The Baker

by Paul Hond

  “Move on?” said Donna.

  “Do something else, I guess,” Ben said, displaying his palms to illustrate the limits of his office, thinking too that if the conversation ever got back to Nelson, it would appear that Ben was acting on his behalf. “It was his decision.” But the moment he said this, he realized it might look as though he were protecting himself, lying to Donna to save himself from charges of unfairness. There could be, in Nelson’s eyes, no worse offense.

  “Are you sure he didn’t do something?” said Donna. “Get himself into trouble?”

  Ben hesitated: was she offering him a way out, he wondered; was she prepared to disbelieve Nelson and side with him? Ben cautioned himself to be careful; maybe Donna knew more than she was letting on.

  “Now I know you two are friends,” Donna said, “but I want you to tell me honest. He got himself fired, didn’t he.”

  Ben scratched his head, feigning dilemma.

  “Tell me what he did,” said Donna.

  Ben knew he would have to come clean—Donna was watching him closely—but he refused to concede any wrongdoing. “Nelson didn’t see eye-to-eye with some people,” he said, fighting to keep an even voice, “and when I offered him a different position where he wouldn’t have to deal with them, he decided he’d rather not work here.”

  Donna nodded. “I think I see now.”

  Ben looked down at the desktop. What did she think she saw?

  “Let me ask you one thing,” said Donna. “Does your father know about this?”

  “Yes,” Ben said, without hesitation, wanting her to think that the decision was sanctioned from above while still retaining for himself some semblance of rule. “We discussed it.”

  “He must have done something awful bad,” said Donna. “Nelson, I mean.”

  Ben glanced up at her: she was looking at him with pleading eyes. Yes, Ben thought: she is my ally. He felt he could tell her everything—about the tension between him and Nelson that was like a heat in the room, about Nelson’s resentment of his power and his own efforts at diplomacy; the incident with the Orthodox customer, the threat against Rattner; everything. But he wouldn’t; he wouldn’t have to. He could tell it all simply by downplaying the situation, by appearing to protect Nelson. “No,” he said. “It wasn’t Nelson’s fault.” He shook his head, sighed. “It was a combination of things.”

  “That’s okay,” said Donna. “I don’t mean to put you in this position. I know you’re his friend.”

  “I wanted him to stay, I really did—”

  “I know you don’t want to talk bad about my child,” said Donna. “I just wanted to make sure I was right.”

  “But he didn’t do anything bad.”

  “Please,” said Donna. “Don’t think I don’t know my own boy. I know he can get an attitude about things. Sometimes he just doesn’t know how to act. Even when he was little, he gave me fits. He was always thinking people were against him. Teachers, classmates. Thought I was against him.” It seemed to Ben that Donna was pleading with him as though he were her equal, someone she could confide in, trust. “It’s those troublemakers he hangs around with, the ones from high school. That’s the problem. Bad influences. They make him think he has to act a certain way.”

  Ben nodded in understanding.

  “That’s why I was so happy when he started bringing you around.” She dug into her handbag. “I’m sorry if he’s caused any trouble.” She came up with a small package wrapped in red paper.

  Ben’s throat went dry.

  Donna fondled the package. “I know it can’t have been much of a Christmas this year,” she said, her rueful tone encompassing the hardships of both families, “but we all have to be strong. I know you will.” She placed the package on the desk and looked down at it.

  Ben took the gift in his hands. “You didn’t have to do this,” he said. He could feel her watching him as he opened the paper with tender, almost sepulchral care, and his heart welled up as he pulled from the nest of paper a pair of blue nylon gloves. “Thanks,” he said. “I needed these.”

  Donna looked worried. “You’re sure they’re okay?”

  “They’re perfect,” said Ben. “I lost my other pair just last week.” That was true. “Thanks.” He set the gloves down on his desk, and was jarred by the sight of them: they were like two hands. Looking up, he saw that Donna still wore a faint expression of uncertainty.

  Ben then realized what this was all about: she was waiting for him to offer to take Nelson back. She’d humbled herself, apologized, accepted the blame on Nelson’s behalf. She’d given a gift.

