Rich Man, Poor Man

by Irwin Shaw

  Throughout the week he found himself making silent speeches to those imagined, unrelenting faces, speeches in which he defended Denton honorably and well while at the same time charming his judges. None of the speeches he composed seemed, in the end, worthwhile. He would have to go into the board as relaxed as possible, gauge the temper of the room and extemporaneously do the best he could for both Denton and himself. If Calderwood knew what he intended to do …

  By the weekend he was sleeping badly, his dreams lascivious but unsatisfactory, images of Julie dancing naked before a body of water, Gretchen stretched out in a canoe, Mary Jane opening her legs in bed, then sitting up, her breasts bare, her face contorted, accusing him. A ship pulled away from a pier, a girl, her skirts blowing in the wind, smiled at him as he ran desperately down the pier to catch the ship, he was held back by unseen hands, the ship pulled away, open water …

  Sunday morning, with church bells ringing, he decided he couldn’t stay in the house all day, although he had planned to go over a copy of the papers he had given Calderwood and make some corrections and additions that had occurred to him during the week. But his mother was at her worst on Sundays. The bells made her mournful about her lost religion and she was apt to say that if only Rudolph would go with her, she would attend Mass, confess, take Communion. “The fires of hell are waiting for me,” she said over breakfast, “and the church and salvation are only three blocks away.”

  “Some other Sunday, Mom,” Rudolph said. “I’m busy today.”

  “I may be dead and in hell by some other Sunday,” she said.

  “We’ll just have to take that chance,” he said, getting up from the table. He left her weeping.

  It was a cold, clear day, the sun a bright wafer in the pale winter sky. He dressed warmly, in a fleece-lined surplus Air Force jacket, a knitted wool cap, and goggles, and took the motorcycle out of the garage. He hesitated about which direction to take. There was nobody he wanted to see that day, no destination that seemed promising. Leisure, the burden of modern man.

  He got on the motorcycle, started it, hesitated. A car with skis on its roof sped down the street, and he thought, why not, that’s as good a place as any, and followed, the car. He remembered that Larsen, the young man in the ski department, had told him that there was a barn near the bottom of the tow that could be converted into a shop for renting skis on the weekend. Larsen had said that there was a lot of money to be made there. Rudolph felt better as he followed the car with ski rack. He was no longer aimless.

  He was nearly frozen when he got to the slope. The sun, reflected off the snow, dazzled him and he squinted at the brightly colored figures swooping toward him down the hill. Everybody seemed young, vigorous, and having a good time, and the girls, tight pants over trim hips and round buttocks, made lust a healthy outdoor emotion for a Sunday morning.

  He watched, enjoying the spectacle for awhile, then became melancholy. He felt lonely and deprived. He was about to turn away and get his machine and go back to town, when Larsen came skimming down off the hill and made a dashing, abrupt stop in front of him, in a cloud of snow.

  “Hi, Mr. Jordache,” Larsen said. He had two rows of great shining white teeth and he smiled widely. Behind him two girls who had been following him came to a halt.

  “Hello, Larsen,” Rudolph said. “I came out to see that barn you told me about.”

  “Sure thing,” Larsen said. Supple, in one easy movement, he bent over to free himself from his skis. He was bare headed and his longish, fine, blond hair fell over his eyes as he bent over. Looking at him, in his red sweater, with the two girls behind him, Rudolph was sure that Larsen hadn’t dreamt about any boat pulling away from a pier the night before.

  “Hello, Mr. Jordache,” one of the girls said. “I didn’t know you were a skier.”

  He peered at her and she laughed. She was wearing big green-tinted snow goggles that covered most of her small face. She pushed the goggles up over her red-and-blue woolen hat. “I’m in disguise,” she said.

  Now Rudolph recognized her. It was Miss Soames, from the Record Department. Jiggling, plump, blonde, fed by music.

  “Good morning, good morning,” Rudolph said, somehow flustered, noticing how small Miss Soames’s waist was, and how well rounded her thighs and hips. “No, I’m not a skier. I’m a voyeur.”

  Miss Soames laughed. “There’s plenty to voyeur about up here, isn’t there?”

  “Mr. Jordache …” Larsen was out of his skis by now, “may I present my fiancée? Miss Packard.”

