12
TWISTING DIZZILY ON THE BED, EVERYTHING SWAYING, pounding, Mrs. Hersh prayed, offering five years of her life if only they wouldn’t put him in prison, he got rid of her, the choleria, and returned to Montreal with the children, they were such a burden to her, to make a fresh beginning.
Then, just as she was drifting off to sleep, she was startled by a knock on the door. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry if I wakened you,” Nancy began, determined to be gentle, “but –”
“Who can sleep?”
“– Jake just phoned to say he’ll be late.”
A hand held to her cheek, Mrs. Hersh asked, “Oh, my God, what’s happened now?”
“Nothing,” Nancy replied, mustering a reassuring smile. “He and Ormsby-Fletcher have a lot to talk about. They’ve gone to a pub. He could be very late, Mrs. Hersh. Here you are,” she said, setting the tray before her. “I picked up some kosher salami and rye bread for you.”
The salami sandwich was garnished with sliced sour pickle, radishes daintily cut, tomatoes and lettuce. There was also a pot of tea with lemon and a freshly cut rose standing in a tall wine glass on the tray. Mrs. Hersh lifted the topmost slice of bread off the sandwich, sighed reprovingly, replaced it and pushed the tray aside. Impulsively, Nancy rammed the tray right back at her. “Eat it,” she demanded.
Mrs. Hersh stared, amazed. Pogrom, pogrom.
“I had to go to three shops before I could find kosher salami. Now you eat it, Mrs. Hersh.”
“I can’t.”
“I’m going to sit right here and you’re going to eat the sandwich. Every – last – mouthful.”
“I can’t.”
“Eat it.”
“But you buttered the bread.”
“What?”
“It isn’t kosher. I’m not allowed to eat butter with meat.” Shit. Shit, shit. “You are not to spy on me.”
“I didn’t see a thing. So help me God.”
“You were watching by the window. Wide-eyed.”
“Me, I committed a crime.”
“You are not to say a word to Jake. Do you understand?”
“Oh, I understand. Don’t you worry.”
“No, you most emphatically do not understand. Not for a moment. Do you actually think Luke is my lover?”
“Who said a word?”
“I have lots, you know. Troops. Between pregnancies. When I’m not nursing babies or changing nappies. Whenever Jake’s out for lunch they arrive by the charabanc-load to fuck me black and blue.” Oh, no, Nancy thought. Oh God, stop, what are you saying?
“That’s a word from the gutter.”
“If you can’t eat butter on your salami sandwich,” Nancy charged, unable to contain her tears any more, “how come you can have eggs with your hot dogs?”
“Eggs are parve,” Mrs. Hersh returned haughtily.
“Oh! Oh! Oh!” Nancy stamped her foot. She stamped it again. “Sometimes all your Jewish hocus-pocus –”
Six million isn’t enough for them.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Open the sewer gates. Let’s hear it all.”
Which is when Molly catapulted into the room, flying into Mrs. Hersh’s arms. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing, precious one.”
Somehow, Nancy contrived to light a cigarette.
“And how did it go today?” Mrs. Hersh asked. “Did he say?”
“It couldn’t have gone very well,” Nancy said, “or he wouldn’t be out getting drunk somewhere.”
And she slipped out of the room, hurrying to Ben, who had begun to cry indignantly. Squashing out her cigarette, she scooped him up, digging her nose into his cheek and inhaling deeply, showering his bottom with little bites salty with tears. I mustn’t lose my milk. No matter what, I must not lose my milk.
Slowly, methodically, Nancy emptied a pail of nappies into the Hoover, folded the dry set, and had only just escaped into the toilet when Molly began to pound on the door.
“Wanta come in.”
“Go get your coat, dear. It’s time for us Sam.”
“Wanta come in, wanta come in.”
So Nancy opened the door.
“Plop,” Molly squealed, standing over her, giggling. “Ploppety-plop.”
13
“MR. HERSH,” THE PUBLICAN HOLLERED, “TELEPHONE for Mr. Jacob Hersh.”
But it wasn’t Nancy.
“Is Harry with you?” Ruthy asked, her voice quivering.
“No.”
“He was supposed to be here for dinner more than an hour ago. I don’t know where he is.”
