by Meyer Levin
Now they were almost even with the boy. Judd waited for a truck to pass, then coasted along the curb. “Let me handle this. He knows me,” Artie whispered. “Don’t honk.” And as they drew abreast: “Hey, Paulie.”
The kid turned. Judd slid the car still nearer to the curb.
Judd’s father’s voice cut in, “Thinking about your exam?” The memory images braked, halting sharply. Judd looked up. “I guess I’ll do Harvard the honour of glancing at my notes,” he said, rising.
Upstairs, he even took out the typed notes. His hand fell on the Bausch and Lomb, brought upstairs last night; Artie had neglected to put it back in its case. Even in Artie, sloppiness irritated Judd. As he arose to set the glasses away, he thought of the boy they had watched through these sights. Was the image still on the lens? Like the story about the last image on the retina of a murdered man…
Judd tried to bone again, and then the sexual excitement came. Always, always when he sat trying to study. He was oversexed, he was sure. Images intruded: a slave, a slave rewarded by his master.
With a little gasp, almost a groan, Judd gave himself over to the fastasy. His master was extended on a stone couch, drinking from a silver cup. His splendid muscular torso was bare, the skin golden, glistening, not oily but luminous.
The slave was no common slave, but had been purchased because of his learning. He was crouched, reading to his master, and the master laughed at the tale, a witty account of an ass, making love to a woman.
As Judd read, he looked up to his master, and saw the half smile, the beginning of excitation. The master’s arm lay free, and a short whip dangled from Artie’s hand. Artie caught his slavish eyes, and laughingly commanded him, “All right, you bastard, you sucker,” and flicked the whip. The slave put aside his parchment and…
Then a tumult. An attacker plunged into the room, more, three, five, a dozen assassins. Judd leaped up, defending his master, with his bare hands wresting the sword from one of the villains, charging them, forcing them backward, plunging the sword.
Excited beyond endurance, Judd arose, circled the room, trying to keep away from the bed. It would be an hour before Artie came. Then, making sure the door was closed, he lay down.
He let himself slide completely into it, without fixing on any one image, letting the images come one upon the other: a street in Florence, and a young man, blond – Artie – rushing into a shadowed alleyway, a grinning backward, inviting glance, and then it was yesterday and the little girls scattering in twos and threes on the street, and why had Artie always been against making it a girl? Maybe that would finally have rid him of the need, but now he still had something left over that he must do. The girl… and there came the image of the Hun and the girl, the war poster in the hallway when he was at Twain – the young Frenchwoman with the dress half torn crouching against a wall, her arm up in defence, and the Hun with the slavering mouth coming toward her, then grabbing her by the hair and doing it to her…
With an effort, Judd pulled himself up from the bed. The typewriter. It was standing against the wall, beneath the glass cases of his mounted birds. For this second terrible mistake, Artie would be through with him. Artie would erase all their times together, as though they had never met.
It had been one of the last occasions when Mother Dear had been well enough to go out. Indeed, she had probably overstrained herself, Judd imagined, in arranging the visit for his sake. He had known it was a little plot, of the kind Mother Dear and Aunt Bertha loved to arrange.
For a long time he had been aware of their whispery worryings about him. Poor Judd, he ought to have more friends. He’s alone with his books too much.
Poor Judd, they meant, the kids all hate him. The kids all think he’s conceited. But poor Judd, they said, all the boys in his class are three years older than he is, and at that age three years makes a great difference. And he’s really not interested in baseball and such things. If we could only find someone…
And then they had cooked up the meeting with Artie. Of course Judd knew about Artie, the paragon who had skipped through Twain a year ahead of him, and was even a few months younger. He would have got to know Artie at Twain, most likely, if Artie hadn’t transferred to University High in his last year, to go right into the university at fourteen.
But when people talked about Artie Straus, the brilliant prodigy, Judd always remarked that entering a university at fourteen was not necessarily a criterion of intelligence. Any parrot with a large enough medulla oblongata could absorb the kind of knowledge that was required in a classroom. Judd could easily have done it at fourteen instead of fifteen, if he had not been out of school with his terrible skin rashes and boils, for weeks at a time. And besides, Artie Straus, as everyone knew, had had special tutoring from his governess.
