The Tiger in the Well (11 page)

He tumed around, and found himself looking into the man's eyes. He was in his early twenties, sitting at a table with two others, drinking schnapps: a bony, grim-looking face with a mop of black hair and a thin black beard. Evidently he was aware of Bill's connection with Goldberg, because he gave a nod of half-recognition and raised his glass in invitation. Bill looked at Goldberg, but he was busy, so he stood up and hesitantly went to the young man's table.

"Avram Cohn," said the young man, holding out his hand.

"Bill Goodwin," said Bill, shaking it.

Cohn said something in Yiddish. Bill felt embarrassed.

"Only English," he said. "I don't speak hardly any Yiddish."

"All right, we speak English," said Cohn. "Sit down, come on, drink some schnapps."

Flattered by the attention. Bill sat down. Cohn introduced the other two: a red-haired young man called Meyer, and a fanatical-looking man called Giuliani, who was perpetually gnawing: his nails, his lips, his beard.

"So you're from England," said Cohn.

"London, yeah," said Bill, taking the little glass of ice-cold spirits that Cohn poured for him. He watched Meyer, and then threw the glass back in one movement as Meyer had done. Then he had to catch his breath and blink back the tears in his eyes.

"You're an associate of the great Goldberg.?" said Cohn, refilling the glass.

"Well ... I sort of work for him, off and on."

"What kind of work.?"

Bill wondered if he could tell them about Mr. Tubb. If they were socialists, then they were probably all right. And they were Jewish, so they'd approve of giving all that money to the Jewish Shelter. He drank the second glass (less of a shock this time, though he still didn't much like the taste) and then looked around. Goldberg was arguing loudly with the girl; no one else was close enough to hear.

"The last job I done," he said, "was tax collecting. There's a man in London called Parrish. He's making money out of the Jews, out of the sweatshops, yer see, and he's got half a dozen houses beside—places for gambling, places for girls, places where these nobby Johnnies go—rich fellers. So we thinks we'll take some of his profits away. The people's tax, Mr. Goldberg called it. He's going to write about him sooner

or later, expose him, like, but I took three hundred quid off him the other day. Just . . . mugged him."

"Mugged him?" said Cohn. The three of them were listening closely, impressed, thought Bill.

"Just . . . attacked him. Took the money. We gave it to the Jewish Shelter."

"Ahh ..." said Cohn. Their expressions were deeply interested, deeply respectful.

The man called Meyer said, "You don't mind violence, no.^ That's good. That's powerful."

"In the right cause," said Bill.

"Of course," said Meyer. "Of course. That's what I meant. Tell me, are the other comrades in London of the same mind as you.'^"

"Well, some," said Bill. "Yeah. The Fenians. The Irish boys. I know some of them. In Lambeth, where I come from."

"Fenians.'"' said Giuliani.

Cohn spoke rapidly in Yiddish. Giuliani, watching Bill, nodded. Then Cohn said, "You know some of the Fenians.-"'

"I got friends, yeah. They know I won't give 'em away. I know lots of Irish people, always have done."

"And what does Mr. Goldberg think of your Fenian friends.?"

"Well ... I don't really talk about them with him. He's got his own point of view, see. I mean, I respect him."

"Of course," said Cohn. "We all do. But he doesn't have to know everything, hmm.-* That's interesting, what you say about the Irish. I would like to meet some of them."

"I could introduce you," said Bill.

"You could.'' Ah, that's good. And another thing ..."

He refilled Bill's glass. Bill watched, half wanting to say no, but feeling ashamed to. He put his elbow on the table, leaning in close, straining to hear as Cohn began to talk quietly, one comrade to another, about the political meaning of violence. Meyer genially put in a word here and there; Giuliani gnawed his fingernails. Casually, as if he was used to it, Bill drank the schnapps. Cohn's voice continued. It was like a

world opening for Bill; it was like being initiated into a whole new language, suddenly, without the pain of learning it. The theory of . . . That there was a meaning behind . . . That violence could be pure and noble. . . . And he learned a new word: terrorism. Terrorist. It made him shiver with something that he could hardly tell from pleasure. Cohn talked on, about nationalism, about freedom, about communism, about anarchism, about dynamite.

