The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz (39 page)

“My uncle’s dead. I’ve got to go on living. When I’ve got the money we’ll furnish the house according to our own tastes.”

“Oh, Duddy, this is terrible.”

“Terrible? It’s robbery. Seven hundred and fifty bucks I got for the works.”

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“Listen, my little
katchka,
I’m not a British lord and this isn’t the old ancestral home. Lots of that furniture was stinky and uncomfortable anyway.”

“If your uncle knew …”

“Awright, he’s spinning in his grave. If he’d set it up so that I could take out a mortgage on this place everything would be fine. I wouldn’t have had to sell the furniture to a robber and I wouldn’t be in such a spot either. Under normal circumstances I could raise at least ten thousand on a first mortgage on this house.”

“There’s not a decent sentiment in your body.”

“I eat babies too, you know. Come around tomorrow morning at
eight and you’ll see. Listen, do you mind sleeping on a mattress on the floor? It’s only for a couple of weeks.”

“Couldn’t you sell the mattress?”

“Where’s Virgie?”

“In the taxi. Is there a bed for him at least?”

“Oh, you’re smart. You’re so smart.”

Duddy couldn’t sleep that night. Long after Yvette had scrubbed the floors and done her best to make a huge empty house seem hospitable, even as she slept exhausted on the mattress beside him, he scratched his head, bit his fingernails, and lit one cigarette after another. Fifteen hundred dollars, he thought, it might as well be fifteen thousand. Blood, he heard, sold for twenty-five dollars a quart. McGill paid something like ninety-eight cents for a man’s body. Was there anything valuable he could steal? His stamp collection, that ought to be worth fifty dollars. Jeez, he thought, if one thousand people would lent me two dollars each or two thousand people one dollar each … This is crazy, he thought. It’s not that much money, speaking objectively. I can raise it.

When Yvette rose at seven Duddy was in the kitchen, preparing an enormous omelet. He was singing. “I’m going to call Hugh Thomas Calder,” he said.

“Don’t count on anything.”

“He likes me. He takes a fatherly interest.”

“Just don’t count on anything.”

“What’s fifteen hundred dollars to him? Beer money.”

“Are you going to eat all those eggs?”

“They’re for the three of us. Hey, we could rent rooms here. There’s nothing in the will that says I can’t have friends staying with me.”

“What would your tenants do for furniture?”

“Sometimes I wonder what I’d do without you. Really, you know. You’re wrong about Calder. I’m his pal. Maybe I ought to ask him for more than fifteen hundred. A round figure, you know. Not too little,
either. Those guys are never impressed if all you need is pin money. You’ve got to use psychology.”

Yvette went to wake Virgil.

“Well there, Mr. Roseboro, how do you like your new abode?” Duddy asked.

“He’s in a good mood,” Virgil said.

“Yes,” Yvette said. “Take care.”

“I’ll ask him for five thousand,” Duddy said. “Excuse me.” And he went to phone.

“Does Duddy need more money?” Virgil asked.

“Don’t you say a word,” Yvette said.

“But-”

“You heard me, Virgil.”

“That son of a bitch,” Duddy said, re-entering the room, “that king among anti-Semites, I’ll see him strung from a lamppost yet.”

“What happened?”

“Coffee, please,” Duddy shouted.

“You were in such a good mood,” Virgil said, grinning.

“You know, Virgil, sometimes you just give me one long pain in the –”

“Duddy!”

“Coffee, please.”

“All right. Here you are. Now what did he say?”

“If I have to make it my life’s work I’m going to see that Calder
dreck
busted. Anti-Semitism’s gone out of style. He doesn’t know that yet but. I’m going to spread the word around about him. Hitler, that’s what he is. Worse, maybe.”

“What did he say, Duddy?”

“He won’t lend me the money. He had hoped we were friends. What in the hell’s a friend for if you can’t borrow money from him when you need it? He – he’s hurt. Can you imagine? I’ve hurt the bastard’s feelings. Oh, those white men. He ought to swallow a golf ball, that’s what. The core of the ball should be stuffed with cancers
and it should take years melting in his stomach,” he said, getting up.

“Aren’t you going to drink your coffee?”

“Aw, stuff it. I’m going out for a walk.”

