St. Urbain's Horseman (50 page)

Jack nodded.

“Well, to begin with they were fast types, bar flies, with husbands overseas in the army. Then there was a young Westmount girl, he met her at a horse show, I think, and that led to more society types, looking for kicks. After all, Joey was a colorful fellow. He'd been a stuntman in the movies. He'd played professional baseball. And
when it came to horses, he could ride with the best of them. But he was also a roughneck, you know. No education. He got too ambitious for his own good, he got beyond himself. He began to hang out at the Maritime Bar, in the Ritz, you know, making time with married women. They bought him clothes, they gave him money, and when he didn't have enough he signed for credit, using me as a reference. I must have settled more than two thousand dollars in debts after he skipped town.”

“You put the men on to him after the trouble at the Palais d'Or. You betrayed him.”

“Cock-and-bull, that's what you're talking. It wasn't like that, Jake. Your cousin suffered from a swelled head. He got involved with the wife of somebody important here, a man of real quality and position, with an influential family. The wife had a drinking problem and hot pants for Joey. She was most indiscreet, to say the least. When the husband was out of town, Joey stayed in the house. Right on top of the hill. He didn't leave with empty pockets. Jewels disappeared, so did some of the family plate. The husband came to see Joey. He offered him money, but it wasn't enough. They quarreled. Joey hit him. Then your hero got cold feet, but it was too late to run. The woman's husband wanted him taught a lesson. What could he do, he had become a laughingstock. So he hired some ruffians to give Joey what for.”

“I've been to see Joey's wife in Israel,” Jake said, hoping to startle him.

“Joey's wife. One of them, you mean. There are others.”

“He told her the family was responsible for his father's death and his, almost.”

“His words. Golden words. The man is a congenital liar.”

Jake told Uncle Abe about the Mengele papers he had discovered on the kibbutz. He told him about Deir Yassin, the Kastner trial, and how, after seeking the Horseman in Munich and Frankfurt, he had become
convinced that Joey was trying to track down Josef Mengele in South America. To his immediate regret, he also told him about Ruthy.

Uncle Abe shook his head, amazed. He guffawed. “De la Hirsch,” he said, “that's a hot one.”

“I am not amused. Neither am I convinced by your tales of Joey's philandering. You turned him in, Uncle Abe.”

“I wish I had. I could have done it without batting an eyelash.”

“In God's name, why?”

“You have no idea how close we were to a race riot here. Those days weren't these days. Those days they were painting
À
bas les juifs
on the highways, the young men were hiding in the woods, they weren't going to fight in the Jews' war. We could all be shoveled into a furnace, as far as they were concerned. And now, they have the
chutzpah
to say how much they admire the Zionists. The Separatists say they are no more than Zionists in their own country and the Jews should support them. Over my dead body, Yankel. They get their independence today and tomorrow there's a run on the banks. Why? Because of the Jews; and it will be hot for us here again. Listen, you don't live here. In your rarefied world, film people, writers, directors, actors, it hardly matters this one's a Jew, that one's black. God help me, I almost said Negro. You lead a sheltered life, my young friend. We live here in the real world, and let me tell you it's a lot better today than it was when I was a youngster. I rejoice, I celebrate it, but I remember. And how, I remember. And I'm on guard. Your
zeyda
, my father, came here steerage to be a peddler. He couldn't speak English and trod in fear of the
goyim
. I was an exception, one of the first of my generation to go to McGill, and it was no pleasure to be a Jew-boy on campus in my time. Those days weren't these days. In my time we were afraid too, you know. We couldn't buy property in the town of Mount Royal, we smelled bad. Hotels were restricted, country clubs, and there were quotas on Jews at the universities. I can remember to this day driving to the mountains with Sophie, she was
four months pregnant, a young bride, I got a flat tire on the road and walked two miles to a hotel to phone a garage. No Jews, No Dogs, it said on the fence. I close my eyes, Yankel, and I can see the sign before me now. But today, I'm a Q.C. I serve on the school board. The mayor has come to an anniversary dinner at our synagogue, he wore a skullcap. Ministers from Ottawa, the same. There are Jews sitting on the bench. Why, today we even have Jews who are actually members of the University Club. Three members already.”

“And you're flattered, are you?”

