Solomon Gursky Was Here (15 page)

Henry hadn't heard from Lionel, who presided over the New York office of McTavish Distillers, for a good ten years when the distressing phone call came. Henry grasped that so far as Lionel was concerned he was certifiable if push came to shove, and maybe he was right. Retrieving an old quarterly McTavish report from a bottom desk drawer, and skimming through it before being confronted by Lionel, was enough to confirm to Henry his own inadequacies.
Oy,
was he ever in for a drubbing! Lionel, unlike him, was bound to be in tune with the songs that money sang. Bank debentures, floating bond rates, amortization of deferred charges, et cetera. All Greek to Henry.

L
IONEL, FLYING INTO YELLOWKNIFE
on one of the Gursky jets, recalled his cousin Henry as a backward boy—no, just this side of retarded—whom he used to tease because he was such a bed-wetter. Henry had actually had to repeat the sixth grade. Then, if memory served, there had been no high school for the little prick, but instead an endless spill of grim deferential tutors and shrinks and maybe a private school or two for rich kids whose elevator didn't go to the top floor. Somewhere along that troubled road Henry had found God
and retreated into a Brooklyn
yeshiva
where he no longer dared to even change his toothpaste brand without the approval of his mighty Oz, the Rebbe who ruled the funny-farm at 770. And then— presto!—he had lit out for the Arctic, of all places, where he took a stone-age bride, an Eskimo. Wait, wait. There had been a newspaper story that had prompted Henry's flight to the far north—something that Lionel's parents had worried about in the kitchen, gabbing away in Yiddish. Lionel dimly remembered bits and pieces. A newspaper item recounting that, inexplicably, for the third time in a century, a remote band of Eskimos was starving. The authorities were baffled because at the time there was no shortage of blubber or whatever it was they ate. The nutty natives simply refused food. Even when government officials airlifted in all manner of supplies they still wouldn't eat. Psychologists who were hurried out to the scene hinted at dark tribal rites, the curse of shamans, referring dumbfounded reporters to
Wandlungen und Symbole der Libido, The Golden Bough, Totem and Taboo
. But all the natives would allow was that it was forbidden, it was the Day of the … what? The Owl? The Eagle? Some shit like that. Nobody could understand the problem, and then Henry flew out and somehow or other set things right. Some of the Eskimos had died, but many were saved.

Henry flew into Yellowknife on a Ptarmigan Air Otter, taking Isaac with him so that he could have a first look at Sir John Franklin High School, which he would most likely have to attend once he had graduated from primary school in the settlement. Nialie was not disposed to accept the alternative, the Rebbe's
yeshiva
high school in Crown Heights. “The other boys wouldn't accept him as such a
shayner yid
. He would be picked on just because he's a different colour.”

The enterprising commissioner of the Northwest Territories, anticipating possible investments, had led the delegation greeting Lionel at the airport. Lionel, grown bald and portly, resplendent in a beaver coat, a Giorgio Armani suit and sheepskin-lined boots, his eyes hidden behind tinted aviator glasses. The commissioner had ordained that the penthouse apartment in the nine-storey building, known locally as The Highrise, should be made available to Lionel, the bar thoughtfully stocked only with bottles blessed with the
Gursky brand names. The penthouse, lavishly appointed by North of Sixty standards, had been built to accommodate Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Philip on their visit to the Northwest Territories in 1970. “I hope you'll be comfortable between the royal sheets,” the commissioner said, his eyes twinkling.

“I'll require a board to go under my mattress. My back, you know.”

“Right, right. Now I'm sure you'll be pleased to know that there are old natives here who still tell tales about your great-grandfather, tales handed down from one generation to another. Would you care to meet any of them, Mr. Gursky?”

“Tight schedule. Can I get back to you after I've met with my cousin?”

Lionel was annoyed that when Henry, that God-crazed fool, finally did turn up, he had brought his little half-breed son with him. But the boy, obviously as dim-witted as his father, settled unobtrusively into a corner with a comic book and the latest issue of
The Moshiach Times
. Page one delivered a Tzivot Hashem Report from a girl named Gila, rooted in Ashkelon. She wrote, “Our
madircha,
our counsellor in Tzivot Hashem, tells us that there are children like ourselves all over the world, all trying to do the same thing, to carry out the commands of our Commander-In-Chief, Hashem.” The proper noun Hashem was followed by an asterisk that led to a footnote explaining, “
Hashem:
A name of G-d,” as if Isaac didn't know as much.

