“Fine thank you, Mr. Spratt. And how are you?” Mr. Spratt talks so nice he makes me feel like I’m wearing little white gloves, all prim and proper.
“Dandy.” He sits down beside me on the second from the bottom step, wipes his forehead with a very white handkerchief. The cat comes up and rubs against the dark wool of his pant leg.
“Mr. Spratt, how come you’re wearing your suit on such a hot day?”
Mr. Spratt smiles a big smile. I hardly ever see him smile that big. Mostly his smile is quiet, like he doesn’t want to bother anyone with it. He smiles big, and then the smile stops. “That’s a good question. That’s a question I should ask myself, I guess.” He thinks a minute. “I like this suit.”
“It’s a nice suit.”
“Thank you. But you make me wonder, Princess. It is an awfully hot day for a suit when you’re not going anywhere special.”
We’re quiet for a moment.
“Did you used to work in a bank, Mr. Spratt?”
“No, I didn’t work in a bank, Princess.”
“Where did you work?”
Mr. Spratt takes his time before answering me. “In a big office. I had my own desk, a nice oak desk. And a secretary. There was a big fan on the ceiling that kept me cool. You would have liked that.”
“Oh.” I start to poke at a scab on my knee, then remember that I shouldn’t.
“Did you read that book you borrowed from me about glaciers?”
“I’m about half-way through, Mr. Spratt. There are some big words.”
“Just ask your poppa if there’s anything you don’t understand.”
“Poppa doesn’t always know the big words in English.”
“Well, of course you’re right. But your poppa will know how to look them up.”
“All right.” I start at my knee again, stop. “Mr. Spratt, can I ask you something? Do you ever hear something, like a bad sound?”
Mr. Spratt frowns. “What kind of sound do you mean?”
“I sometimes hear him,” I whisper. “The old guy. Ringing the bell.”
“You mean the knife sharpener, that old fellow? You don’t have to be afraid of him, Princess.”
I shiver. “But sometimes I hear that sound even when he’s not there.”
“When he’s not there?”
“It’s like the sound’s inside me.”
Mr. Spratt smoothes the crease in his trousers, wipes his forehead again. “Sometimes I think we’re more afraid of what’s inside us than what’s outside us, Princess. Or maybe we’re afraid that what’s inside us isn’t strong enough to fight what’s outside us. Maybe that’s why we hear something inside us that scares us. But don’t be afraid of the knife sharpener. He’s just an old man trying to make a living like everybody else. How about I take you to the library tomorrow, if it’s all right with your poppa? We can ask him today.”
“I’d like that a lot, Mr. Spratt.”
“All right then. Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go meet someone.”
“Is that why you’re wearing your suit?”
“Guess so. See you later, Princess.”
Princess. That was what he called me, Mr. Spratt. He always spoke to me as if I deserved some dignity, as though, given a little encouragement, I could think things through. But though he called me Princess, I knew I couldn’t ever be a princess because the world was divided into kings and commoners, bosses and workers, fancy and plain, gentiles and Jews, and I always knew on which side I fell. One person is just as good as another and workers are the best. My family had always been working class: farmers and shopkeepers and tailors, they’d all made an honest living. My mother’s family were miners in the limestone quarries in Odessa, nothing like the bosses, tycoons in shiny top hats who took money from honest people. Nor were they kings and queens shouting off with their heads ! Nor soldiers; they’d never killed anybody, had never done anything bad. Never being able to do anything bad – that was what it meant to be good.
But I couldn’t ever be a princess anyway because I didn’t look like a princess, wasn’t the fairest of them all. I was plain. I didn’t even need to look in the mirror. All I had to do was look at my mother’s face, her scowl when she said, here, comb your hair already. I couldn’t even pretend to be a princess.
Except, when Mr. Spratt talked to me, that was how I felt.
Because of the heat wave, my mother wouldn’t let us outside, not even to run down the street to Levin’s store. She took a clean bedsheet and soaked it in cold water in the tub, then hung the damp, cool cloth against the window to keep the sunlight out. You’re supposed to be afraid of sun-stroke, heat prostration, but I was still afraid of other things: my mother, the artificial arms and legs hanging in the shop window of Zalinsky’s store. The kids told stories about boys who hopped freight trains, about how, when they fell, they’d lose a leg or worse. But it was still my mother who scared me the most.
