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

“No becktalks!” Mr. Klein brought out his formidable rejoinder. “Those fellers are from the government. Prohibition agents. They work only by the wine and whiskey. Upstairs. Outside. Downstairs. The same thing. Farshtest? They got their work; we got to load these beskets. We’re still going to be open two, three months. Let’s see you be a whiz-beng, like yesterday.” With sandwich in hand, he reached out for the sheaf of yellow invoices; then, with sandwich clamped between jaws, slid grocery items toward Ira—

Toward Ira — who grinned.

“So what’s so funny?” Mr. Klein removed his sandwich. “Those four items go together. Here, these four — the box ladyfingers, the two pounds apricots, sticks cinnamon, kadota figs, that’s all together with the bag sugar.

“So what’s so funny?” Mr. Klein repeated.

“You and your sandwich.”

“Why? It’s good corned beef.”

“It makes you talk like corned beef.”

“Oh, a kleege , hey? On a day like this you eat like you can. You shoulda been in France. That’s how we ate at the front. That’s how we ate. That’s how we kept from dying of hunger under fire. Out a’ cans. They called them — what the hell’d they call them — you’re gettin me sidetrecked. I forget already. You see? Something lousy you don’t wanna remember. Now, wild rice — we scraped out the cans sometimes scraped ’em right out, crusted like gunk, treife like hell. Who cared? Anything to eat when you’re in the trenches. Understand? So a sandwich maybe I hold like a dog a bone; it’s funny — to you.” Something harried closed momentarily like a shutter over his features. “What’s gettin’ into me? What did I give you just then?”

“I didn’t look.”

“You should always look. What’re you here for?” He peered down into the hamper. “Two pounds walnuts.”

“My uncle came home from the army—”

“Oh, you had an uncle in the army. Olives. Here’s capers. That makes two jars. The eggs stay out separate. Heng on. It’s a whole bacon—”

“My uncle came home. He was a mess sergeant first—”

“Oh, he was a mess sergeant noch —”

“Then he was a reggeleh sergeant. So my aunt gave him a glass of seltzer—” Ira stopped. The stalwart stranger in the fedora he had seen yesterday was accompanying Murphy, wheeling a noisy handcart to the street elevator. “Is Quinn here, too? And Tommy? I didn’t see the new big White.”

“They’ll be here soon. And Shea too. Nobody took a full load today. That’s why—” He used the last of his sandwich to point at the mountain of groceries on the zinc-sheathed table. “You saw somebody outside?”

“Yeah, and inside another one. Gee, big like an ox.” Ira stole glances at Murphy and his escort, as the two ascended in the cellar-to-street elevator. In a few seconds their legs disappeared, but even before that, as the elevator platform rose, Ira caught whiffs of the sickly smell of whiskey. He could see the jagged edges of broken bottles lying on their side in the dark, shallow bilge in the elevator sump. “I can tell what I got to do tomorrow.”

“What? Oh.” Mr. Klein described the object of Ira’s gaze. “Maybe it’s gonna be done today. If Mr. Stiles sees it.”

“So how’m I gonna stop an’ do it today?”

“I didn’t say you.” Mr. Klein plied Ira with groceries. “They could highjeck the whole load. You know what we got here? For a bunch gengsters to highjeck is what we got here.”

“What?”

“ Bist tockin a yold . Go ahead. Peck. English marmalade. Uh! Look at that! Snails. A mishigoss . I saw them in France. I thought only a Frenchman—”

“I know. And we got frogs’ legs too.”

“Peck!” Mr. Klein raised his voice.

“All right, all right. So why was the guard standing by Murphy’s truck?” Ira demanded. “And the guy inside?”

“Maybe now you’ll begin to understand something. Here. Pay attention. This sugar goes with the other order, the one I just gave you.”

“I’m the one paying attention. You’re not.”

“No becktalks I said! There’s a guy up there with a pistol. He’s a Prohibition agent, I told you. The other guys, too. They all got guns. That’s enough. We’ll talk from something else. We’ll never get finished.”

“Oh, boy.” Ira sighed.

“You’re enjoying yourself, or what?”

“I am?”

“ Noo . Hustle. Hustle. This is curry. You got six things that go with it. English marmalade. Not too tight. Guerkins, jerkins. Almond paste. Buckwheat groats. You see why Jews don’t buy from Park and Tilford. You know what buckwheat groats are? Plain kasha . And costs five times more.”

“Yech!”

“What do you mean, yech? Kasha? With chicken schmaltz . What could be better? That’s all they eat in the Russian army. Here’s sugar. Did you fast on Yom Kippur?”

“Me? Never. I just take off from school. You?”

Mr. Klein’s answer was a barely tolerant look. “Here’s a big order: eight, nine items.” His eyes traveled from invoice to hamper. “Put ’em all over here on this side. Coffee. Two cans pineapple. What’s this?” He squeezed the small brown bag. “Ginger root. Peckage melba toast. Marrons glacés. Jar pâté de. .”

Mr. MacAlaney, blond assistant manager, came down the stairs, sniffed with wry face, his sharp, blue eyes behind his glasses seeking the source of the odor of alcohol, located it. He stepped close to the elevator sump for confirmation, then getting his key ring out of his pocket, went to the icebox. He came back a minute later with a prim expression on his face, and a pink, sensuous globe of fruit in his hand.

“What’s that?” Ira turned to Mr. Klein, as Mr. MacAlaney climbed up the stairs. “That fruit.”

“Mengo. Mengo,” said Mr. Klein.

“Mengo?” Ira tried to match the word with anything he had ever heard or read.

“Don’t eat it. You can puke from it. Here: a bottle Lea and Perrins. Pimentos, a jar, George Washington coffee, a jar—”

Not only Murphy and his stalwart escort came down the stairs but Quinn and Tommy too. “Hey!” he and Ira greeted each other. Tommy winked broadly, and he and Quinn followed Murphy toward the vault.

“So far, it’s not bad. One besket’s nearly full.” Mr. Klein stopped long enough from handing out groceries to look at his watch. “Only two o’clock. You’d still be in school yet.”

“Yeah, my Spanish period. I nearly forgot.”

“Forgot what? The Spanish? Here’s the last item: asparagus tips.”

Glowering, Ira tucked away the item, found subterfuge. “I forgot to bring my lunch.”

“So whose fault is that?” And after a few seconds, “You stay here.” Mr. Klein went into the aisles, brought back a box of Lorna Doones, opened them and put them under the table. Ira stuffed two at a time into his mouth. They were grainy; they made him thirsty. “Can I get a drink?”

Mr. Klein indicated the utility sink with nod of brow. “Come right beck.”

Ira opened the faucet wide to let the water rush cool, and as he reached for a paper cup, Quinn came out of the toilet next to the sink. He smelled strongly of liquor. “I gotta ask Klein somethin’,” he said, and both returned to the counter.

“Hey, Klein,” Quinn slouched, willowy. “You were in Belleau Wood, weren’t you?”

“Château-Thierry. Argonne.” Klein replied in clipped tone of voice. And to Ira: “All right. New besket.”

“I thought you were in Belleau Wood.”

“No. I had enough with Château-Thierry and Argonne.” Unsmiling, Mr. Klein signaled for Ira to give him a hand; they dragged the full basket to one side.