Philip Roth - Letting Go

Korngold put his head in his hands, and he let out some air with a high flutey sound. “Oh, nice thinking,” he said.

“So you’ll just go along, all right?”

“You saved my life, believe me.”

“Your life’s not in jeopardy, Mr. Korngold. What’s the matter with you?”

“It’s no good crossing Levy, I’m sure. Not when a fellow offers you so much.”

“Don’t be so nervous, please. I’m only saying that this is to your advantage.”

“Of course it is. Sure. You’re right. See what a wreck I turned into? Someone offers a helping hand, I give him for a reward suspicion. I could have made a bad mistake.”

“You’ll just go along then?”

Korngold raised a hand and waved it. “Of course. Lucky break,” he said, as though to himself. Then: “What size?”

“What?”

Korngold considered Paul’s physique. “What size in a jockey brief?”

“I don’t wear jockeys.”

“Foolish. Plus comfort, it protects from strains and hazards. Go take yourself a pair for a present. What — a thirty-two?”

“In the waist I’m thirty.”

“Three boxes down, to the left by the window. Go ahead, take a pair. A pair,” he added a little shyly, “is one. Two days wearing will change your whole attitude toward underwear. Please, for saving my life.”

When Paul had removed the shorts from a box, Korngold said, “Give me a look, would you?” The old haberdasher and outfitter of kiddies fingered the briefs in his hand. “Once I thought, I’ll build myself an empire. Now the gonifs want for nothing. Levy — sure, Levy — of course — you’re right. With him is my last hopes. What good are cartons sitting in my room, huh? Wear it, enjoy it. And how is that little maydele , your wife? I could see right away all the sweetness in that face.”

First the bathroom was occupied. Paul had to go out and hammer on the door.

“Please don’t disturb,” came Levy’s voice from within.

“Somebody else wants to get in there,” Paul shouted.

“Please don’t disturb please,” Levy sang out.

Back in the room Libby gnawed on her fingers. “The doctor said to do it by five. It’s almost six,” she said.

“He’ll be right out.”

“ You’re nervous now.”

“Just be patient, please.”

He went out into the hall and knocked again on the bathroom door.

“Please, Mr. Levy — my wife has to use the bathroom.”

“I don’t like carrying on conversations in such circumstances. Will you, please?”

“I’m giving you five minutes.”

“The doctor will wait,” whispered Levy.

“Shut up! Shut your mouth!”

“Please, this is not my cup of tea. Move away, all right?”

Paul pressed himself against the door, his body, his mouth. “I spoke to Korngold. He wants you to represent him. To write the letter, to be his companion.”

“This is fact or fiction?”

“A fact. An hour ago. All right?”

“If true, all right.”

“You understand me …?”

“Please, I’m finishing up now.”

“You understand me, don’t you?”

“Understood,” answered Levy, rattling paper.

While in the bathroom Libby readied herself for Dr. Smith, Paul collapsed onto the bed. All at once he remembered what he had forgotten. He jumped up, tied his shoelaces in knots, and without a coat — though it was the worst of winter in Detroit — ran all the way to the corner delicatessen. He dialed the doctor’s number so fast he got no connection. Woozy, he dialed again. Solly kept wanting to kibitz through the phone-booth door.

“Dr. Smith, this is Paul Herz.”

“This is Mrs. Kuzmyak, for Christ’s sake.”

“I want to speak to the doctor.”

“He’s not in. What is it?”

“Mrs. Kuzmyak, look, today was very hectic for me. I couldn’t get to the bank. I don’t have the money.”

“What do you expect, something for nothing?” She seemed to be trying to talk in some sort of dialect.

“Can’t I pay you tomorrow?”

She found now what it was she had wanted to say. “What do you think, my name is Fink, I do your clothes for nothing?”

“But, Mrs. Kuzmyak, we’re both ready. It’s been one hell of a day. My wife’s taking an enema. I forgot all about the bank. She hasn’t eaten — look, let me talk to the doctor, will you?”