When they came away from the cafe. Bill found himself alone with Goldberg- He wasn't sure how it happened, and he wasn't sure where they were, except that suddenly there he was, alone and profoundly uncomfortable, and the source of his discomfort was Goldberg.

"What did you say to those lice in the cafe.-*" Goldberg said harshly.

"Eh.?"

Bill blinked. It was like being hit, being spoken to like that. He tried to clear his head.

"They was telling me . . . they was asking . . . about the Irish and all. The Fenians. Dynamite and so on."

Goldberg's eyes were ferocious. Bill, frightened of nothing, found himself trembling with fear.

"And.?" said Goldberg.

"They said . . . they was talking about summing, I dunno, terrorism—"

Without any warning he found himself pinned up against the wall with his feet off the floor. Goldberg was holding him there with one hand, and the other was gathered in a huge fist under his jaw. He'd known the man was strong, shoulders like a laborer, but the speed and violence of this— he had no breath to struggle with, even.

"That sort of talk is poison," Goldberg said. "That sort of man is poison. They're hangers-on, parasites, tapeworms. They've got nothing to do with us, nothing to do with progress, nothing to do with socialism. You know what bombs do.? You seen a bomb go off.? You seen innocent children

torn apart? I have. Fight? Of course we fight if we have to. But we fight evil, not innocence. And we can tell the difference. All they want to do is kill, kill anyone, kill for the sake of killing, spread panic, spill blood, destroy. How the hell's that going to make things better in the world? Use your voice. Use your mind. Use words. Tell people. Argue. Organize. That's what works. That's what progress means. That's where sense and courage and decency lie. If I see you with those filthy cowards again, by God, that's the end for you. Use your wits. Use your eyes. Compare. Listen. Think. Who are the good people? Who are the bad? Use your mind!''''

No one had ever spoken to Bill like that before. He felt frightened, not so much of Goldberg's physical strength as of the challenge. But it wasn't a deadening, sickening kind of fear; there was excitement in it. And pride, too. Goldberg thought he was worth something.

He wasn't entirely sure how he accompanied Goldberg to the hall where he was to speak that afternoon. He remembered eating pickled herrings somewhere, he remembered swallowing cup after cup of hot, strong coffee, he remembered walking along narrow streets and little quays and over bridges and past barges tied up where dogs barked and pipe-smoking men unloaded coal, bales of tobacco, salt. He remembered the hot, smoky hall, the crowded seats, the air of excitement, the tense silence as Goldberg began to speak. Bill was wedged into a corner at the back of the hall; he couldn't even sit down, and much as he was longing to close his eyes, he kept nodding and jerking awake again.

Goldberg was speaking in German. That clear, slightly harsh, but expressive voice; those dramatic eyes, the humorous curl of the lip; the disordered notes, the way he little by little moved away from the lectern until he was standing in front of the audience with nothing between him and them, the notes forgotten, the words coming from the heart now, singing them almost, and Bill found himself held, enthralled by the voice and the man's personality even if the words were mysterious to him. There was passion and humor and

courage and vision; there was scorn and mockery and anger. There was intellecaial force. There was hope. Bill was caught up completely. He stamped and cheered and shouted with all the rest of them, and Avram Cohn and Meyer and Giuliani and the Fenians and terrorism were forgotten.

He felt someone shaking his shoulder and woke. His head was aching horribly, and there was a vile taste in his mouth, and he thought he might be sick. Were they at sea already.'*

But Goldberg was speaking. Bill dragged himself up and listened.

"The Tzaddik—he's here. In Amsterdam. Come on, my boy, we're going spying. Headache.'' Serves you right. Stick to beer. Put your coat on—it's damn cold outside."

Bill wasn't at all sure where they were. An oil lamp showed him a narrow, cramped little room with an iron stove and round windows. Then it came back to him: they were on a barge. One of the boatmen was going to take them somewhere—to the docks.^ He'd forgotten. Never mind. Goldberg wanted him, and they'd found the Tzaddik.

He struggled up and forced his arms into the sleeves of his coat.

"What are we going to . . . } The Tzaddik . . . d'you want to get him.^* What are we going to do.'"'

