Listen Ruben Fontanez (22 page)

“You sure you want to go through with this, Meyers?” Marty whispers. His voice is tight. I know what Ruben would like me to say, but I know better. I nod my head. “Okay then,” Marty says. I tilt my head back and, under my blindfold, I can see Marty's hand gripping my own monkey's arm. “And you keep your trap shut about this afternoon, hear? I'll tell him when it's time.” He wipes his mouth. “You trust me, right, Manny boy?” I do not have to look at Manuel to know what his answer is. “Old York will really be proud of you. You'll see—”

Then he knocks on the door, three times in quick succession. There is no response. He knocks again, four times, pausing between each rap on the wood. I remember you scratching at my door, Ruben Fontanez, and I do not envy you your dream. The door opens and Marty enters first, with Manuel. Ruben takes my hand and I follow him inside. The door closes. The air is heavy and the odor is like that in the
Genizah
where my cowboys leave all their decaying books and scrolls. Even when it is no longer of use, my cowboys believe that you are not allowed to destroy a book. It is a law a teacher can appreciate. “Sit here,” Ruben says, and I rest in a wooden chair. There is another odor also, sweeter, like that of orange peels boiling.

“This is Harry Meyers,” Marty says. “We kept him blindfolded—”

I hear somebody grunt. A chair scrapes. At the cuffs of my trousers a soft shape brushes against me. “Okay,” Marty says from behind me and he unties the knot. I take my glasses out of my pocket, but they do not help much. The room is black. Ruben is to my left, sitting in a chair. Manuel and Marty are to my right. In front of me a match is struck against what sounds like stone and for an instant I see the face that Ruben has spoken of. It is dry and black and the pits of the eyes are deep. So. There were black Indians also. I believe you, Marty. The man's body is obscured by a broad flat table. A candle is lit beneath his face now, in a glass bowl. On one corner of the table I see a stack of narrow books like those my father kept his accounts in. “It has been written,” the old man says, and the voice does not frighten me at all. It is weak and scratchy. The shape that brushed at my legs leaps lightly onto my lap. I see light in its two green eyes and I stroke its fur. When we were first married, we had a cat, but it was killed by a car on Eastern Parkway and Sarah would not get another. Well. Things will not be so terrible, after all. I will stay for the performance. I will let my young guardians blindfold me again. When we return home I will tell them that Danny came by this afternoon. I will tell them what he said and then we will separate. The cat purrs and, with my fingers under its throat, I can feel its body vibrate.

The old man stands and he is taller than I thought. His back is not bent. He mutters and makes mysterious motions in the air. My own monkey can do as well, I think. I remember standing in Williamsburg, in the cold, with the men from the building moving toward me. But that is all right also, my monkey. When you tell me you meant nothing, I will believe you. It does not matter now. From the floor beside him the old man lifts something heavy and white. He wraps it around his shoulders.

Marty is talking. He says that the cape is made from the skin of a white buffalo. There is only one in five million. He does not sound like my young rebel. His voice is soft and even. The old man laughs, but his cackling does not disturb me. It is harmless. I scratch the cat behind its ears and it takes my fingers in its mouth and chews gently. It wants the sides of its jaw rubbed. One paw rests across my wrist. Marty talks of regiments of Negro cavalry which the Indians called black buffaloes. Ruben waits quietly. The light from the candle shows me things hanging from the walls that look like shrunken heads, but I am not much interested. I have seen my students reading the comic books and catalogues. In a corner of the room, behind the old man, I see his bed. It is neatly made, and he has it covered with a khaki army blanket. To the right, I see a gas burner and a refrigerator. The refrigerator is much smaller than my own. I smile. Perhaps, I think, Morris could interest you also.

The old man is speaking to Marty now. He seems to be embarrassed by my presence. He sucks on his lips and I realize that what makes his words so difficult to understand is the absence of teeth. I squint but I cannot find the outlines of lips. I look to the right and see that Marty's mouth is half open. His eyes do not waver. Manuel leans sideways with his head against his leader's shoulders. You could have shared a room at the farm. Marty would have tutored you, Manuel. There was one time, I remember, when I did something about my proposal, though even I knew how futile it was. “Knives and guns, my friend,” Old York is saying. “My children are waiting under the city. Give me the money.”

