The Credit Draper

by J David Simons

  “See if you can guess.”

  “I’m not in the mood.”

  “All right then. Judith Finkelstein.”

  “Ah. Judith Finkelstein.” Avram remembered her from Hebrew classes. A short, timid creature with just a hint of a moustache over thick lips. Lips that seemed permanently curled up in a distaste for something. A distaste for what she was about to eat, for what she was about to hear, for what she was about to touch. But obviously not a distaste for Solly.

  “She’s blossomed,” Solly added.

  “I’ll look forward to seeing her then.”

  “I’ll invite you to the wedding. It’ll be a grand affair. At the Grand Hotel.”

  “I’ll drink to that.” Avram chased down the ale with a nip of the local blend that burned his throat with the coarseness. “Old friends.”

  “Lest they should be forgot.” Solly tossed back his whisky. “And how is the clothing business?”

  “Slack. With weather like this, waterproofs are not the first thing on people’s minds. But I cannot complain. Things have moved fast the last few years. Faster than I dared expect when we started up.”

  “You were always good with figures. I would have had you for my betting business if you’d stuck around. And what about the football?”

  “I used to play for Argyll Thistle for a few years after the war. But I don’t play any more.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. You always had a talent.”

  “No time for it, really.”

  “I see.” Solly scrunched out his cigarette in an ashtray the size of an automobile hubcap, immediately lit up another. No fancy rings this time. Just an ordinary cloud of smoke breathed out on a heavy sigh. “I was there, you know.”

  “Where?”

  “In Oban. For the match against Celtic.”

  “You were there? Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

  Solly shrugged. “You’re not going to like this, Avram. But you see, the business with Stein was all my idea.”

  “What? The betting?”

  “Aye, the betting. I knew your Uncle Mendel was in trouble. He owed me a bundle and he was intae Jacob Stein and a few nasty types for a hell of a lot more. The Celtic match was a godsend. Punters are always looking for a bit of excitement away from the usual win, lose or draw bets on the football. So I thought, why not a punt on a goal against Celtic? No Highland League team had put one past them in the history of the Cup. I sold the idea to Stein. Told him you played for the Thistle and with Celtic not knowing a thing about you, I thought a goal against was a useful tip. I think Stein got three-to-one for it around the town. I knew he might get his wee hard man Dodds to lean on you a bit. Use your uncle as bait to secure his investment. But I thought you could handle it. Especially if it got your uncle off the hook.”

  “You didn’t count on Begg evening out the odds, did you?”

  “I’m sorry about that. Best laid schemes, as Rabbie Burns would say.”

  Begg blabbing his big mouth off to Willie Maley meant Avram was marked tight right from the off, tighter even than the time Ginger Dodds tailed him. Fergus Connelly was the Celtic right-back that day, Scottish international with around sixteen caps. A lumbering lump of a player with feet that looked as if they’d been launched down a Clydeside slipway. But what Big Fergie lost on grace, he made up in knowing what to expect from his opponent. Whichever way Avram tried to twist and turn the Celtic defender, Big Fergie had him covered close with a leg outstretched as thick as a caber to take the ball away. The goals were going in fast the other end with Bobby Logan the goalie missing the ball like he used to miss German sniper bullets. It was eight-nil to the Celtic at half-time, Avram only seeing the ball a couple of times in the first forty-five minutes with Big Fergie taking care of him nice and easy on both occasions. Ginger Dodds was fuming at the break, his lips all wound up tight, mouthing obscenities. And Begg, poking his good eye at him as if he were wagging a finger. “You’re letting me down again, Jew boy. You’re letting me down.”

