Joshua Then and Now (27 page)

“Yes. Certainly.”

“I’m saving every penny. I’m going to emigrate to Israel one day. Would you mind if I had a pastry as well?”

“Oh, go ahead,” Joshua said, irritated. “Just order it, will you?”

“If you don’t mind my saying so – after all, I’m the older one – you shouldn’t frequent the brothel. Those wretched girls carry disease.”

Jews, Jews, Joshua thought, everywhere I go there are other Jews to advise me. Clutching. Claiming. I probably wouldn’t even be safe in Senegal. Some big buck, his face reamed with tribal scars, his voice whiny, would drop out of his banana tree to grab my hand and say “Shalom Aleichem.”

Meanwhile, there was Dr. Dr. Mueller to cope with.

Mueller and Joshua, in common with the few foreigners and the artillery officers billeted in San Antonio, habitually ate breakfast at the Café Formentor overlooking the bay. Everybody had a favorite table on the terrace, a place that was his by common consent. The
next morning Joshua arrived earlier than usual and, to his own astonishment, sat down to read his mail at Dr. Dr. Mueller’s table. Frau Weiss at one table and two army officers at another had already finished their breakfast, but as Mueller could now be seen approaching, still a small figure in the haze at the far side of the bay, they stayed to watch. Joshua hastily ordered a plate of fried eggs, so that he would at least have a knife beside him. He ate defiantly slowly to begin with, then quickly, finally gobbling, because just as Dr. Dr. Mueller rounded the rim of the bay, he was so scared that he had all but decided to yield the table to him, pretending that he had sat there by mistake. At last Mueller loomed over him, his smile condescending. “Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning.”

Dr. Dr. Mueller pulled up another wicker chair and joined him at the table. Joshua couldn’t tell what the officers were thinking, they wore sunglasses, but he assumed they felt he was acting in bad taste. Frau Weiss’s eyes were radiant.

Still smiling, Dr. Dr. Mueller said, “Where are my hands?”

“What?”

“My hands.”

“Under the table,” Joshua said, baffled.

“If I held a gun there, I could shoot your balls off, but look,” he said, laughing as he placed his hands on the table, “empty.”

“W
ELL. YEAH. RIGHT. CAN YOU TELL ME WHAT A JOB’S
comforter is?”

Groping, he said, “A blanket, kind of?”

“You haven’t been reading it,” he said, exasperated.

“What?”

“The Book.” And he held it up, markers sticking out here and there.

“I’m a working man now, but.”

“You call that door-to-door bit a job? Shit. A Job’s comforter is like if Uncle Oscar comes by unexpected on a Friday night and tells me if I’m still up shit’s creek without a paddle it’s because I was not much to begin with. How old are you now, Josh?”

“Sixteen. And I still haven’t been laid,” he protested.

“Fucking’s not on today’s agenda,” Reuben said, opening a bottle of Labatt’s, “and besides I’ve already taught you everything you got to know about it.”

“Like hell you have.”

“Have you really not been laid yet?” he asked, astonished.

Joshua nodded.

“You must be doing something wrong.”

“Yeah, but what?”

“God damn it, Josh, these are the Days of Awe and this time we are going to the fucking synagogue and right now we are going to concentrate on the Jewish tradition. Now, to come clean,” he said jauntily, “I’m not very Jewish.”

“What do you mean, ‘not very’? Either you are or you aren’t.”

“Boy, are you ever ignorant. Take the niggers, for instance. They come in all shades from coal-black, through shit-brown, like Sugar Ray, to just a touch of the tan. Well, it’s the same with the Hebes. Like, if you’re very Jewish, you wear one of those crazy fur hats and sidecurls and a beard. You know the type. But me, I was just born a Hebe like some guys come into this world with a clubfoot or a stammer.”

“Hey, you make it sound like it was a real disadvantage.”

“Well, yeah. Right. We’re not very popular.”

“Why not?”

“Will you stop being so difficult and maybe show a little appreciation.”

“For what?”

“I never had the benefit of a religious education like I’m giving you,” he said, sulking a little.

“Why aren’t we popular?”

“Go know.”

“That’s no answer.”

