St. Urbain's Horseman (40 page)

“Yes.”

“Has he ever mentioned my work to you?”

“How do you mean?”

Is he avoiding me, Jake wanted to ask, because he has such a poor opinion of me? “Has he seen my films?”

“I don't know.”

“I see.”

There was a heavy pause.

“Well now,
if
you see him when he comes back tell him I paid his rent for him and took his riding clothes with me,” Ruthy said, rising. “I'm keeping them for him.”

“If I see him,” Jake said.

B
LOOM LICKED HIS PENCIL AND CHECKED OVER HIS
account sheets for the third time, not that there was any point to the exercise. Count on Harry to find an error, no matter what. Harry, the
momzer
. Recently, Bloom had come to think that Harry altered a figure here, a figure there, himself, for it sometimes seemed that there were more eraser marks when Harry returned the sheets for correction than there had been before. There was nothing Harry wouldn't do for a little giggle. Hadn't he seen him, with his very own eyes, on the day of the office picnic at Brighton, conceal Miss Pinsky's handbag, when he knew she was having her monthlies, and not yield it until she had stained herself, fleeing in embarrassment? He hates me. Why? Because I'm kosher. Bloom had to lock his luncheon sandwiches in the bottom desk drawer ever since Harry, in one of his inspired moods, had substituted
traifes
for his chicken sandwich, not saying anything until Bloom had swallowed it. It made him choke that other Jews believed. Had respect.

“Tell me, Bloom, you're such a devout little Jew, did you know it is written in the Talmud that we are supposed to charge Gentiles a higher interest rate than our brethren?”

“And why not?”

“And vy not?
Lucky is the born ignoramus.”

“With you around, who needs Nasser? You're no better than me.”

Above all, Harry exulted in tormenting Bloom about his daughter Aviva.

“I don't understand you, Bloom, you've had no life at all. For all you've tasted of this world's delights, and I willingly include your experience of
la dolce vita
at Bournemouth, you might as well not have been born. Married to a
yachna
. Pinching pennies all these years and for what, so that you can afford a wedding at the Grosvenor Hotel for Aviva?”

“It offends me to even hear her name from your filthy mouth.”

“Don't you know sexy Jewish girls don't marry doctors any more? Or go in for big weddings, with the guest list in the
Jewish Chronicle?
They go for the spades, Bloom –”

“Go to hell.”

“– and if they get married at all it's at the registry office, because they've got one in the oven.”

“You know what I say? I say you're around the bend. Paying girls so you can take filthy pictures of them. Some man about town. Look out, James Bond! Take care, Rex Harrison! Here comes little Harry Stein, can't make a girl do it with him unless he pays her a flyer.”

“How much do you want to bet Aviva is on the pill?”

“Oh, look at him. Red in the face. I've got your number, haven't I? Don Juan? More like Yosel Putz, if you ask me.”

Once more Bloom licked his pencil and worried over his account sheets, before Harry opened the door to his cubicle, and called, “Bloom!”

Harry contemplated the sheets, nodding, and suddenly smiled and said: “Congratulations.”

“What for?” Bloom asked guardedly.

“I hear Aviva has been accepted at the University of Sussex.”

“And Oxford. And Cambridge. Now that you've mentioned it, Mr. Stepney Grammar School.”

“But she's going to Sussex.”

“Yes.”

“Smart kid. It's the swinging university, you know. They screw each other black and blue there.”

“You know what I smell? I smell sour grapes.”

“You don't believe me? Here,” and he passed him the clipping, “it was in the
Sunday Telegraph
. There's plenty of pot smoking at Sussex, you know.”

“What?”

“Pot. It's not for brewing tea. I speak of marijuana. Drugs. It makes the girls crazy for it.”

Bloom began to shake.

“You know what happened when the police gate-crashed the Rolling Stones party? They found a bloke sucking a chocolate bar out of a girl's cunt. But at Sussex the girls are famous for another specialty. The human sandwich. Girl in the middle. Boys poking into either end.”

“One day I'll kill you. I'll pick up a knife and put it through you.”

Harry smiled benevolently. “Meanwhile, if you don't mind, I'll see how many mistakes I can find here,” and he started into the hall.

Where a man sat chain-smoking outside Father Hoffman's confessional.

“I would like to take this opportunity to tell you,” Harry said to him, “how much I enjoyed your first film.”

“Oh, thanks,” Jake muttered preoccupied, shooting up to disappear through Hoffman's door.

Sister Pinsky, too shy to ask, had left a note on Harry's desk.

Well, why not, Harry thought.

“So,” Oscar asked Jake, “what's the latest?”

“Well, today it looks like they may honor my contract and pay me in full.”

“Ah ha.”

“If that's the case, Oscar, you've got to tell me how to take the money. I don't want to pick it up in the morning and fork it out in surtax in the afternoon, you know.”

“There will be no need,” Oscar said, reaching for the phone, “to even bring the money into this country in the first place.”

I
N THE FIRST PLACE, JAKE HAD EVEN HAD SERIOUS
doubts about making the film, but he had been through so many scripts, most of them appalling. He would not consider anything being shot abroad, because of Nancy's pregnancy. He was bored, he was restless. So he had foolishly allowed his agent to talk him into it.

From the start, the project was ill-starred. Before the first day of shooting, Jake had turned against the script. He got off to a horrendous start with the actress, a stunning but vacuous British girl, who was to play the lead. She was on a macrobiotic diet and reading Zen, absolutely convinced that the yellow-brick road to international stardom was paved with trendiness. In her world, things were either swinging or a drag, other people groovy or uptight. She was willing to do a nude scene, she told Jake not once, but twice, as long as it was “artistically necessary.”

