The victim (19 page)

"Half burned?" he said. "I'm older than you and I don't say that." Max did not reply. His large trunk was ungainly in the double-breasted jacket. "There have been times when I felt like that, too," Leventhal went on. "That's a feeling that comes and goes." His brother turned his crude, dark face up to him and his voice died. They sat together in silence and at last Max stirred and got up. Leventhal went with him to the subway. A heavy mist lay over the street. At the turnstile he dropped two nickels into the slot and Max said over his shoulder, "You don't have to wait with me." But Leventhal pushed through. They stood at the edge of the platform till the grind of the approaching train reached them. "If you need me for anything..." Leventhal said. "Thanks." "I mean it." "Thank you." He extended his hand. Leventhal clumsily spread his arms wide and clasped him. They felt the concussion of the train, and the streaked face of the lead car with its beam shot toward them in a smolder of dust; the windows ran by. Max returned his embrace. "Call me," Leventhal said hoarsely in Max's ear. The crowd swirled around them at the doors. When the train started, he saw Max gripping a strap and bending over the heads of passengers, peering out. Pulling out a handkerchief, Leventhal wiped his sweat. He began to labor up the long, steel-striped concrete flights, opening his mouth to assist his breathing. Halfway up he stopped, squeezing against the wall to let others past, looking as if the lack of air maddened him. He felt faint with the expansion of his heart. Then he continued. The mist had gathered to a light rain. At the top of the stairs he saw an umbrella flung open, like a bat in the chill current of air. The bars of the revolving door raced and clinked. Buttoning his coat, he raised the collar, and his eyes moved from the glare of the cars flowing up in the street to the towering lights that stood far ahead, not quite steady in the immense blackness.

21

IN the Saturday mail there was an invitation from Mrs Harkavy to a party that same evening in honor of her granddaughter's seventh birthday. The postman whom Leventhal encountered in the fog on the outer stairs handed it to him. There was nothing from Mary and he was secretly glad of it, for the truth was that he felt he was stealing away and leaving Allbee in possession of the house. Ostensibly he was going out for coffee. He had risen to find the flat cold, and the windows dripping and gray as tin. Allbee was still asleep in the dining-room, his naked arms locked around the narrow mattress, sprawling, uncouth. His clothes lay on the floor and the air was stifling. Leventhal had gone into the kitchen and put on the coffee but, when he pictured himself sitting down in the cheerless front room to drink it, he made a face, shut off the gas, and went down to eat at the Greek's. But he had no intention of coming back after breakfast. Around Mrs Harkavy's invitation he half unconsciously and in a complicatedly indirect fashion made out a schedule. He was at first uncertain about attending the party. Should he go so soon after Mickey's death? But, having decided that it would be a good thing for him to be among people, he rode uptown to buy the girl a present. And finding himself near the library at noon, he spent a few hours glancing over some of the trade papers to see what others were doing. So it was nearly evening and he was coming out of a newsreel theater in Times Square before he realized that behind everything he had contrived to fill this weary day was his unwillingness and inability to deal with Allbee. He had set off purposefully down Broadway, and now something seemed to hinder the steady action of his legs and he faltered and began to go slower. "All right, I'll send him to Shifcart," Leventhal decided. "What do I care? I'll do it, and if that isn't enough for him, we'll see. Only what will Shifcart think?" But he was already in disfavor with Shifcart, who had looked at him peevishly in the cafeteria when he failed to laugh at his joke. "It would be better to come in cold than with a recommendation from me. But as long as he believes so much in connections let him go and find out for himself." He stopped at home before dinner to put on a clean shirt. Allbee was out. The dirt and disorder of the place sickened Leventhal. There was rubbish on the kitchen floor and the remains of a meal on the table. "He'd behave better in a flophouse. He's just trying to show me," thought Leventhal. He swept out the kitchen. Bending down with the dust pan, he experienced a curious tightness in the skin of his face. He threw the broom into the corner, washed his hands, and left. Mrs Harkavy met him in the entry and she disconcerted him by saying, "I was awfully upset to hear about your nephew." For he had just then, in the elevator, been thinking about Mickey. "Doctor Denisart told me about it. I'm sure he did his best." Leventhal muttered that he thought so too. Because he was disturbed, he was more conscious than usual of the bracing process he went through on meeting one of the Harkavys. He was fond of them, they were kind, but he had never been able to work out a satisfactory balance with them. Mrs Harkavy's expression was like her son"s, lively and erratic. Yet there was a durable, underlying melancholy in her animation, and occasionally it came uppermost and took him by surprise. "Someday science will conquer death," she said. "Last Sunday there was a symposium in the Times about it." Leventhal pulled himself together sufficiently to reply, "I hope..." "Oh, it looks definite. Then the size of the population