The Lion Seeker (14 page)

—Genuine? Where was this?

Isaac turns aside to blow smoke into the wall. —I'd rather not chit-chat about it. I'm tryna forget it happened, like.

Not till he says this aloud does he realize that that is exactly what he should be doing. Let go of it. Stop with the revenge. This idea of revenge, it's his drowning stone. Let go and swim up, back to the light.

—Isaac?

—Hey?

—I said these crimes.

—Ja?

—They wouldn't exist if there was no property, right? Hey? It's all completely solvable, right. Take away the property, take away the crime. One day soon this capitalist economy's ganna croak off, then you'll check how crime just disappears so fast, cos there won't be any need hey. Right? It's obvious. It'll just melt away hey, like hailstones when the sun comes.

—Like hailstones.

—You like that one.

—Ja, you a real Conridge you are.

—Who?

—Poet, whatever. Pretty little hailstones.

—Cynicism, that's what you got. Look at history, how it's moving.

—Whichever. All I knows is what I know.

—What's that?

—If there is hailstones around, people will probably chuck them at each other, full-stick.

—Why would they do that?

—Man, they'll aim for the children. They like to hear them cry.

Yankel studies him. —You in a bad way, my mate. You need this. Brain medicine. Listen to Uncle Yankeluh. He has pulled a blue pamphlet out. He leans over into the creaking chair and puts it on the nightstand, taps it three times and leaves it there.

—Better not let my old lady catch that or she'll bell the cops on you like a shot.

—Give a look when you get a chance.

—I can't wait. Just let me get my cap on and my reading glasses warmed up.

Yankel doesn't seem to catch this one, he's stubbed out his filtered Max in the ashtray on the bed and he's rubbing his palms together. Now he leans in and lowers his voice.

—Look hey, I wanted a let you know that thing we were talking on.

—Ja.

—April the seventeenth.

—Ja.

—You know Blumenthal?

—The chemist?

—No, the laundry.

—Uh yuh.

—Well, he's from Dusat, like your people.

—Like
me
, what you talking?

—Oh ja?

—Ja, I's born there.

—That a fact hey?

—My sis too. This is her room.

He looks around, a little dazed-seeming.

—Ja, in case you wondering why I got a teddy bear and that. I'm not running queer on anyone.

Yankel reaches over to the bureau where there's framed photos of Mame and of Rively with Tutte. —She's pretty.

—Shut up hey, that's my sister.

—Just saying.

—Ja well I spose all the pretty went to her and the rest they chucked on me.

Yankel puts the photo down. —Anyway, what I wanna tell you, this Blumenthal, I asked him, April seventeenth—

—Shhh, hey. Down a bit.

He nods, leans closer to whisper: —Asked him April seventeenth, Dusat. Does it mean something? He had to think on it but then he comes back to me, says oh ja, ja, absolutely. Wants to know was I talking about the bad one.

—Bad one?

—He says that was a day long ago. They had a pogrom in Dusat, a right proper pogrom hey, like they hadn't had for years and years. Talking a vicious one. People killed and all.

—Pogrom.

—You know what that is, right?

—What you think, I'm a Stupid or summin?

Yankel shrugs.

—When was this?

—Was before the war. He wasn't sure, nineteen and six or five.

—Was he there?

—Right
there
man. Saw it his own eyes.

Isaac smokes for a while, not looking at Yankel, not really thinking either, just letting the fact of it sit there.

—Does it help you hey?

—Ja, says Isaac. I'm sure that it probably does.

—You wanna talk to him, Blumenthal? I can get him to.

—I dunno, says Isaac. That I dunno.

 

Soon after Yankel's visit there comes a moment he has to face. Either he must admit to himself that he has been beaten and he will go away, he will seek no redress, no revenge, or else he will only get sicker because he knows that there is nothing he can do against this force, this Greyshirt chutus, he is simply too strong, so take your beating and move on. Put it behind you. Go on and limp down the road with humiliation on your head, and piss in your hair, and smile about it . . . smile . . . How like his father he's becoming!

But all the same he does it, he makes the vital decision that he will not brood on vengeance, not live with the weight of such a drowning stone around his neck.