“Flattered, no, pleased, yes. My Irwin hardly knows anything of anti-semitism. He's a fine boy, you know, you should have a chat with him. He's serious, and he's got respect for his elders, not like some of them, his age, they're on drugs now. I lectured at McGill, you know. The peddler's boy, how about that? I spoke on Talmudic law, and those kids, my God, my God, Jewish children, I see them, they're taller than we were, big, healthy, the girls a pleasure to look at, dressed like American princesses, the boys with cars, and I think to myself, we've got reason to be proud, we've done a fine job here. The struggle was worth it. And what do they want, our Jewish children? They want to be black. LeRoi Jones, or whatever his name is, and this Cleaver nut tell them the Jews are rotten to the core, and they clap hands. It's a
mechaieh
. Not that they know a Yiddish word; French, that's what's groovy. Their hearts are breaking for the downtrodden French Canadians. Well, only two generations earlier, these same French Canadians wanted only to break their heads. And if it's not the blacks, or the French Canadians, it's the Eskimos. They can't sleep, they feel guilty about the Indians. So there they are, our Jewish children, wearing Indian headbands. Smoking pot. It's the burden of being white, it bugs them. How long have we even been white? Only two generations ago, who was white? We were kikes, that's all.

“Some bunch. What's Israel to them? An imperialist outpost. And World War II; that's when we wiped out Hiroshima, and the beautiful
city of Dresden, we poor old sinners. We Philistines. You know I saw a Jewish kid on a motorcycle, Bernstein's boy, wearing his hair Ritz Brothers style and on his head there's a German soldier's helmet. Shame, I said, shame. ‘It's campy,' the girls squeal. ‘Why are you so uptight, Mr. Hersh?' And they lay into me about Harlem, the
tzoris
of the Eskimos, Indian braves without hope. Vietnam. Cuba. Look here, I said, this is Abraham Hersh you're looking at. I am a reasonably good fellow. I am responsible for none of the world's ills. Whatever I got, I earned. Napalm's not my invention. I never lynched anybody. I'm sorry you're not black and beautiful, but only a Jewish child. For me, it's the thoughts of Rabbi Akiba, not Chairman Mao. And this
pisherke
pipes up, he says, they're the love generation, they're for peace, they give each other flowers. Big news, eh, Yankel? What am I, I say, the hate generation? A war-monger? When I was chasing after girls, did I hand out poison ivy, I said it with flowers too. No, no, I don't dig it. This kid says when they have a rock concert, thousands of them from miles around, there's no rough stuff. I answered him, listen here, shmock, if I go to an affair at the synagogue, or a Mozart concert, we don't pour out of the halls with clubs, splitting heads. Why should you be amazed that your concerts don't end in a riot? What's so special? But he's not finished yet, this latter-day savant. After all, I don't strut down Sherbrooke Street with
FUCK
painted on my forehead. If I jerked off, I'd feel guilty. I wouldn't kiss another man. Feh, I said. Their bodies are beautiful, he tells me. When they swim nude, the sun shines out of their asses. Listen here, you little prick, you think I was born fat and bald, with a heart condition. Wasn't I young once, and aren't you going to grow old too? Aren't we all made of flesh?

“Oh, it was exasperating. Beyond belief. But my Irwin's got a head on his shoulders,” Uncle Abe said, knocking wood, “and both feet planted on
terra firma
. I must remind you once more, Yankel, this is our home. We live here, you don't. I am a respected citizen. My daughter has married well, she doesn't lack for comforts. She
phones her mother every day, she calls me at the office. We adore our grandchildren. One day Irwin will marry a good girl, God willing, and there will be more grandchildren. I brought them up, Irwin and Doris, and when the day comes they will bury me. I wear my father's
talith
in
shul
, next Irwin will wear it, and then his son and his son's son. It's a good life. I enjoy it. I am not one of your bitten Hershes, a wanderer, coming home only to poke snide fun and stir up trouble. A shit-disturber.”

“Like Joey,” Jake asked, “or me?”

“I do not compare you with him. You're a good Jewish boy. Look inside your heart, Yankel, and there's
yiddishkeit.”

“Don't claim me, please. At least not in that fashion. Because as amusing as you are, and plausible, the Hersh family honor rides on Joey's back, not your complacent shoulders, and my heart belongs to him.”

“In Paraguay?”

“Yes.”