Yet Judd admitted to himself a certain curiosity about Artie Straus. He therefore accepted the pretence that it was just a casual afternoon bridge party at the Strauses, to which he was escorting his mother and aunt. And if there had been hushed telephone calls between the ladies, to arrange this meeting for the two brilliant boys who really ought to be great friends, he pretended not to have noticed. Judd disregarded too the thought that although his own family was worth several million dollars, his mother and aunt would consider it advantageous for him to become the close associate of one of the Strauses, with their ten million and their palatial new mansion with the private tennis court. Only the best, as his father always said.
There was another uneasiness about meeting Artie. While Artie was brilliant like himself, Artie was more. He was an athlete, a fellow who had fun with the crowd. Tall, a lively figure on the tennis court – instead of a bookworm.
Still, Judd was aware that on his side he was supposed to exert a steadying influence on Artie, because the moment he had got into the university, young Straus had started running wild, with collegians who were several years older than himself. And recently Artie had had a bad smash-up in a car.
It was a warm, sweet day in May, and as they left the house Mother Dear paused to sniff the air. Judd offered her his arm, and she gave him the smile he had identified far back in childhood when his Irish nurse had taken him into a church with stained-glass windows. “Is this Heaven?” he had whispered, and of the glowing Lady in the window: “Is she God’s wife?” Then the nursemaid had told him who the Madonna was. The Mother of God. And though as soon as he began to grow up he knew himself an atheist, the Madonna image persisted as someone in whom he believed, and as his mother.
That day of the bridge party, as Judd helped his mother down the cement steps to the walk, his aunt gushed about the fine-appearing pair they made. Mother Dear was in something grey, grey silk – he wished he could recall precisely – and he, nearly fifteen, was still in knickerbockers, although they were tailored wide, to look more like golf plus-fours.
“You will meet Artie Straus,” Aunt Bertha insisted again. “I asked Mrs. Straus if Artie would be home. You know, Judd, dear, Artie can give you lots of pointers about the university, what teachers to take.”
“Professors,” he corrected her.
Aunt Bertha had come in her electric, and now gave him a chance to drive it the few blocks to the Straus mansion. Driving the Edison always gave Judd a kick, though he already could drive a regular car.
“I hear Artie is a nice fun-loving boy, and I hope you will become friends,” his aunt kept on, not realizing how a remark like that could push a fellow in the other direction. Especially if they were working on Artie the same way.
But Artie came running out of the house as the electric drove up. With a politeness that might have had some mockery behind it, he opened doors.
At first sight, Judd felt disappointment. It was an instant feeling that Artie wasn’t for him, Artie wasn’t the one. His long narrow face was like tallow. And everything about him was too long – his arms, his neck, his fingers. Even before emerging from the car, Judd knew he would scarcely reach to Artie’s shoulders. A shrimp in any crowd, be
side Artie he would look like a midget… Artie would never be anything to him. Judd even felt a kind of triumph that he had come along as Mother Dear and Aunt Bertha wished, but had proven immune to their plotting. He would remain his solitary and superior self.
It was a small bridge party of ladies, several of whom Judd had seen at his own house – Mrs. Seligman, Mrs. Kohn with a K, and Artie’s mother, a thin, energetic-looking woman, with great, clear blue eyes. Judd remembered that she was not Jewish and was always held up as an example, when Hyde Park talk turned on mixed marriages, of a Catholic who fitted very graciously into the South Side Jewish circle – indeed, took the leadership.
There were three tables. Mrs. Straus warned everybody that Artie was a whiz, a shark. Oh, yes, since the two brilliant boys were going to be partners, the ladies had better watch out!
“Why don’t you take Judd up to your room? We’ll call when we’re ready,” Mrs. Straus suggested to Artie, who motioned – “C’mon!” – and took the stairs two at a time.
