Solomon Gursky Was Here (16 page)

The men gathered in their disappointed and scornful womenfolk and turned to troop back to their camp, beating mournfully on their drums.

“Some
shabbos,
” one of the women said.

“It will be different when it is the younger one's time. He was peeking through the curtains.”

Nialie blessed the candles at seven-thirty and the family sat down to their sabbath dinner. Henry regaling Isaac with tales of Moses— “No, no, not your Uncle Moses, but the original. Moses, our Father”—that great
angakok
of the Hebrews who could turn his red into a serpent, bring forth water from a rock, and part the seas with a command. Only Moses, Henry explained, had seen God plain, as it is written: “And there arose not a prophet since in Israel like unto Moses, whom the Lord knew face to face.”

Later, Henry lowered his son on to the bed he had built for him. The letters of the Hebrew alphabet had been painted into the head-board. It was cleverly done. A seal barked a
“shin.”
A
“resh”
was tied to a caribou's tail. A
“daled”
danced with a muskox. And out of the raven's beak there flew the deadly
“gimel”
. The sign of the great one who had come on the wooden ship with three masts.

Nialie stood in the doorway, watching over them. Her husband, her son. Isaac was stealing again, shop-lifting at the Co-op and the Hudson's Bay trading post. She had found things that he had hidden. Two packs of Player's Mild cigarettes, a girlie magazine, a pocket knife, a gold Cross pen. She wanted to talk to Henry about it, but once more she procrastinated. He was so devoted to the boy. He had such faith in him. Nialie wished she could admonish the boy herself, but that was out of the question—impossible—as she was understandably fearful of Isaac's name-soul or
atiq,
who was Tulugaq, the name she had cried out immediately before giving birth to Isaac.

While Nialie did the dishes, Henry retired to his rocking chair with the latest copy of
Newsweek
. In the outside it was still Watergate above all. Eighteen and a half minutes of a Nixon tape had been mysteriously erased. A committee, chaired by a Senator Sam Ervin, was in daily session. The people were perturbed.

Overcome by restlessness, a sudden tug of unease he couldn't account for, Henry hurried into his parka, slipped outside, and headed for the camp of the Faithful. Mingling with them always calmed his spirits. He could do with that now. But when he got there, he was surprised to find the camp abandoned. They had gone without a word to him. It was odd, very odd. Old Pootoogook was sifting through the camp's detritus.

“What happened?” Henry asked.

“Somebody came. Somebody from Spence. He was very excited. They gathered their things together fast fast and they were gone,” Pootoogook said, beating his arms to scare off the other scavengers, the swooping ravens.

Ravens, ravens everywhere.

Henry jogged all the way back to the nursing station. When Agnes came to the door in her fading dressing gown he didn't even apologize for wakening her, which was certainly not like him. All he said was, “I must send a cable. It's urgent.”

The Faithful had left a message scrawled in the snow:

WE WANT THE MOSHIACH NOW!

Two

MOSES BERGER

CARLETON UNIVERSITY

OTTAWA ONT

THE RAVENS ARE GATHERING. REPLY SOONEST. HENRY.

HENRY GURSKY

NURSING STATION

TULUGAQTITUT NWT

MOSES BERGER NO LONGER EMPLOYED HERE. WE HAVE FORWARDED YOUR TELEGRAM. DAVIDSON. BURSAR. CARLETON UNIVERSITY.

HENRY GURSKY

NURSING STATION

TULUGAQTITUT NWT

I'VE GOT PROBLEMS OF MY OWN RIGHT NOW. REST, PERTURBED SPIRIT. MOSES.

MOSES BERGER

THE CABOOSE

MANSONVILLE QUE

SOMEBODY MUST WARN MR. BERNARD. REPLY SOONEST. HENRY.

HENRY GURSKY

NURSING STATION

TULUGAQTITUT NWT

RABBI JANNAI ONCE SAID THE SECURITY OF THE WICKED IS NOT IN OUR HANDS. BEST. MOSES.

Three

Mr. Bernard, as was his habit, charged out of his chauffeured limousine at 7:50
A.M
., cursing the driving rain, the unresolved problem of numerous vacancies in his latest Montreal shopping plaza, the high cost of French-Canadian unrest, the uncertainty of sterling, a spread of northern oil leases as barren as his daughter (though penetrated as often, God knows), and Lionel's foolish investment in a sinking TV series (all in the name of more pussy, no doubt). Lionel had phoned Mr. Bernard at home that very morning, catching him just as he came out of his shower. “How are you feeling this morning, Daddy?”