Isaac seemed self-absorbed, indifferent, while the two men talked or, more accurately, Lionel pontificated and Henry listened.

“I think it's time we put our fathers' quarrels behind us, Henry, don't you?”

Nialie had made Henry promise. Don't fidget. Look him in the eye. Yes, he had assured her, but he had already lowered his eyes and begun to cross and uncross his legs.

“You're a character, Henry. You're really something else. Do you know you still haven't cashed your last dividend cheque?”

“I'll send it to the bank first thing tomorrow morning.”

“That cheque was for three million, eight hundred thousand and some odd dollars. Have you any idea what you've already lost in interest?”

Having managed to put him on the defensive, Lionel now did his shrewd best to evoke the old days, reminding him of the games they had played together behind those tall sheltering walls. Then, tired of dribbling, he went for the basket. Mr. Bernard, he said, was now seventy-four years old, he no longer dipped both oars in the water, so it was sad but inevitable that control of James McTavish Distillers Ltd. would soon fall into Lionel's hands.

“What about Nathan?”

“Let's be serious. It's a humbling thought,” Lionel went on to say, “but also a challenge. Remember what John Kennedy (another bootlegger's son, eh) said? The torch has been passed to another generation. I used to shmooze with Bobby. I know Teddy. Sinatra has been to our place in Southampton. You know who sang at my Lionel Jr.'s
bar mitzvah?
Diana Ross. Kissinger has to use the can there's one of the girls from Rowan and Martin being
shtupped
by the
schwartze
. Not Sammy Davis Jr., but the other one. The funny one. Rocky was at the
bar mitzvah
. So were Elaine and Swifty and Arnie Palmer. We golf together. About the distillery. There will be changes. Long overdue. Control
should
pass into my hands, but there's a kicker. What we have to remember is that this is a public company with an enviable cashflow and shares that are presently under-valued, so there are lots of vultures circling out there. The family, assuming all of us vote our shares as a block (after all, we're
mishpoche,
no matter whose version of the old quarrel you accept) still only controls 21.7 percent of the company. According to the best advice available to me—and I'm talking Lehmann Brothers, I'm talking Goldman Sachs—we're vulnerable. Maybe even a sitting duck. Now put plainly, Henry, you have no real interest in the company. Why, you've never so much as attended a board meeting. That's not a reproach. We're all so damned proud of you. You're into things that really matter. God and eternity and shit like that. Henry, you're a saint. A flicking saint. I look up to you. But somebody's got to stay in New York and watch over the shop. It isn't carved in stone anywhere that a Getty will always run Getty Oil or a Ford Ford. You're lucky enough to have it you've got to watch over it day and night. Henry, in order to protect everybody's interest, including yours and Lucy's, I need the authority to vote both your
shares. I brought along some proxy papers. You could have the Rebbe look them over. Or I tell you what. And I want you to know I didn't come here intending to make this offer. I could regret it tomorrow. My lawyers will think I'm crazy.
I am crazy! I'm willing to buy out all your shares at 25 percent above current market value
. What do you think?”

“Does your father know about this?”

“Henry, this grieves me, but Mr. Bernard ain't what he used to be.

He drools. He falls asleep at board meetings. Or he sits there, sucking on one of those damn Popsicles, farting away, while decisions involving millions are being made. You think the word isn't out on the street? The word is out. He also gives in more frequently to that notorious temper of his. Important executives I took considerable pains to recruit are fired, lost to our competitors. Why? Because they're too tall. Appointments with merchant bankers aren't kept. It's the old Henry Ford syndrome all over again. He's stuck with his first hard-on. He'll make you a Model-T in any colour you want so long as it's black. Ms. Bernard won't allow us to drop old dark heavy Scotches, no longer popular, because he once had a hand in the blending. He knocks down any new light blend if it comes from what he calls my marketing pricks. He could destroy the empire he built, and destroy me, just like the senile Ford all but destroyed his son and empire. No, Mr. Bernard doesn't know I'm here. This is between you and me, Henry. Our secret. I have decided to trust you, that's right, and I want you to trust me. Twenty-five percent above market value. What do you say, Henry?”

