Saul Bellow - The Victim

“Never out of place,” said Benjamin.

“Out of place?” said Brimberg at the foot of the table. “It depends on your taste. I heard about a French lady of easy virtue who dressed in a bridal veil for her clients.”

“Sammy!” came Mrs Harkavy’s scolding scream. And there was more laughter and a hubbub out of which grew a new conversation to which Leventhal, however, did not listen. Harkavy was not watching and he poured himself another glass of wine.

BEFORE he was fully awake, Leventhal, on Harkavy’s couch where he had spent the night, realized that his head was aching, and, when he opened his eyes, even the gray light of the overcast day was too strong for him and he turned his face to the cushions and hitched the quilt over his shoulder. He was in his undershirt and his feet were bare but he had not taken off his trousers. His belt was tight and he loosened it, and brought his hand out, pressing and kneading the skin of his forehead. Over the arm of the couch he gazed at the period furniture, the ferns, the looped and gathered silk of the un-modish lamps, and the dragons, flowers, and eyes of the rug. He knew the rug. Old Harkavy had gotten it from the estate of a broker who committed suicide on Black Friday.

Occasionally the windows were slammed by a high wind, and when this occurred the curtained French doors shook a little. Steam hissed in the pipes and there was a fall smell of heating radiators. Leventhal’s nose was dry. The mohair was rough against his cheek. He did not change his position. Shutting his eyes, he tried to doze away the oppressiveness of his headache.

At a stir behind the French doors he said loudly, “Come!” No one entered, however, and he pushed away the covers. The strap of his watch was loose and it had worked round to the wrong side of his wrist. The lateness of the hour made him frown — it was nearly half-past one. He sat up and leaned forward, his undershirt hanging shapeless over his fat chest. He was about to reach for his shoes and stockings, but his hands remained on his knees and he was suddenly powerless to move and fearfully hampered in his breathing. He had the strange feeling that there was not a single part of him on which the whole world did not press with full weight, on his body, on his soul, pushing upward in his breast and downward in his bowels. He concentrated, moving his lips like someone about to speak, and blew a tormented breath through his nose. What he meanwhile sensed was that this interruption of the customary motions he went through unthinkingly on rising, despite the pain it was causing, was a disguised opportunity to discover something of great importance. He tried to seize the opportunity. He put out all his strength to collect himself, beginning with the primary certainty that the world pressed on him and passed through him. Beyond this he could not go, hard though he drove himself. He was bewilderingly moved. He sat in the same posture, massively, his murky face trained on the ferns standing softly against the gray glass. His nostrils twitched. It came into his head that he was like a man in a mine who could smell smoke and feel heat but never see the flames. And then the cramp and the enigmatic opportunity ended together. His legs quivered as he worked his feet back and forth on the carpet. He walked over to the window and he heard the loud crack of the wind. It was pumping the trees in the small wedge of park six stories below, tearing at the wires on rooftops, fanning the smoke out under the clouds, scattering it like soot on paraffin.

He dressed, feeling a little easier. His shirt cuffs were soiled; he turned them underside up and transferred the links. He stuffed his tie into his pocket; he would put it on after washing. Stripping the couch, he folded up the sheets and the silk quilt and laid them on a chair. When he opened the French doors, he expected to meet Mrs Harkavy or one of the family in the hall and he wondered why the house was so silent. Harkavy’s dark room was open, the bed empty. Leventhal switched on the light and saw trousers hung neatly from the top drawer of the dresser and the suspenders coiled on the floor. An open magazine covered the lamp.

Harkavy was sitting alone in the kitchen. At his elbow the toaster was ticking, and a pot of coffee was warming on the electric heater. He was wearing a corduroy jacket over his pajamas, a belted jacket with large leather buttons. His bare feet were crossed on a chair. His green slippers had fallen to the floor.

“Good morning,” Harkavy’s look was amused. “The reveler.”

“Good morning. Where’s the family?”

“Gone to Shifcart senior’s for the birthday dinner.”

“Why didn’t you go?”

“To Long Island City when I have a chance to sleep late? They left at nine.”

“I hope you didn’t stay here because of me.”

“You? No, I wanted to sleep. Holidays are poison if I have to get up early.” He stroked the golden-green jacket. “I like a late, peaceful breakfast. Bachelor habits. As long as I’m not married, I’ve got to stand pat on my advantages.”

The kitchen light, reflecting from the tiles and the white refrigerator, was too sharp for Leventhal. He winced away from it slightly.

“How do you feel — not very well?”

“Headache.”

“You’re not used to drinking.”

“No,” said Leventhal. The banter annoyed him.

“You were bright-eyed, last night.”

He looked rather sullenly at him. “What if I was?”

“Nothing. I’m not blaming you, you understand, for getting a little tight. You probably have good reasons.”

“Where’s your aspirin?”

“In the bathroom. I’ll bring you some.” Harkavy started to rise.

“Stay put; I’ll find it.”

“Have a cup of coffee. It’ll do you more good.” He removed his feet from the chair. They were very long and white, with toes as slender as fingers.

Leventhal poured himself a cup of black coffee. It was bitter and coated his tongue with a sediment, but he felt it would do him good.

Harkavy sighed. “I’m a little under the weather myself. Not from drinking; the excitement, the arguing, and such. Mamma, though, she was up at seven and got everything in order. What vitality she’s got! Her mother — there was another dry old fire for you. She lived to be ninety-four. Do you remember her? Down on Joralemon Street?”

“No.” Leventhal, trying to recapture the feeling that had interrupted his dressing, found he retained almost nothing of it.

“I’m a different type,” Harkavy said. “The sword that wears out the sheath. But some of these old people…. Take Schloss-berg, for example, still supporting his family, his good-for-nothing son and his daughters. The old man is a blowhard, sometimes, but you have to hand it to him. With him it’s a case of ‘touch me and you touch a man,’ and these days you can’t always be sure what you’re touching. I set myself up against him, now and then, because I like a good argument. I don’t trust people who won’t argue.”

Gradually Harkavy’s manner underwent a change. He was slouching in his chair, his heels were set wide apart on the linoleum and his arms were hanging over the back of the chair; his hands with their whitish hairs were full veined. Beneath the clear water lines, his lids suddenly appeared flushed and irritated, and when he began again to speak it was with a nervous dodge of the head, as if he were already putting aside an objection.

“Why don’t you come clean now on this business we were talking about last night?” he said.

“What’s there to come clean about?”

“It baffles me. I’ve been giving it some thought. After what you said about him, that you should be trying to arrange this…”