The room was as a collegian’s room was supposed to look, with pennants and sports stuff on the walls – tennis rackets and even crossed fencing foils. Immediately, Artie lighted a cigarette, and offered his Caporals to Judd. “Smoke?” Judd accepted one, remarking that his own preference was for the Turkish brands.
It was too bad he was going to register at the U. of C., Artie told him at once. That was no good because you had to live at home and you couldn’t fool around too much – they had their eye on you. He himself was going to switch to Michigan, to Ann Arbour, in the fall. Another thing, the girls of the U. of C. wouldn’t put out. “You interested in girls?” And in the same moment, Artie opened a heavy atlas that was on his desk. “I keep them in here so the spies won’t get wise.” And he handed Judd a packet of postcards.
They were French cards. Judd had never seen any before, but he made it his rule always to be inwardly prepared for anything. He didn’t flicker. The cards were certainly unaesthetic, particularly the females – the way their half-removed clothing dangled and dripped. Handing back the postcards, he said, “Not bad,” and Artie said he could get Judd into Alpha Beta, only they were a bunch of sissies, the whole gang – he’d bet a ten-spot half of them were still cherry. “You cherry?”
Judd grinned ambiguously. He was saved from the need to answer further by Mrs. Straus calling from downstairs, “Boys, we’re beginning.”
“Hey, I got an idea,” Artie said. “You want to have some fun with these hens? Let’s have some signals.”
That was the first spark between them; the idea of defrauding hese clucking women was pleasant to Judd. Artie proposed finger signals, but Judd feared even those dumb females might catch on. His own idea was word signals. Let the first letter of the first word you spoke represent the suit, say, for clubs, any word beginning with a C. Then the number of words in the remark would be the number of cards of that suit. His mind leaped ahead, even to word signals for the high cards, but Artie said he had a better system. He would tap Judd’s toe under the table – that’s what long legs were good for. Once for spades, twice for hearts, and so on. Then you tap the number held in each suit.
“What if they catch you?”
“They never catch me.” Artie laughed.
As the foot reached, pressing on his toes, Judd felt an odd combination of mischievousness and tense excitement. He lost count of the taps. He messed up the bidding. But Artie played with bravado and brilliance, and fished them out of the mess. Afterward they got a little better at it. Then they got so good, the women ooed and aahed, and Judd found himself giggling with the secret fun. Then Artie’s mother made a remark about how nervous he was, his legs rattling all the time, and Judd got scared and drew back his feet, holding them under the chair. He gave Artie a meaningful look.
They came out winners, nearly five dollars apiece, and during the coffee and French pastries, Artie took him upstairs again and produced a hidden flask of gin. Then Artie wanted to try Judd’s aunt’s electric to see if it could get up any more speed than his own aunt’s Edison.
In the driveway, the two electric cars were lined up. Aunt Bertha’s still had the key in it. And Artie suddenly had a thought. He tried the key in the second car. It fitted. All those Edisons must have the same key!
And so it started. Artie came over for bridge one evening, Judd and Artie trimming Aunt Bertha and Mother Dear, using Judd’s word system this time. Then Artie borrowed Aunt Bertha’s electric, and, while he was out, had a duplicate key made. Artie was car crazy, but since his accident, his family very strictly wouldn’t let him drive.
One afternoon he said, “Hey, how about some fun?” And he and Judd walked into a garage on Harper and tried the key in an Edison, driving the buggy right out. The garageman’s face fell open half a yard as they passed him – what a riot! But after a few blocks he was chasing them in his repair truck. You couldn’t get any speed on an electric, Artie cursed, so he slewed it against the curb and they both leaped out, lamming down an alley and dodging across a vacant lot, Artie pulling Judd quickly behind a shed. Artie held up the key he had saved, and they laughed.
It was there in the sun, laughing, pushed up close together against the wall, that Judd first saw Artie differently. His face was no longer pasty but alive, his eyes shone, and his body had suddenly a lanky grace. And that night in his imagining, when Judd waited for the king to come into his fantasy, it was Artie.
