“It’s good that you came!” Mr. Honiger cut her short. “A wonderful opportunity to see the flat we bought here. Nu, so we achieved something in the end. If we’d stayed in Israel, who knows . . . ” He looked a little pityingly at Marek Harari and returned the checkered cap to its proper position on his head.
Marek Harari looked down at the pavement, and the skin of his neck tightened. “I don’t know how we’ll go back to everyday life after this,” he said, and his chin reached out to the ocean, distant at the bottom of the bluff. “It won’t be easy. No, it won’t be easy.”
And Mrs. Honiger pursed her lips in annoyance and made no more efforts to cheer him up.
Lusia was tired of running back and forth, first from the hotel to the café, and now from the café to the restaurant. She tightened her grip on the purse beneath her bosom, dug her heels heavily into the pavement, and made an effort not to lag behind in the climb up the hill. Monyek smiled wryly, perhaps because of the fast pace which was quickening his breathing, and perhaps as a result of the debate taking place inside him. “It’s all coincidence,” he announced to Lusia, as if he were making a confession, “Why we landed here instead of somewhere else.” He fumbled with his tie, and the square signet ring on his finger wandered to and fro. “In the beginning we wanted to get established, and afterward the children were already used to it.”
“Yes, yes.” Lusia swung her arms heavily and concentrated on the effort of walking.
“That’s the way it is,” continued Monyek. “A person doesn’t always end up where he wants to.” Lusia shrugged her shoulders and tightened her hold on her purse.
“If we start thinking about what we really wanted . . . ” said Monyek, and groaned laughingly. After a moment he made a couple of bobbing movements with his head as a sign of cheerfulness, tucked his hand into Lusia’s elbow, and said, “So what? We’ve still got a few good years in front of us, eh?”
Lusia’s broad shoes beat the pavement heavily and she said, “As long as we’ve got our health. That’s the most important thing.” And she shifted her purse to her other hand.
The people strolling along the esplanade turned their heads to gaze after the cavalcade advancing between the calm oceanside villas and the bright signs of the delicatessen shops. At their head, the coconut trees emblazoned on Hirshel Feingold’s shirt waved frantically to and fro. After them dragged the limping Henrietta, with Mr. Zucker bursting forward coaxingly. Bringing up the rear in sudden spurts were Hella Honiger’s pinkness, Gusta Harari’s little face, and Lusia Taft’s stubborness.
When they reached the top of the bluff, next to the balcony of the Map of the World Observatory and the mast sticking out of it, Henrietta suddenly stopped. The cavalcade climbing behind her almost bumped into her like the ragged tail of a carnival dragon. “I can’t go on!” she said firmly.
Hirshel, several paces ahead, came back at a run and kept on jumping from one foot to the other as if the sudden halt had not interrupted his run at all.
“I can’t run any more!” Henrietta flung at him.Then she pulled her hand from Mr. Zucker’s arm and dragged herself to the stone parapet of the esplanade. She leaned against the parapet and scanned the beach anxiously.
The unexpected halt cast the Hararis into confusion, and they initiated feverish consultations with the Honigers about the amount of time left before they had to catch their train.
Monyek and Lusia stood where they were, as if waiting for instructions.
From the other side of the bluff the German tourist group advanced on the observatory, and the echo of their laughter and loud voices rose in the street.
“I think we’ll have to go,” announced Marek Harari apologetically, pointing to the watch peeping out of his sleeve.
Gusta chimed in like an echo, “Otherwise we’ll be late.”
On the balcony of the observatory the war veterans crowded. They pushed toward the shell-shaped balustrade in order to examine the old Map of the World compass carved into the stone with its arrows and its famous pictures of towns. Peals of laughter accompanied their exultant shouts: “Hong Kong! New York! Berlin! Ja, ja, Berlin! Auch Düsseldorf!”
Hirshel Feingold skipped across the space between him and the Hararis and the coconut trees were uprooted in the storm. He shook the Hararis’ hands rapidly. “Bon voyage! Bon voyage!” he cried, slapping Marek Harari on the arm. He capered up and down and announced, “I’m going on to tell them to expect us at the restaurant.” He waved at the little group with a chubby hand, crying firmly to the Honigers, “You’ll see the Hararis to the train and join us immediately, eh?” And, turning his head, he charged toward the observatory, where the veteran warriors were at that very moment emerging, accompanied by their wives. Hirshel waved the folded newspaper tucked beneath his arm at them in passing, as if to say, Yes, yes, that’s me! And his short, colorful figure disappeared into the dense stream of tourists.