Soon as this is done the fatigue starts to lift. A little appetite returns and he mops the last of the soup from the bowl with a chunk of Mame's good sitnise bread. Another day in bed, he thinks, and I'll be ready to get up and tell them the truth about the job.

 

Next morning a powerful laugh makes him spy into the workshop where he sees a fat man in a blue suit. A salesman. Great round head like a watermelon. Belly fat packed low in the bladder under the belt. His smile is permanent, the suit shimmers, the feel of his presence holds a kindling warmth. The tip of a banknote edges from the slit of the cashbox; Mame is out and Tutte—skilful elongated fingers—fishes it free, pays the man for a set of leather cloths that he does not need. Isaac steps out without thinking and the man bobs the great dome of his head at him, thin brown hair side parted and lacquered over the scalp. Even from across the room the smell of cologne is strong.

Tutte flinches around: that way of his stooped alarm. Uh! My son, he says.

Such red hair, says the man. He looks a monarch. Another King David.

Isaac feels heat in his face not for himself but his father, the needy hovering in the weak smile.

What's the matter? asks the salesman. Don't you speak mother's tongue?

He speaks it beautiful, says Abel. It's his first language. Say hello Isaac.

The salesman has already crossed the room, chubby hand levelled at Isaac's forehead. —And this?

Isaac shrugs.

The animals they are, these Blacks, says Abel. Stole from him last week. Home sick in bed ever since.

The salesman has blue eyes; not the shimmering blue of the suit but a thinner shade, pale and strange in the ruddy marsh of the face. His hand has settled on Isaac's shoulder. A squeeze, the feeling of enclosing warmth. —It's absolutely nothing hey, tiger, he says. Little knock. Tell you something free worth a million. Whatever happens, shiny side up. Shiny side to the world. Always. Don't ever let the bastards see nothing else. Whatever happens. Remember that, tiger.

When he leaves, Tutte says: —Loverly man that vos.

Isaac is examining the shammies. —Can get these half the price cheaper at Zimmerman's.

His father's arms flap. —I got work to do here, Yitzchok.

—Better not tell Ma.

—Never mind what I say to who. You get back in bed.

—You know she'll count the cashbox hey. Better stick something back . . . 

—Go vay, I say. Go!

Instead of bed, Isaac dresses fast. A block down Beit Street, he catches the glassy blue mass of the salesman swaying out of Levinson's. —Hey Mr. Shammy.

He turns with his grin untroubled.

—My father wants his money back.

—Does he?

—Ja, he sent me. Changed his mind.

—Highest quality. Tell your father he's going to be a very happy man. Best coupla pounds he ever spent in his life. Tell him.

The salesman goes on. Isaac keeps pace. —I'm telling you, we want our money back.

—Highest quality.

—Man, they nothing special.

—Takes an eye, says the salesman. Takes an educated eye. He'll be well happy. Was my own father I couldn't make a better. Excuse me.

He passes into old lady Meltzer's vegetable shop. Through the lettered glass Isaac watches him talking, lifting his hat, igniting smiles with the charged beam of his own. After ten minutes even the old lady buys a shammy set, following three of her customers. Mame's always said to dredge a living from the good folk of Doornfontein needs miracles and prophecies, but here this salesman is the proving exception. And watch the ease.

When he comes out he points that hardy grin into Isaac's face like a gun barrel. —Shine up hey tiger. You look like a bad Monday morning. Nobody likes a Monday morning.

—I want that money back.

—Thought it was your father.

—You not so clever like you think.

—We all have our limitations. Scuse us there.

He steps past.

—Hey man, he's a cripple you know. You took advantage.

The salesman stops. He looks at Isaac's shoes then up to his face. —Quite the boychik, aren't you. Quite the tiger.

—I know what I know. Those shammies is nothing special.

—Who says it's shammies I'm selling?

He goes into Eckler the barber. Isaac watches him from outside again, moving down the chairs, handling shoulders. The creamed faces show teeth and twist in their tall seats; their laughter carries through the glass. Eight minutes. Isaac counts two sales.

When he comes out and sees Isaac, he puts his hands in his blue pockets and huffs a long breath.

—What you mean you not selling shammies?

—Listen here. If your father sent you, show me the goods.

—He didn't give them to me.

