“Come on, come on, how much were you hoping to sting me for?”
“I think you must prepare yourself for a shock, sir,” said the dealer.
“How much?” repeated Kendall-Hume, impatiently.
“Twenty-five thousand.”
“Pounds?”
“Pounds.”
“You must be joking,” said Kendall-Hume, walking around the carpet and ending up standing next to Margaret. “You’re about to find out why I’m considered the scourge of the East Midlands car trade,” he whispered to her. “I wouldn’t pay more than fifteen thousand for that carpet.” He turned back to face the dealer. “Even if my life depended on it.”
“Then I fear your time has been wasted, sir,” the Turk replied. “For this is a carpet intended only for the cognoscenti. Perhaps madam might reconsider the red-and-blue?”
“Certainly not,” said Kendall-Hume. “The color’s all faded. Can’t you see? You obviously left it in the window too long, and the sun has got at it. No, you’ll have to reconsider your price if you want the orange-and-yellow one to end up in the home of a connoisseur.”
The dealer sighed as his fingers tapped the calculator again.
While the transaction continued, Melody looked on vacantly, occasionally gazing out of the window toward the bay.
“I could not drop a penny below twenty-three thousand pounds.”
“I’d be willing to go as high as eighteen thousand,” said Kendall-Hume, “but not a penny more.”
The Robertses watched the dealer tap the numbers into the calculator.
“That would not even cover the cost of what I paid for it myself,” he said sadly, staring down at the little glowing figures.
“You’re pushing me, but don’t push me too far. Nineteen thousand,” said Mr. Kendall-Hume. “That’s my final offer.”
“Twenty thousand pounds is the lowest figure I could consider,” replied the dealer. “A giveaway price, on my mother’s grave.”
Kendall-Hume took out his wallet and placed it on the table by the side of the dealer.
“Nineteen thousand pounds and you’ve got yourself a deal,” he said.
“But how will I feed my children?” asked the dealer, his arms raised above his head.
“The same way I feed mine,” said Kendall-Hume, laughing. “By making a fair profit.”
The dealer paused as if reconsidering, then said, “I can’t do it, sir. I’m sorry. We must show you some other carpets.” The assistants came forward on cue.
“No, that’s the one I want,” said Mrs. Kendall-Hume. “Don’t quarrel over a thousand pounds, pet.”
“Take my word for it, madam,” the dealer said, turning toward Mrs. Kendall-Hume. “My family would starve if we only did business with customers like your husband.”
“Okay, you get the twenty thousand, but on one condition.”
“Condition?”
“My receipt must show that the bill was for ten thousand pounds. Otherwise I’ll only end up paying the difference in customs duty.”
The dealer bowed low, as if to indicate he did not find the request an unusual one.
Mr. Kendall-Hume opened his wallet and withdrew ten thousand pounds in travelers’ checks and ten thousand pounds in cash.
“As you can see,” he said, grinning, “I came prepared.” He removed another five thousand pounds and, waving it at the dealer, added, “and I would have been willing to pay far more.”
The dealer shrugged. “You drive a hard bargain, sir. But you will not hear me complain now that the deal has been struck.”
The vast carpet was folded, wrapped, and a receipt for ten thousand pounds made out while the travelers’ checks and cash were handed over.
The Robertses had not uttered a word for twenty minutes. When they saw the cash change hands it crossed Margaret’s mind that it was more money than the two of them earned in a year.
“Time to get back to the yacht,” said Kendall-Hume. “Do join us for lunch if you choose a carpet in time.”
“Thank you,” said the Robertses in unison. They waited until the Kendall-Humes were out of sight, two assistants bearing the orange-and-yellow carpet in their wake, before they thanked the dealer for the coffee and in turn began to make their move towards the door.
“What sort of carpet were you looking for?” asked the dealer.
“I fear your prices are way beyond us,” said Christopher politely. “But thank you.”
“Well, let me at least find out. Have you or your wife seen a carpet you liked?”
“Yes,” replied Margaret, “the small carpet, but …”
“Ah, yes,” said the dealer. “I remember madam’s eyes when she saw the Hereke.”
He left them, to return a few moments later with the little soft-toned, green-based carpet with the tiny red squares that the Kendall-Humes had so firmly rejected. Not waiting for assistance he rolled it out himself for the Robertses to inspect more carefully.
Margaret thought it looked even more magnificent the second time, and feared that she could never hope to find its equal in the few hours left to them.
“Perfect,” she admitted, quite unashamedly.
“Then we have only the price to discuss,” said the dealer kindly. “How much were you wanting to spend, madam?”
“We had planned to spend three hundred pounds,” said Christopher, jumping in. Margaret was unable to hide her surprise.
“But we agreed—” she began.
“Thank you, my dear, I think I should deal with this matter.”
The dealer smiled and returned to the bargaining.
“I would have to charge you six hundred pounds,” he said. “Anything less would be robbery.”
“Four hundred pounds is my final offer,” said Christopher, trying to sound in control.
“Five hundred pounds would have to be my bottom price,” said the dealer.
“I’ll take it!” cried Christopher.