  The second half wasn’t much better, except that the Celts eased off slightly, what with an Old Firm game the following week, so the score steadied at twelve-nil with about the same number of minutes to go. It was then that the ball finally came to Avram, landing snug on his instep like it deserved to be there, just as it had that very first time on a cobbled street right around the corner from where they sat now when Solly had called on him to play. This time he managed to drag the ball past Big Fergie’s lunge and he was off on a run. It was a blessed few moments when all of his senses sharpened to a fineness, so that even now, sitting in this Glasgow pub, he could hear the noise from the crowd all swirled up in that valley, Fergie breathing heavy behind him. He jinked between another two Celtic players, dribbled into the penalty area. But the ball had skipped just that little bit too far ahead of him. Fergie was back on top of him and he knew the full-back’s tackle would be good. That was when he made his decision. Not many could have seen it and no-one clearly if they had. He was surrounded by players when it happened. And even Fergie seemed unsure if he had taken him clean or not. But the referee blew his whistle. Penalty.

  As Avram lay breathless on the turf, he thought he had got off easy, marking off his successes in his head – duty done for Uncle Mendel, money for a business, hopefully a trial for Celtic. After all, what was one goal against Celtic’s twelve? Hardly a dent in their pride, never mind the scoreline. But he sensed a figure hovering, blotting out the winter sunlight in a stoop over him.

  “That wasnae right, son,” was all Patsy said. “That wasnae right.”

  At the end of the game, a few of the Celtic players came over to shake his hand, even Fergus who had made the tackle, but Patsy Gallacher cut him off dead, turned his back, walked away from his approach. It was like a knife going into Avram’s gut, twisted deep, almost doubling him over from the pain of it. He never heard from Begg or any other Celtic scout again, never told Uncle Mendel what had happened. That goal was the one glorious moment for the Argyll Thistle and he wouldn’t have been able to tell anyone any different and no-one would have listened even if he had. Never once did he hear a suggestion he had taken a dive. The Oban Gazette, its motto of Only the Truth and Nothing But writ proud above its banner, recorded the moment:

  Then with twelve minutes to go, Thistle inside-forward Escovitz set off on a mazy run to match the best of anything produced by Celtic legend Patrick Gallacher. He dribbled past three players but was fouled in the area by Scottish international, Fergus Connelly. Thistle captain Archie Campbell scored with the resultant penalty kick. Twelve-one to Celtic.

  He kept the clipping in his wallet. He had an inkling to show it to Solly now, but then thought better to keep it hidden away.

  “I was right behind the Celtic goal,” Solly said. “It was a brilliant run ye did.”

  “What about the tackle?”

  “Penalty was the shout. And penalty was what they got.”

  “But what did you think?”

  “I’m a practical man, Avram. I know you used to worry yourself sick with all that ‘God is watching me’ stuff. But sometimes you just have to do what’s best for everyone. Even if it’s not always the right thing to do.”

  “I never got my trial for Celtic. Patsy put the kibosh on that, I’m sure of it.”

  “Aye, but you put your Uncle Mendel before yourself. That’s got to count for something.”

  Forty-nine

  THERE HAD ONLY BEEN A COUPLE OF DRINKS, three at most, but Avram found it hard to focus properly on the stained-glass panel framed in the centre of the doorway. Strange, that in all his years of coming and going, he had never really paid the design much attention before. Perhaps it was because of the dull light in the close that the panel remained unappreciated. The image was of a bird in flight, its wings raised stiff to the vertical, set against a background of branches and berries. There was a border of slim rectangles in vague shades of pale yellows and greens. One of the rectangles had been broken and replace
d by a segment of clear glass. He grasped the brass knocker, rapped hard, the sound of his arrival echoing up the stairwell. He waited. He was about to knock again when he heard movement and voices behind the door. A shadow behind the stained-glass panel. He wiped his feet on the mat. The door opened.

  The young man before him stood tall. The dark circles of sorrow around the eyes had disappeared to reveal a shining brightness, the face was filled out and there was a stain of colour to the cheeks. But there remained one testament to the moroseness that had overwhelmed this boy Avram used to think of as a lamed vav, as one of the thirty-six righteous men placed on this earth to bear the overwhelming burden of suffering. Nathan’s hair was completely white.

  “You used to tell me you stole my words,” Nathan said. “Now it seems I’ve stolen yours.”

  “I just didn’t …”

  “It’s all right, Avram. It’s the hair, I know. Don’t worry, I’m used to it. Come on in. We’ve been expecting you.”

