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

“Thanks, Harvey.” The major lifted his hand to the elevator button as Harvey pulled the shovel up from the ledge. “That bucket all right down there?”

“Yes, sir, Major. That bucket’s too low to touch.”

“Okay, Harold,” the major called up. “We’re bringing her down. Hit that button, will you — I almost said soldier.”

“Right, Major.”

“I’ll tell ye somethin’, Harvey,” Murphy rocked slightly, spoke with muzzily contorted features. “When you climbed outta that hole, it all come back, you know what I mean? I was back there again, you know what I mean? An’ there wuz McGrath, only guy I could git along wit’ follerin’ me goin’ over the top. Der was McGrath. Big guy like you, only white.”

“There’s all kinds o’ ways o’ goin’,” Harvey commented.

“Yeah. Right.”

“Okay, men,” said the major. “Let’s pitch in while it’s still light. Everything okay up there, Harold?”

“Can’t see a thing to worry about up here, Major,” came the voice from the street.

“I’m going to send Lorring up anyway. Okay, Lorring. Sentry. Make it casual. Any car stops, take cover. Right? I’ll take care of the loading.”

“Right, Major.” Lorring left for the stairs.

With so many hands to transfer the load from cellar to elevator platform, the shipment was loaded in a few minutes.

“First time I ever wished we were still on daylight saving time.” The major surveyed the load on the elevator. “Have we got the last of it yet?”

“That’s it, Major,” said Murphy.

As Tommy got on the platform “Comin’, Murphy?”

“Hold it,” the major said. “Not this time. Last thing we want is to get held up by a stuck elevator.” He waited for Tommy to step off. “Tell you the truth, Murphy,” he raised his arm to press the elevator button. “I’m beginning to feel like a Georgia nigger with the sun going down on his back.”

The men overhead laughed. The elevator ascending, the major turned — to face Harvey — and was slightly taken aback. “I’m sorry, Harvey, no harm meant. It’s just a damned habit, and a bad one. Damn!”

“That’s all right, Major,” said Harvey. “I understand.”

“I’m glad you do.” The major extended his hand.

They shook hands, parted. And just as he was about to join the others climbing up the stairs, Quinn came down. “Where to?” asked the major.

“The john, Major. I’m caught short.”

“We’re ready to go.”

“Be right back.” Winking at Mr. Klein’s glum, averted face, Quinn passed the counter.

The elevator platform overhead shook with the tread of those unloading it. Harvey knelt at the edge of the sump, pulled the bucket out, straightened up, and with bucket in one hand, shovel in the other, passed in front of the table. “ Comme çi, comme ça , Miste’ Klein.” His thick, limber wrist gleamed as he swung the shovel like a pendulum. Deliberately flat-footed, he shuffled a few steps: “C’est la guerre.”

“You got a big cleanup job yet in that wine and whiskey corner. You know that?” Mr. Klein advised him, gratuitously.

“You’re tellin’ me? Mister Stiles got me a man-size hoe, a real he-hoe.” Harvey looked at Ira. “I might need a helper too.”

“Hey, Quinn, where the hell are ye!” came the cry from the street.

Quinn’s voice preceded him as he rounded the corner: “Oh, the French, they are a funny race, parlez-vous. The French, they are a funny race—”

“Don’t listen to him!” Mr. Klein swept his arm protectively toward Ira as if to brush him out of range.

“How am I gonna help it?”

“Oh, the French, they are a funny race,” Quinn halted an instant as he came face-to-face with Harvey before the table: two countenances, almost at the same level, the one brown and solidly boned, the other by comparison pale and narrow.

“Quinn,” Mr. Klein jerked his head toward the inner stairs leading down from the store. “Cut it out. Somebody’s comin’ down.”

All eyes fixed on the stairs: In his tan jacket, holding the bannister, Walt skipped the last step to the cellar floor: “Boy, you can’t smell the stink o’ the booze for the cigarette smoke.”

“They should know what’s goin’ on down here. It’s busy upstairs.”

“They’re startin’ to come in. Last-minute trade.” Walt swung into an aisle.

“The French, they are a funny race—”

The honking of auto horns in the street almost drowned out his voice. “Hey, Quinn!”

“They’ll be comin’ down after you,” Mr. Klein warned.

“Fuck ’em. You’d think I was hidin’ in a fuckin bunker.” Quinn teetered unsteadily. “The French, dey are a funny race. Dey fight wit’ der feet an’ fuck wit’ der face—”

Against the raucous clamor of auto horns came down from the street: “Quinn!”

“Hinky dinky, parlez-vous .” Quinn licked the corners of his mouth, wobbled as he moved toward the stairs. “Well, the man’s had a drop too much, y’know. I had to take an extra one for me Jew buddy, Shnitzel—” He mounted the stairs to the street. “Comin’, comin’! Where the hell’s the fire, you guys?” He climbed up out of sight.

Through the elevator shaft, from the street above, the din of racing motors peaked: to an explosion— All three ducked.

“Jesus, man!” Harvey exclaimed behind his lifted shoulder.

“O-o-h!” Ira cowered.

The two men stood rigid, motionless, eyes meeting in tense inquiry.

“Hear that?” Walt returned, hands gripping canned goods. He tossed a can on the counter; it was dented. “It’s chicken à la king. I dropped it.”

Another loud bang followed.

“It’s nothing. It’s nothing with nothing. It’s a beckfire,” Mr. Klein reassured.

All heads slightly tilted toward the din of racing engines above, heard gears engage, the sound of motor vehicles grinding into motion. . The noise diminished, faded, ended.

“I told you it was nothing,” said Mr. Klein.

“I bet a few of ’em musta jumped off the stools.” Walt mounted the stairs.

“Only thing I ain’t live through yet. I live through ‘bout everything else.” Harvey’s face changed significantly. “What about you, Miste’ Klein? What d’you take?”

Mr. Klein wagged in dour negation. “I don’t take nothing. What should I take? I don’t need it.”

Harvey laughed suddenly, teeth gleaming in the dark height of his features. “I don’t either, Mister Klein. Just so not to lose democracy, like the major say.” Swinging pail and shovel, he continued on his way.

“A kleege shvartze,” Mr. Klein admitted. “Noo,” he waved a hand in sweeping dismissal. “It’s efter five o’clock. Shabbes b’nakcht. You know what I’m gung do?” He smacked his lips audibly. “Stay here.” He stepped quickly into the aisle directly ahead, returned with a bottle. “Perrier water. It’s French seltzer. It’s a little warm,” he brought out Lily cups and an opener from under the now bare, dented and gleaming table. “A little warm shott nisht . It’s still good.”

“It’s funny seltzer,” Ira expressed his reservations after a sip or two.

“Det’s not seltzer, like you buy for two cents plain,” Mr. Klein instructed. “This comes from the ground det way. Drink. It’s like a kiddush ha shem .”

XXVIII

Oh, well — the loud thumping on the keys under the piano-tuner’s hands, the turning of his tuning wrench, invaded Ira’s consciousness: The piano-tuner had to bang them, M explained before leaving; he had to hear the beats. Oh, well, Ira listened to the notes increasing in pitch, becoming blue when visualized: He wasn’t the first writer to have gone astray, gone off course, off the preplanned track. He wasn’t the first, wouldn’t be the last: he had written himself into a corner, exactly as cartoonists were given to depicting.