Duddy walked down to Park Avenue with his head lowered and his hands stuffed belligerently into his pockets. Guys rob banks every day, he thought, they rake in fortunes on the ponies, and me? Aw. Maybe, he thought, I should try Dingleman again? But he decided there was no point. A rich wife, he thought, that’s what I need, but that kind of a deal takes time. You just can’t find and pursue and bleed one in a week. All that work, he thought, so much struggle, heartache, nights without sleep, scheming, lying, sweats, fevers, and for what?
Bubkas
. I’m a failure. All I needed was to be born rich. All I needed was money in the crib and I would have grown up such a fine, lovable guy. A kidder. A regular prince among men. God damn it to hell, he thought, why was I born the son of a dope? Why couldn’t my old man have been Hugh Thomas Calder or Rubin, even? What’s fifteen hundred bucks anyway? A piss in the ocean, that’s what. But I haven’t got it.

Duddy thought of forging Mr. Cohen’s signature on a check, depositing it to his own account, and writing another check against it, but dismissed the idea as unsound. There was a black market in babies, he’d read that in
Time
, but it was just his luck not even to have one of those. Maybe, he thought, if I got a passport, mailed it to Hersh, and asked him to sell it for me in Paris … He’d never do it. (There’s not enough time, either.) The stock market, he thought, guys with no brains are shoveling it in like snow, but you’ve got to have a stake to start with. Suicide? Boy, would they ever be sorry to see me go. Virgil would –
Virgil!

Wow, he thought suddenly, smacking the side of his face, why didn’t I ever think of that before?

“Jesus Christ almighty!”

Yvette was waxing the dining room floor when Duddy returned from his walk. He came with a bouquet of flowers for her, a book of poems for Virgil, and a bottle of whisky.

“You got the money?” she said.

“No.”

“You’re sick?”

“Wrong again.”

Duddy waited resdessly, answering questions with curt nods, until Yvette went out to do the shopping. Then, turning his most expansive smile on Virgil, he asked, “Join me in a drink, kid?”

“A small one.”

“You know something, Virgie, the two of us just don’t sit around and chew the fat enough any more. We don’t know each other as well as we could.”

Virgil ducked his head. He grinned.

“Once,” Duddy began, “when we had the apartment on Tupper Street, I interrupted you while you were writing a letter to your father.”

“That’s right. I remember.”

“Now you’re obviously one of my most treasured friends, but –”

“Gee whiz, Duddy.”

“– but what do I know about your father? Nothing. Maybe –”

“I’ll tell you all about him,” Virgil began enthusiastically. “My father’s name is John. He was born on January 18, 1901. He’s five foot ten with graying hair and lovely blue eyes and –”

“Maybe …
I mean for all I know he’s …” Duddy hesitated. He jumped up and began to chew his nails again. “…     well, a man of means, as they say.”

Virgil looked grave.

“Virgie?”

He averted his eyes.

“I’m talking to you, Virgie.”

“Well, he’s not exactly broke.”

“Here, old chap, let me refresh your drink.”

“No thanks. I think I’ve had enough.”

“Aw, Gwan.” Duddy poured him a stiff one. “Cheers.”

Virgil hesitated.

“Cheers, Virgie”

“Cheers.”

“You know, Virgie, we’re buddies. Real buddies. Isn’t that true?”

“Sure, Duddy.”

“And a friend in need, as they say, is a friend indeed. Right?”

Virgil, looking somewhat bewildered, a little oppressed, said, “Yvette ought to be back soon, huh?”

“Sure. How’s your poetry coming along?”

“All right, I guess. No, as a matter of fact, my muse hasn’t exactly been –”

“Jeez, I wish I had your talent.”

“Do you mean that, Duddy?”

“Why, I’ll bet E. E. Cummings would give his left ball for some of the stuff you’ve written. You make that Patchen look sick. Someday, boy, I’m going to be proud to have known you when.”

“Would you like me to read you some of my more recent efforts?” Virgil asked, and he began to wheel his chair towards the door.

“Later. Here, let me refresh your drink.”

“But I haven’t even finished this one.”

“Aw. Gwan. Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

Duddy sat down, rose quickly, and began to pace. He cracked his knuckles. “You know what I’ve been asking myself, Virgie? Where did you and Yvette get all the money to cover your hospital bills? How come Yvette was able to put her hands on three hundred bucks for the notary? Questions like that. That’s what I’ve been asking myself.”

Virgil’s head began to droop.

“How much have you got, Virgie,” Duddy asked, kneeling beside his wheelchair, “and where did you get it?”

“I’m not supposed to say. I promised Yvette.”

“Aha.”