“Putz
. Let me ask you this, as I'm the villain in your books. What has Joey ever done for his wife? Or Hanna? Or Jenny? Or Arty? Me, the complacent one, I took them all in when they were in rags, Arty's head crawling with lice. I paid the rent and the doctor's bills. I put Arty through dentistry school, and I'm not sorry, let me tell you, because he's turned out a respectable man, highly thought of in the community.”

“Don't you community me any communities. Because you, my dear, the peddler's number one son, were one of the community leaders who signed an obsequious letter to the
Star
saying no stone would be left unturned to find whoever had beaten up the French Canadian student.”

“Yes, I'm the guilty one. All he did was beat up an innocent boy and leave him lying unconscious in an alley.”

“When Jenny left town she said no more money from Uncle Abe, sweet fucking Uncle Abe. Why?”

“Because she's a foul-mouthed whore and she hates us. Don't you even know that much?”

“You had Joey beaten up and ridden out of town, Uncle Abe. You know it and I know it.”

“I sleep with a good conscience. The only thing that ever keeps me awake is heartburn.”

“Oh, what's the use?”

“Yankel, let's get something straight here. We are talking about a blackmailer. About a gambler and a bigamist and a liar. You and I are discussing a gigolo. A man who moves from country to country under assumed names, certainly with good reason. De la Hirsch,” he said, snickering. “Josef Mengele yet. Paraguay. O.K., no more burning looks from you, please. Joey is the Golem. He's Bar-Kochba. A one-man Maccabee band. He is searching the jungles for Mengele. After all, somebody caught Eichmann. But if he finds him, what then? How old would this obscenity be? Sixty? Seventy? Joey finds him, he slits his throat. Does that balance any books? No, sir. It makes trouble for the Jews in Asunción, that's all.”

“Like Joey made trouble for you here?”

“All right, then. Chew on this, my young friend. From what I know of your cousin, if he is actually searching for Mengele, which I don't believe for a minute, if he is hunting this Nazi down and finds him,” Uncle Abe shouted, pounding the table, “he won't kill him, he'll blackmail him.”

Outside, it was still stifling. But it looked like rain. Cousin Irwin was leaning against the family Cadillac, umbrella in hand, waiting to drive his parents home. Irwin was licking a triple-scoop, double-coned ice cream. Strawberry, chocolate, and pistachio. A baseball cap (
Go
,
METS
,
Go!
) hooded his eyes. His arms had been boiled lobsterred by the sun. Instead of elbows, dimples. He wore a yellow jersey, his nipples showing through. His enormous belly spilled over his tartan Bermuda shorts.

Jake bore down on him, glowering.

“Want a lick?” Irwin asked, heaving with laughter.

Jake knocked the ice cream out of his hand. It spattered against the Cadillac, sliding to the pavement. “How many states in the Union?” he demanded.

“Forty-eight.”

“Fifty,” Jake shot back.

“Fifty, then.”

“Name them.”

“What?”

Jake raised his foot and brought his heel down as hard as he could on Irwin's toes.

“Oregon, Idaho, North Dakota, Nebraska, Wyoming, Illinois, Michigan, New York, North Dakota –”

Jake let him have an elbow in the stomach. “You said North Dakota.”

“– South Dakota, Vermont, New Hampshire, Texas, Nevada. How many does that make?”

Jake whacked him across the face with the flat of his hand.

“Arizona, California, Utah, New Mexico, Missouri, Miami, Georgia, Florida, Alabama.” Driven back against the hood of the car, his balance precarious, his eyes bulging, Irwin began to quiver. “Kansas, Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, Alaska –”

Aunt Sophie, emerging from the apartment building, shrieked.

“What's going on here?” Uncle Abe asked, aghast.

“My grandfather didn't come here steerage, Baruch didn't die in penury, Joey wasn't driven out of town, so that this jelly, this nose-picker, this sports nut, this lump of shit, your son, should inherit the earth,” and Jake turned to stride down the street, fighting his rising stomach, praying that he would not be sick until he had turned the corner.

I
T WAS A GIGGLE, COMING ACROSS NANCY'S LOVE
letters in Jake's bottom desk drawer. (“… I never did that before, darling, not with any other man …”) Oh, wasn't she the grand duchess! (“… previously took precautions, because there was no man's child I wanted …”) Such transcendental thoughts! Such high-flown sentiments! As if she wasn't made like all the others, with the answer between her legs.