“Well, one thing they don’t like is that since Biblical times we have a rep for driving a hard bargain. Take old Abraham, for instance. Remember I told you about him and his son? Well, once God told Abraham he wanted to destroy the cities on the plain, Sodom and Gomorrah, because they were wide-open towns, like Montreal before that little fuck Pax Plante came along, full of nightclubs and strip joints and barbotte houses and places where you could screw clean. And Abraham says to him, ‘Well, yeah, right, God, but what if there are fifty righteous men there, would you still take out the cities?’ ‘No, not if there were fifty.’ ‘And if there were only forty-five?’ ‘A
deal,’ God says. And not letting go, Abraham says, ‘And what if there were only forty purity-leaguers there, what then?’ ‘O.K.’ Anyway, he finally knocks God down to ten, bargaining with him.”

“We’re not the only ones who bargain.”

“Right. Now about Job,” he said, opening his Bible at one of his markers. “You see, if you’d only read these pages you’d learn something. God, for all his faults, ‘Thou shalt not this’ and ‘Thou shalt not that,’ was a betting man. A gambler born. And he had this big believer, Job, rich as they come but nice, and one day he bets the devil that he can take everything away from Job, absolutely everything, and he’s such a mark he’ll still have faith. ‘Oh yeah,’ the devil says, ‘you’ve got a bet.’ They shake on it. And, wham, in one day God, putting in the fix, sees that Job loses his animals and his servants and his house and even all his children, except for one. High stakes, eh? But Job, he’s a tough nut, and he continues to believe in God, though he does come round to contending with him, as they say. Quote, Wherefore do the wicked live, become old, yea, and mighty in power? unquote. Which is really sticking it to God, who naturally loses his temper. ‘Hey there,’ God says, ‘hey you little prick, where were you when I made the world? Can you make thunder? Or rain? Or the rest of it? Like, I’m God, the
capo
of
capos
, with one hell of a track record,’ and so forth and so on. And in the end, and this is not to spoil the yarn for you, Job is rewarded by getting back everything he ever had,
but double
, his cut for helping God win his bet with Satan. But the Book of Job is more than just another gambling story with a happy ending. It has a moral. These are the Days of Awe, remember, and I want you to know that if you continue to believe in God, even when you’re up shit’s creek, it can pay off double at the window. If I really had to explain it, I’d say faith is a lot like playing the stock market or sitting on your luck at the poker table. Your shares may fall through the floor, like in the Great Depression, or you may not be able to buy even a pair of deuces, and if you’re chicken you sell or give up your chair. But if you keep the
faith and hold on to, say, GM and other blue chips, well shit, look at what they’re worth today. Get it?”

“Sure,” Joshua said, baffled.

“Now right here, look, it says, quote, Man that is born of woman is few of days, and full of trouble, unquote. Now you tell me,” he said, “which character in the Bible was not of regular-type fucking born?”

Stumped, Joshua reached for the beer.

“Jesus H. Christ, that’s who. He was made through immaculate conception. And do you know what that means?”

“Tell me.”

“It’s getting knocked up by God himself, which is so rare it only happens once in the whole book, and look how many pages.”

“You don’t believe that shit, do you?”

“According to the covenant, the Hebes are only signed up until page eleven hundred and eighty. Hey, where you going?”

“Then we’re through, aren’t we?”

“Sit down. Now we turn to the New Testament. Jesus.”

“Why bother?”

“For polish.”

“What do you mean?”

“When you get out into the world and meet Christians, you’ll find like, they lean on it an awful lot. Like, if a guy is ever going to shit on you he usually leads with a quote from it. Say, he won’t let you check into one of his hotels, it’s restricted, but he doesn’t want you breaking the furniture or slugging him. ‘Blessed are the meek,’ he says, ‘the meek shall inherit the earth.’ Bullshit. Or, say you catch one of them in bed screwing his daughter, which they go in for a lot out on the prairies, where the winters are long. You know what they say? They say, ‘Judge not, that ye be not judged.’ Or, for instance, you’re running a book and the mayor’s bagman wants you to show your appreciation that he doesn’t shut you down. He says, ‘Render therefore unto Caesar the things which are Caesar’s.’ The dirtier the sin, the sweeter the saying. The New Testament covers everything. I recommend
it highly. Now, Josh, I want you to give up that asshole job and go back to school.”

“I’m not going back to school,” he said, digging in, “and that job is just a handle to get me into the newspaper business.”

“You mean you’re going to become a reporter by ringing doorbells?”

“You better believe it.”

“He was a rabbi, you know,” his father said, grinning, as he passed the beer.