My cowboys, I am certain, would not be taken in by such talk. But when Marty stands I realize that he is under a spell as deep as the one he holds over his own monkey. He takes his beret from his head. “They'll never get me, right. No matter how much money my old man gives to those bastards, right?”

“It has been written,” Old York says. He lets dust fall through his fingers to the table. The flame sizzles and glows more brightly. I suppose I felt guilty, Sarah, at having abandoned our plans. So I did what you hinted I should do. I sigh. It was all so absurd and I can shrug it off now, but it is something I have not wanted to think about. Well. It is all right.

Marty reaches under his shirt and pours coins into the beret. It is the money they have earned from their performances. I cannot concentrate on the dialogue that goes on between them. I took the insurance money, you see, and went to the real estate man and we drove upstate together. I did not give him my real name. I told no teachers, no brothers, not even Morris. Old York swings something above his head and the cat leaps onto the table and tries to strike it with its paws. “This is what happens, my friend,” he says to me, and I can see the pinkness inside his mouth. He takes the cat by the back of the neck and throws it into a corner, against the wall. Its cry does not bother me. Old York talks of what happens to those who betray him.

“At the place,” Marty says, “they kept trying to get me to confess I tried to kill my old man—but I never told them anything.” Old York nods his approval. Marty talks on, making vague threats about what will happen next time. Well. It is not so easy to be the youngest son. “They play God,” Marty says. “I had it all figured out, right? Those jokers didn't fool me. You confess you need help and then they tell you everything's okay. Just trust them and they'll save you—” The cat sits on the bed now, licking a paw and cleaning itself. If a woman is scared by a cat while she carries a child, my cowboys believe, she will give birth to a monster. Still, I will return to them on Monday.

I am tired, though. I would not be unhappy if we left now, but I remember Marty's instructions. Let things run their course, Harry. The old man smiles at his young disciple and assures him he will remain free. His eyes will not meet mine. He is reminding Marty of the spots they share, of things he has done for him, of his power. The black Jews of Abyssinia were called Falashos. The Muslims were kind to them. In his lap, Ruben holds his new doll. Along my right shoulder, between my neck and the joint of my arm, a muscle pulses lightly under the skin, out of control. I touch it. It quivers for an instant and then ceases. The room seems very still. The muscles alongside my throat are tight. My friendly gland responds to my touch. When I arrived at the farm with the real estate man, I did not want to get out of the car. The supervisor had been correct. The idea was unoriginal, unworkable. And without Sarah, of course, there was not adequate desire. Still, I walked around the premises, the owner in front of us, keeping up a pace which quickly tired me. He called me “Pop,” I remember. “You take your time, Pop, and let me know what you think,” he said to me. I smiled nervously and let the real estate man engage in deliberations. The owner was returning to his family in Illinois, to a larger farm, one he could work with his two sons.

I leave my throat alone and remind myself that it would not be a bad idea to check with the doctor before Monday. These last few days have not been uneventful. The old man is pointing at me now and he stands in front of the table.

“Mi madre,”
Ruben says softly. “You got to watch out, Mister Meyers.”

His breath is terrible and with the candle behind him I cannot get a good look at his face. “You know how old I am, Pop?” the man asked me. I said I did not. He seemed

to be in the prime of his life. He was friendly, easy-going. His hair was thin, but still golden, with some white patches around his ears. “Guess how old I am—” Before I left he told me. “I'll be sixty-two in another month, Pop,” he said proudly. “You believe it?”

I said I did, though it seemed impossible. Well. People have different lives. I was not even close to sixty at the time. Your energy will be gone someday also, Marty. Your schemes will disappear. When you and Manuel are separated, who will you get to listen to your stories? Old York's eyes are veined and his body, I see, is very thin. I would not like to guess at his age. When you are no longer a boy, my young rebel, the steel men will not be interested in you. “Give me the money,” he says. “The dollar bills also—”

“It's all we got,” Marty says. “Cross my heart—“I have enough saved, I know. I will be all right. “They won't get me, right?”

“Give me the money.” I felt guilty toward the real estate man, I recall. He was cheerful all the way back to the city, and I promised to call the next day. He trusted me.

“Give me the money.”