will have to be controlled. But science will figure that out, too. There are brains enough for everything. This man discovered something to make the tissues live forever. I don't think we can expect much in our lifetime. It's for future generations. Meanwhile, we have to make the best of it. I think Mr Banting's father died of diabetes about a year before insulin was discovered. And this Mr Bogomolets couldn't use his own serum on account of a bad heart, and he died. Asa, how old was the child?" "Three and a half, four..." The freakishness seemed to leave her. Only her eyes moved, meeting his own with a familiar, instantaneous significance. "That's the brother who lives in Queens?" "Staten Island." "Asa, sometimes I feel wicked still to be here at my age while children die." He was at a loss for an answer. "But I'm not taking it away from anybody," she said, falling back into her eccentricity; it quivered at the corners of her green-ringed eyes. "Mamma," Julia called. "The men are in the dining-room, Asa. There's wine and liquor on the sideboard." Her face was flushed and she turned away, wide-hipped in her blue dress with its ornamented shoulders. The guests, none of whom he knew, were playing pinochle. He was disappointed. He had hoped to see Schlossberg or Shifcart. "Take a hand," said Harkavy. "No, I don't think I will. Is anybody else coming, Dan?" "We're expecting a few more people," said Harkavy. He was engrossed in his cards. Leventhal poured himself a glass of wine and took a diamond-shaped biscuit sprinkled with sugar. Suddenly he remembered the present he had brought and he drank down the wine, tugged the package out of his pocket, and went into the kitchen. There was a cloud over the range. Julia was raising a colander of fried potatoes from the oil, averting her face from the sputter and crying nervously, "Mother, Mother, keep Libbie back." "Stay away, honey. Julia, don't rush those potatoes. They'll be raw." Leventhal came forward with his package. "I brought something for the girl." "Oh, how thoughtful of you," said Mrs Harkavy. "With all your own troubles." Leventhal was impassive. "Here," he said. "Happy birthday." There was a gold seal pasted on the tissue paper and Libbie, after one quick glance at him, began picking it off. "Not even 'thank you, Uncle Leventhal.'" Julia looked furious. "Julia, it's only shyness, nervousness." "Say thanks, you little animal." The girl ran into the hall and Leventhal returned to the dining-room. He had a second glass of the sweet wine, and a third. "Come, sit in," Goldstone said to him. He shook his head and slouched against the sideboard, leaning on his elbow and sipping. This was his fourth glass and he was beginning to feel a heavy, solvent, milky warmth. He was conscious of being extremely clear-eyed, of seeing everything, catching every movement as if under extraordinary illumination. As the cards slapped and flicked over the red leather pad, he diverted himself by observing the hands, shuffling, dealing, manipulating the money, the variety of knuckles and fingers. Harkavy's were white, pointed, and simple looking. The hands of the man next to him were strung with veins and overgrown with hair, his thumb was turned back and blackened, perhaps by lead--he might be a printer. The flesh of his palm was red and brutally cross-hatched. "Used hard," reflected Leventhal. Yet these hands were limber with coins, and counted and tossed them with the ease of deep familiarity. Leaving the sideboard he strolled into the dark living-room and lit a cigar. He felt the blood at his heart and brain to be a very rich and powerful mixture, for the most part pleasurable. A little painful also. The slight distress, however, was part of the pleasure. He took a sip of wine, licked the base of the glass and wiped it on his wrist to prevent a ring, and set it on a little table. Mrs Harkavy's voice came down the hall. "Future generations!" he grinned. "My Lord!" He sat down, lame and heavy limbed. After some time he saw Harkavy come in to the room apparently looking for him. He spoke up from his corner. "Hey, here!" "Oh, hiding out, having a quiet cigar. The house is filling up. Mamma and Julia are starting to serve." Leventhal heard the scrape of chairs on the parquet floor of the dining-room. "Say, do you expect Shifcart tonight?" "I don't think he was asked. What do you want him for?" "Do you think I made a bad impression on him that day?" "I know you did on me. I've never seen such an exhibition of ghetto psychology. The attitude you took toward Disraeli amazed me." "No, I don't mean that. Did he say anything to you?" "Nothing. Is this an attack of your old weakness--worrying whether people like you?" "I wanted to sound him out about something... To see what he'd say. If he'd help me out with someone." "Who's the favor for?" "It doesn't matter who, does it?" Leventhal said. "No, it doesn't. You don't have to tell me." There was already a ring of exasperation in his voice. "It doesn't make any difference who." "I asked to be helpful. But I won't play button-button with you. Especially since you have an edge on. I saw you drinking." "Ah, you could have had a lot of opportunities to be helpful," said Leventhal. "Why, it must be that what"s-his-name that's been bothering you," said Harkavy with a sudden nicker of amused discovery. "That's who, isn't it?" Leventhal dumbly nodded. "Then what's the mystery?" "No mystery," Leventhal muttered. "Why do you need help with him? What does he want? I don't understand how Shifcart comes into the picture." "Well, Dan, this Allbee is interested in scenario work and since he once got me an