The Novels of William Goldman: Boys and Girls Together, Marathon Man, and the Temple of Gold

by William Goldman

  “No.”

  “Do you trust me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then come here.” The old man waited until the boy stood close in front of him. “It will be a soft hit. A mere touch. But I think you will remember what I say. Now, I could answer your questions any number of ways—philosophically, historically, et cetera. But I will be brief instead and you will never again ask such a question. Who are you to carry the flag? You are you to carry the flag. Now for the slap. Are you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  Old Turk raised his arm, hesitated, then sent it on its way. For a moment his fingers rested against the boy’s cheek. As his old hand fell away, a tiny hand rose, covering the spot. The boy spun toward the wall, the hand still to his cheek. The slap could not have been gentler.

  But the boy’s hand did not move.

  One warm October evening they lay side by side in bed, Old Turk and the boy, eyes shut tight, while in the next room Esther shouted “Failure!” for at least the fifth time.

  “Sticks and stones can break your bones, so watch it, Tootsie,” Sid said.

  “It’s a good thing we’re sleeping,” Old Turk said. “Else we would be overhearing their conversation.”

  “Yes.” The boy nodded.

  “Does it bother you that your looks are going?” Sid wondered.

  “Guess how sick you make me,” Esther answered.

  “I’m sorry,” the boy whispered, and he slipped from the bed to the window, then out, disappearing up the fire escape.

  The old man slowly rose, clutching at his nightgown, and crossed the living room to the open window, looking up. Then he turned and made his way to the bedroom. Knocking, he opened the door and said, “You could never dream what things I wish for you.” Then he closed the door, ignoring what they called after him, and crossed the living room again. Sticking his head out the window, he said, “Assuming you wanted company and assuming there was room, is it your opinion I would be warm enough?”

  “Oh yes. Come. Come.”

  The old man began working his body through the window.

  “I’ll help you,” the boy said.

  “Next, women will be giving me their seats on the bus, thank you no,” and he waved the boy away. When he was outside, he paused a moment, then walked up to the top where the boy sat, his feet dangling in space. The old man looked around.

  “Do you like it?” the boy asked.

  “Beautiful view of the alley,” the old man said. “No wonder you’re partial.”

  “Sit. Sit.”

  “And dangle my feet like you?”

  “It’s the best way.”

  “I always accept the word of the connoisseur,” Old Turk said. He sat down and dangled his feet. “To my knowledge, no one is so fine as you at fire-escape sitting. And not yet eight years old. My God, think what you’ll be at fifteen. And by the time you reach twenty—”

  “Why do they do that?”

  “Why does who do what?”

  “Please.”

  Old Turk sighed. “Since I did not rear your father, it would be unscientific of me to speak of him.”

  “Mother?”

  “Why is my daughter the way she is? Why is any child? Today, the fashion is to blame the parents. I myself remain unconvinced. Personally I think—you are my greatest audience, do you know that?” Go on.

  “Heaven to me is enough dill pickles, no indigestion, and you beside me listening.”

  “Go on, go on. You said ‘Personally I think ... ’ ”

  “I think we are all given infinite choices. My father is cruel, so I am cruel. Or sweet. Or any stop along the way. My mother is rich, so I hate money. Or love it. I don’t think we can blame our parents. That’s too easy. We are the way we are. It’s God’s world; He gets the credit, let’s give Him a little of the blame too, do Him good. God’s human, just like the rest of us.”

  “And Mother?”

  “Well ...” Old Turk kicked his feet. The boy did the same. “There are those who would say my daughter is the way she is because of heredity, or environment—you don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”

  “No; go on.”

  “You are such a fine listener that if I ever become King of England, I’ll knight you. Heredity. Heredity is the answer. Except for one thing: for generations, we Turks were known as the cocker spaniels of our village—gentle, loyal, bland. So environment is the answer. Except for one thing: my wife—and you have only my word for this—but my wife ... Let me put it this way: I was the savage in the family. And we raised our daughter with love. So out of this, how does your mother appear?”

  “Yes. How?”

  “Your mother is a bad miracle,” Old Turk said.