An assistant began waving his arms and talking to the dealer noisily in his native tongue. The owner raised a hand to dismiss the young man’s protests, while the Robertses looked on anxiously.
“My son,” explained the dealer, “is not happy with the arrangement, but I am delighted that the little carpet will reside in the home of a couple who will so obviously appreciate its true worth.”
“Thank you,” said Christopher quietly.
“Will you also require a bill of a different price?”
“No, thank you,” said Christopher, handing over ten fifty-pound notes and then waiting until the carpet was wrapped and he was presented with the correct receipt.
As he watched the Robertses leave his shop clinging on to their purchase, the dealer smiled to himself.
When they arrived at the quayside, the Kendall-Humes’ boat was already halfway across the bay heading toward the quiet beach. The Robertses sighed their combined relief and returned to the bazaar for lunch.
It was while they were waiting for their baggage to appear on the carousel at Heathrow that Christopher felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned round to face a beaming Ray Kendall-Hume.
“I wonder if you could do me a favor, old boy?”
“I will if I can,” said Christopher, who still had not fully recovered from their last encounter.
“It’s simple enough,” said Kendall-Hume. “The old girl and I have brought back far too many presents, and I wondered if you could take one of them through customs. Otherwise we’re likely to be held up all night.”
Melody, standing behind an already loaded luggage cart, smiled at the two men benignly.
“You would still have to pay any duty that was due on it,” said Christopher firmly.
“I wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise,” said Kendall-Hume, struggling with a massive package before pushing it on the Robertses’ trolley. Christopher wanted to protest as Kendall-Hume peeled off two thousand pounds and handed the money and the receipt ever to the schoolteacher.
“What do we do if they c
laim your carpet is worth a lot more than ten thousand pounds?” asked Margaret anxiously, coming to stand by her husband’s side.
“Pay the difference and I’ll refund you immediately. But I assure you it’s most unlikely to arise.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right,” said Kendall-Hume. “Don’t worry, I’ve done this sort of thing before. And I won’t forget your help when it comes to the next school appeal,” he added, leaving them with the huge parcel.
Once Christopher and Margaret had located their own bags, they collected the second cart and took their place in the red “Something to Declare” line.
“Are you in possession of any items over five hundred pounds in value?” asked the young customs official politely.
“Yes,” said Christopher. “We purchased two carpets when we were on vacation in Turkey.” He handed over the two bills.
The customs official studied the receipts carefully, then asked if he might be allowed to see the carpets for himself:
“Certainly,” said Christopher, and began the task of undoing the larger package while Margaret worked on the smaller one.
“I shall need to have these looked at by an expert,” said the official once the parcels were unwrapped. “It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.” The carpets were soon taken away.
The “few minutes” turned out to be more than fifteen, and Christopher and Margaret were soon regretting their decision to assist the Kendall-Humes, whatever the needs of the school appeal. They began to indulge in irrelevant smalltalk that wouldn’t have fooled the most amateur of sleuths.
At last the customs official returned.
“I wonder if you would be kind enough to have a word with my colleague in private?” he asked.
“Is that really necessary?” asked Christopher, reddening.
“I’m afraid so, sir.”
“We shouldn’t have agreed to it in the first place,” whispered Margaret. “We’ve never been in any trouble with the authorities before.”
“Don’t fret, dear. It will be all over in a few minutes, you’ll see,” said Christopher, not sure that he believed his own words. They followed the young man out through the back and into a small room.
“Good afternoon, sir,” said a white-haired man with several gold stripes around the cuff of his sleeve. “I am sorry to have kept you waiting, but we have had your carpets looked at by our expert and he feels sure a mistake must have been made.”
Christopher wanted to protest but he couldn’t get a word out.
“A mistake?” managed Margaret.
“Yes, madam. The bills you presented don’t make any sense to him.”
“Don’t make any sense?”
“No, madam,” said the senior customs officer. “I repeat, we feel certain a mistake has been made.”
“What kind of mistake?” asked Christopher, at last finding his voice.
“Well, you have come forward and declared two carpets, one at a price of ten thousand pounds and one at a price of five hundred pounds, according to these receipts.”
“Yes?”
“Every year hundreds of people return to England with Turkish carpets, so we have some experience in these matters. Our adviser feels certain that the bills have been incorrectly made out.”
“I don’t begin to understand …” said Christopher.
“Well,” explained the senior officer, “the large carpet, we are assured, has been spun with a crude distaff and has only two hundred ghiordes, or knots, per square inch. Despite its size we estimate it to be valued around five thousand pounds. The small carpet, on the other hand, we estimate to have nine hundred knots per square inch. It is a fine example of a silk handwoven traditional Hereke and undoubtedly would have been a bargain at five hundred pounds. As both carpets come from the same shop, we assume it must be a clerical error.”
The Robertses remained speechless.
“It doesn’t make any difference to the duty you will have to pay, but we felt sure you would want to know, for insurance purposes.”
Still the Robertses said nothing.
“As you’re allowed five hundred pounds before paying any duty, the excise will still be two thousand pounds.”
Christopher quickly handed over the Kendall-Humes’ wad of notes. The senior officer counted them while his junior carefully rewrapped the two carpets.