Every afternoon they were together. They swiped another electric and whizzed down Cottage Grove. Then, while they were in an ice-cream parlour, a cop looked in and asked if anybody belonged to that electric. Judd almost piped up, but Artie kicked his foot. They kept their faces in their sodas until the cop departed.
Electrics were too risky, too slow, Judd said. Anyway for graduation he would have his own car, a red Stutz Bearcat. Artie was almost more eager than Judd for that day.
There it was, sitting in the driveway when he came home from Twain’s silly, juvenile graduation exercises. Red as a fire engine, and with a rumble. Artie must have been waiting around the corner, for he appeared at once, tested the horn, sprang open the rumble. “Just right for picking up gash!” he said. “Ideal for two couples.”
Immediately after dinner, Artie was back at Judd’s house. It was a moonless night. Max haw-hawed, and even Mother Dear joked about the two young men going out to do the town. Judd could imagine their remarks after he had left. “It’s a good thing for him to have some fun; he’s much too serious.” Or: “Let him sow a wild oat or two.”
The first thing Artie did was to stop at a drugstore on Stony Island where he said he could get the real stuff. “Your share is three bucks,” he told Judd when he came out with the pint. Judd knew that Max never paid more than three dollars a pint, so this was the entire price he was paying; but he gave Artie the money, telling himself this way he would have something on Artie, even while Artie thought he was being fooled.
Then Artie wanted to take the wheel, but Judd decided to establish firmly from the first that it was his car, and he would be the driver. Artie shrugged.
In the park they had a few swigs, then Judd said how about a fond farewell to the institution? They drove down to Twain, gazing upon the brick castle, dark and solid as a prison. “Why is it the tradition that one is supposed to look back upon one’s Alma Mater with affection?” said Judd. “All I experience is relief at no longer having to have daily contact with those imbeciles.”
Artie climbed out of the car. A pile of bricks was lying there, where a wall was being repaired. He picked up a few, handing one to Judd. There was a corner window, where old Mr. Forman always stood.
“Here’s to Old Foreskin!” Artie saluted. They heaved, and glass rained down. Climbing into the car, they roared off. Judd was actually laughing out loud. “Too bad he wasn’t standing behind the window as usual!” He nearly doubled over the wheel, finding the image so funny.
Artie still had a brick in his hand. Judd drove to Lake Park. It was a cr
ummy street, with few lights. A good street for gash, Artie remarked, though mostly professionals, and he didn’t want to get himself another dose just yet. Then Artie spied a perfect store window and heaved his brick; the Stutz had wonderful pickup, roaring away from the clattering, collapsing glass.
They circled, stopped a block off, and sauntered over. Two men were struggling to block up the window – it was a shoe-repair shop – and a dozen rubbernecks had already assembled.
The owner kept telling how he ran down from upstairs. “Who do this to me? Why anybody do this to me? I work hard-”
“Maybe it was the Black Hand,” Artie suggested. Turning to Judd, he said, “Looks like a typical Black Hand job to me. This is just a warning.”
“That’s right,” Judd said. “The next time they give him the works.”
Police arrived and scattered the crowd. Back in the car, Artie and Judd laughed themselves silly, Artie mimicking the terrified cobbler: “Black Hand! I don’t know no Black Hand!” And the most wonderful part of it, sensed for the first time there, was that they two together were a kind of secret power, like their own Black Hand – they could stand right there in the midst of the crowd, and nobody could even suspect them.
For Judd, this was a kind of proof. As a kid, parents tried to make you fear an all-watching God, and ever after that you felt a kind of fear that if you did something, people might somehow see it on you. But there was nothing! Nothing showed! You did whatever you damn pleased. And that was Artie’s philosophy.
They drove downtown, came back up Michigan, and passing 22nd Street, Artie said, “Hey, how about going to Mamie’s? Come on, I bet you never even had a piece. Tonight’s the night.”
Judd felt the blood flooding his brain. He wanted to get it over with, and yet something in him was repulsed. “I don’t like to pay for it,” he said. “I’d rather pick something up.”
