St. Urbain's Horseman

by Mordecai Richler

  Possibly, Jake reflected, sitting in the dock, lowering his eyes demurely whenever a juror glanced at him, possibly colonials coming to London have always had a taste for nymphs of the pavements, and he sang to himself,

  “I’m not a butcher, I’m not a Yid,

  Nor yet a foreign skipper,

  But I’m your own light-hearted friend,

  Yours truly, Jake the Ripper.”

  6

  JAKE HAD ONLY BEEN GONE AN HOUR WHEN THE PHONE rang. “Yes,” Mrs. Hersh said, “she’s here. Who shall I say is calling, please?” But before the man on the other end of the line could identify himself –

  “Is it for me?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Hersh agreed, proffering the phone.

  Nancy took it, yielding the baby to her mother-in-law. “Could you take him into the kitchen, please? You can give him some mashed banana, if you like.”

  Suddenly, without a struggle, Fort Knox surrenders its gold. Suddenly I’m not too unhygienic to feed my own grandson.

  “Yes, certainly,” she heard Nancy say, “as long as I’m back by five. He phones as soon as court adjourns …”

  “You’re going out?” Mrs. Hersh demanded, appalled.

  “So it seems,” Nancy agreed icily.

  “What shall I say if the lawyer phones at noon?”

  Say I’ve gone to Forest Mere Hydro for a colonic irrigation. “I must get a breath of air, Mrs. Hersh. I need it.”

  Nancy retrieved the baby, nursed him, and sang him to sleep. Mrs. Hersh kept Molly occupied in the kitchen, helping her to make a Lego building, until Nancy reappeared, no longer in slacks, but dressed to kill, wearing her Schmucci-Pucci, if you don’t mind, and smelling like a perfumery. Yankel’s Princess. She bestowed a smile on Mrs. Hersh. A small smile. “Now please don’t worry about a thing. Molly will play in the garden, like a good girl. Ben’s next feeding is at four. I’ll be back long before and he should sleep through anyway.”

  Alone in the house, Mrs. Hersh did not sift through Nancy’s wall-to-wall, cedar-lined cupboard this time, for its extravagant contents, out of Dior and Simonetta, Saint Laurent and Lanvin, had already been revealed to her. Neither did she bother with the umpteen drawers of lingerie, which were no longer a mystery to her either. For Yankel’s Princess, silk panties yet. If she ever got a splinter in her ass, that one, only rosewood would do.

  Mrs. Hersh hugged Molly, sent her out into the garden with the promise of a present after lunch, and climbed into Jake’s attic aerie, where he did not keep a photograph of his mother. His father, the prize idiot, yes. Nancy, naturally. Why, there was even sufficient room on the walls for photographs, plucked from German magazines, of the Von Papen family, Mrs. Goering out shopping, and an S.S. general, as well as an absurd painting of Field Marshal Montgomery. But little me? No.

  One cupboard was almost bare. For the riding habit and saddle he usually kept there were both being held at the Old Bailey. Exhibits for the prosecution. But in the other cupboard she was astonished to discover stacks and stacks of tinned food. Shelf upon shelf of cans. A regular supermarket. Soup-size tins, pilchard-type cans, sardine tins. What was so baffling was there was not one tin with a label on it. The labels had been peeled from every single tin. Mrs. Hersh took a can that seemed to be salmon or tuna, either would do, and descended to the kitchen, which she knew from sour experience would be stuffed with dreck. In the fridge, bacon and sausages from Harrod’s, some smoked eel maybe, and a larder crammed with tins of crab and lobster, mussels, snail shells, pork beans and other traifes, but no gefilte fish or kosher salami. Her Highness had forgotten to phone Selfridge’s, dialing with a pencil, heaven forbid she should break a nail, they’re a foot long. Anyhow there was bound to be tomato and lettuce, and salmon would be nice. But when Mrs. Hersh opened the unlabeled tin she was amazed to come upon a gooey, stewlike substance with a decidedly nasty smell.

  It must be pork, she thought, shoving it aside hastily.

  7

  WHEN NANCY HAD FIRST MET JAKE, AT ONE OF LUKE’S parties, she had asked him, “Are you a writer?” swallowing the too.

