Saul Bellow - The Victim

“Oh, I happen to know that you live on the fourth floor.”

“ How do you know?” Leventhal insisted.

“I just happen to. Is it some kind of a secret? Isn’t anybody allowed to know that you live on the fourth floor?”

“What else do you know about me?”

“You work for the Burke-Beard people. You put out one of their sheets.”

“Any more?”

“Your wife is away. She is…” he glanced over as though to see if he was entirely right, “down South. Went a few days ago. These things aren’t hard to find out.”

“Did you ring my bell before?”

“Did I ring it? No, why should I?”

Leventhal grimly looked at him in the light that came through the leaves. He had been spying on him, and the mystery was why! How long had he been keeping watch on him and for what reason — what grotesque reason? Allbee returned his look, examining him as he was examined, in concentration and seriousness, his lower jaw slipped to one side, his glum, contemplative eyes filled with a green and leaden color. And in the loom of these eyes and with the warmth of the man’s breath on his face, for they were crowded together on the bench, Leventhal suddenly felt that he had been singled out to be the object of some freakish, insane process, and for an instant he was filled with dread. Then he recovered and told himself there was nothing to be afraid of. The man was a crank and irritating, and certainly it was creepy to think of being observed secretly. But there was nothing so alarming about this Allbee. He had become a bum and a drunk and he seemed to have an idea or a twist about him, a delusion; perhaps it was even invented. How could you tell about these drunks? There must be reasons, but they were beyond anybody’s ability to find out — smoky, cloudy, alcoholic. Allbee had taken him by surprise. It was surprising. And in his present state of mind he was, moreover, easily carried away by things. He felt unwell, and that didn’t help. He gave a steadying, wary pull to his shoulders.

Still looking at him, Allbee said, “It’s hard to know what kind of a man you are, personally.”

“Oh, it’s me you want to talk about?”

“Now, you see? There’s an example. You’re outspoken, but are you leading away from the main thing? You are. It’s a maneuver. I don’t know whether you’re smart or crude. Maybe you don’t even care much about the main thing.”

“What don’t I care about?”

“Ah, come on, drop it, Leventhal, drop it! You know what it is.”

“I don’t.”

There was a pause; then Allbee said with an effort at patience, “ Well, if that’s the way it’s got to be — I guess you want me to go over the whole business. I thought it wouldn’t be necessary, but all right. Dill’s Weekly . You remember Dill’s Weekly ? Mr Rudiger?1

“Of course I do. Sure. Rudiger. I have it written down in an old appointment book I’ve been hoping to run across; his name keeps getting away from me. Oh, Rudiger,” he said reminiscently and began to smile, but with a line of constraint about his mouth.

“So you do remember?”

“Naturally.”

“Now what about the rest of it? No, you won’t go on to the rest of it. You’ll make me do it. Okay, I will. It was through Rudiger that you got at me.”

“Got at you?” said Leventhal, astonished. He turned his hot face to Allbee, and his scalp seemed to descend toward his brows.

“Got back at me. Got even with me,” Allbee said with great distinctness. His lower lip came forward, it was dry and cracked; his nose looked swollen, all at once. His eyes were open to the full.

“No, no,” Leventhal muttered. “You’re mistaken. I never did.”

Allbee passed his hand before him in a movement of denial and shook his head slowly. “I couldn’t be mistaken about this.”

“No? Well, you are.”

“Did I get you an appointment with Rudiger? I fixed you up with an interview, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did. Yes…”

“Then you went in and deliberately insulted Rudiger, put on some act with him, called him filthy names, deliberately insulted him to get me in bad. Rudiger is hot blooded and he turned on me for it. You knew he would. It was calculated. It worked out just as you thought it would. You were clever as hell. He didn’t even give me a week’s notice. He turned me out.”

“That’s all wrong. I heard you weren’t with Dill’s any more. Harkavy told me. But it couldn’t have been my fault. I’m sure you’re mistaken. Rudiger wouldn’t blame you for the run-in we had. It was his fault, too.”

“Rudiger did,” said Allbee. “He was plenty clear about it. He almost killed himself blowing his top at me. And that was what you wanted.”

“All I wanted was a job,” Leventhal declared, “and Rudiger was tough and nasty. There’s something wrong with that man. Hot blood isn’t the word for it. He’s vicious. I didn’t exactly keep my temper down. I admit that. Well, if that’s the reason I may be to blame in a way, indirectly. But you say..”

“I say you’re entirely to blame, Leventhal.” He opened his mouth and appeared to hold his breath an instant as he smiled. Leventhal’s attempt to keep a clear head came to nothing; he felt himself slipping into confusion.

“And why did I do it, do you say?”

“For revenge. Damn! You want to go over the whole thing to make sure that I’m really on. I really am on, Leventhal. Jesus, do you think I still haven’t figured it out? Give me a little more credit than that; I was on a long time ago. But if you want me to pull it all out, I’m willing. I’ll start farther back: Williston’s house. There was a party.”

“Yes, that’s where we met, at Williston’s.”

“Ah, well, you recall it. I thought you’d balk all along the line and refuse to remember. Fine. Your friend was there too, another Jewish fellow — you mentioned his name before.”

“Harkavy.”

“That’s the one, Harkavy. We’re making headway.” He laughed aloud. “Well, that’s the key. A Jewish fellow. Lord, you want to draw the whole business out. Does it have to be drawn out? I suppose it has to. You were sore at something I said about Jews. Does that come back to you?”

“No. Yes, it does. It does, too,” he corrected himself, frowning. “I also remember that you were drunk.”

“Wrong. I was liquored up but not drunk. Positively not. You Jews have funny ideas about drinking. Especially the one that all Gentiles are born drunkards. You have a song about it—’Drunk he is, drink he must, because he is a Goy… Schicker .’“ He had ceased laughing; he looked morose.

“Bah!” Leventhal said contemptuously. He pushed at the bar of the bench and got to his feet.

“Where are you going?”

“I had nothing to do with your losing that job. It was probably your own fault. You must have given Rudiger a plenty good reason to fire you, and I can imagine what it was. I’m not the sort of man who carries grudges. It’s all in your mind. I remember all about that night at Williston”s, but you were drunk and I didn’t hold it against you. Besides it was a long time ago, and I don’t see your object in looking me up just to remind me of it. Good night!”

He walked away. Allbee stood up and shouted after him, “You wanted to get even. You did plan it. You did it on purpose!” People turned to look at them, and Leventhal increased his pace.

“If he follows me now I’ll punch him in the jaw. I’ll knock him down,” he thought. “I swear, I’ll throw him down and smash his ribs for him!”

He opened the mailbox when he got home and found the note. It was signed “Sincerely, Kirby A.” and said that he would be in the park at nine. Why the park? Well, why such an accusation? What an idea! The one made about as much sense as the other. There was no stamp on the envelope; Allbee must have delivered it himself. Chances were it was he who had rung the bell.