  Miss Packard took off her goggles, too, and revealed herself to be as pretty as Miss Soames, and about the same age. “Pleasure,” she said. Fiancée. People were still marrying.

  “Be back in a half hour or so, girls,” Larsen said. “Mr. Jordache and I have some business to transact.” He stuck his skis and poles upright in the snow, as the girls, with a wave of their hands, skied off to the bottom of the lift.

  “They look like awfully good skiers,” Rudolph said as he walked at Larsen’s side back toward the road.

  “Mediocre,” Larsen said carelessly. “But they have other charms.” He laughed, showing the magnificent teeth in the brown face. He made sixty-five dollars a week, Rudolph knew. How could he be so happy on a Sunday morning on sixty-five dollars a week?”

  The barn was about two hundred yards away, and on the road, a big, solid structure, protected from the weather. “All you’d need,” Larsen said, “is a big iron stove and you’d be plenty warm. I bet you could rent a thousand pairs of skis and two to three hundred pairs of boots out of this place a weekend, and then there’re the Christmas and Easter vacations and other holidays. And you could get two college boys to run it for beans. It could be a gold mine. If we don’t do it, somebody else sure as hell will. This is only the second year for this area, but it’s catching on and somebody’s bound to see the opportunity.”

  Rudolph recognized the argument, so much like the one he had used that week on Calderwood, and smiled. In business you sometimes were the pusher and sometimes the pushee. I’m a Sunday pushee, he thought. If we do it, I’ll get Larsen a good hike in salary.

  “Who owns this place?” Rudolph asked.

  “Dunno,” Larsen said. “It’s easy enough to find out.”

  Poor Larsen, Rudolph thought, not made for business. If it had been my idea, I would have had an option to buy it before I said a word to anyone. “There’s a job for you, Larsen,” Rudolph said. “Find out who owns the barn, whether he’ll rent it and for how much, or sell it and for how much. And don’t mention the store. Say you’re thinking of swinging it yourself.”

  “I get it, I get it,” Larsen said, nodding seriously. “Keep ’em from asking too much.”

  “We can try,” Rudolph said. “Let’s get out of here. I’m freezing. Is there a place to get a cup of coffee near here?”

  “It’s just about time for lunch. There’s a place a mile down the road that’s not bad. Why don’t you join me and the girls for lunch, Mr. Jordache?”

  Automatically, Rudolph almost said no. He had never been seen outside the store with any of the employees, except once in awhile with one of the buyers or a head of a department. Then he shivered. He was awfully cold. He had to go in someplace. Dancy, dainty Miss Soames. What harm could it do? “Thanks, Larsen,” he said. “I’d like that very much.”

  They walked back toward the ski tow. Larsen had a plowing, direct, uncomplicated kind of walk, in his heavy ski boots with their rubber bottoms. The soles of Rudolph’s shoes were of leather and the way was icy and Rudolph had to walk delicately, almost mincingly, to keep from slipping. He hoped the girls weren’t watching him.

  The girls were waiting, their skis off, and Miss Soames was saying, “We’re starrrving. Who’s going to nourish the orphans?” even before Larsen had a chance to say anything.

  “Okay, okay, girls,” Larsen said commandingly, “we’re going to feed you. Stop wailing.”

  “Oh, Mr. Jordache,” Miss Soames s
aid, “are you going to dine with us? What an honor.” She dropped her lashes demurely over freckles, the mockery plain.

  “I had an early breakfast,” Rudolph said. Clumsy, he thought bitterly. “I could stand some food and drink.” He turned to Larsen. “I’ll follow you on the machine.”

  “Is that beautiful thing yours, Mr. Jordache?” Miss Soames waved toward where the motorcycle was parked.

  “Yes,” Rudolph said.

  “I yearn for a ride,” Miss Soames said. She had a gushy, cut-up manner of talking, as though confidences were being unwillingly forced from her. “Do you think you could find it in your heart to let me hang on?”

  “It’s pretty cold,” Rudolph said stiffly.

  “I have two pairs of long woolen underwear on,” Miss Soames said. “I guarantee I’ll be toasty. Benny,” she said to Larsen, as though the matter were settled, “put my skis on your car, like a pal. I’m going with Mr. Jordache.”