  He let Nathan take his case and lead him into the hallway as his eyes adjusted to the dimness. Madame Kahn was there – thinner, smaller, greyer. Shrinking as Nathan had grown. She wore a Paisley-patterned apron, her hands lightly dusted with flour.

  “Avram.” She leaned forward, pecked each of his cheeks. Her lips felt cold and she smelled of lavender. But underneath her familiar scent, a powdered staleness lingered over her skin. “You’re late. And you’ve been drinking,” she said.

  “I’m sorry. I met Solly. We had a couple of drinks.”

  “Martha, Martha, Martha.” Papa Kahn emerged out of his study, hobbling on a cane. “He hasn’t even got both feet through the doorway and you’re telling him off.”

  Avram noticed the man’s bloodshot eyes, the skin a yellowish vellum, the backs of the hands brown-spotted. No longer a man of contrasts, of blacks and whites, but of sickly pastels. “Papa Kahn. Are you well?”

  “As well as can be expected.”

  “He should be in his bed,” Madame Kahn said. “It is the time for his nap. He should be lying down. Not standing around in freezing hallways.”

  Papa Kahn shook his head, pointed with his stick to the front room. “Go. Go in there. So we can see you properly.”

  The room was exactly the same as when Avram had left, each item of furniture remaining anchored to its chosen spot. He cleared his throat.

  “Is Celia home?” he asked.

  “How are we supposed to know?” Madame Kahn said. “She comes and goes as she pleases. She treats this place like a bed and breakfast. Kahn’s Bed and Breakfast. I should charge her. Bed and board.”

  “Martha,” Papa Kahn said firmly.

  “Celia has her work to do,” Nathan said. “She will be here soon.”

  “Bah. You call what she does work?” Madame Kahn snapped. “Bed and board she should pay. And why not?”

  Nathan turned away from his mother. “Celia is very involved in politics. Not just with the suffragettes, but the socialists as well. There are meetings. Many meetings. They go on until very late. Usually on the other side of the city. It is safer for her to stay there than to try and come home in the dark. This is what mother means.”

  “A father should stop a daughter doing such things,” Madame Kahn muttered.

  Papa Kahn ignored her. “Let me have a look at you,” he said. “You have grown into a young man. Don’t you think so, Martha? A young mensch.”

  “A mensch? I don’t think so. A young mensch doesn’t drink in the afternoon. A shiekerer, maybe.”

  “I only had a couple of drinks,” Avram protested.

  “And you know from whom he gets such habits?” Papa Kahn said to his wife.

  Madame Kahn folded her arms high on her chest. “I have better things to do than listen to insults against my brother. There are cakes to bake.” And she left the room.

  Papa Kahn shrugged. “A schnapps. That’s what I need. Not the naps but the schnapps, eh? Now where is that decanter?” He looked around the room on the swivel of his cane before settling himself down in a lean against the piano stool. “I still see your mother in you, Avram. I can still see her. In the eyes and forehead. A beautiful woman she was. But there is no news of her. Nothing. After all these years. We would have told you, of course. Even though you stay away, we would communicate such things. And your teeth? How are your teeth?”

  Avram smiled for the first time since his arrival. “My teeth are fine.”

  “See. What did I tell you? Bicarbonate of soda. It’s good you listen to such an old man.”

  “I listened to you about my teeth. But I’m not listening to you calling yourself an old man.” Yet he saw the frailty in Papa Kahn. Not just the physical weakness, but the loss of confidence in the dart of the eyes, their unwillingness to focus, their knowing that the body had let him down once already and would inevitably do so again.

  “The body is weak, Avram. But the mind is still sharp, eh?” He tapped at his temple. “Numbers. I’m still good with numbers. Go on. Test me. Fractions. Square roots. Go on. The mind is still sharp, I tell you. Sharp like a razor.”

  Nathan came over, took his father by the arm. “Come, Papa. It is time for you to rest. You are becoming over-agitated. A nap before shul, Papa. Time to lie down.”

  “What I need is a schnapps. Where is that decanter?”

