Howard Jacobson - The Mighty Walzer

My father’s side lasted longer, as they were built to do. And when they did go they were so old you scarcely noticed. The first exception to this was uncle Motty who passed away in the lavatory, no doubt still trying to bang the last drop out of his penis. And then, before anyone could recover from the shock of Motty, my father himself.

The fight had gone out of him after he went mechullah. You might not have known that had you never met him in earlier days. On the face of it he was still a great pleaser, still carried toys around in his pockets, was still waiting for the big something, still parked his van — that’s to say Sheeny’s van — in some odd places, still had ants in his pants. But he wasn’t the same man. He’d lost his cheyshik for life. His will for it, his desire. The big thing wasn’t going to happen; he knew that even though he still waited. He kept his ear cocked, just in case, but it was force of habit more than anything else. The big thing had passed him by.

He worked for Sheeny Waxman for two or three years, then they parted amicably. Enough. Enough, for both of them. In the end it was Sheeny who called it a day. Medical reasons. Pitching was wearing out his throat. He kept losing his voice. If he went on going berserk from the back of a lorry much longer he would lose his voice and not get it back. I heard rumours that he had bought a car showroom with a Jaguar concession in a partnership of the hoarse with Benny the Pole, but by then I’d lost contact with him. Cambridge and Sheeny didn’t mix. For his part my father was relieved to be out of it. He hadn’t been able to bear not being his own boss. Yes, yes he could just about accept the idea of working for my mother — since no one would believe he really was working for her anyway — so yes, a little swag shop on Victoria Avenue was just the ticket; but it turned out he didn’t have a lot of heart left for swag either. As his only biographer, I designate these his Wilderness Years. He just wandered around. He shmied arum. He patshkied. He’d knock up a set of shelves for my mother, then he’d go for a wander. He’d install a new security grille, then he’d be off shmying again. The grille was one thing but the lock, the lock … Looking for just the right lock with just the right barrel, inspecting the stock of every locksmith in Manchester, could take a week, a fortnight, a month. You never knew where he was going to turn up. You never knew where you would see him next. I was hardly ever at home but the few times I did come back I had to organize search parties to find him. Salford was where we always started. He seemed to like it there. Salford suited him. The junction of Great Cheetham Street and Bury New Road, past the Rialto, down through Albert Park to Pendleton, taking Cromwell Road between the Racecourse and the Greyhound Track, neither of which held the slightest intrinsic interest for him, turning right at Brindle Heath for Irlams O’ Th’ Height or left to Seedley and Eccles and all points west. The functional part of town. The hinterland of the city. But also the way out. Definitely not warehouse or cash-and-carry territory, and not the nest-hot Salford of his birth either. It was unassociational Salford he liked. Big barren spaces. Wide roads. Colliery views. Places where he could buy timber. Weigh out nails. Pick through locks. Measure lengths of iron. Test alarm systems. Stop for a toasted cheese sandwich. Patshky about. Shmy arum.

But at least he no longer had any invoices to lose.

For twenty-five, thirty years he tsatskied. It was his revenge on the big thing that never happened. You won’t approach me, I won’t approach you. If the mountain won’t come to Mahomet, then Mahomet will just have to shmy around.

Big Thing 5. Joel Walzer 21.

Well done, Joel. Except that when you whop Big Thing, no one’s watching.

For twenty-five, thirty years he tsatskied, filled his arteries with cheese, and then he died.

I took my turn to sit up with him during some of his last nights in hospital, sat at his bedside holding his hand, while the other old men with blockages trailed hopelessly from their beds to the lavatories and back again, shaking their heads, carrying their cardboard chamber-pots in front of them, empty, empty, always empty.

One night while he was dozing he suddenly tapped himself on the forehead and said, ‘Well that’s that sorted.’

‘What is, Dad?’

‘What?’

‘What’s sorted?’

‘Oh, hello Oliver, where are you now?’

‘I’m here, Dad, with you.’

‘Tsedraiter! I mean where are you living now?’

‘Venice.’

‘Venice? Very nice.’ He changed his position in the bed, agonizingly slowly, using his elbows. He didn’t like it when anybody tried to help him. ‘Where’s Venice again?’

‘Italy. It’s the one with all the gondolas and canals. We used to do a coffee table with Venice on, remember.’

‘Don’t talk to me about coffee tables.’

‘Sorry.’

‘No, I remember. Lots of water. I didn’t know you liked water. You can’t even swim, can you? You’d better not tell your mother you’re near water.’

The things he knew about me, my father. The things he’d had time to notice, after all.

‘I’m not there for the water,’ I said.

‘So what are you there for?’ Father to son. It’s all right, Oliver, you can tell me. Nekaiveh, eh? Bad boy. Tell me, tell me. Remind me of what it’s like to be somewhere you’re not supposed to be, with your eyes black and your heart thumping.

But I was, as I’d always been, a failure to him. A nebbish, primmed up by my aunties, prigged and prissified by Yorath and Rubella. A milksop.

‘I suppose I’m there for the light,’ I said. Just what he wanted to hear. ‘And the buildings. And my work.’

He nodded. Ah yes, work.

‘And I’m like you,’ I said. ‘I enjoy shmying arum. It’s easy to get lost in Venice. In that regard it’s like Salford.’

‘Is it?’ He seemed impressed. ‘Is there a gaff there?’

‘It’s all gaff,’ I said. ‘It’s just one big gaff’

‘So what are you doing in a place like that? You always hated the gaffs. You’re like your mother. She always hated the gaffs.’

‘Not always, Dad.’

‘She did. Always. Too sensitive. Wouldn’t say boo to a goose. Still won’t.’

‘I meant me. I didn’t always hate them.’

‘You did. You couldn’t wait to get away.’

‘It’s not true. I had some good times on the gaffs.’

‘Name one.’

‘Dad!’

‘Go on, name one.’

‘What about when the pig attacked us at Bakewell.’

‘Oh yes, the pig. Oink, oink! I’m sorry I missed that.’ He smiled at the recollection, tried to laugh, but ended up in a tangle with his tubes, having to bang the phlegm out of his chest.

‘And London Road,’ I said. ‘The day we found the Copestakes’ van on the bomb site before us and you decided we’d push it out of the way …’

This time he had to laugh, phlegm or no phlegm. ‘The look on your ponim,’ he said. ‘I can still see the look on your face when the side door opened and those nutters fell out.’

‘And what about the bricks?’ I said. ‘What about when they put bricks under the wheels to stop us pushing, so we had to run round taking them out, and they had to run round putting them back under, and we had to run around taking them out again …’

He held his hand up to get me to stop. Otherwise he would die laughing. I noticed the see-through plastic dog tag round his wrist. What was that for? Identification in case he got lost wandering from his bed to the lavatory? He used to have wrists like Victor Mature. He could have pulled a temple down with those wrists once upon a time. Even when I’d last seen him he could have shaken a small synagogue. Now, in a matter of a few months, they had become a little old man’s wrists, a frail tracery of sunspots and chicken bones, incapable of trembling a lulav.