The first day of shooting, always Jake's shakiest time on a set, the producer loomed over his shoulder as soon as he picked up the viewfinder. It was a grueling day, seemingly endless, and when it was over Jake had only shot a minute, a most unsatisfying minute, he knew, without waiting to see the rushes at noon the following day. Ensconced in the screening room with the producer, the star, her agent and others, indignant and in a sweat. Nobody said a word when the lights went on, fearful of committing themselves before the producer pronounced.
The producer, who was already whispering in a far corner, with the lighting cameraman, the star, and her thrusting agent.

Announcing that he expected everyone on the set in twenty minutes, Jake strode out, seeking comfort among Hersh's Continuing Rep, many of whom he had hired for the production.

“Don't let him worry you, Yankel. He's a
grobber.”

During the first set-up of the afternoon, a restaurant scene, it all came down. The star, blinking the false eyelashes which she wore over Jake's objections, turned to him between takes and indicated the group assembled under the hot lights since noon, rehearsed – spun into action – shushed – spun into action and shushed again and again – only so that she, the camera tracking after, might sweep through them, making a poignant exit, and getting her three little lines right, turned to him, her entrancing smile aimed at the crouching still photographer, and said, “Aren't they, like, crazy?”

“What?”

“The faces you chose. Are they real people,” she asked, “or only extras?”

“They are my friends,” Jake said tightly. “And where are you going?”

“We aren't doing it again?”

Yes. And again, and one more time as the producer seethed. Then again, and twice more, until she fled to her dressing room, the perplexed producer tumbling after.

A letter, hand-delivered, turned up at the office of Jake's agent before six. Jake was barred from the set.

“Tell him not to worry,” Jake said. “I quit.”

“No, you don't. I'll have you back on the set on Monday. You're making this picture.”

“Don't threaten me.”

There was a meeting on Tuesday and another, with lawyers, on Wednesday. Thursday a subdued agent took Jake to lunch and revealed that another director had been hired. “I've turned down their offer of a settlement. I'm holding out for your full salary.”

“That's the stuff.”

“If I get it, you won't be able to sign to make another film so long as you were supposed to be working on theirs. If you do, you'll forfeit the money.”

Jake laughed.

“You think it's funny?”

“Hell, I'm going to be paid more monthly not to work than I've ever earned in my life.”

“Don't let it depress you. I can't think of anyone on our list it hasn't happened to at least once.”

With nowhere to go, and nothing to do, except connive with Hoffman on how to put his money out of reach of the Inland Revenue, Jake took to sleeping in late and then meandering down to Swiss Cottage to pick up the
Herald Tribune
at W. H. Smith's. Almost daily, he passed the dress shop Ruthy worked in. Ruthy usually rapped hopefully on the window as he drifted by, startling him out of his reveries. She waved, he waved back, then this dumb show no longer satisfied her. She took to summoning Jake to the door.

“Have you heard from Joseph?”

“No.”

“Not to worry. But there's no harm in asking, is there?”

Another day.

“Quick. See her? No. Across the street. The lady getting into the chauffeured Bentley.”

“Yes.”

“She's a cousin to Lady Cohen. Whenever she comes into the shop she asks to be served by me personally. It's a pleasure to deal with her. She's no Golder's Green
yachna
, if you know what I mean. Anything new?”

Jake looked baffled.

“I mean Joseph. Have you heard anything?”

“Ruthy, please. I haven't seen him since I was a boy.”

O
NLY FIVE MINUTES BEFORE THE BABYSITTER WAS
expected, just as Ruthy was dabbing perfume behind her ears, she was summoned to the phone in the hall. It was Sandra Pinsky. She couldn't come, after all.

“Why?” Ruthy complained.

“You want to know the truth?” Sandra dissolved into laughter. “I'm all out.”

“Oooo,” Ruthy moaned. “Come on.”

“Me and the boy scouts have the same motto: be prepared.”

A lot of good it's done her, being prepared all these years, but Ruthy didn't say it. “Couldn't you phone your doctor to leave a prescription outside? You could still pick it up.”

“I phoned earlier, but he was just going off for the weekend. I said to him, oh, doctor, but I'm without pills. What pills, he asked?
The
pills. In that case, luv, he said, I'd keep my knickers up until Monday if I was you.” She exploded into laughter again. “Isn't he wicked?”

“But there must be a locum he leaves in the clinic. Ask him for the prescription.”

“He's a Pakistani. Oy, Ruthy, how could I? I'm too embarrassed.”

“Oooo,” Ruthy pleaded. “Come on.”

“I'm not even dressed. I left an invitation out for Mr. Stein. He's
coming on Saturday. Watch out for him, dearie, he doesn't look the type, but he's got only one thing in mind.”

“Are you coming?”

“Come to my place.
The Avengers
are on tonight. It's a two-part one. I saw the first part last week.”

“Oh, I see. The penny's dropped. You,” she said, hanging up. Ruthy decided not to attend the Friendship Club again after all; it would be no fun on her own, the so-called 27's to 45's (yeah, sure), pathetic types, most of the men at least fifty, wanting to know how much you were worth, was there a dowry, and, failing everything else, if you were interested in having a little fun.

A quick glance at the
Jewish Chronicle
revealed there was nothing on at the Ben Uri Gallery; neither was there a lecture that appealed. Across the street, she picked up a quarter of sweets and the
Evening News
.

Niagara Falls. Deanna Durbin. Yes, and Joseph Hersh, she thought, thank you very much.

Mrs. Frankel stopped her outside Grodzinski's.

“They took Golda back to the hospital this afternoon. Didn't you see the ambulance outside?”

“No.”

“Her uterus is hanging, she can't walk. I don't understand; I thought she had it out.”