Irwin Shaw - Rich Man, Poor Man

“They look like awfully good skiers,’ Rudolph said as he walked at Larsen’s side back towards the road.

‘Mediocre,’ Larsen said carelessly. ‘But they have other charms.’ He laughed, showing the magnificent teeth in the brown face. He made sixty-five dollars a week, Rudolph knew. How could he be so happy on a Sunday morning on sixty-five dollars a week?

The barn was about two hundred yards away, and on the road, a big, solid structure, protected from the weather. ‘All you’d need,’ Larsen said, ‘is a big iron stove and you’d be plenty warm. I bet you could rent a thousand pairs of skis and two to three hundred pairs of boots out of this place a weekend, and then there’s the Christmas and Easter vacations and other holidays. And you could get two college boys to run it for beans. It could be a gold mine. If we don’t do it, somebody else sure as hell will. This is only the second year for this area, but it’s catching on and somebody’s bound to see the opportunity.’

Rudolph recognised the argument, so much like the one he had used that week on Calderwood, and smiled. In business you sometimes were the pusher and sometimes the pushee. I’m a Sunday pushee, he thought. If we do it, I’ll get Larsen a good hike in salary.

‘Who owns this place?’ Rudolph asked.

‘Dunno,’ Larsen said. ‘It’s easy enough to find out.’

Poor Larsen, Rudolph thought, not made for business. If it had been my idea, I would have had an option to buy it before I said a word to anyone. There’s a job for you, Larsen,’ Rudolph said. ‘Find out who owns the barn, whether hell rent it and for how much, or sell it and for how much. And don’t mention the store. Say you’re thinking of swinging it yourself.’

‘I get it, I get it,’ Larsen said, nodding seriously. ‘Keep ‘em from asking too much.’

‘We can try,’ Rudolph said. ‘Let’s get out of here. I’m freezing. Is there a place to get a cup of coffee near here?’

‘It’s just about time for lunch. There’s a place a mile down the road mat’s not bad. Why don’t you join me and the girls for lunch, Mr Jordache?’

Automatically, Rudolph almost said no. He had never been seen outside the store with any of the employees, except once in a while with one of the buyers or a head of a department Then he shivered. He was awfully cold. He had to go in someplace. Dancy, dainty Miss Soames. What harm could it do? ‘Thanks, Larsen,’ he said. ‘I’d like that very much.’

They walked back towards the ski tow. Larsen had a plowing, direct, uncomplicated kind of walk, in his heavy ski boots with their rubber bottoms. The soles of Rudolph’s shoes were of leather and the way was icy and Rudolph had to walk delicately, almost mincingly, to keep from slipping. He hoped the girls weren’t watching him.

The girls were waiting, their skis off, and Miss Soames was saying, ‘We’re starrrving. Whose going to nourish the orphans?’ even before Larsen had a chance to say anything.

‘Okay, okay, girls,’ Larsen said commandingly, ‘we’re going to feed you. Stop wailing.’

‘Oh, Mr Jordache,’ Miss Soames said, ‘are you going to dine with us? What an honour.’ She dropped her lashes demurely over freckles, the mockery plain.

‘I had an early breakfast,’ Rudolph said. Clumsy, he thought bitterly. ‘I could stand some food and drink.’ He turned to Larsen. ‘I’ll follow you on the machine.’

‘Is that beautiful thing yours, Mr Jordache?’ Miss Soames waved towards where the motorcycle was parked.

“Yes,’ Rudolph said

‘I yearn for a ride,’ Miss Soames said. She had a gushy, cut-up manner of talking, as though confidences were being unwillingly forced from her. ‘Do you think you could find it in your heart to let me hang on?’

‘It’s pretty cold,’ Rudolph said stiffly.

‘I have two pairs of long woollen underwear on,’ Miss Soames said. ‘I guarantee I’ll be toasty. Benny,” she said to Larsen, as though the matter was settled, ‘put my skis on your car, like a pal. I’m going with Mr Jordache.’