  Late on a winter afternoon, Old Turk suddenly jackknifed up from his chair, made a sound and pitched forward into the pickle barrel. The boy, watching, also made a sound, a louder sound, and ran to the body, pulling the old head from the brine, grappling with the limp flesh, trying to get it first into the chair and, failing that, lowering it finally to the cold wooden floor.

  “A doctor,” Turk whispered, and the boy raced toward the stairs and was halfway to the apartment before he remembered it was empty, his parents having decided earlier to douse their differences in ninety minutes of Gary Cooper. The boy whirled on the stairway, took two steps and leaped into space, landing gracefully, bolting for the street without breaking stride. On the street he paused, saw the familiar back of the Widow Kramer and was on her in an instant. Her mouth dropped open at his vehement shaking, but she nodded in understanding after he had said “Doctor—get a doctor” a sufficient number of times. The errand done, the boy whirled again and raced into the store, dropping to his knees beside the old body, lifting the old head, stroking the gray strands which were still wet from their dousing in the pickle barrel.

  “To die smelling of garlic,” Old Turk whispered. “For a delicatessen man, what could be more fitting?”

  “You won’t die,” the boy said. “The Widow Kramer is getting you a doctor.”

  “The Widow Kramer? How fitting. Everything suddenly is fitting.”

  “Stop talking.”

  “Stop talking? Me stop talking? Are you trying to kill me?”

  “Please.”

  “I believe,” the old man whispered. “I believe I just said something funny.”

  “Yes. Very funny. So I don’t have to laugh.” He raised his head, trying to stare at the ceiling.

  “Of course. Not when it’s funny. You remem—Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare cry.”

  “I’m sorry,” the boy whispered.

  “Have we cared for each other?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have we loved?”

  “Yes. Yes.”

  “Then don’t you dare cry. I will not have my death sullied. Not by you.”

  “The Widow Kramer is coming. With a fine doctor. This I know.”

  “Hearts wear. Mine is worn. A fault with the human mechanism. I’m seventy-two years old. Already I have bested the insurance companies. Not many can boast of besting the ins—” For a moment Turk could only gasp, his body suddenly tense, stiff, his eyes opening and closing in rhythm with the painful sounds. When he could speak again, his voice was half of what it was. “I’m dying, Rudy, I’m ... dying and I want to ... say something ... wise but ... nothing comes to mind. Smile on me ... Rudy ... beautiful Rudy, let me ... see you smile ...” The old eyes closed, and this time they did not open.

  The boy waited for something, some sign. He held the body tightly in his arms. Then, when nothing happened, he riveted his eyes on the pickle barrel and began to rock silently, clutching the body and rocking, back and forth, back and forth, back—

  “That is most uncomfortable,” Old Turk said.

  The boy looked down. “You didn’t die.”

  “To my chagrin.”

  “You didn’t die!”

  “I swear I thought I was. I knew. In the movies they always know. Ronald Colman, h
e can always tell when he is dying. Spencer Tracy too. Leslie Howard. I wonder how they know in the movies? Edward G. Robinson, I like Edward G. Robinson, I have seen him die so many times, more than anybody. ‘Mother of God, is this the end of Rico?’ He said that and he died. How did he know? What a marvelous thing to say. I would also like to think of something marvelous. Say it and then die. Something memorable. Help me think of something memorable. Perhaps with a Biblical ring; that always lends authority. Perhaps ... And suddenly the gasping was back again, louder than before. “Rudy ... Rudy ... I’ve got to say ... something ...”

  The gasping stopped. Nothing remained. The boy cradled the tired head. “Joel? Joel?” Nothing. “Please. For me. Joel? Don’t die. I promise you the Widow Kramer comes. With the finest doctor in all the world. So please, Joel. Don’t die. Please. Speak. A word. For me.”

  “I have never ... been ... so embarrassed in all my life.”

  The boy began to laugh.

  “Go on. I deserve it.”

  “I’m sorry,” the boy said.

  “Where ... the hell ... is the Widow Kramer?”

  “Perhaps you won’t even need a doctor.”

  “That thought has crossed my mind, believe me. ‘Your heart is fine,’ he’ll say. ‘What you’ve got is indigestion. Too many pickles. Five dollars, please.’ ” Turk tried to shake his head. “I’m a fool. When a Jew is dumb, he’s really dumb. There is a saying to that effect. Oh, I’m a fool. A fool.”

