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

“Yeah, but I’m putting ’em in right! You can see I am.”

“All right,” he conceded. “Those guys get me upset, it’s terrible. I’m in that — in that shlakht haus again. Once, a shell hit so close, I didn’t know my own name for two days. Did I give you the tarragon vinegar?”

“Yeah.”

“So that finishes that slip.” He put the invoice behind the others. “I’m gonna take a leak. I don’t want you to move from the table, you hear? You’re the shipping clerk.” He gave Ira the sheaf of invoices. “Every clerk upstairs writes different. But you got a Jewish kupf . So figure out. I don’t wanna lose no more time. This day should be over, Oy! ” He left.

Was that the way war felt? Ira couldn’t shake the sense of foreboding as he tried to decipher the scrawl on the invoice. Killing. Battle. What did he say? No romance—

“Hey, Irey! Hey, kid!” The cry came from the street: It was Murphy’s voice.

“Yeah!” Ira yelled.

“Push the button, will ye? The down button.”

Ira hurried to the elevator, pressed the lower button. “OK,” he yelled.

The elevator descended, three men aboard it, Quinn, Murphy, the tall stalwart Prohibition agent, the one who had been at Argonne. But now their demeanor had changed. They were jovial, friendly.

“There’s nothin’ like a good slug o’ booze to make you forget,” said Quinn.

“Or remember, too,” Murphy rejoined, barely humorous as was his wont. “By Jesus, I don’t think I ever woulda remembered. Hey, I remember! Didn’t you say, ‘What’s the use? You chew tobacco an’ spit the juice.’”

“Yeah. Hard to believe. I thought that night never would pass,” the agent puffed on his cigarette, offered the pack to the others. “Talk about steady machine-gun fire. They knew we were in there. If our mortars hadn’t opened up in the morning, and that barrage — say, I recognize your voice now.” He went into a gale of laughter, bent over, coughed cigarette smoke, wheezed with laughter again. “If that wasn’t the funniest goddamn story I ever heard! It’s still funny.”

“That was me, all right.” Murphy pushed the handtruck off the elevator. The others followed.

“What the hell was so funny I don’t know,” said the agent. “Every time somebody asked you what it felt like at the end of that rope, we’d go off.” He laughed again, head back, laughter full and prolonged. “The Germans could hear us. We didn’t give a damn.” He laughed again.

Quinn laughed. Murphy began to laugh too. He was a short man but tough in mien, with a rocky jaw and long arms. He banged the handtruck. His normally fair skin suffused: “A rough sea, ye know, an’ night, an’ about ten guys over me yellin’, ‘Git goin’!’ An’ there ain’t a goddamn lifeboat under me or nothin’. Black water, that’s all. The whole fuckin’ ocean.”

The wooden boxes on the handtruck in his hands shook, as if in lieu of mirth — to which the roaring merriment of the other two men added dimension.

The laughter continued. Ira, too, was infected. It really was funny. He lifted his face, grinning appreciatively toward the laughing faces above him, saw the Prohibition agent’s countenance turn sober, heard him say with quiet urgency: “Where is it, Murph?”

“Back o’ the icebox. The big locked one.”

“Hope it’s good.”

“Bushmill. Johnny Walker. Haig.”

The agent whistled between his teeth: “You don’t miss a trick.”

“Not when it’s all P and T.”

“Any man deserves a sup o’ poteen after bein’ dipped in the drink,” said Quinn. “There’s more Lily cups at the sink.”

“Right.” The agent swallowed. “I’m McCrory.” He took a few steps toward the stairs. “Craig, will you come down here?

“Okay, Major.” The beefy, short-necked man appeared.

“That’s Murphy. That’s Quinn. Remember the story I told you about standing in the mud in a helluva big shell crater all night? There’s the soldier hanging from a rope when his troopship was torpedoed?” He pointed at Murphy. “Would you believe it?”

“No!” And once again a roar of laughter.

“Ira!” Mr. Klein’s angry shout was loud enough to be heard through the swelling guffaw — and stern enough to frighten Ira.

“Here. I’m coming!”

“I told you not to leave the place, didn’t I?” Mr. Klein’s impatient glare tracked Ira returning. “You didn’t peck a thing. Look, it’s the same slip.”

“You took so long,” Ira countered.

“So you shoulda done more!”

“They called me to the elevator. To get it down,” Ira answered.

Under fretful eyebrows lowered over the invoices, Mr. Klein seemed to be trying to block out the view of the group near the elevator. “ A shvartz gelekhter ,” he growled. “Here, take: three bottles Perrier water.”

“They were in a shellhole together,” Ira said.

“Six Knox gelatin.”

“The one who’s going in the back now is a major. I heard Murphy tell him—”

“Pay attention!” Mr. Klein scolded.

“Oh, Jesus!” Ira muttered rebelliously.

“Three cans pie cherries. Take. Gib dikh a rick . Salt water teffy. Another dozen eggs — beck on the counter. Extract cloves. Smoked kippers, six cans. Gluten bread. Coffee, cocktail onions, a jar—”

“You ain’t givin’ me a chance to pack,” Ira complained.

“All right. No becktalks.” Nevertheless, Mr. Klein slowed down — slightly. “If you knew what I feel, you’d do everything on the double. It’s not enough once for them to be in that murder? Murder, and mud, and rats!”

One after the other, each of the four agents took turns walking around the opposite end of the cellar, even the agent supervising Tommy — and Tommy himself, and Murphy and Quinn. “ Shikkerim! ” said Mr. Klein. “ A brukh uf zeh! Look! Look! Three on that elevator, and a double load whiskey.” He scowled at the elevator creaking upward. “This is Prohibition? S’ toigt shoyn uf a kapura .” He slapped his own cheek with the sheaf of invoices: “What am I worrying about? Let Park and Tilford worry. Baker’s chocolate. Hearts of palm. Butterscotch sauce. Coffee. Sugar. Yams, two cans. That’s another besket.”

Under Mr. Klein’s forceful dispensing, they made good progress. The second hamper for the customers was full and pulled out of the way alongside the first: They would be Quinn’s and Tommy’s delivery stint for tomorrow. The summit of the mountain of groceries on the counter had subsided considerably, subsided to a widespread heap. Now to fill Murphy’s big hamper for the east Bronx. That would leave only Shea’s smaller basket to take care of. Shea’s smaller basket was rarely filled all the way to the top, its contents destined for local stops.

“Oh, what has become o’ hinky dinky, parlez-vous? Oh, what has become of all the Jewish soldiers, too?” Quinn sang as he came down the stairs from the street— “All the sons of Abraham are eatin’ ham fer Uncle Sam, hinky dinky—” He passed in front of the table. “Them trucks’re goddamn near down on their springs,” he said out of the side of his mouth — and walked around toward the iceboxes. “Hinky, dinky, parlez-vous .”

XXVII

“

Ira,” Mr. MacAlaney called down from the top of the stairs leading up to the store. “You down there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know what the Camembert cheese looks like?”

“Yes, sir. It’s in a round wooden box.”

“Bring up a box.”

Conscious of Mr. Klein’s stern look following him, Ira left the table for the icebox. Quinn was there, and Tommy with a bottle of beer. At the sight of Ira, Quinn allowed himself a chuckle. Tommy proffered his bottle. “I can’t,” Ira grabbed one of the quaint wooden boxes of Camembert, “Mr. MacAlaney is waiting.”