“Calm down.” If he’s skipped bail, Jake thought, it will only cost me 2,500 pounds. Well, in for a penny, as Ruthy was so fond of saying, in for a pound. “I’m sure he’ll turn up soon,” he lied.
“What if he’s done something to himself?”
Too much to hope for. “He’s out walking somewhere, Ruthy. Or maybe he’s fallen asleep.”
“Don’t you think I tried his flat?” she asked, breaking into sobs.
“Do you want me to come over?” he asked wearily.
“But if he found you here with me, he’d be furious.”
“Yes, that’s right. Take something, Ruthy.” Cyanide. “He’ll turn up eventually. Nothing’s happened to him. If I know Harry he can hardly wait to sit in the stand again tomorrow.”
“That’s nasty.”
“Yes, Ruthy. No, Ruthy. Good night.”
But Ormsby-Fletcher, concerned, felt that Jake should not antagonize either of them, and he insisted that he look in on Ruthy. So they finished their drinks and walked to the car park behind the Old Bailey, assuring each other once more that it had been a most encouraging day in court. Ormsby-Fletcher dropped Jake off at Ruthy’s place.
“Has he come yet?”
Ruthy shook her head, biting back the tears.
“Have you got anything to drink here?” Jake asked, sinking into the only chair that wasn’t buried in clothes waiting to be ironed.
“There’s some Shloer’s. I’ve also got a bottle of Babycham.”
If only, Jake thought, Remy Martin went in for contests, and, remembering, he dug into his jacket pocket. Hoping to mollify Ruthy, he made her a gift of a dozen Kit-i-Kats and six Knorr labels, withholding his five Beefeaters for the moment.
“Would it be too much trouble to make me a cup of coffee?”
The children were in bed, alas, and so, as she prepared the instant coffee, Ruthy was free to run through her dolorous litany of complaints again. Harry had wanted to mend his ways and settle down, he had given up that sort of girl, and the photography, until Jake had taken him to C. Bernard Farber’s, that party, thrusting him into temptation.
Jake, playing his part, wearily pointed out that he was doing all he could for Harry. He sprang awake only when Ruthy tried a new twist.
“Harry brought the girl to the house for you. He didn’t want her at all.”
Suddenly, all the ugliness inherent in the trial, the coarseness, the necessary lies, crystallized for Jake in the buxom shape of flatulent Ruthy. “My dear Mrs. Flam,” he said quietly, “listen to me. I’ve got a wife and three children. I’m risking more than I should for Harry’s sake. All I want in return is the truth. No last minute tricks.”
“You say one thing, he says another. How do I know what happened? I wasn’t there.”
“Even you can’t be that stupid, Ruthy.”
“Ta.”
“Why would I have Harry bring a girl to my house for me?”
“You’re a man, aren’t you?”
“If I was going to have a girl while Nancy was away, I wouldn’t have Harry there too.”
“How would I know what sort of games you fancy?”
“Oh God,” Jake said, rising, and he shoved the five Beefeater labels at her just as the doorbell rang.
“It’s him! It’s Harry!”
Harry stared at Jake, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.
&nb
sp; “Well, hello. And where have you been? Out murdering somebody?”
He didn’t answer.
“Or was it just a little rape round the corner that kept you?”
Pinched and pale, Harry said, “What are you doing here?”
“Ruthy was worried. I came to comfort her.”
“To bribe her,” Harry said, pouncing on the labels, “to turn her against me.”
Don’t antagonize them, Ormsby-Fletcher had said. Jake reached into his pocket and came up with a small bottle of pills. “You’re not to take more than two, Harry.”
Harry snickered.
“It went well today,” Jake said. “I think we’re going to be all right.”
“You’ll be acquitted on Monday, mate. Not to worry. It’s me they want.”
“Why is your barrister a Q.C.,” Ruthy asked, “and Harry’s isn’t?”
“They work as a team,” Jake said.
“You’re fucking right they do. Against me.”
“That’s just not true, Harry.”
“You’re home free.”
“He’s got connections,” Ruthy said.
“Right. And failing everything else, I’m sure to get a Queen’s pardon. I spoke to Phil only yesterday. He promised. Good night. I’ll phone in the morning, Harry.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not doing a bunk.”
“I am not worried. I will phone to see how you are.”
