The Complete Stories (71 page)
Read The Complete Stories Online
Authors: Bernard Malamud
“Lucille,” he begged her, “come home with your father. We won’t tell anybody. Your room is waiting.”
She laughed angrily. She had gained weight. When he attempted to follow her she called him dirty names. He hobbled across the street and waited in an unlit doorway.
Luci walked along the block and when a man approached she spoke to him. Sometimes the man stopped to speak to her. Then they would go together to a run-down, dark, squat hotel on a side street nearby, and a half hour later she returned to Third Avenue, standing
between Twenty-third and -second, or higher up the avenue, near Twenty-sixth.
between Twenty-third and -second, or higher up the avenue, near Twenty-sixth.
The sexton follows her and waits on the other side of the street by a bare-branched tree. She knows he is there. He waits. He counts the number of her performances. He punishes by his presence. He calls down God’s wrath on the prostitute and her blind father.
1972
Q
Am I a man in a horse or a horse that talks like a man? Suppose they took an X-ray, what would they see?—a man’s luminous skeleton prostrate inside a horse, or just a horse with a complicated voice box? If the first, then Jonah had it better in the whale—more room all around; also he knew who he was and how he had got there. About myself I have to make guesses. Anyway, after three days and nights the big fish stopped at Nineveh and Jonah took his valise and got off. But not Abramowitz, still on board, or at hand, after years; he’s no prophet. On the contrary, he works in a sideshow full of freaks—though recently advanced, on Goldberg’s insistence, to the center ring inside the big tent in an act with his deaf-mute master—Goldberg himself, may the Almighty forgive him. All I know is I’ve been here for years and still don’t understand the nature of my fate; in short if I’m Abramowitz, a horse; or a horse
including
Abramowitz. Why is anybody’s guess. Understanding goes so far and no further, especially if Goldberg blocks the way. It might be because of something I said, or thought, or did, or didn’t do in my life. It’s easy to make mistakes and easy not to know who made them. I have my theories, glimmers, guesses, but can’t prove a thing.
Am I a man in a horse or a horse that talks like a man? Suppose they took an X-ray, what would they see?—a man’s luminous skeleton prostrate inside a horse, or just a horse with a complicated voice box? If the first, then Jonah had it better in the whale—more room all around; also he knew who he was and how he had got there. About myself I have to make guesses. Anyway, after three days and nights the big fish stopped at Nineveh and Jonah took his valise and got off. But not Abramowitz, still on board, or at hand, after years; he’s no prophet. On the contrary, he works in a sideshow full of freaks—though recently advanced, on Goldberg’s insistence, to the center ring inside the big tent in an act with his deaf-mute master—Goldberg himself, may the Almighty forgive him. All I know is I’ve been here for years and still don’t understand the nature of my fate; in short if I’m Abramowitz, a horse; or a horseincluding
Abramowitz. Why is anybody’s guess. Understanding goes so far and no further, especially if Goldberg blocks the way. It might be because of something I said, or thought, or did, or didn’t do in my life. It’s easy to make mistakes and easy not to know who made them. I have my theories, glimmers, guesses, but can’t prove a thing.
When Abramowitz stands in his stall, his hooves nervously booming on the battered wooden boards as he chews in his bag of hard yellow oats, sometimes he has thoughts, far-off remembrances they seem to be, of young horses racing, playing, nipping at each other’s flanks in green fields; and other disquieting images that might be memories; so who’s to say what’s really the truth?
I’ve tried asking Goldberg, but save yourself the trouble. He goes black-and-blue in the face at questions, really uptight. I can understand—he’s a deaf-mute from way back; he doesn’t like interference with his thoughts or plans, or the way he lives, and no surprises except those he invents. In other words questions disturb him. Ask him a question and he’s off his track. He talks to me only when he feels like it, which isn’t so often—his little patience wears thin. Lately his mood is awful, he reaches too often for his bamboo cane—whoosh across the rump! There’s usually plenty of oats and straw and water, and once in a while even a joke to relax me when I’m tensed up, but otherwise it’s one threat or another, followed by a flash of pain if I don’t get something or other right, or something I say hits him on his nerves. It’s not only that cane that slashes like a whip; his threats have the same effect—like a zing-zong of lightning through the flesh; in fact the blow hurts less than the threat—the blow’s momentary, the threat you worry about. But the true pain, at least to me, is when you don’t know what you have to know.