The air outside on Main Street was thick with smoke. They’d burn smudge fires of lilac branches in oil drums on the street corners to keep away the mosquitoes. The sidewalks were covered with empty sunflower seed shells that crackled when you walked. The trick was to stuff a handful of seeds into your mouth and one by one spit out the shells: look ma, no hands. The hulls crunched under people’s feet, thousands and thousands crunching like the grasshoppers that came in July. Night didn’t cool things any, but people still went out. Evenings were crowded with folks out for a walk, whole families on parade up and down the sidewalks on Main Street. Some even went out Old Country fashion in pyjamas and slippers; nobody said anything about it. Whole families out on the sidewalks, looking for a breeze, looking for a breath. The men would stroke their chins, talking, the way they did when they came out of synagogue. As though they were solving all the world’s problems. The women talked too, one hand on a hip, but the kids stayed restless because it was hot; it was hot right through the night.
Ben wants a nickel for the movies, wants Poppa to ring in No Sale and take out a nickel for him and a nickel for me, but he won’t – for a nickel, you can buy a loaf of bread.
My mother comes in, puts on her apron, tells Avram to have his dinner break. He takes off the tired old apron, puts it on its peg and goes upstairs. Nine-thirty, and the sun still hasn’t set. Light slants in the kitchen windows. My father sits at the table, spreads the newspaper out in front of him. Cashier Robbed in Daring Daylight Holdup: $1,400 Stolen from Coca-Cola Company Clerk. Grace Church sermon on Sunday by the Reverend J. R. Mutchmore: “Can Capitalism Come Back?”
Here’s what he’s looking for, another article about C. R. Cummings’s trip to Soviet Russia. Must be a sharp fellow, this Cummings. He isn’t taken in by all the anti-Soviet propaganda, that nonsense about labour camps, famines. Even in the Winnipeg Tribune sometimes they have to tell the Soviet side of the story. Cummings talked with a real worker there: Here we produce cheaply because we have collectivized production. All the workers are working for themselves and not for employers and thus they have every inducement to keep down costs. It is true that we have a lower standard of living than in other countries, but it is still better now than it was before the Revolution. A planned economy. And here, nothing but waste – farmers pouring milk into ditches to protest that the price is less than the cost. Here they waste everything.
It’s hot in the kitchen. The Grasshopper Armada: The Balance of Nature Must Be Restored. These plagues of grasshoppers, dust storms, drought.
William Spratt comes down the stairs. Dark grey suit, white shirt, black shoes.
“How’re you keeping, Mr. Spratt?”
“Fine, thank you,” he answers, “and yourself?”
“Not so bad.” My father shrugs, raises his eyebrows.
“And the news, Mr. Gershon?”
Avram shakes his head. “No good, no good. I keep thinking it can’t get worse.”
Spratt sighs. “That’s what you’d think. People have to hope.”
Avram looks up at him. “Have
a seat, Mr. Spratt. Have a bite to eat.”
“Thanks, but I’ve got an appointment. Tell Princess I said hello.”
Something about the man’s back as he walks off worries Avram. A man like Spratt out of work – it’s not right that people should be denied an honest day’s work. Anne’s voice rises from downstairs. She’s talking with Spratt. Maybe if business picks up a little Avram can talk her into taking the children to the beach on Sunday, taking the Moonlight Special home. He can manage by himself at the store.
He wants to telephone Joseph at his rooming house but the phone is downstairs and Anne gets upset. It’s weeks since Joseph came by with his new girl. Daisy. Such a lovely child, such a silly name. A name for a flower, not a person. Joseph’s not twenty years old – too young to be thinking about getting married. He’s still struggling to make a living, still hasn’t been able to go back to school. The electrician. He should get an education, a boy like that, with brains. Spending his days pedalling through the city on his bicycle, a ladder attached to one side, tool kit to the other, repairing light fixtures and radios, changing bulbs, for heaven’s sakes, for the ones who are still afraid of electricity. Milk in the ditches and society types are still paying $189.00 for a radio-phonograph. It’s right here in the paper – $189.00 for a Victor Radio Phonograph Combination. He’ll call Joseph tomorrow.