  “Tell me about your nose.”

  “I won it—”

  “In a raffle. You’ve told me that one already. Tell me another.”

  “All right ... I’ll tell you the truth this time. The final truth. One day, when I was swimming in the desert—”

  “Swimming in the desert?”

  “It was the rainy season.”

  “Go on.”

  “And ... Oh, oh, oh, my God ... I’m wetting in my pants ... just like a baby ...”

  The funeral arrangements fell to Sid, and they were one big irk. First of all, the old man was not at the top of Sid’s hit parade. Oh, he was all right, a harmless gas bag, but bosom buddies they had never been.

  And besides that, death had never much appealed to Sid. Not that anybody begged to lap it up with a spoon, but there were some, even many, who seemed not to mind the rituals—the keening, the floral decorations, the rabbinical razz-ma-tazz. Sid minded. He minded every stinking (his word, but admittedly an unfortunate choice) detail. More than anything, though, Sid minded Esther’s attitude, for, after a lifetime of ignoring her father, suddenly, with the old man gone, their relationship overnight became the closest thing since God and Gideon. And what was so killing about her attitude was that it cost. Nothing was too good. The best, only, for the dearly departed. The thought of using the funeral parlor around the corner made Esther gag. No; Shapiro’s had to do the stuffing. Shapiro’s, the spiffiest ghoul spa on the entire South Side of Chicago. Young Shapiro himself handled the festivities and every rub of his manicured hands probably meant a fiver, every nod of his handsome greaseball head a ten-spot. The fact that it wasn’t Sid’s money mattered to him not at all. The old cocker was footing the bill for his own funeral, but when Sid tried preaching caution Esther only shouted, “It’s his, shut up,” because she was too dense to understand that what they were spending now would not, miracle-like, reappear untouched at the reading of the will. The estate was paltry to begin with, and with Esther digit-happy they were going to be lucky if a sou remained. So, when discussing caskets with his wife and young Shapiro, if Sid risked universal scorn by venturing to ask, Did the lining have to be of quilted satin, who could blame him?

  After nearly three days of preliminaries they finally got around to the main event, which was held in a large room on Shapiro’s second floor. Sid would have preferred something a little smaller, a cubicle maybe, since Shapiro’s seemed to charge by the square foot, but Esther insisted on a big room, to accommodate all the mourners. Sid tried telling her not to expect the entire city of Chicago, lest the experience provide embarrassment as well as grief; Esther’s only answer was a fervent “They’ll come, they’ll come,” followed by a semistifled sob.

  And they came. As Sid led his family into the second-floor room, he nodded in surprise, for the room was close to full. Customers all, and Sid recognized several of them from the agonizing hours he had spent the past few days minding the goddam store. Mrs. Kramer, Mrs. Feldman, Mrs. Katz, Rosenheim the laundryman. Not a multitude, but certainly a respectable turnout. I hope I do as well, Sid thought as he herded his tribe to the coffin. It was, on Esther’s insistence, open, and neither Sid nor the boy had seen the old man since the demise. Esther, of course, had communed for hours the day before, weeping over the corpse while Sid had tended store. The old cocker looked unbelievably well, better than when alive almost, and Sid experienced a moment of something as he gazed down, because he realized then that Turk was indeed, as advertised, dead, really dead, finally and irrevocably dead: dead. Sid glanced at Esther, who stood by the coffin, Bravely Biting Her Lip, and then young Shapiro was gesturing to him. Sid approached the gravedigger, his hand moving protectingly to his wallet.

  “Yes?” Sid whispered.

  “Perhaps we could do something for the boy.”

  “What’s wrong with the boy?”

  The manicured fingers gestured toward the coffin. “Well, look at him.”

  “It’s his first funeral. He’ll get over it. Besides, he’s not crying.”

  “Perhaps we could have him sit down. Generally, one is less affected when not actually viewing the deceased.”