“Bad news. I didn't croak during the night. So it isn't yours yet.”

“I'm returning your call.”

“I've enjoyed bigger honours in my time.”

“Aw, come on, Daddy.”

“The Dow-Jones is down again. Everybody knows we're going to announce a loss this quarter, but my little cabbage patch has put on another two points. Tell me why?”

“Some, raiders out there are buying in New York, Toronto, and London, but your guess is as good as mine.”

“Mr. Bernard doesn't guess. He knows. I say it's a real impatient
putz,
namely you, warehousing shares and hiding behind the skirts of surrogates.”

“Daddy, if you would only sign those trust papers, delegating me as CEO upon your retirement, I'd stop those speculators cold in their tracks.”

“Whatever you're into I'm not shaking in my boots. But one thing I want to lay on the line, you whoremaster. You absolutely mustn't try to buy out Henry or Lucy. There are things you haven't

been told. Family things. So I want your word. No finger-fucking with Solomon's crazy kids.”

“Daddy, I swear on the heads of my children.”

“From which marriage?”

“I—”

“I-I-I. And I suppose you expect me to believe that I-I-I doesn't know how many shares changed hands in Tokyo yesterday?”

“Did you say Tokyo?”

“Don't act innocent with me,” Mr. Bernard said, hanging up. Lionel immediately buzzed Miss Heffernan. “Get me Lubin on line one and get me Weintraub and put him on hold.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I thought you were in Montreal,” Lubin said.

“I'm flying in this afternoon. Sol, have we been buying McTavish in Tokyo?”

“No.”

“That's what I thought. I'm putting you on hold. Yes, Miss Heffernan?”

“I've got Mr. Weintraub on line three.”

Lionel asked him about Tokyo.

“Not us.”

Shit.

T
HERE WAS, THEY SAID
, ice lodged in Mr. Bernard's heart, glacial ice, but he had come by it honestly. From Ephraim walking out. A ball of phlegm percolating in his throat, Mr. Bernard negotiated the slippery sidewalk with care, mindful of bones grown brittle with age. Then he swept through the doors of the Bernard Gursky Tower on Dorchester Boulevard, stumbling into unaccustomed darkness—gloom—when he was startled by a sudden and blinding explosion of light.

Oh, my God!

Automatically throwing up his arms to shield his face, Mr. Bernard fell to his knees. He subsided, moaning, to the marble floor, curling into the fetal position, fearing the mindless guns of Arab terrorists even as he had once ridden out the fury of Detroit's Purple Gang,
hunkered down with the bats, two hundred feet below ground, in that freezing talc mine shaft in the Eastern Townships for three terrifying weeks, waiting for Solomon to arrange a truce.

Miss O'Brien, surveying the scene, turned to Harvey Schwartz, flicking him with that special look of hers. “Oh dear,” she said with a certain asperity, “are you ever in for it now, Mr. Schwartz.”

A rattled Harvey Schwartz raced toward Mr. Bernard, helping him to his feet, a shivering blinking Mr. Bernard, whom he nervously pointed at the banner that flowed from wall to wall in the lobby:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MR. BERNARD

SEVENTY-FIVE YEARS YOUNG TODAY!

The banner was revealed to Mr. Bernard just as one-hundred-odd office employees of James McTavish Distillers Ltd., his corporate creature, burst into “For He's a Jolly Good Fellow.”

His eyes brimming with grateful tears, if only because his body remained unpunctured, Mr. Bernard scampered forward to accept a sterling silver tea service from a delegation of his employees. Applause, applause. Dabbing his eyes, surreptitiously hawking phlegm into his handkerchief—a surprisingly hot wad—Mr. Bernard extended his tiny spindly arms to offer his benediction. “God bless you. God bless each and every one of you.”

Two office girls wheeled out a cake on a trolley—massive—shaped like a bottle of Canadian Jubilee, their most popular rye, and crowned with figures of Mr. Bernard and his wife, Libby.

“I don't deserve such love,” Mr. Bernard protested. “You're wonderful, absolutely wonderful. Not my employees,” he cooed, blowing wet kisses as he retreated to the elevator, “but my children, my family.”