  Ben wanted to be angry—this was bribery, after all—but he felt too sorry for her. She’d put herself on the line, and deserved at least some kind of hope, even false hope. Ben dared to give it to her. “You know,” he began, and something in his tone caused her to clasp her hands tightly over her bag, “maybe when my father comes back we can all work something out. I mean, if Nelson would be interested.” It was a risky proposition: he was buying time, buying off Nelson’s vengeance, but only for a while. He could never bring himself to submit the matter to Mickey, who’d trusted him to do a good job and not mishandle things.

  Donna seemed to be considering the offer with caution; Ben supposed that she didn’t want to appear too eager. Then she shook her head and said “No.”

  Ben looked at her. Did she mean it? Or did she expect him to insist?

  “What’s done is done,” she said. “Maybe it’s better if we all try to put this behind us.”

  Ben was astonished: it seemed that Donna was genuinely determined to block access to Nelson. Was it pride? Ben’s heart sank. How could he ever appease Nelson without Donna’s help? What could he do to sway her?

  He opened the desk drawer and pulled out Nelson’s last paycheck, which he’d kept for fear that mailing it might seem too coldly bureaucratic, a final insult. But more than that: it was the last card in his hand, the last shred of anything that could give him a sense of being in control. That Nelson had yet to come in to pick it up was a doomful sign to be sure, but to surrender it to the vast uncertain universe of the mails seemed infinitely worse.

  “Here,” Ben said, placing the envelope on the desk. “Before I forget. Nelson’s pay.”

  Donna stared at the envelope.

  “I was going to mail it today,” Ben said, “along with his Christmas bonus, but since you’re here …” He dug into the strongbox and pulled out a roll of twenty-dollar bills. This was rainy day money, on hand for emergencies. Counting it on some evenings, he’d had visions: a new sign for the front window, or a surveillance system from which he could monitor the goings-on in the front while he tapped at his computer. Now, like one calmly administering a painful injection in one’s own arm, he counted out two hundred dollars, placed the money in another envelope and set it next to the paycheck. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his Adam’s apple rising. “But I hope it’ll come in handy.”

  Donna pursed her lips. She held back emotion like a sneeze, letting it detonate silently inside her. Her gloved hand went out and collected the envelopes, but she could not round out the smoothness of the act; the moment was too charged with her need, and in a flash she stuffed the money into her bag, the hand now fumbling spasmodically among tissues and cosmetics. “Thank you very much,” she said. “Thank you very, very much.”

  Ben said, “You’ll make sure he gets it?”

  “Yes,” she said. She was all nervous movement now. She checked her watch, closed her bag. “Thank you very much.”

  Ben felt a sudden agitation, an emptiness. Something had fallen away from him.

  Donna stood up. Ben stood too, but his tongue wouldn’t work; all his words seemed woven into the money that Donna had taken.

  “Please,” he managed to say. “Make sure he gets it.”

  “Okay,” said Donna, heading for the door as though her very next breath depended on it. “You have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.” She then stopped, and wi
thout looking at him, said, “And tell your father I said—hello.”

  “I will,” said Ben. He came out from behind the desk, hoping to gain some kind of assurance—an embrace, a squeeze of the hand, something to tell him that everything would be okay, that the threat of Nelson would fade—but before he could reach for her she was out the door and gone.

  Mickey was sweeping the floor when Dulac lumbered down the steps carrying two boxes of unsold bread.

  “It is typical on Christmas,” he said. He dropped the boxes and kicked them so that they slid one after the other into the wall. “I don’t like to waste, but it is better to bake too much than not enough.” He wore dark pants, a light-blue shirt and a sleeveless navy pullover. “Ça va?” His face was pink from a fresh menthol shave; he was clean, barbered, robustly three dimensional against a flat gray backdrop of stone.

  “Ça va,” said Mickey. “Almost finished.” He held the broom in one hand and began sorting utensils on the worktable.

  Dulac brushed some dust and crumbs from his pullover, in such a way that made Mickey aware of his own nakedness. “Do you have any plans?” said Dulac. “For Christmas?”