“Don't you use these boys!” The words come from the mouth of Harry Meyers. I am standing and I try to stop Marty from giving his money away. My efforts are clumsy. The coins splatter to the floor. The cat leaps from the bed, chasing the noises. “They are flesh also! Do you hear me?” The sides of my fists pound against the old man's chest. It is flat, like a board, and he falls back at once. I have seen my boys at work. They are entitled also.

The old man's fur cape swirls behind him. I move forward once more. I am not so tired, it seems. “Do you hear me—?”

“Aiee, Mister Meyers—” Ruben says. “Watch out! What you gone to do?”

Reaching backwards, Old York knocks over the candle, but it does not go out. The glass bowl rocks on its side, next to the ledger books. I hear a hissing sound and know who is ready for me. I should have considered such things first. Harry, Harry. In my hand I hold Marty's beret. I look at him and see the band of silver that presses his teeth into a uniform arc. The old man tries to talk but my fists have done good work. I can see Jackson, standing in the snow.

“Get him, Manny,” Marty whispers.

“Bruja
, Manuel—” My monkey steps between us, his fist raised above his head. He tears open the envelope and clutches the earth, “The door, Mister Meyers,” he says, and I do not hesitate. He knows what he is doing, I realize. He has not had Harry Meyers as a teacher for nothing. The old man holds something long and silver in his right hand. He has not yet caught his breath, though. My own hands tremble. My stomach is unsettled. I feel very tired again.

“It's bunk, Manny boy. Get him—” Marty's old voice has returned.

“Bruja
, Manuel,” Ruben says again.
“¡Bruja!
From the grave of my mother. She will protect us—”

The old man hesitates. The cat is on the table, leaping for what the old man holds in his right hand. The edge is silver. I should have left earlier. Who knows what your life has been like, old man. I am not so angry any longer. Marty whispers to his own monkey. Ruben stands in front of me. I hear the hissing sound again and see the blade clearly. It is too late. My hand is on the doorknob.
“¡Bruja! ¡Bruja!”
Ruben says. He is directly in front of me.
“Mi madre, sálvenos
—” he cries, and he throws the dirt at the old man's table.

Manuel retreats. From the table, though I know at once that there must be ordinary explanations, there is a sizzling sound and a puff of smoke. “Aiee—” Ruben cries. The old man covers his eyes. I do not look twice. “Now, Mister Meyers,” Ruben says, and I pull the door open.
“¡Mi madre
—!” he shouts over his shoulder as we head down the dark stairway. Under my fingers the wood of the bannister is like satin.

“The blindfold?” I ask when we are in the street.

“Oh man,” Ruben says. “This no time to make jokes, Mister Meyers. He tell the truth when he talk about all his children—he got lots of guys like us working for him under the city. Like I told you—”

He grabs my hand and pulls me toward the corner. I see the shapes of cats moving among swollen garbage pails. I smell wine. “We in good trouble now. I telling you—”

“How is Manuel's sister?” I ask.

His fingers dig through my overcoat, my jacket, my shirt. “Aiee, you
loco
also—” He yanks at my arm. “What I gone to
do
, Mister Meyers? What I gone to
do—?”

The sign above us says 131st Street and Lenox Avenue. The cars speed by. I see no policemen. I look for a red baseball cap. Ruben's eyes glance behind us but the street is still empty. I hope the old man is all right. Harlem Hospital is nearby, though, if my memory serves me correctly. I will give you a choice, Ruben Fontanez, before I return the magazine article to the school. Perhaps you would like it for yourself. Well. Perhaps you were right. Harry Meyers may not be so old, after all. Who would have Suspected such anger, sued strength? If no rumors accompany me concerning these last few days, the students will whisper about Mad-Man Meyers once more. I am certain of it.

“The subway,” Ruben is saying. “It's our only chance.” I let him lead me along Lenox Avenue. We move uptown this time. “I know them all by heart,” he says to me. “We get the Flushing train out to Queens. Then maybe we switch for the GG to Brooklyn.” I do not look at the houses, or the stores, or the cars, or the people who pass us. Nor do I look behind. I leave such things to my monkey. Danny would have been proud of me. “I know hiding places in the tunnels, where the workmen stay—” Some young boys sit in front of an abandoned store, waiting to shine people's shoes. One of them approaches me and I tell him that I have no need of his services.