Which doesn’t mean we don’t communicate to each other. Goldberg taps out Morse code messages on my head with his big knuckle—crack crack crack; I feel the vibrations run through my bones to the tip of my tail—when he orders me what to do next or he threatens how many lashes for the last offense. His first message, I remember, was NO QUESTIONS. UNDERSTOOD? I shook my head yes and a little bell jingled on a strap under the forelock. That was the first I knew it was there.
TALK, he rapped on my head after he told me about the act. “You’re a talking horse.”
“Yes, master.” What else can you say?
My voice surprised me when it came out high through the tunnel of a horse’s neck. I can’t exactly remember the occasion—go remember beginnings. My memory I have to fight to get an early remembrance out of. Don’t ask me why unless I happened to fall and hurt my head, or was otherwise stunted. Goldberg is my deaf-mute owner; he reads my lips. Once when he was drunk and looking for company he tapped me that I used to carry goods on my back to fairs and markets in the old days before we joined the circus.
I used to think I was born here.
“On a rainy, snowy, crappy night,” Goldberg Morse-coded me on my bony skull.
“What happened then?”
He stopped talking altogether. I should know better but don’t.
I try to remember what night we’re talking about and certain
hazy thoughts flicker in my mind, which could be some sort of story I dream up when I have nothing to do but chew oats. It’s easier than remembering. The one that comes to me most is about two men, or horses, or men on horses, though which was me I can’t say. Anyway two strangers meet, somebody asks the other a question, and the next thing they’re locked in battle, either hacking at one another’s head with swords or braying wildly as they tear flesh with their teeth; or both at the same time. If riders, or horses, one is thin and poetic, the other a fat stranger wearing a huge black crown. They meet in a stone pit on a rainy, snowy, crappy night, one wearing his cracked metal crown that weighs a ton on his head and makes his movements slow though nonetheless accurate, and the other on his head wears a ragged colored cap. All night they wrestle by weird light in the slippery stone pit.
hazy thoughts flicker in my mind, which could be some sort of story I dream up when I have nothing to do but chew oats. It’s easier than remembering. The one that comes to me most is about two men, or horses, or men on horses, though which was me I can’t say. Anyway two strangers meet, somebody asks the other a question, and the next thing they’re locked in battle, either hacking at one another’s head with swords or braying wildly as they tear flesh with their teeth; or both at the same time. If riders, or horses, one is thin and poetic, the other a fat stranger wearing a huge black crown. They meet in a stone pit on a rainy, snowy, crappy night, one wearing his cracked metal crown that weighs a ton on his head and makes his movements slow though nonetheless accurate, and the other on his head wears a ragged colored cap. All night they wrestle by weird light in the slippery stone pit.
Q. “What’s to be done?”
A. “None of those accursed bloody questions.”
The next morning one of us wakes with a terrible pain which feels like a wound in the neck but also a headache. He remembers a blow he can’t swear to and a strange dialogue where the answers come first and the questions follow:
I descended a ladder.
How did you get here?
The up and the down.
Which is which?
Abramowitz, in his dream story, suspects Goldberg had walloped him over the head and stuffed him into a horse because he needed a talking one for his act and there was no such thing.
I wish I knew for sure.
DON’T DARE ASK.
That’s his nature; he’s a lout though not without a little consideration when he’s depressed and tippling his bottle. That’s when he taps me out a teasing anecdote or two. He has no visible friends. Family neither of us talks about. When he laughs he cries.