That evening Avram is out on the back porch. Spratt comes quietly out. “I’m not disturbing you, Mr. Gershon? Annette’s asleep?”
“Sit yourself down, Mr. Spratt. It’s cooler out here. We were having a little talk but I put her to bed a minute ago.”
Spratt laughs. “She’s quite the conversationalist.”
“She’s shy, usually, Mr. Spratt. But with you she’s a little chatterbox. With strangers she hardly says a word. Family is different. Me she has to ask about everything. Why hasn’t Mrs. Andrychuk come to the store with the new baby. Why won’t Ben let her ride his bicycle. How come Momma wouldn’t let her friend Cassie stay for dinner. She got herself worked up into quite a state, wouldn’t eat her food, because Cassie couldn’t come. Tired her right out.”
“I see Mrs. Gershon has a candle lit,” Spratt says. “Is that for the Sabbath?”
“We don’t light candles on Friday, Mr. Spratt,” Avram tells him.
“I thought it was a Jewish tradition.”
“It is for a lot of families. Annette’s friend Cassie, they light candles every Friday night, say the blessing on them in Hebrew, the whole schlimazel. That one’s a yohrzheit candle, in memory of Mrs. Gershon’s mother’s death. It has to burn all day and all night on the anniversary; you can’t blow it out. Anya puts it in the sink overnight so the house shouldn’t burn down.”
“So you observe this tradition but you don’t observe the Sabbath?”
“We just try to make ourselves comfortable without belief. Call it ‘kitchen Judaism.’”
“Then you have dietary restrictions. I see Mrs. Gershon shops at the kosher butcher.”
“Waldman’s is the best butcher in town. We wouldn’t eat pork chops, but we don’t keep kosher, not according to anyone who’s orthodox, that’s for sure! All kinds of different Jews in this town, Mr. Spratt. And one half isn’t talking to the other half because of it!” They laugh.
“I should check on Annette in a minute or so. I was telling her a story. Tell me a story. Every night I have to tell for her a story. Tell me about the Old Country, she says. And I have to tell her again about how my cousin was struck by lightning and for three days we had him buried in the ground till he came round. And I have to tell her again how after my father died they found for me a job with a shopkeeper, how I slept under the counter in the store . . . Everything for her is a story. . . ”
“– I wonder sometimes what stories they’ll tell about these times . . .”
Avram runs a hand over his bald pate. “Are you having any luck, Mr. Spratt?” he asks.
Spratt swallows. “I don’t know if luck has anything to do with it, Mr. Gershon.”
“You’re right, Mr. Spratt. It’s the government. Those people in Ottawa, the big shots, they don’t care about the ordinary working man. And the bosses, the bosses only care about their profits . . .”
“You think so?”
“The breadlines, the soup kitchens – it’s the govern-ment’s fault. And the capitalists.”
“Sometimes I think . . . I think it’s just a question of character. A question of giving up or not giving up . . .”
“You’ve got a point there, Mr. Spratt. We have to keep trying, right?”
“I suppose we do.”
“A bit cooler now that the sun’s gone down, d’you think?”
“Not much of a breeze. I think I’ll try a stroll down Main Street.”
“Goodnight, Mr. Spratt.”
“Goodnight, Mr. Gershon.”
It’s too hot to sleep, though Anne is fast asleep in her bed, exhausted. The bedroom is tense with heat. Avram tries not to toss and turn too much. It must be three o’clock in the morning when he hears someone walking quietly up the stairs. “Spratt?” he whispers.
“It’s all right,” Spratt whispers back. “It’s just me.” His footsteps go softly up to the third floor.
Next morning Avram’s at the counter, wrapping up a package of corned beef for Mrs. Andrychuk. A man not from Selkirk Avenue walks into the delicatessen.
“A Mr. Spratt live here?” he asks, a powerful man, a wrestler’s shoulders, the French accent strong in this throat: St. Boniface.