introduction at Dill's he wants me to do the same for him with Shifcart, seeing he's in the movie line. It's mostly for the record that I'm doing it." "You know Shifcart has nothing to do with scenario. He deals with actors, talent." "Allbee thought he might have a connection somewhere. I didn't think so, but he asked me, and I thought... Well, to tell you the truth, Dan, I didn't know what to think. I had my doubts. But he did get me the interview with Rudiger. So I thought, 'Well, let him go and see Shifcart. Why should I answer for Shifcart? I'll show my good intentions and return the favor,' and so on. That's the story." "I don't believe it. It seems to me that he's got you on the merry-go-round." One of Mrs Harkavy's plants stood behind Leventhal. He felt a leaf graze his hair as he shut his eyes and leaned backwards. "How did he ever sell you such a bill of goods?" said Harkavy. "Where did he hear of Shifcart?" "He happened to be at the house and saw a card of Shifcart's." "So he keeps coming around. You must be encouraging him. I thought we came to the conclusion he was off his nut." "You did!" Blindly roused, Leventhal flung out his arm. "You were the one. That was what you said. You compared him to your aunt." "Well, you're impetuous tonight. Both of us came to the same conclusion." "No, no!" Leventhal refused to hear him. "I absolutely deny it. Absolutely!" "Where did I get it from, if you didn't say it? I can't understand you. I haven't seen the man. Anyhow, what's the odds? Why should that be an issue? I can see you're losing your bearings. Of course, you've got quite a little wine in your system; maybe that partly accounts for your funny behavior. Yes, it is very funny. I always thought you didn't know how to take care of yourself. I can see this man has you eating out of his hand. He cornes around, you get excited when you talk about him, you're going to send him to Shif cart..." "I'd send him anywhere to get rid of him," said Leventhal. "There, you wouldn't say anything like that unless you were in pretty deep. I can tell that you're keeping back information; don't have to be much of a mindreader to see that. I can't help you any more than to remind you that you're playing for keeps. You're not a boy, any more." "Dan, you know Shifcart. This has to be done. Tell me..." He caught Harkavy's hand. "Take it up with him yourself." "Yes, I will, but I want to ask you..." "We'd better go in. They must be waiting for us. We'll discuss this tomorrow when your head is clearer and if you want to be open with me." The guests, all men, had taken off their jackets and were sitting in the high-backed chairs. In the kitchen door, talking with Mrs Harkavy, was Mr Schlossberg who had just arrived and was still wearing his brown topcoat. Leventhal said good evening to him and Schlossberg answered, "How are you?" He did not seem, however, to remember him. "Fourteenth Street a couple of weeks ago," said Leventhal. "His memory is bad," Harkavy whispered. He drew Leven-thal into the row of chairs along the buffet. Across the table, Leventhal recognized the possessor of the red hands he had watched during the card game. His name was Kaplan and his face, like his hands, was red and creased. He had a sharp blue squint, as though--Leventhal thought -he had made an effort to pierce heaven and distorted his eyes. Just now he was holding up a glass of brandy and saying, "Here's to all." "Drink up," someone said. "Next year in Jerusalem." Leventhal heard Julia say, "We had a children's party last year. It was too nerve racking. This time we decided we would have older people." "Shall we begin eating?" asked Goldstone. "We ought to have the cake brought in first," Mrs Harkavy said. She explained to the company, "They weren't very careful with it at the bakery. Some of the frosting came off with the wax paper. We did our best to repair it." Julia put the cake with its seven candles on the table. Libbie stood staring into the flames. Her eyes were much like her grandmother's and her uncle's. "Blow, kiddie," said Harkavy. "Once, that's luckiest." But Libbie reached out and tried to capture a drop of the melting wax. "Libbie, dear..." her father urged. "People are waiting," Julia cried impatiently. "Would you rather be hanging upside down in the closet?" The child lowered her face to the clear ring of candles. Leventhal saw the liquid image of them in her eyes and on her white forehead. She blew, and the whitish, odorous wax smoke drifted over the table. The guests clapped and cried out. "Sweet little kid," said Harkavy to Leventhal, who nodded and still gazed heavy eyed at the candles. Julia and her grandmother kissed the girl. The supper began. Leventhal's clothing, especially his shirt, bound and chafed him, and he opened his collar, grumbling to Harkavy, "It's cutting my neck." But Harkavy had resumed an argument begun earlier in the evening with a Mr Benjamin who sat between Goldstone and Julia. Leventhal had noticed him in the hall before, clumping on a specially built shoe. He had the complexion of a Hindu, a head of grizzled short curls, and scornful brown-freckled lips; there was a drop of yellow in his wide-set black eyes. Benjamin sold life insurance, and Harkavy had assailed the insurance companies. "It's all in the Cardozo investigation. Does any more have to be said? The same money that's taken from the customers is used against them." "I don't see, Harkavy," said Mr Benjamin, "why one business has to be run down more than another. You ought to be against them all. And against government. You're an amateur, Harkavy, an amateur. I've heard your argument from experts. You