Gusta and Marek Harari made haste to make their farewells to Henrietta, and after them the Honigers, too, took their leave.
“I hope that nothing has happened to Arlette,” Henrietta stared distractedly.
“Please, Mrs. Feingold,” pleaded Mr. Zucker, in a louder voice than usual, in order to make his words heard above the vociferous conversations eddying around them like a current flowing past some small obstacle in its way.
“Don’t forget to call,” Lusia Taft thrust herself forward in the direction of the Hararis.
“The minute we arrive!” said Gusta, tapping her purse in response.
Monyek approached to say goodbye, but made place for Mr. Zucker who ran up to shake hands, bowing and making his brown hat bob up and down.
“Nu, good.” Mr. Harari shook hands with Monyek Heller and Lusia Taft, who was standing on his right.
A moment of confusion ensued as the Hararis, ready to leave, were prevented from doing so by the organized group of German tourists blocking their way.
“Good luck for the future,” said Gusta Harari in the meantime, and she and her husband nodded their heads in the direction of Monyek Heller and Lusia Taft.
Hella Honiger crossed the road with a confident air. Staszek hurried after her, calling out to the Hararis to follow them down the road disappearing between the buildings of the little oceanside town.
The esplanade emptied of the group of Germans, who started down the bluff in the direction of the row of cafés, and Hirshel, on the other side, had long ago been swallowed up behind the observatory. Mr. Zucker was unable to persuade Henrietta to continue walking to the restaurant, despite all his calming efforts and the brown hat nodding. He left her where she was, collapsing against the stone parapet, and stationed himself a couple of paces away like a bodyguard. His face was turned half to the esplanade and half to the ocean as if he were announcing a time-out.
Monyek Heller linked his arm in Lusia Taft’s and took a few slow steps up the hill with her. Next to the observatory balcony he said, “Nu, in the meantime why don’t we . . . ” and he pointed to the two steps.
“Really, the beach is so big,” said Lusia, clattering her shoes on the steps and approaching the balustrade.
“Yes,” said Monyek.
Lusia leaned her elbows on the carved stone balustrade, between the miniature etching of the churches in Stockholm and the etching of Africans bathing in the sea in Cape Town. Monyek too rested his hand on the balustrade and read at random: “Shanghai.”
“Tarnów we won’t find here, and Tel Aviv didn’t exist when they built the observatory,” he said, and laughed lightly.
Lusia contemplated the mist covering the beach and the bay. Monyek fingered his signet ring limply, and after a moment he placed his hand over Lusia’s between a picture of Brussels and one of Amsterdam.
“Yes,” he said, as if continuing, “The main thing is that we’re here.” And without waiting for an answer he added, “That’s already a miracle.”
Lusia nodded her head mechanically. “Yes, yes.”
And she tu
rned her head from the beach to the street. For a moment, she saw the regulars of La Promenade scattering to the four points of the compass—Hirshel Feingold bouncing like a colored ball where the arrow pointed in the direction of Moscow; the Honigers and the Hararis disappearing into the shadows of the street between the old hotels in the direction of Madagascar; Mr. Zucker standing guard on the latitude of São Paulo; and Henrietta frozen next to the parapet, her face turning toward some unknown point in the distance, a mask of anxiety.
“We can begin again too. Why not?” said Monyek. The words came out of his mouth at first with energy and in the end with bewilderment.
“Yes, yes.” Lusia went on nodding her head, without remembering exactly what it was she was agreeing to.
Once more Monyek tucked his arm in hers and they descended the two steps from the observatory to the esplanade. And they set out again. Monyek Heller lifted his chin. Lusia Taft’s heavy shoes clattered. Dutifully she breathed in the healthful air of the oceanside town.
PART II
One hundred million old francs, not bad, not bad! Good, good—Hirshel Feingold stampeded down the esplanade, and the pale, milky light bounced the reflection of the beach and the strings of brightly colored pennants on his green-lensed glasses. His forehead shone, and a little star of mirrored sunlight shimmered on his bald head. After bursting through the knot of German-speaking tourists, he took a large handkerchief out of the pocket of his Bermudas and with broad, swirling movements of his chubby hand passed it over his forehead, his cheeks, and down to the depths of his chest, between the open flaps of his shirt with its pattern of coconut trees.
