St. Urbain's Horseman (41 page)

“I wouldn't know,” Ruthy said.

“Listen, it's better to grow old than to die young. And where are you going, all dressed up?”

“To eat
latkes
at Buckingham Palace. Where else?” she asked, running for the bus.

Imagine, she thought, a new life. Without
yentas
everywhere. You pack your bags, you buy tickets, and off you go. Goodbye Quality Outfitting, so long Sunday afternoon teas in Edgware, her sister-in-law asking, “And did you meet anybody this week?” Australia, Canada, South Africa. Even her brother, and he took the
Financial Times
every day, said there was a better future there. He had been to Toronto, the mayor was Jewish. The government didn't squeeze you like a lemon.

Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald had made a film in Canada, Ruthy recalled, but the title eluded her. “Give me some men, who are stout-hearted men …” One would do.

Takes the
RUB
out of
SCRUB
. Brewed, Brood. Earn, Urn. Our
WURST
is truly the
BEST
. N
O WAIT
to bake, no
WEIGHT
to eat … Swaying on the Victoria-bound bus, Ruthy unsnapped her bulging, coupon-filled handbag and stuffed her dictionary of homonyms inside, still savoring a couple of the winning ones. A
RECKLESS
driver is seldom
WRECKLESS
long and – for a baby's name, this – Prince of
WAILS
.

It was a rotten night, cold and rainy, but there was no harm in
seeing
, was there, she thought, as she joined the knot of people collapsing their umbrellas outside Caxton Hall. Scanning the notice board, Ruthy noted that a yoga group was meeting on the first floor, so was the Schopenhauer Society, and the Druid Order – brrrrr – was holding
its
monthly meeting. The Canadian thing, as she imagined, was in the main hall and she was lucky to find a seat.

You pack your bags, you go. This is the twentieth century.

There were chattering people everywhere, some middle-aged and making no pretense about it, but many more who were young, coddling children on their laps. Settling into her chair with an assumed air of indifference, Ruthy offered a sweet to the taciturn man next to her and nervously inquired, “Why do you want to go to Canada?”

“There's too much waiting for dead men's shoes here.”

“And you?” Ruthy sang out to the man on her other side.

“Harold Wilson.”

“My family's been here for generations. I'm just looking in for a friend.”

Trans-Canada Journey
, the color movie they were shown about a trip from Halifax to Vancouver, displayed all of the vast dominion's natural wonders and spoke glowingly of the opportunities available there. No sooner was the film done, its final image an R.C.M.P. corporal mounting the steps to parliament, than the lights went on again and a brisk smiling young man, from the Department of Citizenship and Immigration, bounded onto the platform. “You're an excellent audience. Terrific! I can sense our immigration offices will be jam-packed tomorrow morning.”

Which evoked more coughing than huzzahs.

“Canada needs people, the
RIGHT
kind of people –”

Everywhere you go, Ruthy reflected, anti-semites.

“– We have many, many jobs that are just going begging, with one of the highest standards of living in the world.”

The young man summoned three experts to the platform and they also smiled brightly, devouring the audience with their enthusiasm.

“Do you welcome unskilled workers?” a man asked.

“That's a loaded question. If you mean a nineteen-year-old, sure, he'll acquire a skill, but if you mean a man of forty, the kind who is on and off national assistance all the time … well you get 'em, you keep 'em, we don't want 'em.”

“I'm an engineer myself.”

“You certainly look like a professional man to me, sir. I realize your question was of a general nature.”

“If things are so rosy in Canada, why do so many immigrants return?”

“I'll field that one,” the youngest panel member hollered, winking at the first row. “Homesickness. Unadaptability. If your wife is the kind who has to see her mum once a day and four times on Sunday don't come to Canada unless you bring your mother-in-law.”

“What's the unemployment situation like?”

“Three point nine.”

Somebody guffawed.

“Oh, I admit it gets higher in winter, but –”

“Didn't you have a recession in 1961?”