“He’s ever so thoughtful,” Ruthy said.
14
IT WAS DARK WHEN MRS. HERSH WAKENED TO THE sound of clinking glasses and their heightened voices.
“Jake, I never bug you about your drinking, but please don’t pour yourself another one.”
“In spite of everything I’m doing, Harry thinks he’s being sold down the river. He thinks his lawyer is working for my interests. Christ Almighty, how could I ever get us into this mess?”
“Yes. Why did you do it, Jake?”
“Do what? What did I do? You think I laid into her with that riding crop?”
“No. Certainly not.”
“Does it excite you? Should we try it?”
“Go to hell.”
“I’m not being vicious. Honestly, when I listen to some of the testimony in court, I actually get a hard-on. I think, jeez, that sounds like it was fun. Wish I’d been there. But I was there and it was not like that at all.”
“I believe you, Jake. For the umpteenth time, I believe you.”
“Where’s my ever-loving mum?” he demanded, his drink spilling over. “Why do you keep her from me?”
“I told you she’s lying down.”
“Harry will crack if they send him to prison again. He can’t stand it. It would be the end of him.”
“But you’re looking forward to it. It would be an adventure.”
“It doesn’t matter. Who cares? You, me. It doesn’t matter. You know what’s important to me? Really, really important to me? Dr. Samuel Johnson. I keep wondering, if I had lived in his time, would he have liked me? Would Dr. Johnson have invited me to sit at his table? Luke’s back, you know.”
“Is he?”
“It’s in the Standard. Not the court page, but Londoner’s Diary. His arrivals and departures are news. He’s a big talent, our Luke.”
“Please don’t drink any more.”
“How are the kids?”
“They’re all right. I’ll make you an omelette.”
“Nancy,” he said, reaching out for her.
“Yes?”
But starting for the kitchen together, they ran into Mrs. Hersh.
“Hullo, Maw. A guten shabus. You know my mother used to light candles on Friday night? Every Friday night, when I was a kid, she lit the candles.”
Mrs. Hersh glowed.
“Did you remember to take your pills today?”
“I was a good girl.”
“Nancy’s eyes are red. Your eyes are puffy. There’s nothing to worry about, honestly. It’s in the bag. Once this is over, I’ll probably sue for false arrest.”
“Your mother and I had words.”
“It was nothing. A little misunderstanding. Let’s not upset Jake.”
“Why not upset Jake? I met Luke for drinks today. I broke down, he drove me home, and your mother saw him kiss me outside. She thinks we’re having an affair and that’s why I asked her not to tell you.”
“I didn’t say a word, so help me God.”
“Would you please explain to her that you are jealous of Luke not because of anything between us, but because he’s so successful.”
“Hey, hey. I’m not on trial here. I’m on trial there.”
“Oh, why don’t the two of you sit in the kitchen without me,” Nancy cried, fleeing, “and eat something parve together?”
“What?” Jake called after her, baffled.
He found her lying on the bed, sobbing, and sat down beside her and stroked her hair. “Nelson Eddy’s dead. It was in the Herald-Trib today.”
Once her tears had abated, he held a glass of cool milk to her lips.
“I don’t bully old ladies,” she cried, beginning to heave again. “Or say – or say ‘fuck’ to them – or – it’s not like me. I made such a – such a fool of myself today,” and fitfully, between tearful outbursts, she told him what had happened.
Jake touched her cheek. “I was going through my desk yesterday,” he said, “and I found a snapshot of you taken maybe ten years ago. You were twenty, I guess. Standing under an elm tree, wearing a summery dress and brushing your hair out of your eyes. You looked absolutely achingly beautiful and I hated you for it, because I didn’t know what man you were smiling for, and what you had to look so pleased about before you met me. Now I know.” He kissed her. “Please try to get some sleep, the baby’s bound to have you up half the night.”
Jake slipped past his mother’s door, down the stairs, and into the living room, where he poured himself another brandy. Wrong place, wrong time. Young too late, old too soon was, as Jake had come to understand it, the plaintive story of his American generation. Conceived in the depression, but never to taste its bitterness firsthand, they had actually contrived to sail through the Spanish Civil War, World War II, the holocaust, Hiroshima, the Israeli War of Independence, McCarthyism, Korea, and, latterly, Vietnam and the drug culture, with impunity. Always the wrong age. Ever observers, never participants. The whirlwind elsewhere.