  “Not in particular,” said Mickey. He wondered if he might be invited to join Dulac on a train to Lyons, where the baker had an ex-wife and two grown children whom he visited on holidays.

  “You mean,” said Dulac, “that you will stay alone?”

  Mickey shrugged. “I don’t mind.” He smiled.

  “And what about your family?”

  “They’ll be fine,” Mickey said. He began sweeping again.

  Dulac nodded, but he looked uneasy. “And how much longer do you plan to stay?”

  Mickey felt a sting of rejection. Was Dulac asking him to go? But why? Was his work not good enough? “I haven’t planned on anything,” Mickey said.

  “No?” said Dulac. There was frightful moral purpose in his whiskerless cheeks. He squinted. “No plans to return home?”

  Mickey understood. Dulac must be wondering about his home life, his family back in the States; the son who was running the business. But what right did he have to judge? Wasn’t he, Dulac, separated from his children too? Hadn’t he left them to pursue his art?

  As a man who demanded to know everything about what went into his bread, it made perfect sense that his bloodhound nose would now turn its attention on the man who was baking that bread. Dulac believed that meanings traveled through the craftsman’s hands, that a bread contained the soul of the baker. And what sort of soul, he seemed to be asking, was this?

  Mickey looked down at the small hill of flour at his own feet. “I’ll go,” he said, “when you decide it’s time for me to go.”

  “Très bon!”

  Mickey looked up. Dulac was coming toward him, smiling. He slapped Mickey’s bare shoulder and coughed in the ensuing cloud of flour. “Very good!” he said. “Then you will stay. I was afraid you would leave for the holidays and never return.”

  Mickey’s head spun in his effort to adjust to his swiftly changing fortunes. Dulac wanted to keep him after all!

  “I must go,” said Dulac. “I will be gone for three days. You will watch over the shop?”

  “Yes,” said Mickey.

  “You will be okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bon. There is not much you must do. Just make sure the door is locked. We will open in three days. Yes?”

  “Yes,” said Mickey. “Bon voyage.”

  “Merci, et Joyeux Noël.” Dulac bowed.

  Mickey bowed awkwardly. “Same to you.”

  “Au revoir.” Dulac turned and went back upstairs. Mickey was warmed by the man’s good wishes, and even more by his trust. Dulac had faith in him.

  Mickey cleaned the bakery meticulously, so that not a single crumb remained. By the time he was finished it was nightfall; already Dulac would be with his children, sitting down to a rich, gamy dinner.

  Mickey felt the cold edge of an encroaching loneliness. There was no baking to be done, not for days. What else was there to do? How could he remain in the ecstatic rhythm of making, of giving? He felt like a man who has trained and trained for an event, and was now ready—but for what? He looked over at the boxes of bread. Strange: back home he’d think nothing of throwing out a couple of boxes, he did it all the time. But these loaves were living things. Earth the father, fire the mother; he’d arranged the marriage with his hands and then midwifed the babes through long, flaming births. Their heaven resided in the human body: humanity was their kindred element, the idea toward which all dust aspired. Mickey could not abide the thought of his bread rotting in the garbage, never to realize its high purpose. Maybe it was crazy, but he loved these loaves, and felt responsible for their fate.

  He knew just what he must do.

  He went to his room and put on his coat, then returned and grabbed the boxes and carried them round and round up the old stone steps and out the bakery door into the cold, moonless night.

  The streets were empty, silent: the city could have been occupied again, under curfew, or else abandoned, the enemy nearing the gates. But it was only Christmas.

  He walked to the boulevard, eager to find someone, anyone, to whom he could offer one of these aging loaves. But on this night everyone seemed to be shut in with their families. Mickey felt useless, absurd. His hands ached. The bread was suffering in the cold.

  Mickey then got an idea. He set the boxes down and held up his hand, hoping to spot a taxi in the approaching stream of yellow lights, or that a taxi would spot him; and in the next moment, sure enough, a small gray taxicab veered from the flow of traffic and bore down on him, stopping with a screech at the curb. Mickey opened the door and shoved in the boxes, then got in himself. He pulled from his wallet the wrinkled piece of paper on which was written the address of the Hôtel Dakar and handed it to the driver, a bearded African in a tweed jacket. “S’il vous plaît,” Mickey said.