  There was nothing Rudolph could do about it and he led the way to the machine while Larsen fixed the three pairs of skis on the rack on a brand-new Ford. How does he do it on sixty-five dollars a week? Rudolph thought. For an unworthy moment he wondered if Larsen was honest with his accounts at the ski shop.

  Rudolph got onto the motorcycle and Miss Soames swung lightly on behind him, putting her hands around his waist and holding on firmly. Rudolph adjusted his goggles and followed Larsen’s Ford out of the parking lot. Larsen drove fast and Rudolph had to put on speed to keep up with him. It was much colder than before, and the wind cut at his face, but Miss Soames, holding on tighter than ever, shouted in his ear, “Isn’t this bliss?”

  The restaurant was large and clean and noisy with skiers. They found a table near a window and Rudolph took off his Air Force jacket while the others stripped themselves of their parkas. Miss Soames was wearing a pale-blue cashmere sweater, delicately shaped over her small, full breasts. Rudolph was wearing a sweater over a wool shirt, and a silk scarf, carefully arranged around his throat. Too fancy, he thought, memories of Teddy Boylan, and took it off, pretending it was warm in the restaurant.

  The girls ordered Cokes and Larsen a beer. Rudolph felt he needed something more convincing and ordered an old-fashioned. When the drinks came, Miss Soames raised her glass and made a toast, clinking her glass against Rudolph’s. “To Sunday,” she said, “without which we’d all just die.” She was sitting next to Rudolph on the banquette and he could feel the steady pressure of her knee against his. He pulled his knee away, slowly, so as to make it seem merely a natural movement, but the girl’s eyes, clear and cold blue, were amused and knowing over the rim of her glass as she looked at him.

  They all ordered steaks. Miss Soames asked for a dime for the juke box and Larsen was faster out of his pocket than Rudolph. She took the dime from him and climbed over Rudolph to go to the machine, getting leverage by putting her hand on his shoulder, and walking across the room, her tight, lush bottom swinging and graceful, despite the clumsy boots on her feet.

  The music blared out and Miss Soames came back to the table, doing little, playful dance steps as she crossed the floor. This time, as she climbed over Rudolph to her place, there was no doubt about what she was doing, and when she sat down, she was closer than before and the pressure of her knee was unmistakable against his. If he tried to move away now, everybody would notice, so he remained as he was.

  He wanted wine with his steak, but hesitated to order a bottle because he was afraid the others might think he was showing off or being superior. He looked at the menu. On the back were listed a California red and a California white. “Would anybody like some wine?” he asked, putting the decision elsewhere.

  “I would,” Miss Soames said.

  “Honey …?” Larsen turned to Miss Packard.

  “If everybody else does …” she said, being agreeable.

  By the time the meal was over they had drunk three bottles of red wine among them. Larsen had drunk the most, but the others had done their fair share.

  “What a story I’ll have to tell the girls tomorrow at the store,” Miss Soames, flushed rosy now, was saying, her knee and thigh rubbing cosily against Rudolph’s. “I have been led astray on a Sunday by the great, unapproachable Mr. Frigidaire himself …”

  “Oh, come on now, Betsy,” Larsen said uneasily, glancing at Rudolph to see how he had taken the Mr. Frigidaire. “Watch what you’re saying.”

  Miss Soames ignored him, sweeping her blonde hair loosely back from her forehead, with a little, plump, cushiony hand. “With his big-city ways and his dirty California wine, the Crown Prince lured me on to drunkenness and loose behavior in public. Oh, he’s a sly one, our Mr. Jordache.” She put a finger up to the corner of her eye and winked. “When you look at him you’d think he could cool a case of beer with one glance of his eyes. But come Sunday, aha, out comes the real Mr. Jordache. The corks pop, the wine flows, he drinks with the help, he laughs at Ben Larsen’s corny old jokes, he plays footsy with the poor little shopgirls from the ground floor. My God, Mr. Jordache, you have bony knees.”

  Rudolph couldn’t help laughing, and the others laughed with him. “Well, you don’t, Miss Soames,” he said. “I’m prepared to swear to that.”

  They all laughed again.