One hundred million old francs, not bad at all. Yes, of course, I’ll buy the Madonna, Italian quattrocento. I’ll buy it ... Ahh ... Ahh ... of course they’ll open the gallery for me on a Sunday, for a hundred million they’ll open anything. It fetched a high price in the public auction in Cologne. Why not? Let Arlette have something else to inherit. Why not. Oy, shit, almost one o’clock. I didn’t remember to tell them to get the Chateau-Lafite ready at the hotel. It’s not worth a thing without Chateau-Lafite!
The rapid gait set Hirshel’s face in motion. His cheeks quivered like soft bags and only the muttering which pursed his lips prevented them too from joining in the quivering of his cheeks. Again he had to pull out his handkerchief and wipe the sweat from his face. For a moment one side of his lenses caught the elegant houses on the oceanfront, the other side shimmered with the reflection of the bathing cabanas on the beach.
Yes, yes, I have to phone Rio de Janeiro and tell Goldwasser to invest in gold for the moment. Gold’s the safest. Going up nicely, and it’ll definitely go up more. Definitely. Yes, all the money from the sale only in gold. No, out of the question going to Hong Kong and Singapore with the heat they got there. What’s the matter? Mendel can’t manage on his own? No, not with the heat they got there. A bitch, this breathing. A person can’t even take five steps any more without stopping. A bitch. Fisch said he fixed the meeting for the twenty-fourth at the Hotel Repose. Scholarships for children of survivors. I’ll have to be there three days at least. Yes! And put the Hararis’ son down on the scholarship list too. He’s a survivor’s son too, isn’t he? Oy, shit, this breathing. I’ll have to stop after all. It’ll kill me yet. A plague!
Ahh, ahh, the ocean . . . I nearly forgot all about the ocean. Ahh . . . Ahh . . . nu, the air here’s good for sure. You can’t deny it. Maybe I should invest here in the Hotel Royal after all. They said it’s got a garden three-quarters of an acre long. Out of the question to make it kosher. What an idea! Such nonsense . . . How much can something like that bring in today already? How many customers are left already? Ahh . . . they have to get hold of Chateau-Lafite. I have to tell them. How can a person live with such a breath . . . Ahh . . .
Even when he stopped, Hirshel remained balanced on his toes, like a sprinter, and when his legs resumed their running his body gushed forward.
One hundred million old francs, and breaking the bank! Ha . . . really not bad at all. And the article isn’t bad either. With a picture, too. Arlette will have something to brag about. Yes, I left her a copy of the paper. He should definitely invest in gold for the moment, until he gets the license to buy. Fisch should put Goldwasser’s nephew’s name down on the list for the scholarships too. His brother in Israel is married to a Leinkram. Second cousin of the Antwerp Leinkrams in diamonds.Yes, Iziu’s brother. I told him. I told him not to leave the block! Just when Krug’s going past with his wolf-dogs. It was madness, Iziu! I have to tell him not to be in a hurry. And only in gold! I have to get in touch with Goldwasser immediately and tell him. And only safe. Even if we lose something. The main thing is that it should be safe. We can afford safe investments now. Ahh . . . Ahh . . .Yes, yes, yes, not a bad idea at all to buy an oceanfront flat on the boulevard for Arlette,Yes, yes, why not. Let her be comfortable.The way she rides that horse Arlette. Better than her French friends! . . . Putterboitl’s got a flat three buildings away. Also a good investment for the francs from Brussels. Oy, look at that . . . Look . . .
Hirshel turned his head for a moment to stare at a group of youngsters in beachwear. But his run was arrested chiefly by the provocative red color bouncing on the slender behind of one of the girls, who was leaning on the shoulder of a crew-cut youngster whose boots whipped the pavement.