  “No,” he had replied, affronted, “I’m the director.”

  Which was awfully conceited, yes, but preferable to how he had recently come to identify himself.

  “I’m a director. Not the kind you send for – the type you use if he’s in town.”

  1959 it was, following Luke’s Royal Court triumph and while Jake was teetering in limbo, drinking prodigiously as he awaited the opportunity to direct his first film.

  On arrival at Luke’s party, only a day after she had flown into London, Nancy, thrust into a roomful of jabbering strangers, was instantly aware of a dark, slouching, curly-haired man watching her. Unevenly shaven, his tie loosened, his shirt riding out of his baggy trousers, Jacob Hersh hovered on the edge of whatever group she joined. Scrutinizing the tilt and fullness of her breasts, appraising the curve of her bottom, and searching for a flaw in the turn of her ankle. When she sat on the sofa, crossing her long legs, in animated conversation with an actor, she was not altogether surprised to catch him sinking to the floor opposite, drink in hand, edging lower and lower. Shamelessly seeking out her stocking tops. Infuriated, flushing, Nancy briefly considered hiking her dress, shedding her panties, and flinging them in his mournful face. Instead she drew her legs closer to her, tugging at her dress. It wasn’t, she grasped, so much that he was a dirty little man as that he probably felt she was inaccessible to him and was therefore determined to find fault with her. Being a singularly lovely girl, she was in fact used to the type, having suffered considerably at their hands at university. And Jake, more than anything, reminded her of those insufferably bright boys on campus, self-declared intellectuals, usually Jewish, charged with bombast and abominable poetry in lower-case letters, who were aroused by her presence, and yet were too gauche (and terrified) to speak out and actually ask for a date. Instead they sat at the table next to her in the student union, aggressively calling attention to themselves. Speculating loudly on what they took to be her icy manner. Or they slid belligerently into the seat next to her at lectures, trying to bedazzle with their questions. They also ridiculed her to girls less happily endowed, wreaking vengeance for a rejection they anticipated, but were too cowardly to risk, and bandied suggestions about her secret sexual life sufficiently coarse to make her cry. No matter that she took immense pains not to be provocative, swimming in sloppy joe sweaters, sensible skirts, and flat shoes. Going out of her way to discourage boys the other girls coveted. For this only proved that Nancy Croft was remote; splendidly made, yes, but glacier-like.

  Drink in hand, Jake trailed after her everywhere, always on the rim of her group. If she so much as ventured an observation on London, or remarked on a play she had seen, he didn’t comment, but smirked condescendingly, as if to say, idiot. If she was trapped into conversation with a bore, he condemned her with his eyes for tolerating him, raising his eyebrows, as if to say, only a dolt would have time for him. Loping after her from room to room, he twice made forays into her group. On the first occasion, as a man, whispering in her ear, made her laugh, he barged in, gratuitously rude, and when that failed to demolish him, inquired pointedly after the man’s wife and children. On the other occasion, adjudging her too responsive to the flirtations of a man more handsome, taller, he actually plucked him by the sleeve and called him aside on one pretext or another. Jacob Hersh would not let her out of sight, even to refill his glass, until she was safely in conversation with a homosexual, when he would lurch off grinning widely.

  Finally, Nancy thrust her empty glass at him. “Would you mind getting me a drink?”

  “Who? Me?”

  “Yes. You.”

  “WehaventmetmynamesJacobHersh.”

  It was then she asked him, Are you a writer, swallowing the too, and he replied, no, I’m the director, which allowed her a chance to smile.

  Vengefully, he countered, “Don’t tell me you’re an actress?”

  �
��No.”

  Redeeming her glass, she turned her back on him to chat with somebody else, responding with exaggerated warmth. Then, as she could sense his eyes raking her back, lingering on her bottom, she resisted her first impulse, which was to wiggle it at him, and slid away, her back against the wall, a man between them, so that Jake could not see and judge any of her. And as the man proved a bore, yet another competitor among so many jousting egos, she excused herself abruptly and went to fetch her coat.

  “Would you call me a taxi, please, Luke.”

  Fumbling hands helped her into her coat. “I’ve got a car,” Jake insisted.

  “I think I’ll walk. I could do with some fresh air.”