“She made me swear I wouldn’t lend you one cent. She says I can’t afford to gamble.”

“She’s right too, you know,” Duddy said, rising. “That girl’s certainly got her head screwed on right.” The bitch, he thought.

Virgil smiled, relieved.

“But I’d never dream of asking you for a loan, Virgie. I’m only inquiring because I want to help you to invest your money wisely. Let’s say you had as much as five thousand,” Duddy said tentatively, never taking his eyes off Virgil, “or maybe ten … Ten, Virgie?”

“Well, I …” Virgil looked away. “Yvette’s taking a long time,” he said feebly.

“Where’d you get it?”

“My grandfather left me some. Well, in his will he left me … some, you know …”

“No kidding?”

“You mustn’t tell Yvette I told you.”

“Of course I won’t. But you know what, Virgie? That money’s rotting in the bank like a lousy old apple left in the sun. Every day you leave it there it’s worth less and less. It depreciates. You know what the real value of the dollar is today? Forty-five cents. Tomorrow it’ll be forty-four and next year, wham, forty maybe … A guy’s got to invest his money and invest it wisely. Where is it, Virgie?”

“What?” he asked, lifting his head heavily.

“Where do you keep the money? In a Montreal bank.”

“The Bank of Nova Scotia on Park Avenue,” he said, his voice beginning to wobble.

“You don’t say?”

Virgil bit his lip. He nodded.

“Are you O.K., Virgie?” Duddy asked, kneeling beside him again.

Virgil nodded again. “A headache,” he said.

“I’m only asking you all these questions because I want to help. You know what, Virgie? Real estate, that’s the thing. All the wise money’s going into real estate today.”

It seemed to Duddy that Virgil’s eyes were glassy, but he didn’t
feel so hot himself, his own hands were clammy. It’s not like I’m enjoying this, he thought.

“I’ll tell you something, Virgie,” Duddy said, pouring himself another drink, “I close my eyes and before me I see a lovely spread of land before a lake, the land is all yours, and on it is a pretty white house and in the basement is a printing press … Health Handicappers, needy ones, come and go … I see you in the picture … Happy?
Happy”

“I can’t,” Virgil screamed so sudden and loud that Duddy started.

“Wha’?”

Virgil gripped the arms of his wheelchair. His eyes were bloodshot. “I promised Yvette. I can’t.”

“Virgie, what are you yelling about? You can’t what?”

“Yes,” Yvette said, entering the room. “You can’t what, Virgil?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Here comes the United States Cavalry. Right on the dot too.”

“What were you doing to him, Duddy?”

“Breaking his arms. Trying out the Chinese water torture. Jeez.”

“I can’t,” Virgil muttered. His head fell, bobbed between his shoulders, and he began to sob brokenly.

Yvette set down her parcels with a bang and wheeled Virgil out of the dining room. “I’ll speak to you later,” she said to Duddy.

Duddy poured himself a stiff drink. Speak your heart out, you lousy, chazer-
eating
Florence Nightingale, he thought. A lot I care. I’m going to get that land no matter what, see? I’m not giving up now, he thought, taking a big gulp of his drink. Duddy sat down on the mattress and began to drink even more quickly. An hour passed before Yvette returned.

“He’s sleeping,” Yvette said. “What did you do to upset him?”

“I bopped him one. Wham! Right on the spine.”

“You’re drunk.”

“A big deal.”

“Pour me one.”

“You’ve got hands. Pour yourself one. I’m going out,” he said. “I require some ozone.”

Duddy didn’t return for dinner. He stayed away for hours. He walked all the way downtown, played the pinball machines, drank some, chatted with whores in chromium-plated bars, stared into department store windows, weaving, his nose pressed against the refreshingly cold plate glass, drank some more, walked his feet sore, rested, was told to move on twice, and finally staggered into a taxi.

Yvette had waited up for him. “Did you try to get any money out of Virgil this afternoon?” she asked.

“F— Virgil,” he said. “You don’t even ask how I am? Maybe –”

“How are you?” she asked.

“Drunk and sad.”

“Now then, did you try to get any money out of –”

“You’ve got a voice like a knife being sharpened,” he said. He began to giggle.

“Answer me.”

“Has he got any?”

Yvette hesitated.

“Jeez. Has he?”

“No,” she said.

“Listen,” he said, “you’re beginning to remind me of my family. That’s a fact. I’m always in the wrong.
Why?”

Yvette’s face flushed.