It must frustrate Goldberg that all he can say aloud is four-letter words like geee, gooo, gaaa, gaaw; and the circus manager who doubles as ringmaster, in for a snifter, looks embarrassed at the floor. At those who don’t know the Morse code Goldberg grimaces, glares, and grinds his teeth. He has his mysteries. He keeps a mildewed threeprong spear hanging on the wall over a stuffed pony’s head. Sometimes he goes down the cellar with an old candle and comes up with a new one lit though we have electric lights. Although he doesn’t
complain about his life, he worries and cracks his knuckles. He doesn’t seem interested in women but sees to it that Abramowitz gets his chance at a mare in heat, if available. Abramowitz engages to satisfy his physical nature, a fact is a fact, otherwise it’s no big deal; the mare has no interest in a talking courtship. Furthermore, Goldberg applauds when Abramowitz mounts her, which is humiliating.
complain about his life, he worries and cracks his knuckles. He doesn’t seem interested in women but sees to it that Abramowitz gets his chance at a mare in heat, if available. Abramowitz engages to satisfy his physical nature, a fact is a fact, otherwise it’s no big deal; the mare has no interest in a talking courtship. Furthermore, Goldberg applauds when Abramowitz mounts her, which is humiliating.
And when they’re in their winter quarters the owner once a week or so dresses up and goes out on the town. When he puts on his broadcloth suit, diamond stickpin, and yellow gloves, he preens before the full-length mirror. He pretends to fence, jabs the bamboo cane at the figure in the glass, twirls it around one finger. Where he goes when he goes he never informs Abramowitz. But when he returns he’s usually melancholic, sometimes anguished, didn’t have much of a good time; and in this mood may mete out a few loving lashes with that bastard cane. Or worse—make threats. Nothing serious but who needs it? Usually he prefers to stay home and watch television. He is fascinated by astronomy, and when they have those programs on the educational channel he’s there night after night, staring at pictures of stars, quasars, infinite space. He also likes to read the Daily News, which he tears up when he’s done. Sometimes he reads this book he hides on a shelf in the closet under some old hats. If the book doesn’t make him laugh outright it makes him cry. When he gets excited over something he’s reading in his fat book, his eyes roll, his mouth gets wet, and he tries to talk through his thick tongue, though all Abramowitz hears is geee, gooo, gaaa, gaaw. Always these words, whatever they mean, and sometimes gool goon geek gonk, in various combinations, usually gool with gonk, which Abramowitz thinks means Goldberg. And in such states he has been known to kick Abramowitz in the belly with his heavy boot. Ooof.
When he laughs he sounds like a horse, or maybe it’s the way I hear him with these ears. And though he laughs once in a while, it doesn’t make my life easier, because of my condition. I mean I think, Here I am in this horse. This is my theory though I have my doubts. Otherwise, Goldberg is a small stocky figure with a thick neck, heavy black brows, each like a small mustache, and big feet that swell in his shapeless boots. He washes his feet in the kitchen sink and hangs up his yellowed socks to dry on the whitewashed walls of my stall. Phoo.
He likes to do card tricks.
In winter they live in the South in a small, messy, one-floor house with a horse’s stall attached that Goldberg can approach, down
a few steps, from the kitchen of the house. To get Abramowitz into the stall he is led up a plank from the outside and the door shuts on his rear end. To keep him from wandering all over the house there’s a slatted gate to just under his head. Furthermore, the stall is next to the toilet and the broken water closet runs all night. It’s a boring life with a deaf-mute except when Goldberg changes the act a little. Abramowitz enjoys it when they rehearse a new routine, although Goldberg hardly ever alters the lines, only the order of answer and question. That’s better than nothing. Sometimes when Abramowitz gets tired of talking to himself, asking unanswered questions, he complains, shouts, calls the owner dirty names. He snorts, brays, whinnies shrilly. In his frustration he rears, rocks, gallops in his stall; but what good is a gallop if there’s no place to go and Goldberg can’t, or won’t, hear complaints, pleas, protest?