  “Me too,” Jake chipped in cheerily and, without waiting for an invitation, he followed after.

  Not a word was said until they started down Haverstock Hill together, Nancy’s black hair flowing, her pale oval face bemused.

  “What a beautiful girl you are,” Jake allowed angrily.

  “Thank you.”

  “Well, it’s not the first time you’ve heard it,” he muttered, shrugging.

  “No. It isn’t.”

  “But it’s the first time you heard it from me,” he hollered, waving a finger in her face, “and I don’t say it to everybody. Like Shapiro. That glib prick.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “The one who was licking the wax out of your ears.”

  “Oh, him,” she exclaimed with simulated warmth.

  “Are you living in London or just visiting?”

  “It depends on whether or not I’ll like it.”

  “You’ll like it,” he assured her.

  “It’s settled, then?”

  “Are you being sarcastic now?”

  “I’d have to find a job.”

  “Maybe I can help. What do you do?”

  “Strip at parties.”

  “Seriously, what do you do?”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “You’re not, for Chrissake, a social worker?”

  “Why are you looking for reasons to dismiss me?”

  “Or, God help us, a child psychologist?”

  “Guess again.”

  “You rich?”

  “My father’s a shoe salesman.”

  “Attention must be paid.”

  “Oh, but you are a funny fellow!”

  Which brought them to the front door of her flat on Arkwright Road. As she drove the key into the door, he lingered.

  “All right. You can come in for a nightcap,” she said, “if you promise not to be awkward.”

  He nodded, acquiescing, but she didn’t care for his smile.

  “So long as it’s crystal clear,” she said, “that I’m not inviting you into my bed.”

  While she fetched the drinks, she could see him, through the kitchen hatch, lifting up magazines, like a judge sifting evidence. Two years detention for reading Vogue. Six months in solitary for Elle. The Ladies’ Home Journal, off with her head. Next he stooped to scan the bookshelves, probing for bad or modish taste, and snickering with delight to find evidence of both. Enjoying herself, she did not protest that she had sublet the flat. Then Jake stumbled on The Collected Stories of Isaac Babel lying on the coffee table and seized it, taken aback. “Are you reading this?” he demanded accusingly.

  “No. I hoped I’d be able to bring you back here and I left it out to impress you. Do you recommend it?”

  Jake retreated, narrowing his eyes. His manner softened. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “You’ve been judging me all night. What right have you?”

  “None. Come to dinner with me tomorrow night.”

  But she already had tickets for Hedda Gabler.

  “It’s a terrible production,” Jake exploded. “An abortion. That bastard couldn’t direct traffic,” and he carried on to denounce Binky Beaumont, The Royal Court Theatre, Donald Albery, J. Arthur Rank, Granada, and the BBC. Until finally, she said: “I’m very, very tired. I only arrived yesterday, you know.”

  Leaping up, Jake emptied his glass. “I didn’t make a pass, because you said – Maybe I should try. Maybe you didn’t really mean, it.”

  “I meant it. Honestly.”

  But he attempted to kiss her anyway. She did not respond. “O.K., O.K., you meant it. Can I pick you up at the theater and take you to dinner after the play?”

  “I’m going with someone.”

  “You are. Who?”

  “Is it your affair?”

  “You’re not ashamed, are you?”

  And so she told him who.

  “Him. Oh my God,” he exclaimed, clapping a hand to his forehead, “you poor child. He’s a hopeless prick.”

  “Like Shapiro?”

  “Worse. He’s one of the biggest phonies in town. He’ll call you darling and send back the wine and flatter the hell out of you. Why are you going out with him?”

  “If you don’t mind –”

  “What about Thursday night?”

  “Luke’s taking me out.”

  Which seemed, quite abruptly, to crush him. He didn’t protest. He wasn’t rude. He turned to go.

  “I’m free Friday night,” she said.

  “All right. Friday night.”

  But, on Thursday, only ten minutes before Luke was to arrive, Nancy’s phone rang.

  “I’m in my bedroom,” Luke said, “and I’ve got to talk quickly. Jake Hersh is here. Remember him?”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “He came by to invite me to dinner. It’s awkward. He’s in a truculent mood. I told him I had a date, but he said we could both come. Would you mind, terribly?”