Only a bemused Miss O'Brien and Harvey Schwartz, carrying the tea service, rode with Mr. Bernard in the express elevator to the forty-first floor. “Everybody chipped in,” Harvey said, beaming. “From vice-presidents to office boys.”

“But some people didn't think it was such an inspired idea,” Miss O'Brien said.

“Their idea, not mine. I was enormously touched on your behalf, Mr. Bernard.”

Mr. Bernard began to clack his dentures. “I have to piss,” he said. “I have to piss something terrible.”

“But weren't you pleased?”

Cursing, Mr. Bernard backed into the elevator wall, gaining purchase before he charged forward to kick Harvey in the shin, sending the tea service flying.

“You little runt, I could have fractured my hip out there. Now pick up that stuff; I hope nothing's bent.”

Mr. Bernard, a short man, no more than five foot four, bald except for a silvery fringe, had the body of a carp. The wet brown eyes protuberant, his cheeks scaly, bleeding red whenever he was in a temper. Darting into his office, he pinched his nose with two fingers, snot pinging into the florentine tooled leather wastepaper basket. Then he pitched his homburg on to his Queen Anne walnut settee which was upholstered in velvet and had been built in Philadelphia for William Penn. Over the settee there hung a Jackson Pollock, one of his daughter's
fershtinkena
acquisitions. Mr. Bernard was fond of using the painting, which reminded him of curdled vomit, to jab petitioners or job applicants who were visiting his office for the first time. “You think it's good?” he enjoyed asking. “I mean, hoo boy, you're a Harvard MBA. Tell me. I'd value your considered opinion.”

“It's first-rate, sir.”

“There's nothing wrong with it? Take your time, sonny. Have a good look.”

“Wrong? I think it's lyrical, sir.”

Then, his eyes bright with rancour, he would pounce. “It's hanging upside down. Now what can I get you?” Mr. Harvard
Tuchus
-Face MBA.

Only Moses Berger, that drunk, had outmanoeuvred him. Of course that had been years ago, when Mr. Bernard had first discovered that Moses was poking his nose into Gursky family affairs, asking questions about Solomon.

“You don't think there's anything wrong with the painting?”

Moses had shrugged.

Shooting forward in his desk chair, Mr. Bernard had barked, “It's hanging upside down.”

“How can you tell for sure?”

“Hey, you're some smart cookie,” Mr. Bernard had replied, brightening. “Come work for me and I'll pay you double what you can get at some shitcan university.”

“I'm not looking for a job, if that's why you sent for me.”

“I sent for you because I don't care for strangers trying to dig up dirt about the Gurskys to feed anti-Semites, as if they're going hungry these days. But if any trouble-maker dares to cross my path I'll squash him like a bug.”

His face hot, his mood vile, Mr. Bernard ate lunch in his private dining room with his brother Morrie.

Mr. Morrie, who never forgot a cleaning lady's name, a secretary's birthday, or the illness of a filing clerk's wife, was adored by just about everybody who worked for McTavish. He occasionally ate in the employee's canteen, refusing to allow anybody to fetch for him, but lining up with his tray like the rest. It was amazing, really amazing, that he and Mr. Bernard were brothers. One a saint, they said, the other a demon.

Nobody had seen Mr. Bernard speak to his brother for years. Ever since Mr. Morrie, prodded by his wife, had dared to go to Mr. Bernard's office to plead Barney's case.

“I appreciate that eventually it's got to be Lionel who sits in your chair,” Mr. Morrie said.

“Don't count Nathan out yet.”

“Or Nathan.”

“What are you talking, Nathan? That boy's a washout. The things that come out of your mouth. Christ.”

“But what harm would it do for Barney to be a vice-president?”

“I'm not putting a rat in place to scheme against my sons once I'm gone.”

“He won't scheme. He means good.”

“That boy was once bitten by a bug called ambition and now he's infected from head to toe.”

“Bernie, I beg you on bended knees. He's my only son.”

“You want more, make more. I did.”

“I never even told him I signed those papers years ago.”

“Listen, why don't you go back to your office and do a crossword. I could finish it in half the time it takes you. Or go pull your
petzel,
you'll only need two fingers for the job, I've seen it, and that should keep you busy until it's time to go home to that
yenta
you married like a damn fool.”

“Bernie, please. What do I say to him?”

“Out of here before I lose my temper.”

Also joining Mr. Bernard for lunch were the still-fetching Miss O'Brien, his secretary of twenty-five years, and Harvey Schwartz.