“Who?”

“J.C.”

Joshua had to laugh.

“But he didn’t like the way the temple was being run and after he was counted out by Pontius Pilate, they banged him into that stick, which is what they used to do to crooks in those days, no bail, no copping a plea, no time off for good behavior, nothing, and he died. Then his bunch, they didn’t fly apart like they did here after Galento was shot down. Everybody grab, grab, grab. Guys afraid to stand in front of a window or start their cars. They stuck together, like, and started a church and it was hundreds of years before they split into rival gangs. Protestant and Catholic. The Catholic church is better run, nobody can beat them at collections, and they own property all over town. Everywhere. Well, the Catholic church was built on a rock, according to Peter, but the Protestant on the love of cunt, if you ask me, though to look at those grim bastards today, it makes you wonder. It really got going with Henry the Eighth, who was king of England, and had his mind on only one thing, nookie, and was always sniffing around for a fresh wife. But the Pope, well, he frowned on divorce. ‘No soap,’ he said. So Henry, he quit on him and joined up with the Protestants, who are everywhere you turn now. Me, I prefer the Catholics. I mean, you know, you become a priest and you swear off fucking for life, which means you’ve got to be very, very dedicated. I give them full marks.”

Seizing the opening, Joshua reminded his father once more that he had yet to be laid.

“We’re going to the synagogue tomorrow,” he reminded him sharply.

“O.K., O.K.”

“I’ll tell you what. You go to the place on Union Avenue. Kitty’s. But, listen here, you don’t pay more than five-and-two.”

“I don’t get it.”

His father shook his head, dismayed. “Five for the girl, two for the room, and don’t say I sent you, I’m your father for Chrissakes, it would be embarrassing.”

Joshua got up to go.

“Not now. Geez. These are the Days of Awe.”

“When, then?”

“I don’t care when, but not now.”

Joshua sank to the sofa in the backyard again, sulking, and there was a long and brooding silence between them. Finally, his father said, “Go early.”

“What?”

“You go early, they’re cleaner and not yet wet from all the others and, look, you’re a gentleman, you never hit a whore. You are very polite.”

“Yeah, I know. I step into her room, I take off my hat.”

“Hey, that’s right, Josh,” he said, pleased.

“Only I never wear one.”

“Oh yes you do. Tomorrow. For the synagogue.”

The next morning they started out once more for the B’nai Jacob synagogue on Fairmount Street. His father looking spiffy in his straw boater and ice-cream suit; Joshua, with his trousers pressed to perfection and his black shoes gleaming. And once more, the closer they got to the synagogue, the more his father dragged his feet. “They’re guys who go there every night, you know, just like to the track. It’s amazing.”

“Yeah, only they must be very Jewish, not like us.”

Men in prayer shawls spilled over the outside steps; they gathered in knots on the sidewalk. Smoking, gossiping.

“What are they all doing out on the street?” his father asked, irritated.

“It’s probably jammed inside.”

“You don’t see that welching son-of-a-bitch of a dentist anywhere? Orbach?”

“No. But he could be inside.”

“Remember, I give you the elbow once, you stand up, twice, you sit down again.”

“Right. Let’s go.”

“We could look for another synagogue. The one in Outremont. Near Bernard. Maybe it’s not so crowded.”

But when they found it, there were men gathered outside there, too.

“What do you think?” his father asked.

“It’s up to you, Daddy.”

“Isn’t this where your Uncle Harvey and Aunt Fanny go?”

“I think so.”

“Let’s go get a coffee and talk it over.”

I
N THE AUTUMN, THAT MOST PERFECT OF NORTHERN
seasons, Kevin’s face, shining with assurance, appeared to anoint the gossip columns at least once a week, which distressed Pauline.

Westmount’s prodigal son, back from playing truant in Bermuda, was here, there, and everywhere. Flourishing. Outfitted by Brisson & Brisson, driving a silvery Porsche. That season it seemed no consulate dared celebrate its national day, or new disco open its doors, without Kevin there to offer a benediction. Usually with a jowly Jack Trimble, disconcertingly merry, and a glowing Jane in tow. Whatever they were up to, it was ostensibly doing the three of them nothing but good. Although the stock market continued in the doldrums – money tighter than ever in a diminishing city – the investment fund Trimble had launched, Kevin at the helm, had got off to a rousing start.