There was nothing Rudolph could do about it and he led the way to the machine while Larsen fixed the three pairs of skis on the rack of a brand-new Ford. How does he do it on sixty-five dollars a week? Rudolph thought. For an unworthy moment he wondered if Larsen was honest with his accounts at the ski shop.

Rudolph got on to the motorcycle and Miss Soames swung lightly on behind him, putting her hands around his waist and holding on firmly. Rudolph adjusted his goggles and followed Larsen’s Ford out of the parking lot. Larsen drove fast and Rudolph had to put on speed to keep up with him. It was much colder than before, and the wind cut at his face, but, Miss Soames, holding on tighter than ever, shouted in his ear, ‘Isn’t this bliss?’

The restaurant was large and clean and noisy with skiers. They found a table near a window and Rudolph took off his Air Force jacket while the others stripped themselves of their parkas. Miss Soames was wearing a pale-blue cashmere sweater, delicately shaped over her small, full breasts. Rudolph was wearing a sweater over a wool shirt, and a silk scarf, carefully arranged around his throat. Too fancy, he thought, memories of Teddy Boylan, and took it off, pretending it was warm in the restaurant.

The girls ordered Cokes and Larsen a beer. Rudolph felt he needed something more convincing and ordered an old-fashioned. When the drinks came, Miss Soames raised her glass and made a toast, clinking her glass against Rudolph’s. ‘To Sunday,’ she said, ‘without which we’d all just die? She was sitting next to Rudolph on the banquette and he could feel the steady pressure of her knee against his. He pulled his knee away, slowly, so as to make it seem merely a natural movement, but the girl’s eyes, clear and cold blue, were amused and knowing over the rim of her glass as she looked at him.

They all ordered steaks. Miss Soames asked for a dime for the juke box and Larsen was faster out of his pocket than Rudolph. She took the dime from him and climbed over Rudolph to go to the machine, getting leverage by putting her hand on his shoulder, and walking across the room, her tight, lush bottom swinging and graceful, despite the clumsy boots on her feet

The music blared out and Miss Soames came back to the table, doing little, playful dance steps as she crossed the floor. This time, as she climbed over Rudolph to her place, there was no doubt about what she was doing, and when she sat down, she was closer than before and the pressure of her knee was unmistakable against his. If he tried to move away now, everybody would notice, so he remained as he was.

He wanted wine with his steak, but hesitated, to order a bottle because he was afraid the others might think he was showing off or being superior. He looked at the menu. On the back

were listed a California red and a California white. ‘Would anybody like some wine?’ he asked, putting the decision elsewhere.

‘I would,’ Miss Soames said.

‘Honey… ?’ Larsen turned to Miss Packard.

‘If everybody else does .”’ she said, being agreeable.;

By the time the meal was over they had drunk three bottles of red wine among them. Larsen had drunk the most, but the others had done their fair share.

‘What a story I’ll have to tell the girls tomorrow at the store,’ Miss Soames, flushed rosy now, was saying, her knee and thigh rubbing cosily against Rudolph’s. ‘I have been led astray on a Sunday by the great, unapproachable Mr Frigidaire himself….’

‘Oh, come on now, Betsy,’ Larsen said uneasily, glancing at Rudolph to see how he had taken the Mr Frigidaire. ‘Watch what you’re saying.’

Miss Soames ignored him, sweeping her blonde hair loosely back from her forehead, with a little, plump, cushiony hand. ‘With his big-city ways and his dirty California wine, the Crown Prince lured me on to drunkenness and loose behaviour in public. Oh, he’s a sly one, our Mr Jordache.’ She put a finger up to the corner of her eye and winked. ‘When you look at him you’d think he could cool a case of beer with one glance of his eyes. But come Sunday, aha, out comes the real Mr Jordache. The corks pop, the wine flows, he drinks with the help, he laughs at Ben Larsen’s corny old jokes, he plays footsy with the poor little shopgirls from the ground floor. My God, Mr Jordache, you have bony knees.’