“Thank you,” said Christopher, as they were handed back the packages and a receipt for two thousand pounds.
The Robertses quickly bundled the large package onto its luggage cart before wheeling it through the concourse and onto the pavement outside, where the Kendall-Humes impatiently awaited them.
“You were in there a long time,” said Ray Kendall-Hume. “Any problems?”
“No, they were just assessing the value of the carpets.”
“Any extra charge?” Kendall-Hume asked apprehensively.
“No, your two thousand pounds covered everything,” said Christopher, handing over the receipt.
“Then we got away with it, old fellow. Well done. One hell of a bargain to add to my collection.” Kendall-Hume turned to bundle the large package into the trunk of his Mercedes before locking it and taking his place behind the steering wheel. “Well done,” he repeated through the open window as the car drove off. “I won’t forget the school appeal.”
The Robertses stood and watched as the silver-gray car joined a line of traffic leaving the airport.
“Why didn’t you tell Mr. Kendall-Hume the real value of his carpet?” asked Margaret once they were seated in the bus.
“I did give it some considerable thought, but I came to the conclusion that the truth was the last thing Kendall-Hume wanted to be told.”
“But don’t you feel any guilt? After all, we’ve stolen—”
“Not at all, my dear. We haven’t stolen anything. But we did get one hell of a ‘steal.’”
CHRISTINA ROSENTHAL
The rabbi knew he couldn’t hope to begin on his sermon until he’d read the letter. He had been sitting at his desk in front of a blank sheet of paper for more than an hour and still couldn’t come up with a first sentence. Lately he had been unable to concentrate on a task he had carried out every Friday evening for the last thirty years. They must have realized by now that he was no longer up to it. He took the letter out of the envelope and slowly unfolded the pages. Then he pushed his half-moon glasses up the bridge of his nose and started to read.
My dear Father,
“Jew boy! Jew boy! Jew boy!” were the first words I ever heard her say as I ran past her on the first lap of the race. She was standing behind the railing at the beginning of the home stretch, hands cupped around her lips to be sure I couldn’t miss the chant. She must have come from another school because I didn’t recognize her, but it only took a fleeting glance to see that it was Greg Reynolds who was standing by her side.
After five years of having to tolerate his snide comments and bullying at school all I wanted to retaliate with was, “Nazi, Nazi, Nazi,” but you had always taught me to rise above such provocation.
I tried to put them both out of my mind as I moved into the second lap. I had dreamed for years of winning the mile in the West Mount High School championships, and I was determined not to let them do anything to stop me.
As I came into the back stretch a second time, I took a more careful look at her. She was standing amid a cluster of friends who were wearing the scarves of Marianapolis Convent. She must have been about sixteen, and as slim as a willow. I wonder if you would have chastised me had I only shouted, “No breasts, no breasts, no breasts,” in the hope it might at least provoke the boy standing next to her into a fight. Then I would have been able to tell you truthfully that he had thrown the first punch, but the moment you learned that it was Greg Reynolds, you would have realized how little provocation I needed.
As I reached the back stretch I once again prepared myself for the chants. Chanting at track meetings had
become fashionable in the late 1950s, when “Zat-o-pek, Zat-o-pek, Zat-o-pek” had been roared in adulation across running stadiums around the world for the great Czech champion. Not for me was there to be the shout of “Ros-en-thal, Ros-en-thal, Ros-en-thal” as I came into earshot.
“Jew boy! Jew boy! Jew boy!” she said, sounding like a a stuck record. Her friend Greg, who would nowadays be described as a preppie, began laughing. I knew he had put her up to it, and how I would like to have removed that smug grin from his face. I reached the half-mile mark in two minutes seventeen seconds, comfortably inside the pace necessary to break the school record, and I felt that was the best way to put the taunting girl and that fascist Reynolds in their place. I couldn’t help thinking at the time how unfair it all was. I was a real Canadian, born and bred in this country, while she was just an immigrant. After all, you, Father, had escaped from Hamburg in 1937 and started with nothing. Her parents did not land on these shores until 1949, by which time you were a respected figure in the community.
I gritted my teeth and tried to concentrate. Zatopek had written in his autobiography that no runner can afford to lose his concentration during a race. When I reached the bend the inevitable chanting began again, but this time it only made me speed up and even more determined to break that record. Once I was back in the safety of the home straight I could hear some of my friends roaring, “Come on, Benjamin, you can do it,” and the timekeeper called out, “Three twenty-three, three twenty-four, three twenty-five” as I passed the bell to begin the last lap.
I knew that the record—four thirty-two—was now well within my grasp and all those dark nights of winter training suddenly seemed worthwhile. As I reached the back stretch I took the lead, and even felt that I could face the girl again. I summoned up my strength for one last effort. A quick glance over my shoulder confirmed I was already yards in front of any of my rivals, so it was only me against the clock. Then I heard the chanting, but this time it was even louder than before, “Jew boy! Jew boy! Jew boy!” It was louder because the two of them were now working in unison, and just as I came round the bend Reynolds raised his arm in a flagrant Nazi salute.
Collected Short Stories Page 24