“Upstairs,” Avram says. “Third floor.”
“I leave this for him,” the man answers, putting a crumpled suit jacket, dark grey, on the counter, and walking out.
Avram takes the jacket upstairs. “Mr. Spratt,” he calls softly. “Mr. Spratt? A man left this for you.”
The room is dark, but Avram sees a figure on the bed. The heat is already pushing down on the building, the third floor unbearable. Spratt seems to take a deep breath, then sits up as though the whole weight of the heat, the day, bore down on him. He gets up, walks to the door in shirt sleeves, in stocking feet. The first time Avram has seen him without the dark grey suit jacket, black shoes.
“Thank you, Mr. Gershon. I’m sorry to trouble you.”
Avram hands him the jacket, doesn’t leave.
He looks at Avram, and smiles, a thin smile. “I must have left it on shore. I went for a swim.” He smiles again.
Andrychuk comes in. Avram looks up, smiles quietly. They must owe him close to $40.00.
“Mr. Andrychuk, how are you?”
“Mr. Gershon, I’ve been working two weeks now in Eaton’s warehouse.”
“That’s good to hear, Mr. Andrychuk. It was three months you were looking, no?”
“Almost four. This is permanent. I got paid today. I’d like to settle something on my account.”
“There’s no hurry. Your credit is good.”
“Please, Mr. Gershon.” He puts two five-dollar bills down on the counter. Avram gets out the ledger. Andrychuk settles the cap on his head, adjusts his trousers.
“Can I get you anything?”
“The wife’ll be in later in the week.”
“Well, this is good news. It’s good to hear good news.”
“Mr. Gershon.” The bell above the door jangles as he leaves.
Avram puts the two fives into the till. Almost everyone is paying on credit; business is thin. It’s too hot to move. He can hear the children’s voices upstairs in the bedroom, arguing and playing. They have to stay indoors. Anne won’t let them outside in the heat. Today he will telephone Joseph. He won’t let it wait any longer. Avram hears Spratt’s gentle tones. The man has such patience for children. . . Maybe Ben can take everyone to Pritchard Pool. It’ll be cooler beside the water. Such a shame Spratt doesn’t have his own family, children.
Avram makes himself a salami sandwich, slices the rye thick. Heaps coleslaw into an oval dish. He hates to get the bread soggy with dressing. For des
sert he’ll have a taste of Anne’s raspberry cordial. Nothing like it. He sits himself down on the red stool and opens the paper out on the counter, sets the funnies aside for the children. Ben loves Buck Rogers. Two Dead, Scores Hurt in Political Riots in Berlin. Chinese Dies of Injuries in Traffic Mishap. Man Is Rescued After Jumping Into River.
William Spratt, 390 Main Street, jumped from the Provencher Bridge. He was seen to strip off his coat and then jump by two bystanders who paddled out to save him. It was only after a struggle that they succeeded in bringing him to shore. Spratt was taken to the General Hospital by police ambulance.
Avram sets the paper down, runs back up both sets of stairs like a much younger man. “Spratt?” he calls. “Mr. Spratt?” The children are playing on the stairs, but he runs right past.
William Spratt is bent over a piece of paper, creasing it into intricate folds. Somehow, his suit jacket has been pressed. Dark grey suit, white shirt, black shoes. Spratt looks up, shows Avram a little paper object folded like a sailor hat bent double.
“Annette asked me to make her and little Cassie one of these paper fortune tellers, Mr. Gershon.” He slips his fingers into the folds, flips it idly back and forth.
“Thank you, Mr. Spratt; I’ll give it to them. Mr. Spratt, maybe you would like to join us for dinner?” He’s trying to look William Spratt in the eye, but Spratt’s bent over another sheet of paper.
“Thank you,” he says, head down, “but I’ve already got an invitation.”
Avram jams his fists in his pockets, looks down at his shoes and then up again. “Are you sure?”
Spratt looks up from the paper, looks directly into Avram’s face.
“Thank you so much. Perhaps tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow would be fine.”
Avram stands in the doorway for a minute, then goes downstairs.
The next day Spratt is gone.
The Knife Sharpener's Bell Page 4