  Within minutes, Jake sat beaming on her sofa. Luke, agitated, was flicking his thumbnail against his teeth. Nancy poured drinks.

  “I’ll get the ice,” Jake said, jumping up. “Don’t you bother, Nancy. I know where it is.”

  “I will get the ice,” Nancy said evenly.

  “My God, I hope I’m not intruding.”

  But, once at Chez Luba, it was Nancy who began to feel curiously redundant. As the two friends vied for her approval, flicking stories off each other like beach boys with towels, ostensibly in fun, but stinging each time, she was, at once, immensely entertained but hardly ever allowed to get a word in herself. Luke told amusing anecdotes about the actors in his play, evoking her laughter, Jake’s bile.

  “Tell her about the New York producer,” Jake said, glaring over the rim of his wine glass. “You know, and the girl who was there especially for you to –”

  “Jake never betrays a confidence,” Luke interrupted.

  Then Jake told her about the time he had directed a play, for Granada TV, and one of the leading actors had died of a heart attack during transmission, and how from there on in he had had to improvise with his cameras.

  Luke invited her to spend an afternoon watching them shoot at Pinewood Studios and Jake asked her to see a television play from the control booth.

  On and on they volleyed, slamming at each other, and Nancy, exhausted, was grateful when it was finally time to go, Jake seizing the bill.

  “We’ll take a taxi,” Luke said, taking Nancy’s arm.

  But Jake, betting on Luke’s stinginess overriding all, said, “No, I’ll drive you. It’s on my way home.”

  Jake held the front door of his car open for Nancy, but she slid gracefully into the back seat, close to Luke. Bitch, whore. “Who shall I drop off first?” Jake sang out.

  “We’re going to Nancy’s place.”

  She didn’t invite Jake in for a nightcap when he braked hard outside her front door. “Shall I wait for you here?” he asked Luke.

  “Good night,” he said, whacking the door shut, “and thanks for dinner.”

  Ungrateful bastard. Second-rate talent. Jake swung around the block, waiting out a red light and obliged to make a short detour to avoid a one-way stream, before he pulled up on the other side of the road and doused his lights to wait. Adonoi, Adonoi, Jake prayed, let this b
e her time of month. Make her bleed. Not that he’d mind, the filthy goy bastard.

  A half hour passed. The living room lights went off and the bedroom curtains were drawn.

  – Oooo, she moans, oooo, your hands are driving me crazy. Please come inside me now.

  Trembling with excitement, Jake lit one cigarette off another.

  – But why are you still small?

  Heh heh. Jake laughed out loud, slapping his, knee. Second-rate talent, a miser, and can’t get it up, either.

  – Let me eat you, then.

  Oh, no. Don’t, Nancy. He’s got trench mouth.

  An hour. The bedroom lights out. Come to think of it, Jake decided, she’s not that bright. Or beautiful. Her teeth are uneven.

  Two hours. And Jake, loathing her, enraged with himself for sitting there in the dark like a moonstruck teenager, reflected, if I die before I wake, and the Lord my soul does take, I will be buried without ever having directed Olivier, had a black girl, seen Jerusalem, delivered my speech turning down the Academy Award, tried heroin, fought for a cause, owned a cabin cruiser, had a son, been a prime minister, given up smoking, met Mao, had a homosexual experience, made a film of the Benye Krick stories, rejected a knighthood, had two ravishing girls in my bed at the same time, killed a Nazi, brought Hanna to London, sailed first class on the Île de France, cast Lauren Bacall in a thriller, met Evelyn Waugh, read Proust, come four times in a night (do they, really?) or had a season of my films presented at the National Film Theatre.

  At your age, Orson Welles was famous. Dostoevski had written Crime and Punishment. Mozart had done his best work. Shelley, dead.

  It was never my wish

  To be Sir Bysshe

  Ineffably depressed, Jake started the car and drove off. Swinging around a corner, past Luke’s flat, glancing up at the windows automatically, his heart leaped with sudden joy to see the bedroom light on.

  Luke came to the door in his dressing gown.

  “What are you doing here?” Jake demanded.

  “I live here.”

  It was four a.m.

  “And what, if I may be so bold as to ask, are you doing here?”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”