the image of the ancestral home carved out
of the Middle Ages.
How charming, how delightful it looked, this forgotten village! A labyrinth of walled streets with canals
running serpent wise; statues (of musicians only), malls, fountains, squares
and triangles; every lane led to the hub where the quaint house of worship with
its delicate spires stood. Everything moving at a snail’s pace. Swans floating on the still surface of the
lake; pigeons cooing in the belfry of the church; awnings, striped like
pantaloons, shading the tessellated terraces.
So utterly peaceful, so idyllic, so dream-like!
I rubbed
my eyes. Now where on earth had I dug
that up? Was it Buxtehude perhaps? (The way my grandfather pronounced the word I
always took it for a place not a man.)
“Don’t let
him read too much, it’s bad for the eyes.”
Seated at
the edge of his workbench, where he sat with legs doubled up, making coats for
Isaac Walker’s menagerie of fine gentlemen, I read aloud to him from Hans
Christian Andersen.
“Put the
book away now,” he says gently. “Go out
and play.”
I go down
to the backyard and, having nothing more interesting to do, I peek between the
slats of the wooden fence which separated our property from the smoke
house. Rows and rows of stiff, blackened
fish greet my eyes. The pungent, acrid
odour is almost overpowering. They’re
hanging by the gills, these rigid, frightened fish; their popping eyes gleam in
the dark like wet jewels.
Returning
to my grandfather’s bench, I ask him why dead things are always so stiff. And he answers: “Because there’s no joy in
them any more.”
“Why did
you leave
“Because I didn’t want to be a soldier.”
“I would
like to be a solider,” I said.
“Wait,” he
said, “wait till the bullets fly.”
He hums a
little tune while he sews. “Shoo fly,
don’t bother me!”
“What are
you going to be when you grow up? A tailor, like your father?”
“I want to
be a sailor,” I reply promptly. “I want
to see the world.”
“Then
don’t read so much. You’ll need good
eyes if you’re going to be a sailor.”
“Yes, Grosspapa!” (That’s how we called him.) “Goodbye, Grosspapa.”
I remember
the way he eyed me as I walked to the door.
A quizzical look, it was. What
was he thinking? That I’d never make a
sailor man?
Further
retrospection was broken by the approach of a most seedy-looking bum with hand
outstretched. Could I spare a dime, he
wanted to know.
“Sure,” I
said. “I can spare a lot more, if you
need it.”
He took a
seat beside me. He was shaking as if he
had the palsy. I offered him a cigarette
and lit it for him.
“Wouldn’t
a dollar be better than a dime?” I said.
He gave me
a weird look, like a horse about to shy.
“What it is?” he said. “What’s
the deal?”
I lit
myself a cigarette, stretched my legs full length, and slowly, as if
deciphering a bill of lading, I replied: “When a man is about to make a journey
to foreign lands, there to eat and drink his fill, to wander as if pleases and
to wonder, what’s a dollar more or less?
Another shot of rye is what you want, I take it. As for me, what I would like is to be able to
speak French, Italian, Spanish, Russian, possibly a
little Arabic too. If I had my choice,
I’d sail this minute. But that’s not for
you to worry about. Look, I can offer
you a dollar, two dollars, five dollars.
Five’s the maximum – unless the banshees are after you. What say?
You don’t have to sing any hymns either….”
He acted
jumpy like. Edged away
from me instinctively, as if I were bad medicine.
“Mister,”
he said, “all I need is a quarter … two bits.
That’ll do. And I’ll thank you
kindly.”
Half
rising to his feet, he held out his palm.
“Don’t be
in a hurry,” I begged. “A quarter, you
say. What good is a quarter? What can you buy for that? Why do things halfway? It’s not American. Why not get yourself a flask of rot gut? And a shave and a haircut
too? Anything
but a Rolls Royce. I told you,
five’s the maximum. Just say the word.”
“Honest,
mister, I don’t need that much.”
“You do too. How can you talk that way? You need lots and lots of things – food,
sleep, soap and water, more booze….”
“Two bits,
that’s all I want, mister.”
I fished
out a quarter and placed it in his palm.
“Okay,” I said, “if that’s the way you want it.”
He was
trembling so that the coin slipped out of his hand and rolled into the
gutter. As he bent over to pick it up I
pulled him back.
“Let it
stay there,” I said. “Someone may come
along and find it. Good luck, you
know. Here, here’s another. Hold
on to it now!”
He got up,
his eye riveted to the coin in the gutter.
“Can’t I
have that one too, mister?”
“Of course
you can. But then,
what about the other fellow?”
“What
other fellow?”
“Any old fellow.
What’s the difference?”
