Henry Roth - Mercy of a Rude Stream - The Complete Novels

From somewhere Farley’s father had received a pair of tickets of admission to a new movie showing in a prestigious movie house on Broadway: Title of the movie was The Golem. The tickets had been given to Farley, and he and Ira rode the subway downtown to see the show.

They viewed a dark, frenetic movie, dark and frenetic as the makeup under the Cabalist rabbi’s eyes, as he pronounced, with sound effects from the musicians in the pit, the awesome tetragrammaton that brought the image of clay to life. But unforgettable, the sorcerer-rabbi’s swiftness in snatching from the newly animate figure the little plug in his bosom, where life resided, snatched it not a moment too soon against the ponderous defense of the lumpish, sentient giant, who toppled backward to the ground.

The plug became symbolic over the years, but of what, Ira was never sure: essence, crystal of life’s principle, a vestige of 1920, of himself and Farley, hurrying full of anticipation out of the subway kiosk into Broadway’s crowded sunshine and then toward the movie theater. No, there was something else, Ira leaned backward into the sway of office chair — something else: his Jewishness, wasn’t it? That he had to deal with afterward, in a serious vein, not as humorous counters, something, the little he knew, the essential plug he had retained of his Jewishness, of Jewish tradition. Odd. And when he tried to pluck it out. . creative inanition followed.

XXI

In packaging half-pound bags of sugar and other dried food, he had long ago learned how to turn the string back upon itself, and thereby form a little bight against which the string could be snapped. He was tying up the one-pound bags of lentils after he weighed them. “He’ll give me permission if I tell him what it’s for,” Ira spoke to Mr. Klein.

“I don’t want no mix-ups. I want you to come in Friday. Not at half-past-three. Twelve o’clock. I’m gonna be shorthanded for filling the beskets for Saturday,” said Mr. Klein. “I’m gonna be shorthanded all day. Why do you have to ask him? Suppose he says no.”

“He won’t say no,” Ira assured him. “He’s let other fellers go. I know.”

“Listen, if you’re smart you wouldn’t ask him. Do like I tell you. I know about school. I got nephews and nieces that go to school. You don’t come back after lunch, farshtest ? And then Monday you bring a note from home: Your mother was sick. Something like that. You have to mind the baby—”

“There’s no baby in my house.”

“Don’t be a pain in the ess,” said Mr. Klein. “So something else. She’s gonna have a baby.”

“I could say I got sick, and then I went home.”

“All right. Say you got sick.”

“So I’ll have to bring a note Monday.”

“So bring a note Monday.”

“So he’ll wanna know why I didn’t tell him first.”

“Listen,” Mr. Klein smacked his tongue. “ Ich bin dir moichel. You know what that means? Don’t bother me. They’ll have to get me somebody from another store. I was just trying to get you a little extra work on Friday; you’ll make a little extra cash. Az nisht iz nisht Only trouble is you know where everything is. I’ll hev to tell a new man where everything is.”

“I tell you I don’t need any notes,” Ira urged vehemently. “I’ll ask him two days before. All right? Then you’ll know.”

“Two days before, you’ll spoil everything,” Mr. Klein retorted.

“Why?”

“Because you got such a head. Go on. Keep weighing the lentils. Once you tell him that, he’ll know why you’re taking off.”

“All right. You wanna bet?”

“Yeah, I wanna bet,” Mr. Klein said with clipped satire. “Finish. Finish. That’s enough. Give me a hand here.”

“All right.” Ira carried the bags to the shelf marked LENTILS. “So when’re they gonna close?” he asked, returning.

“By the end of the year. The lease is up. Maybe they’ll give them an extension: January. But maybe P and T don’t want it no more,” he shrugged. “It’s not like it once was in the store, with the champagne and the whiskey for New Year’s. Here, take.” He handed Ira a can.

“Kumquats,” Ira read. “Something else I never tasted.”

Mr. Klein laughed. “Boy, you’re a— bist a — bist a— You know what a yold is?”

“Yeah.”

“Harvey,” Mr. Klein addressed the approaching porter, “we’re gonna have a big time here Friday.”

“Yessir, don’t I know it. All that’s gotta happen is for that elevator to break down.”

“Thet’s all. Thet’s right.” He looked fixedly at Harvey. “Thet’s all we need.”

“I ain’t gonna stay here afterward,” said Ira.

“After what? After they close the store? Nobody’s gonna stay here.”

“No. I mean after they move all that stuff.”

“There’s two more months. Maybe more. And then you can help move everything else.”

“I don’t wanna stay here.”

“You didn’t taste everything yet.” Mr. Klein grinned provocatively, and handed Ira a paper-wrapped, odorous wedge, Parmigiano or Romano cheese, Ira would have guessed.

He flushed sullenly. “I don’t taste everything.”

“No? What didn’t you taste?” His head wagged, encompassing in its motion the width and breadth of the cellar. “You hear that, Harvey? He don’t taste everything. Only what ain’t kosher.”

“What ain’t?” Harvey asked.

“Kosher? Everything ain’t.”

“Yee, hee, hee!” Harvey went off, snapping his polishing cloth.

XXII

Class was dismissed at the usual hour, at three. Ira waited until the classroom was empty and he was alone with Mr. Lennard. “I wanna ask you a favor, Mr. Lennard. For Friday.”

“What is it?” Mr. Lennard removed his pince-nez, breathed on a lens, before delicately applying his silk handkerchief. Exposed, his green eyes appeared even more strict as they appraised Ira, strict yet peculiarly blurry. Lips so puffy, and deep, small craters on either side of the bridge of his nose. “I’ll be glad to do you a favor if I can.” He seemed to shade his face under the hand replacing his pince-nez.

“My shipping clerk where I work,” Ira felt as if he had begun at the wrong place, but went on, “Mr. Klein. He asked me if I could come in Friday right after lunch. At Park and Tilford.”

“Why?”

“They got a lotta extra work. They’re moving all the—” Ira gesticulated. “All the stuff from the locked-up cellar: the wine, the whiskey. Beer. I don’t know what. They don’t sell it anymore.”

“Oh, yes.” Mr. Lennard permitted himself a smile. “They don’t, do they? No, we’re all prohibited from touching the stuff.”

“No?” Ira misunderstood, disappointed. “I said I could. He wanted me to do him a favor, Mr. Klein, and come in early.”

“Oh, it’s all right with me,” Mr. Lennard revived hope. “But it won’t be all right with Mr. O’Reilly. Or with the Board of Education. I have to account for your attendance. Supposing something went wrong. You were hurt, and were supposed to be in school. And if I marked you present — you see where that leaves me?”

“Oh,” Ira grimaced repentance. “Yeah. Mr. Klein said I should bring in a note afterward.”

“Exactly, from your parents. That relieves me of responsibility. But the way you’re going about it—” For some reason, Mr. Lennard relaxed in veiled cordiality. “Of course, only you and I need to know the real reason.”

“Yes, sir. Thanks.” Without knowing why, Ira felt cheated — by himself, or so he felt, as usual: dumb, placed himself at disadvantage. “I’ll get a note.”

Mr. Lennard looked up at the clock above the blackboard. “When do you begin work at the store? Three-thirty, isn’t it?”