Henry, his head aching, leaped up. “It's time for my evening prayers.”

“Henry, you're an example to all of us. A really exceptional Jew. It's heart-warming.”

“I'll say them in the kitchen. I won't be long.”

So Lionel was left alone with the boy, which he found unsettling.

“What's your favourite colour, son?” he asked, impatiently tapping his gold Cross pen against the table.

Isaac simply stared.

“Come on, everybody has a favourite colour.”

“Red.”

“How would you like your Uncle Lionel to send you a big red snowmobile?”

“Do you believe the
Moshiach
is coming?”

“The Messiah?”

Isaac nodded.

“Well, that's a big question, isn't it?”

“I do.”

“Hey, that's very nice. I'll buy that.”

“Why?”

“Because it speaks very well for your character and your future

development as a caring person.”

The boy continued to stare. “What's interest?” he asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You said my father lost a lot of money in interest by not cashing a cheque.”

“You don't want to worry about that, son.”

“If my father doesn't sell, will it all be mine one day?”

“McTavish?” Lionel asked, resisting an inexplicable urge to swat him one.

Isaac nodded.

“I'm afraid not, son.”

Henry was back. He had brought Isaac along for insurance. Alone, he feared that he would agree to everything, sign anything, just to escape Lionel. But with Isaac there, a witness, bound to spill the beans to Nialie, he was safe. He didn't dare acquiesce. “There's my son to consider. How could I sell his inheritance?”

“Booze isn't exactly booming these days. We might even have to report a loss in the third quarter. If you sold, and took good advice, you could double your yield, maybe better. The boy would be bound to inherit more.”

“Please, Lionel, I can't sell.”

“Would you sell if you were approached by others?”

“No.”

“What if your infallible Rebbe asked you to sell?”

“The Rebbe is not in the takeover business.”

There was a knock at the door. Two men had come with boards that had been hammered together to slide under Lionel's mattress. “It's no longer necessary,” Lionel said. “I have to leave within the hour.”

“But what about the commissioner's dinner party? It's being held in your honour, Mr. Gursky.”

“Please convey my sincere regrets, but I've just had an urgent phone call from my father. He wants me to leave for Montreal at once.”

The men left and Henry, his eyes welling with tears, reached out and touched Lionel tentatively on the shoulder. In spite of everything, he was a cousin: he was entitled to know. “It's coming to an end,” Henry said.

“Family control?”

“The world.”

“Oh, that,” Lionel said, relieved. “Good to see you again and thanks for the tip. Knowing you it has to be insider's information.”

A
FLOCK OF THE FAITHFUL
, on the annual pilgrimage out of Grise Fiord, was camped on the edge of the settlement. It was that time of year. So now, at six
P.M.
, as proscribed during the season of Tulugaq who had come on the wooden ship with three masts, the most pious among them gathered before the front door of Henry's pre-fab and waited, their heads bowed, until he came out to receive them. A disgruntled Nialie retreated to the bedroom with Isaac and promptly drew the curtains.

“Why can't I watch for once?” Isaac asked.

“Because I forbid it at your age.”

Isaac parted the curtains defiantly and Nialie, though she was distressed, did not reproach him, but withdrew meekly from the room.

The men wore parkas trailing four fringes, each fringe made up of twelve strands. Beating on their skin drums, they paraded their traditional sabbath eve offerings before them. Some of the older women, plump and gap-toothed, were already drunk. Their cheeks rouged, their lipstick unevenly applied. Two of the younger ones wore imitation-leather miniskirts and red plastic boots with high heels,
probably acquired in Inuvik or Frobisher Bay. Henry averted his eyes, he blushed, but listened gravely as one by one the men stepped forward, their manner deferential but their words explicit, calculated to inflame. Effusive in his gratitude, Henry nevertheless declined each offering. Then, signalling that the ceremony was over, he smiled and sang out, “Good
shabbos
.”