I held him
by the sleeve. “Hold on a minute, I’ve
got a better idea. Leave that quarter
where it is and I’ll give you a bill instead.
You don’t mind taking a dollar, do you?”
I pulled a roll out of my trousers pocket and extracted a dollar
bill. “Before you convert this into more
poison,” I said, closing his fist over it, “listen to this,
it’s a real good thought. Imagine, if
you can, that it’s tomorrow and that you’re passing this same spot, wondering
who’ll give you a dime. I won’t be here,
you see. I’ll be on the Ile de France. Now then, your throat’s parched and all that,
and who comes along but a well-dressed guy with nothing to do – like me – and
he flops down … right here on this same bench.
Now what do you do? You go up to
him, same as always, and you say – ‘Spare a dime, mister?’ And he’ll shake his head. No!
Now then, here’s the surprise, here’s the thought I had for you. Don’t run away with your tail between your
legs. Stand firm and smile … a kindly
smile. Then say: ‘Mister, I was only
joking. I don’t need no dime. Here’s a buck for you, and may God protect
you always!’ See? Won’t that be jolly?”
In a panic
he clutched the bill which I held in my fingers and struggled free of my grip.
“Mister,”
he said, backing away, “you’re nuts. Plain nuts.”
He turned
and hurried off. A few yards away he
stopped, faced about. Waving his fist at
me and grimacing like a loon, he shouted at the top of his lungs: “You crazy
bugger! You dirty cocksucker! Piss on you, you goon!” He waved the bill in the air, made a few
dirty faces, stuck his tongue out, then took to his
heels.
“There you
are,” I said to myself. “Couldn’t take a little joke. Had I offered him six bits and said, ‘Now try
to imitate a stench trap in a soil pipe,’ he would have been grateful.” I reached down and salvaged the quarter that
was in the gutter. “Now he’ll really get
a surprise,” I murmured, placing the coin on the bench.
I opened
the newspaper, turned to the theatre section, and scanned the bill of
fare. Nothing to rave
about at the Palace. The movies? Same old
chilli con carne. The
burlesque? Closed
for repairs.
What a
city! There were the museums and the art
galleries, of course. And
the Aquarium. If I were a bum, now, and someone handed me a thousand dollar
bill by mistake, I wouldn’t know what to do with it.
Such a wonderful day too.
The sun was eating me like a million mothballs. A millionaire in a world
where money was worthless.
I tried to
summon a pleasant thought. I tried to
think of
“Open in the name of the great Jehovah and
the Continental Congress!”
And it
opened like the door of a hidden vault.
There it was,
It’s the
day after tomorrow and I’m standing at the taffrail aboard the SS Buford … I mean the Ile de France. (I forgot, I’m not being deported, I’m going
to have a holiday abroad.) For a moment
I thought I was that beloved anarchist, Emma Goldman, who, as she was
approaching the land of exile, is reported to have said: “I long for the land (
The boat
will be pulling out soon. Time to say goodbye.
Will I too miss this land that has made me suffer so? I answered that question before. Nevertheless, I do want to say goodbye to
those who once meant something to me.
What am I saying? Who still mean something! Step forward, won’t you, and let me shake you
by the hand. Come, comrades, a last
handshake!
Up comes
William F. Cody, the first in line. Dear
Buffalo Bill, what an ignominious end we reserved for you! Goodbye, Mr. Cody, and God speed! And is this Jesse James? Goodbye, Jesse James, you were tops! Goodbye, you Tuscaroras, you Navajos and
Apaches! Goodbye, you valiant,
peace-loving Hopis! And this
distinguished, olive-skinned gentleman with the goatee, can it be W.E.
Burghardt Dubois, the very soul of black folk?
Goodbye, dear, honoured Sir, what a noble champion you have been! And you there, Al Jennings, once of the Ohio
Penitentiary, greetings! and may you walk through the
shadows with some greater soul than O’Henry!
Goodbye, John Brown, and bless you for your rare, high courage! Goodbye, dear old Walt! There will never be another singer like you
in all the land. Goodbye Martin Eden,
goodbye, Uncas, goodbye, David Copperfield!
Goodbye, John Barleycorn, and say hello to Jack! Goodbye, you six-day bike riders … I’ll be
pacing you in Hell! Goodbye, dear Jim
Londos, you staunch little Hercules!
Goodbye, Oscar Hammerstein, Goodbye, Gatti-Cassazza! And you too, Rudolf Frim! Goodbye, now, you members of the Xerses
Society! Fratres Semper! Goodbye,
Elsie Janis! Goodbye, old Shamrock! Goodbye, Montezuma, last great sovereign of
the old