“Recession, no, a sort of leveling-off, yes. But right now we're booming. Booming. We want people, the right type. We need British immigrants.”

“What about medical bills?”

“That's a very, very good question. We have no national health plan, but we do have private health schemes that cost very little.”

“I have four children, you see.”

“Look, if you're the kind of guy who runs to the national health doctor and sits in his waiting room all day because it's free, and you have the sniffles …”

Finally, Ruthy rose and asked in a small voice, “I'm over forty –”

“Louder, please.”

“I'm inquiring for a friend who is over forty and works in a dress shop. What are her chances of employment in Canada?”

“That's a very good question. I'm glad you asked it. Now if you were a man, I'd have to say your chances were not so hot because of pension schemes and such … but many shops and offices
prefer
to employ women who are past the marrying age.”

“Well, thank you. Thank you
very, very
much.”

S
OMEWHAT ASHAMED OF HIMSELF, JAKE NEVERTHELESS
worked out an alternative route to W. H. Smith's, but occasionally lapsed into the habitual one when he was self-absorbed. One day, two weeks later, Ruthy stopped him. Could he meet her at the pub again at five thirty. Yes, why not?

“Pepsi?” Jake asked, intrigued.

“No. I'd like a lemon soda. Canada Dry, if you don't mind?”

A celery protruded from her string shopping bag. There were also two tins tucked inside, both of them shorn of their labels. Jake ordered a large gin and tonic for himself, two Canada Dry lemon sodas, and settled back to watch.

“I'm engaged,” Ruthy announced haughtily, “or don't you read the
Times
social page,” she added with a giggle.

Jake congratulated her.

“He's a lovely, lovely man. Very well versed in literature and political matters. He reads the
New Statesman
and
Tribune
. As a matter of fact, one week he had a poem in the
Tribune
. That's an accomplishment, isn't it?”

“Yes it is.”

“I'm going to need the money, you know.”

“What money?” Jake charged, jolted awake.

“The seven hundred pounds. The money Joseph took from me.”

“But what in the hell do you expect me to do about it?” he asked, bug-eyed as she peeled the labels off the two Canada Dry lemon sodas.

“Tell him I need it. Harry hasn't had much materialistic success. It doesn't interest him.”

“Ruthy, for the last time, it's been years since I've seen him.”

“Oh, come off it. Come off it, please.”

“I'm afraid you'll just have to take my word for it.”

“Maybe you could return the money to me?”

“Why should I?”

“Harry saw your film, but I must say he didn't care for it. He didn't think it rang true to life. He says when you direct something about working-class people it is obviously done for the rich to laugh at. In his estimation you're a self-hater.”

“Is your brother having him investigated?”

“Harry has nothing to hide. His life's an open book, it is. You want to know the truth about Joseph, why he did a bunk? The plain truth is I consider myself ever so fortunate. I would not have been able to live with him.”

“I wish you and Harry the best of luck. I –”

“Your cousin Joseph was some French nobleman. The truth is he is just this side of being a meths man. He's an inveterate drinker.”

“Self-hatred, self-destruction. We're a crazy family.”

“I'm sure I don't know what scarred him psychologically in his childhood to make him like that. And he must have suffered torments since he fell in love with me, but –”

“I'm sure he did.”

“Oh, that's nice. That's ever so nice and gentlemanly.
What right have you to talk to me like that?”

“I apologize.”

“That's why he went away ‘on business' for a fortnight. It was to drink. Well, thank goodness I found out before it was too late. I don't hold grudges. I pity him.”

“I'll tell him.”

Ruthy leaned back and smiled triumphantly. “Caught you out, didn't I?”

“Oh, my God. If I ever run into him again, I mean.”

“I caught you out for a common liar. Why don't you admit it?”

“Damn it, Ruthy, I have not laid eyes on Joey for more than twenty years.”

“He certainly led me a merry dance.”

“Yes, he did. I'm sorry about that.”

“Well, not to worry. Worse accidents happen at sea. Harry's a very desirable man, you know.”