—That so. How interesting. Why don't you go home already?

—Why don't you give us our bladey money.

—Go home and ask your tutte if he's happy. That'll answer your question.

When the salesman moves on towards Rudolph the accountant, Isaac catches up. —I'm ganna come in with you. Tell everyone go to Zimmerman's and get the same thing half price.

—No you won't.

—Wanna bet me?

Again the fat man scans from shoes to face, pausing at mid level where Isaac's hands twitch. —No sir, he says. I do not believe I'll take those odds. Don't believe so at all.

He reaches to his breast pocket for his handkerchief, puts a foot up on a rail and bends over the heavy pack of his belly to stroke the dust from his oxford brogues. Hanky matching socks. When he puts it away he sweeps out a coin in the same motion. Isaac snaps it from the air: a half-crown.

The salesman's thumb is pointing. Across the street stands the Imperial Ice Cream Emporium, Purveyor of Fine Teas & Confections.

—So you can buy me a cup.

Isaac looks at him. —Bladey cheek.

He has a slanted way of grinning. —Best you'll get out of me, tiger, that I promise. But I got something else you might be interested, such a sharp boychik as yourself. Worth a whole helluva lot more than any couplea shammies, that I can guarantee.

Inside, what he does at once is split four scones and coat them with clotted cream and apricot jam. Slides one to Isaac while eating three. Then mops crumbs from his mouth while leaning back with his cup, grepsing softly against his fingers to ask,—So what's your story now?

Isaac shakes his head, irritated.

—Never hide your shine, tiger. What are you, shy? Need formals? Herewa. Shake a paw.

He leans over and Isaac takes the hand. Not soft, not hard, very warm.

—Mr. Helger. Yitz was it?

—Isaac.

—Just testing. Me, I'm Hugo. Hugo Bleznik, Esquire. Freelance travelling sales representative. Now we shaken proper, you tell me, young master Helger, tell me what's your story.

He sinks back and Isaac looks into the eyes, the soft blue. He says nothing for a long time. Hugo waits. When Isaac starts to talk he has the feeling that it is not himself who is talking but some detached other. This other relates the full truth. It tells in a flat voice how it was that he lost his job and how it is that he is still hiding this fact from his parents, and how he was not robbed at all but beaten up by the Greyshirt neighbour, how he is sick in his soul over it, and how he believes there is something wrong with him because everything he does always seems to end up so messed.

Hugo nods all the time: this is normal, says the nodding, banal even. He orders cheese sandwiches and braided honey-fried koeksisters and more tea. When it comes he pours a funnel of sugar into his cup for five beats of Isaac's pulsing heart. And cream. He eats nimbly, making little noise. Now and then he tells Isaac to tuck in; Isaac doesn't move. Finished, Hugo says: —I reckon what's best for you, tiger, in all honesty, is to have for yourself a change of the scenery. Fresh wind in your sails, if you get me.

—Wind.

—Absolutely.

Hugo clears a wide space on the tablecloth, the centre. He reaches back to the side pocket of the bright jacket on the back of his chair, brings out a bundled cloth. A sense of grave care in his slow-motion setting down of the bundle, its soft and silken ruffles, its purple most sumptuous against the white cloth.

Isaac watches it while Hugo cleans off his hands with a fresh serviette, smears down his side-parted hair with a flattening palm it does not need. Dips one pinky fingertip into ice water and touches it to one eyebrow. Cleans his hands again. Then he grows very still, his eyes on the bundle.

Time passes. Hugo clears his throat. In a new voice, without looking up: —Sometimes a man gets lucky enough to meet his future.

Then silence.

Then he says: —His fortune.

Silence.

He says: —Ja, but then he has to be clever enough to see it when it comes. Could be a little thing. Tiny thing.

Very slowly he moves one of his plump hands toward the purple bundle.

Isaac finds his mouth has parched itself.

—A fortune, says Hugo Bleznik.

He takes hold of the lush cloth and gradually parts it and lays it flat and there on its velvety softness is a round object with a missing centre. Isaac leans forward. A little wheel of an odd green colour. Like the rounds of sticky tape in Mr. Weiner's stationery shop. When Isaac looks up Hugo's eyes press into his.