  It was a long drive through the city; at one point Mickey could have sworn they’d doubled back, that the driver, aware that his passenger was a foreigner, an American, was trying to cheat him, though it was possible too that the driver hadn’t much more idea of where he was going than did Mickey, seeing as how the roads seemed to have been laid out by a hundred independent planners, each with their own vendetta against sense. Wide, tree-lined avenues and boulevards radiated like spokes in all directions from various central points marked by monuments and statues, the spokes connected by impossible networks of winding, narrow streets, like so many cobwebs on a wheel. Still, Mickey could not be sure of the driver’s intentions (the fare was running up nicely, he noticed), and so, by way of advising the driver that he was aware of a certain odd circuitousness to their route, remarked that it must be awfully confusing to drive a taxi in Paris; to which the driver replied in hobbling English that in fact these roads represented a great achievement of order: it was, he communicated (Mickey strained to follow him), the work of one man, a supreme architect of the nineteenth century whose job it was to transform a rapidly growing city plagued with inadequate roads, a crumbling sewage system and dilapidated neighborhoods into a clean and coherent place in which to live and conduct business. “He take place of poor people and destroy, make better place,” the driver said. “People very rich want something nice, they don’t want so much factory and things. Paris was become city of two millions, very big. There is how you call, Révolution industrielle. More and more peoples. This man make a project very great. He work for the rich one, but the poor one is benefit too. Everybody has better city.”

  Mickey was awed by the story of this architect—to think, that a single man could be responsible for so enormous, so monstrous a design!—but then his thoughts turned to the men who actually did the work, who’d toiled and sweated and died, like the builders of St. Petersburg, swallowed by swamp. Emi had told him the story, she had been there, it was, she’d said, the most beautiful city in the world. But what of them, Mickey wondered; what of the makers, the builders?
They were forgotten. Mickey closed his eyes for a moment, as if to communicate blessings to all the unsung workers of the world, blessings made all the more poignant by the dawning notion that he, Mickey Lerner, in his own small way, was architect and builder, a master, really, of his own destiny. He looked out the window and watched an entire history, of which he knew nothing, pass before his eyes—cathedrals, palaces, libraries, museums, all housing such historical riches, such momentous bric-à-brac, that a lesser baker might have been overwhelmed, suddenly doubtful of his vocation, the tools and ingredients of whose art were so simple and basic compared to the manifold hammers and saws and wrenches, the hewn stone and tempered steel and wood of the carpenter and the mason. He watched the light of great buildings shimmy on the river, and spotted Nôtre Dame in the distance, a golden, glowing rock. And then the quiet grandeur through which they were driving leveled off, replaced by a kind of low and hungry swarming: hookers, blinking lights, dark, scar-faced men standing in groups on the sidewalk, the smoke of burning lamb filling the air with the perfume of another land, another time. Now Mickey recognized the place: the elevated rails, the tattered blankets of street vendors, the steep, narrow lanes and fish-scented markets of the Africans: the Hôtel Dakar came into sight.

  “Stop,” Mickey said. “I’ll get out here.” He thanked the driver, paid him, then stacked the boxes on his lap and made his way slowly out of the cab. He kicked the door shut and stepped onto the sidewalk, where he placed the boxes side by side, less certain of his plan than he’d been just a minute before. Should he shout like a street vendor? Wait quietly for passersby? He wondered if he might be out of his mind, standing on the street in the cold, but the purity of his impulse assured him. All at once he felt a great surge of love; he wanted nothing more than to give of himself: that was all.

  A group of blacks was approaching from up the hill. Mickey grabbed two loaves from one of the boxes and held them over his head. “Le pain,” he said. The voice was small, tentative; he took a breath and tried again: “Le pain!” The blacks—two men, a woman, a child—were upon him; he thrust out the loaves. “Le pain!” The blacks looked at him, looked at the bread, walked on. Mickey felt a pang of despair. The bread was dying in his reddened hands.