  Sid walked back to the boy. “Come on, Rudy. Let’s sit down.” He tried to take his son’s arm but the tiny fingers were tight around the coffin edge and would not move. “Rudy,” Sid whispered. “Come now.” The boy stayed where he was. Sid glanced toward young Shapiro and shrugged. Abruptly, the boy turned, and Sid said, “Come sit by me, Rudy,” but the boy must not have heard, for he moved off by himself to the far end of the front row. Sid escorted Esther to the best seats in the house, front row center on the aisle, and they sat down. Sid looked around. It was all very impressive, but he wasn’t impressed; his roving eye saw only bills. The hushed room cost money, the hard wooden chairs; the flowers cost, the organ music, the casket (mahogany yet), everything. Sid sighed. Then Rabbi Kornbluth was making with the Hebrew and everybody bowed, a few already practicing their sobs. Sid scowled at Rabbi Kornbluth; no wonder he drove a Packard. For what he charged he could have it gold-plated. Maybe I should have been a rabbi, Sid thought. A funeral specialist. Work just the spring and fall, then summer in the Catskills, winter in Miami Beach.

  “We are here to honor Joel Turk,” Rabbi Kornbluth said, switching tongues. “In all our lives we will have no more noble purpose.”

  Of course it would be tough to play around if you were a rabbi. If a broad shot off her mouth, it could ruin you; who wants a playboy rabbi? But if you wanted to play around, how could you do it? Without risk. A mistress? No; no good. One-shot jobs would be better. But the bitches might blackmail you. Kill the funeral racket. Maybe you could give them a phony name. Tell them you were a cloak-and-suiter. That might work. Or maybe—Sid stiffened in his chair. Because right then he saw it.

  Turk’s nose.

  Curving up above the casket edge. Sid looked away, then back. It was still there. The nose. In full view of the audience. The nose. Just the nose. Sid almost laughed but managed to bite down on his lip in time. He lowered his head, fighting for control.

  “I never had the pleasure of meeting Joel Turk,” Rabbi Kornbluth said in his fine cantorial tone. “So in a sense I am saying hello to him today. But that is what we are all doing, saying hello. This is no time for goodbye. Joel Turk will stay in your hearts, just as he will stay in mine.”

  Sid raised his head quickly and peeked at the nose. Then more quickly he dropped his head again, biting down harder on his lip, causing himself mild pain. Couldn’t they all
see it? Couldn’t everybody see it? Why weren’t they laughing?

  Somebody was.

  Sid heard the sound at the same time Rabbi Kornbluth did. The rabbi had just said “In your faces I can see Joel Turk. Your eyes tell me everything. They tell me ...” when he stopped, hearing the laughter. “They tell me that ...” The laughter lingered. “That he was a fine boy,” Rabbi Kornbluth said. “I mean man. A fine man.”

  Sid stared at his laughing son.

  “The finest of men ...”

  The boy’s laughter rang.

  “A man who loved his fellows and his God. A man who laughed all ... loved all living things ...”

  Sid looked at Esther, who was staring at the boy.

  Sid looked away.

  “A man who treated all men as equals, a man who felt superior to no one, inferior to nothing. A man ...”

  The boy could not stop laughing.

  Rabbi Kornbluth took out a large white handkerchief and mopped his forehead.

  Esther inhaled sharply, her eyes shut tight, her fingers suddenly digging at her temples.

  “A man worthy of the name man. And now he is dead ...”

  Louder laughter.

  “That is why we are here, because he is dead,” Rabbi Kornbluth said, his voice rising.

  Esther was gasping now, her face very pale.

  “But he is not dead!” Rabbi Kornbluth raised his right hand high. “In your eyes I can see he lives on and so I say this to you: Joel Turk is alive! The Rim Greaper will not have him!” Rabbi Kornbluth wiped his forehead vigorously. “Grim Reaper. The Grim Reaper will not have him ...” He glared at the boy, who, helpless, could only laugh and shake his head.

  Sid put his arm around Esther, listening as the rabbi droned on. She pressed her knuckles against her eyes, her head throbbing relentlessly. Rabbi Kornbluth switched back into Hebrew and Sid sighed with relief, feeling the end approaching. Then the rabbi was done. He walked over to Esther, said something and left the room. The organ music grew louder. Quietly the people filed out. When most of them were gone, Sid leaped up and ran to the boy, grabbing him by the arms, dragging him to his feet. “How could you laugh?” Sid said. “How?”