  “Come, Papa,” Nathan quietly insisted. “Come with me. Time for the naps. Not the schnapps.”

  Avram pulled back the net curtains, hauled open a window, loosened his tie, brought a chair up close to the cool breeze. He sat down, only to stand up again, longing for another drink, a cigarette, anything to stop the fidget in his hands. He noticed the newly installed telephone shiny-black on a table in the corner, thought to call Megan at the Great Northern. He had the number somewhere in one of his pockets. Instead, he lifted up the piano lid, randomly picked out two adjacent keys from the ivory mass. Back and forward with the same notes, trying to find a rhythm to calm himself. Nathan came back into the room.

  “It certainly isn’t Mozart.”

  “Tell me what is going on here. Are they all right?”

  “Not really. Mother has never got over the camps. And Papa has never really recovered from his illness. They both live in constant fear. Mother of recapture, Papa of death. Mother thinks she sees spies everywhere. For Papa, the slightest pain signifies a heart attack. They are going quite mad. And taking it out on each other, of course.”

  “How can you stand it?”

  Nathan shrugged. “I just laugh.”

  “You just laugh?”

  “What else can I do? You saw what happened to me before. There is so much suffering in the world. Laughter is the only response, don’t you think? Otherwise, we would die from the pain.”

  Avram slowly brought down the piano lid. A cushioned thud where the baize kissed baize. He couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed. Really laughed. Out of pure joy. “You know, I used to think you were a lamed vav.”

  Nathan chuckled. “The legend of the thirty-six just men.”

  “I envied you for that.”

  “Why? Being chosen by God to carry the burden of the world’s suffering is hardly something to envy.”

  “I just thought it must be wonderful to be able to feel things so strongly. I used to think I stole your words. Sometimes I thought you stole my feelings.”

  “Nobody could steal your feelings, Avram. You have them locked away too tight.”

  Everyone was getting dressed for shul, Avram was sitting alone in the front room, half-dozing, when suddenly she was there. No time to button up his collar. No time to smooth down his hair. No time to guard against the sudden lurching sensation in his stomach. She was smiling. Breathless. No make-up. A beret perched on her dark curls. Belt twisted loosely and carelessly around a green woollen coat. Her arms stretched around a leather bag crammed full of notebooks and pamphlets. She quickly dumped the bag down on a chair.

  “Do you not have a hug for me?” she asked.

&nbs
p; He stood up, slipped his hands inside her coat, clasped her around her waist. She felt light. Skinny. Not like Megan. When did she become like this? So thin that he felt he could toss her high in the air. Like a bride. He imagined her sitting in bleak tenement rooms with fellow revolutionaries, debating issues, discussing tactics, printing off pamphlets. No time to eat. This Fast would be easy for her.

  Her arms grabbed around his neck and she kissed him on the cheek. On both cheeks.

  “Is that a kiss for a comrade?” he asked.

  “That’s a kiss for someone I’ve missed very much.”

  She pushed away from him, looked him up and down. Confidently. He wondered if there had been lovers.

  “You’ve grown up,” she said.

  “So have you. You look beautiful.” He didn’t mean to be so forthright, but he too felt confident. Revelling in the strength gained from sex with one woman as a defence against another.

  “Thank you.” She danced around him as if he were a model on display. “A brotherly compliment, I assume.”

  “I’m not your brother.”

  “Might as well be.” She dropped down into an armchair, took out a packet of cigarettes from one of her pockets. There was a slight tear in one of her stockings, just above the ankle. “Smoke?”

  “They let you?”

  “They can’t stop me.” She picked up a chunky solid-silver lighter usually reserved for guests. She flicked at the lever several times but the fuel had run dry. “Damn,” she said, rummaging again in her coat pockets until she found a box of matches. “Why are you staring?”

  “You’ve changed.”

  “You mean I smoke and swear.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe you are wondering what happened to darling little Celia?”

  She puffed several times on her cigarette. Some ash dropped on to her coat, which she quickly swept aside.

  “Not really,” he said. “You always were different.”

  “Not ‘always’, surely.”