Goldberg was peering intently out the small round window. Bill could see little: it was dark outside, and he had no sensation of movement, but then the lighted window of a house moved past through the mist, and he felt suddenly giddy. He sat down on the bunk.

"We're going to spy, as I said," said Goldberg. "See if we can find out who he is, what he's doing. Just have a look at him."

Bill turned up his coat collar and tied the blue and white handkerchief around his neck. Then he became aware of another man in the cabin. He was lying on an upper bunk, hand behind his head, supported on his elbow.

"His carriage was unloaded earlier today from one of the

Rhine barges," said this man quietly. "They think he came up from Cologne. We're going up the Herengracht now to see if he's at the house we think is his."

"What you going to do then.?" said Bill. "D'you want to smash him, or what.'*"

Goldberg looked around. "We want to find things out. Bill. That's all."

"You know what a dybbuk is.'*" said the other man.

"A dybbuk?^\i^i\ that.?" said Bill.

"It's an evil spirit. A demon. Well, this man has got a dybbuk as his personal servant. They usually take possession of people—enter their bodies. This one lives outside. People have seen it. You might see it yourself soon, if you keep your eyes open."

Bill didn't know whether to scoff. Goldberg turned back to the window, and the man in the bunk was watching him impassively.

The boat bumped gently against the side of the canal. Bill heard a voice outside making soothing noises to a horse and heard the soft whiffle of breath as it shook its head.

"Come on," said Goldberg. He reached up to shake hands with the man in the bunk and said something in German, and Bill nodded to him before following Goldberg up the little ladder to the deck.

The mist struck chill into him at once. It was completely dark. Everything was half air and half water; the few points of light that he could see—^a few yellow windows, a dim gleam at the bow of the barge—were haloed with suffocating moisture. He stepped across the gap between the tarry deck and the stones of the bank, heard Goldberg say a word or two to the man with the horse, and tugged the coat tighter around him as the cold bit into his lungs.

The boatman clicked his tongue, and the horse took up the strain on the rope again. The barge moved forward heavily. Goldberg tapped his arm and beckoned, and Bill followed him down a dark alley between two big buildings that looked in the misty gloom like something between warehouses and

mansions. Lights were gleaming on the second floor of one, but the other was dark.

On the other side they came out into a narrow street bordering another canal. The waterfront was lined with trees, and more of those tall, elegant brick houses stood on the other side of the narrow road, facing it. The whole world was silent, except for the eternal drip of water.

"What's the time.'"' whispered Bill.

"Past midnight. You slept off the schnapps yet.'' By God, listen. Can that be him, I wonder.'^"

Bill strained to hear, and then came the sound of hooves and iron wheels. Goldberg melted into the darkness behind the nearest tree trunk, and Bill slipped back into the alley. He stood pressed against the damp bricks as the hooves came closer and the carriage rolled to a halt.

Bill couldn't see Goldberg at all, though he knew he was only a few yards away. He reached into his pocket and brought out his sHp of mirror.

In the glass, spectral in the light that was now streaming out of the house, was the reflection of a large black carriage with a driver on the box and two servants in livery busying themselves with some apparatus by the carriage door. They had swung out an iron platform from underneath the body of the vehicle, and they were adjusting the height of it. Once they'd done that, one of them laid a wooden ramp over the steps leading up to the house, and the other unfastened the carriage door. It was unlike a normal door: it looked as if the whole side of the carriage slid aside.

The servants entered the carriage, and a few moments later a vast chair on wheels began to emerge. The servants manipulated it with enormous care onto the iron platform, and then while one of them held it steady, the other turned a handle at the side, lowering the chair to the level of the pavement.

In the chair was seated, immobile, a huge man swathed in darkness. All Bill could see was the silhouetted bulk of him surmounted grotesquely by a top hat. At one point he saw a large gloved hand swing down limply, and heard a command

in a soft, deep, cracked voice. The nearest servant gently picked up the hand and laid it with the other in the man's lap.

When the platform was finally lowered, both servants went behind the chair to push it up the ramp; and then Bill saw something that nearly made him faint.

Something climbed out of the man's head—^a dark, lithe shape the size of a cat, that jumped lightly down onto his knees and crouched there chittering softly.