“I'm very pleased for you.”

“Oh, I'll bet you are. But this time my brother made me swear I wouldn't take a chance. No hurrying into marriage in two weeks. He says I should try the water first, if you know what I mean?”

“I see.”

“Cyril says I should try the water first and see if the shoe fits. And he's right. Victorian times are over, aren't they?”

J
AKE HAD NOWHERE TO GO, HE HAD NOTHING TO DO
, but he was being paid a ransom to endure his idleness. An illicit ransom, he allowed, cunningly banked abroad.

One day you'll be proud of me, he had once told Issy Hersh. I'm going to be a famous film director.

Don't shoot me the crap, his father had protested. You want me to be proud? Earn a living. Stand on your own two feet.

Go know, Daddy. Go know.

Jake read, he took Nancy to the movies in the afternoon, and he awakened to light up in the middle of the night, anticipating the long-distance call that would tell him his father had died. Jake wrote to Hanna, telling her about his trip to Israel, saying how he had also sought the Horseman in Gehenna, admitting that once more he had eluded him. He rearranged his library, he put all his back issues of
Encounter
in chronological order. He bought and labeled a steel filing cabinet and weeded the garden.

Jake was sorting papers when the doorbell rang. The small, sneering stranger introduced himself as Mrs. Flam's fiancé.

“Would you care for a drink?” Jake asked.

“It's too early in the day for me.”

Jake poured himself a gin and tonic. Harry Stein blew his nose and looked around stealthily, taking in everything in the living room.
The rug from Casa Pupo, the winged armchair from Heal's. The kitchen door was ajar and he could see the large gleaming refrigerator. “Nice,” he said. “Very nice.”

Jake did not go into the kitchen for ice cubes, but decided to have his drink warm.

“Ruthy would fancy a place like this, but she can't afford it. Between you Yanks and Rachmanism, the rents have been forced up everywhere.”

“Are you looking for a house, then?”

Harry smiled.

“You wouldn't like to rent it for the summer? I think we're going to Spain.”

“Dollars for Franco,” Harry said, jubilant.

Screw you, Jake thought, and he went to fetch some ice cubes after all.

“Do you know how many political prisoners are still rotting in Franco's dungeons?”

“I'm a fascist.”

“Don't try to take the micky out of me.”

“What do you want, Harry?”

“Hear that plane going over? It's American.”

“I'm a Canadian.”

“They fly overhead day and night with nuclear bombs in the hatch. One has already gone down in Greenland and another in Spain …”

“Do you think NW3 is next?”

“You're a very humorous chap.”

“Look, Harry, I read the
New Statesman
too. Now what is it you want?”

Harry lit a cigarette, replacing the spent match in the box. “Are you going to charge your holiday to expenses?”

“Maybe.”

“I'm on P.A.Y.E., taxed at source. Make thirty-five a week, take home twenty-six. What about you?”

“None of your business. Now what is it you want?”

“The seven hundred nicker.”

“You must be crazy.”

“Simply tell your cousin –”

“I've already told Ruthy I haven't seen him in years. I don't know where he is, either.”

“I dispute that.”

“You what?”

“I could turn this matter over to my solicitors.”

“For collection?”

“You realize, I hope, that in this country aiding and abetting a fiddle is as serious as committing one.”

“O.K. Sue me.”

“On the other hand, if you were prepared to settle the debt –”

“It's no go, Harry. Even if I were willing to pay Joey's debt, I couldn't spare the money at the moment.”

“Why not dip into the numbered Swiss account?”

“What if I was broke?”

“We have different standards of being broke. Wouldn't you concur?”

“Yes, I suppose I would.”

“Ruthy stands on her feet all day, nine to five. She's getting varicose veins. She's up at seven every morning, don't you know? Washes and feeds the kiddies, dumps 'em in a council nursery, and doesn't see them again until she gets home. Nights she has to drag her things to the laundromat. You own a washing machine here?”