“We’ve got books to keep straight,” she said, sternly. “The doctor’s got expenses to meet.”

“Well,” he said hopelessly, “what’ll we do?”

“Hang on there, Herzie.” She left the phone; then was back. “Doctor says tomorrow’s no good. Make it Thursday. Same time. Bring cash.”

Lunch hour the next day was spent waiting in line at the bank. After the withdrawal — a red stain on the left side of the little friendly green booklet — the balance was eleven dollars and some pennies. To brighten matters, the clerk warned him that he would lose out on his interest for the quarter.

It was not until Paul walked past the toothless, smiling guard at the bank door that he saw his error. He should have taken the money in bits and pieces over a period of time, rather than in five large unforgettable bills. Now the clerk would … But right in his hands was enough evidence to put him in jail for life: the bank book. How could he claim innocence with some histrionic D.A. waving withdrawal slips in the jury’s angry face? His moment of fantasy drew out of him all his strength, and he was left with only a fear, a silly dreamlike overblown fear of little Levy. Had Levy understood? Had Korngold emerged from his sleepless night willing to stick by his new decision? He slapped all his pockets and turned them inside out — this, right in front of the guard! — searching for the slip of paper with Dr. Smith’s name and number. Panic seized him — the paper was nowhere. It was not in the wallet with the five crisp bills. Had Libby—?

Levy!

His watch showed that twenty minutes of lunch hour remained. He signaled a cab, and with a sick stomach — for sometimes nickels eat away one’s insides more than hundreds of dollars — watched every turn of the meter until the taxi deposited him in front of his house. Up the stairs, through the hallway, down to the basement, and along the corridor to Levy’s door. He heard murmurs from inside and boldly knocked. No response; the whispers within were shushed. He hammered on the door till the molding creaked.

“Levy, I heard you talking. I want to speak with you. This is Herz, Levy, open up!”

Something — a shoe? — scraped along the floor. Hot-water pipes sizzled over his head; perspiring and furious, he slammed his shoulder into the door. It gave way and a piece of plaster floated down. Inside the room was no one. He moved down the hall to their own room; under their door he found a letter addressed to Libby. It did not even astonish him to think that something new was about to happen to him. He had never opened another’s mail, but now he felt nothing initiating about the act. The return address affected him as would the stabbing of a knife: surprise — then nothing — then pain. He read:

DEAR MRS. HERZ:

You possess, indeed, a phenomenal and singular sense of obligation. I do not know from whence it springs, your studies, your fancies, your greed, or perhaps from the man with whom you are cohabiting, and from whom you had drawn, I recall, other ideas, opinions, and manners of equal merit. I had thought that along with defiance you might at least have developed fortitude; in fact, however, you prove yourself in possession of more energy than character, which is of course the signature of the devil. Surely to one with an inspiration so inhuman, I can only reiterate that neither aid nor good wishes can be expected, now or in the days to come, from this quarter. Obligations are reciprocal, and when one party has failed another, the cessation of obligatory feelings from the injured can be designated with no word other than Justice; certainly with none of the words you suggest. My obligations, Mrs. Herz, are to sons and daughters, family and Church, Christ and country, and not to Jewish housewives in Detroit. On close examination you shall find this last statement not altogether villainous; the villainy you attribute to it may well arise from an excess in yourself. You have defied your father, your faith, and every law of decency, from the most sacred to the most ordinary. I should imagine that those who defy are subject to interesting feelings when they must beg. It remains to be seen whether you shall ever have the character to defy what all good people have always had to defy — their own sinfulness — and seek an annulment through the offices of the Church. The obligation of the sinner is to rectify his sins; and since that path which leads to rectification and glory is one of humiliation and pain, I shall have no choice but to continue myself with a course of action that shall render the life you have chosen unrelieved of privation. For it is privation that shall lead you to The Shining Light.