a few steps, from the kitchen of the house. To get Abramowitz into the stall he is led up a plank from the outside and the door shuts on his rear end. To keep him from wandering all over the house there’s a slatted gate to just under his head. Furthermore, the stall is next to the toilet and the broken water closet runs all night. It’s a boring life with a deaf-mute except when Goldberg changes the act a little. Abramowitz enjoys it when they rehearse a new routine, although Goldberg hardly ever alters the lines, only the order of answer and question. That’s better than nothing. Sometimes when Abramowitz gets tired of talking to himself, asking unanswered questions, he complains, shouts, calls the owner dirty names. He snorts, brays, whinnies shrilly. In his frustration he rears, rocks, gallops in his stall; but what good is a gallop if there’s no place to go and Goldberg can’t, or won’t, hear complaints, pleas, protest?
Q. “Answer me this: If it’s a sentence I’m serving, how long?”
A.
Once in a while Goldberg seems to sense somebody else’s needs and is momentarily considerate of Abramowitz—combs and curries him, even rubs his bushy head against the horse’s. He also shows interest in his diet and whether his bowel movements are regular and sufficient; but if Abramowitz gets sentimentally careless when the owner is close by and forms a question he can see on his lips, Goldberg punches him on the nose. Or threatens to. It doesn’t hurt any the less.
All I know is he’s a former vaudeville comic and acrobat. He did a solo act telling jokes with the help of a blind assistant before he went sad. That’s about all he’s ever tapped to me about himself. When I forgot myself and asked what happened then, he punched me in the nose.
Only once, when he was half drunk and giving me my bucket of water, I sneaked in a fast one which he answered before he knew it.
“Where did you get me, master? Did you buy me from somebody else? Maybe in some kind of auction?”
I FOUND YOU IN A CABBAGE PATCH.
Once he tapped my skull: “In the beginning was the word.”
“Which word was that?”
Bong on the nose.
NO MORE QUESTIONS.
“Watch out for the wound on my head or whatever it is.”
“Keep your trap shut or you’ll lose your teeth.”
Goldberg should read that story I once heard on his transistor
radio, I thought to myself. It’s about a poor cabdriver driving his sledge in the Russian snow. His son, a fine promising lad, got sick with pneumonia and soon died, and the poor cabby can’t find anybody to talk to so as to relieve his grief. Nobody wants to listen to his troubles, because that’s the way it is in the world. When he opens his mouth to say a word, the customers insult him. So he finally tells the story to his bony nag in the stable, and the horse, munching oats, listens as the weeping old man tells him about his boy that he has just buried.
radio, I thought to myself. It’s about a poor cabdriver driving his sledge in the Russian snow. His son, a fine promising lad, got sick with pneumonia and soon died, and the poor cabby can’t find anybody to talk to so as to relieve his grief. Nobody wants to listen to his troubles, because that’s the way it is in the world. When he opens his mouth to say a word, the customers insult him. So he finally tells the story to his bony nag in the stable, and the horse, munching oats, listens as the weeping old man tells him about his boy that he has just buried.
Something like that could happen to you, Goldberg, and you’d be a lot kinder to whoever I am.
“Will you ever free me out of here, master?”
I’LL FLAY YOU ALIVE, YOU BASTARD HORSE.
We have this act we do together. Goldberg calls it “Ask Me Another,” an ironic title where I am concerned.
In the sideshow days people used to stand among the bearded ladies, the blobby fat men, Joey the snake boy, and other freaks, laughing beyond belief at Abramowitz talking. He remembers one man staring into his mouth to see who’s hiding there. Homunculus? Others suggested it was a ventriloquist’s act even though the horse told them Goldberg was a deaf-mute. But in the main tent the act got thunderous storms of applause. Reporters pleaded for permission to interview Abramowitz and he had plans to spill all, but Goldberg wouldn’t allow it. “His head will swell up too big,” Abramowitz said for him. “He will never be able to wear the same size hat he wore last summer.”
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