  “Mr. Jordache, the daredevil motorcycle rider, the Wall of Death, sees all, knows all, feels all,” Miss Soames said. “Oh, Christ, I can’t keep on calling you Mr. Jordache. Can I call you Young Master? Or will you settle for Rudy?”

  “Rudy,” he said. If there had been nobody else there, he would have grabbed her, kissed that flushed small tempting face, the glistening, half mocking, half inviting lips.

  “Rudy, it is,” she said. “Call him Rudy, Sonia.”

  “Hello, Rudy,” Miss Packard said. It didn’t mean anything to her. She didn’t work at the store.

  “Benny,” Miss Soames commanded.

  Larsen looked beseechingly at Rudolph. “She’s loaded,” he began.

  “Don’t be silly, Benny,” Rudolph said.

  “Rudy,” Larsen said reluctantly.

  “Rudy, the mystery man,” Miss Soames went on, sipping at her wineglass. “They lock him away at closing time. Nobody sees him except at work, no man, no woman, no child. Especially no woman. There are twenty girls on the ground floor alone who weep into their pillows nightly for him, to say nothing of the ladies in the other departments, and he passes them by with a cold, heartless smile.”

  “Where the hell did you learn to talk like that?” Rudolph asked, embarrassed, amused, and, at the same time, flattered.

  “She’s bookish,” Miss Packard said. “She reads a book a day.”

  Miss Soames ignored her. “He is a mystery wrapped in an enigma, as Mr. Churchill said on another occasion. He has been reported running at dawn followed by a young colored boy. What is he running from? What message does the colored boy have for him? He is reported as having been seen in New York, in low neighborhoods. What sins does he commit in the big city? Why doesn’t he commit his sins locally?”

  “Betsy,” Larsen said weakly. “Let’s go skiing.”

  “Tune in on this same station next Sunday and perhaps all these questions will be answered,” Miss Soames said. “You may now kiss my hand.” She held out her hand, the wrist arched, and Rudolph kissed it, blushing a little.

  “I’ve got to get back to town,” he said. The check was on the table and he put down some bills. With tip, it came to fifteen dollars:

  When they went outside, a light snow was falling. The mountain was bleak and dangerous looking, its outlines only suggested in the light swirl of snow.

  “Thanks for the lunch, Mr. Jordache,” Larsen said. One Rudy a week was enough for him. “It was great.”

  “I really enjoyed it, Mr. Jordache,” Miss Packard said, practicing to be Larsen’s wife. “I mean I really did.”

  “Come on, Betsy,” Larsen said, “let’s hit the slope, work off some of that wine.”

  “I am returning to town wi
th my good and old friend, Rudy, on his death-defying machine,” Miss Soames said. “Aren’t I, Rudy?”

  “It’s an awfully cold ride,” Rudolph said. She looked small and crushable in her parka, with her oversized goggles incongruously strapped onto her ski cap. Her head, especially with the goggles, seemed very large, a weighty frame for the small, wicked face.

  “I will ski no more today,” Miss Soames said grandly. “I am in the mood for other sports.” She went over to the motorcycle. “Let us mount,” she said.

  “You don’t have to take her if you don’t want to,” Larsen said anxiously, responsible.

  “Oh, let her come,” Rudolph said. “I’ll go slow and make sure she doesn’t fall off.”

  “She’s a funny girl,” Larsen said, still worried. “She doesn’t know how to drink. But she doesn’t mean any harm.”

  “She hasn’t done any harm, Benny.” Rudolph patted Larsen’s thick, sweatered shoulder. “Don’t worry. And see what you can find out about that barn.” Back in the safe world of business.

  “Sure thing, Mr. Jordache,” Larsen said. He and Miss Packard waved as Rudolph gunned the motorcycle out of the restaurant parking lot, with Miss Soames clinging on behind him, her arms around his waist.

  The snow wasn’t thick, but it was enough to make him drive carefully. Miss Soames’s arms around him were surprisingly strong for a girl so lightly made, and while she had drunk enough wine to make her tongue loose, it hadn’t affected her balance and she leaned easily with him as they swept around curves in the road. She sang from time to time, the songs that she heard all day in the record department, but with the wind howling past, Rudolph could only hear little snatches, a phrase of melody in a faraway voice. She sounded like a child singing fitfully to herself in a distant room.