Phew . . . just look at that! Everything she’s got you can see, that little shiksa, Ahh . . . Ahh . . . phew . . . So what, Arlette could also buy herself her own horse. He’d wait for her in the stable. Why not. She doesn’t look any worse than they do. Even better. There’s no difference! Putterboitl’s got a flat just three buildings away. Yes, they’re all gone, the Putterboitls. All five brothers. Except Heshu, hiding by himself. They fixed their flat up not bad. Opposite the ocean. Just three buildings away. As long as Arlette’s happy. Whatever she needs.Yes, yes. Phew . . . this breathing . . . a plague. Ahh . . . They really don’t know how to live, those “Harari”-Bergers. What they look like! A real disgrace. As if they never even got out of the ghetto. Ahh . . . Ahh . . . They probably still eat herring over there . . . Ahh . . . Ahh . . . What do they earn already? Next to nothing . . . A real disgrace . . .
Round the bend, the façade of the Hotel Excelsior came into view, with the string of colored pennants fluttering in front of it. A little driveway led up to the hotel entrance from the esplanade, with trim lawns and flowerbeds spreading out from each side.
They have to get hold of Chateau-Lafite! I don’t want to hear anything else. Nobody should ever say that Hirshel Feingold doesn’t know how to celebrate! Ahh . . .The way I entertained the director from the Jewish Agency. Not even Herman from the J.N.F. in Belgium came close. The whole of the Tour-d’Argent reserved for my guests, and all the wines only from the 1924 vintage! Ahh . . . Ahh . . . Let him invest it in gold, no question about it! I have to phone Rio today. Only in gold . . .
Hirshel squeezed through the cars moving up the hotel drive, ordering them with furious gestures to get out of his way. He charged toward the entrance as if he were racing, his breath coming in gasps, richocheting against the revolving door.
Yes, that Marek Berger, that “Harari.” He was with us in the DP camp. A sad sack then too. No fight in him. No life. I better get Zucker to find out exactly what Berger knows about those surplus iron deals I had with the Germans! He never knew how to live. Why not, she can even buy a horse if she likes. As long as she’s happy. I have to get in touch with Goldwasser right away. By himself he’ll never think of investing in gold now . . .
Good, good, very nice, let them open the door for me! They get paid for it. A mug like a kapo that doorman’s got. Oy! It’s after one already! Just don’t let them make any trouble with the Chateau-Lafite!
“I want there should be bottles of Chateau-Lafite on the table!” Hirshel Feingold burst with a shout into the hotel’s dimly lit restaurant, where a solitary couple was sitting secluded in a decorative niche.
“Chateau
-Lafite, you hear. I want Chateau-Lafite with the meal!” Hirshel went on shouting even after he’d been surrounded by two waiters and the Maitre d’, all trying to appease him with smiles and bobbing heads.
“I’ll pay, I’ll pay, but it must be Chateau-Lafite!”
“It’s already taken care of, Monsieur Feingold,” the Maitre d’ folded himself into an obsequious bow, and after a moment straightened up, patted the sweating coconut trees on Hirshel’s back, and pointed with a flourish to the table:
“Voilà, monsieur! They’re already here. Four bottles from the famous vintage of 1924! It wasn’t easy to find them but we spared no effort. We know . . . ”
The Maitre d’ concluded with raised eyebrows, underscored by a light laugh.
“Fantastic! Fantastic!” Hirshel rapidly pulled an untidy bundle of banknotes out of his trouser pocket and thrust them higgledy-piggledy into the hands of the Maitre d’ and the outstretched hands of the two waiters.
“Fantastic!”
He walked complacently round the table, darting a suspicious glance at the pair of diners, who did not, after all, appear to constitute a possible source of danger. Then he stopped, his broad back slumped for a moment and only his short arms still stirred at the sides of his body as if astonished. The waiters and the Maitre d’ waited in the dim recess next to the table covered by an orange cloth, crystal glasses, and the bayonet-sharp folds of stiff linen napkins. After a moment, all three bowed in embarrassment as a prelude to withdrawal, but at this point Hirshel raised his head again, looked fiercely at the Maitre d’, and cried in a panic:
“My guests are already here, eh? They got here before me in a taxi and they’re waiting in the garden?!”
The two waiters and the Maitre d’ shook their heads in the negative. But Hirshel had already rushed between the restaurant tables, spun the heavy glass door violently round on its axis, and planted himself on the gravel terrace of the hotel garden at the edge of the lawn which stretched all the way down to the sand.
Hold on to the Sun Page 7