As Franco strutted into Madrid, a conqueror, Jake and his friends sat on the St. Urbain Street stoop and mourned the benching of Lou Gehrig, their first hint of mortality. The invasion of Poland was photographs they pasted into the opening pages of World War II scrapbooks, coming in a season they cherished for The Wizard of Oz. Unlike their elder brothers, they could only conjecture about how they would have reacted in battle. They collected aluminum pots for Spitfires and waited impatiently for the war’s end so that Billy Conn could get his second chance. The holocaust was when their parents prospered on the black market and they first learned the pleasures of masturbation. If, as secure and snotty ten-year-olds, they mocked those cousins and uncles who were too prudent to enlist, then it was an apprenticeship appropriate to encroaching middle age, when they were to exhort younger men to burn their draft cards. From pint-size needlers, callow fans in the wartime bleachers, they had matured to moral coaches, the instigators of petitions, without ever having been tried on the field themselves. The times had not used but compromised them. Too young to have marched into gunfire in Europe, they were also too old and embarrassed, too fat, to wear the flag as underwear.
“When they tote up our contribution,” Luke once said, “all that can be claimed for us is that we took ‘fuck’ out of the oral tradition and wrote it plain.” In lieu of Iskra, Screw. After Trotsky, Girodias-in-exile. “And sooner or later we will put it on stage, where you can win applause as well as pleasure from the act.”
As it seemed to Jake that his generation was now being squeezed between two raging and carnivorous ones, the old and resentfu
l have-everythings and the young know-nothings, the insurance brokers defending themselves against the fire-raisers, it followed inevitably that, once having stumbled, he would be judged by one when accused by the other. Ingrid would sing, Mr. Justice Beal would pronounce.
What he couldn’t satisfactorily explain to Nancy was that he was more exhilarated than depressed by the trial because at last the issues had been joined. Joined, after a fashion. From the beginning, he had expected the outer, brutalized world to intrude on their little one, inflated with love but ultimately self-serving and cocooned by money. The times were depraved. Tenderness in one house, he had come to fear, was no more possible, without corruption, than socialism in a single country. And so, from the earliest, halcyon days with Nancy, he had expected the coming of the vandals. Above all, the injustice-collectors. The concentration camp survivors. The emaciated millions of India. The starvelings of Africa.
It took from the beginning of mankind until the year 1830 for the world’s population to reach 1000 million. The next 1000 million came in only a hundred years. The third 1000 million took only 30 years. And by the end of this century there will be 6250 million people in the world, nearly twice as many as there are now. Already half the world’s people are undernourished and about 450 million exist at starvation level. What is going to happen in the next 35 years?
Well, I’ll tell you, Jake thought, the demented Red Guards of China are going to come, demanding theirs, followed by the black fanatics, who live only for vengeance. The thalidomide babies, the paraplegics. The insulted, the injured. Don’t bother barring the door, they’ll spill in through the windows.
Jake was not surprised that out of his obsession with the Horseman he had been delivered Ruthy.
Who had sent him Harry.
Who had served him Ingrid.
Elijah the Prophet had disappointed him, never coming to sip from his silver wine cup at the Passover table. Not so the vandals. After years of waiting somebody had at last come to ask him, Jacob Hersh, husband, father, son, house owner, investor, sybarite, film fantasy-spinner, for an accounting.
“In 1967, while 450 million people were starving and, in England, at least 18 per cent of this happy breed lived below subsistence level, and society’s golden rule was alcoholism, drug addiction, and inchoate brutality, I, Jacob Hersh, descendant of the House of David, paid £15,000 not to direct a fun film, made love to my wife on crisp clean sheets, sent my progeny to private schools, worried about corpulence gained through overindulgence and play hours lost through overimbibing. Furthermore, I envied friends more successful and cursed those invited to more parties. I complained about our maid’s indolence. I lamented the falling off in the British craftsman’s traditional pride and a rise in the price of claret. While the rich got richer and the poor poorer, I survived very nicely. As Luke once put it so pithily, if we’re all on the Titanic, at least I’m going down first class.
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