4

THE BABY’S PIERCING HUNGRY HOWL JOLTED NANCY awake, savagely, out of a sleep fathoms deep, her dream cut short.

“Jake, could you please rock the baby until I pee and –”

Not there. Nancy wavered only briefly, between bassinet and toilet – the baby’s needs, hers – before she scooped him to her aching swollen bosom lest his screaming wake Sammy.

And Molly.

And Mrs. Hersh.

The very morning of his mother’s arrival, Jake, his manner fiendishly sweet, had said, “I suppose we must reconcile ourselves to the fact that you’re on one of those twenty-one day return flights?”

“I’m going to stay here for just as long as I’m needed, ketzelle.”

Mrs. Hersh had flown over a week before the trial to be with them during, as she put it, “Jake’s ordeal,” and it fell to Nancy, as if she didn’t have sufficient troubles, to obviate an ugly collision between them by filling tense silences with prattle about the children and tedious comparisons between British and Canadian life, the sort of small talk which propelled Jake, liberated but unappreciative, out of the room. Jake’s behavior was atrocious, devious as well. He ricocheted between icy cruelty to his mother and what she, understandably, came to cherish as acts of filial kindness.

Nancy got used to him coming abruptly awake at three a.m.

“Didn’t my mother say,” he would ask, “that she was going shopping in the West End first thing in the morning?”

“Yes.”

Then he would scramble into his dressing gown and shoot outside to make sure that there were no bicycles, scooters, or other potentially treacherous obstacles in her path.

“Imagine,” Mrs. Hersh would say to Nancy, “this morning he insisted on helping me across the street to the bus stop. That’s some son I’ve got there.”

“He’s one in a million, Mrs. Hersh.”

And at night in bed, Jake, lighting one cigarillo off another, pouring himself yet another cognac, would say, “You let her go to bed without reminding her to take her medicine. Great, fine. That’s a big help. Women her age get strokes just like that. Boom. Heart trouble runs in the family too.”

“But she’s your mother. In spite of everything she’s –”

“You’ve got to watch her like a hawk. Like a hawk, you hear? All I need is for her to be with us for years …” Bedridden.

Then, only last night, his first question on coming home from the Old Bailey was, “How’s my mother?” But once her continued good health was established, he devoted the rest of the evening to tormenting her with Old Bailey lore.

“Things have improved, Maw. I mean these days you can actually plead not guilty.” And he regaled her, savoring each oy, rising gleefully to her heaviest sighs, about the Press Room that had once been set up beneath the Old Bailey for administering Peine Forte et Dure; and how prisoners had been spread-eagled upon the stone-flagged floor, their arms secured, and heavy weights laid upon their bodies until their ribs cracked or they pleaded to the charge on which they were being held. “Mind you,” he added, closing in, “even this was tempered with mercy. Prisoners were allowed a wooden spike under their backs to hasten penetration. With the conspicuous exception of one Major Strangeways who, in 1658, refused to admit to the murder of his brother-in-law and was so strong as to withstand the iron and stones that were piled on his chest. Fortunately, Strangeways was blessed with good companions, and a softhearted warder gave them permission to stand on him, hastening death. And there, Maw, you have the origin of the expression a friend in need. Like my pal Luke. Isn’t that right, Nancy?”

Mrs. Hersh, an early riser, usually lay in wait in her bedroom until she heard the children in the hall, a grizzly old hen perched on the edge of her bed, her flat brown eyes melancholy. So this morning, typically, when Nancy started downstairs with the baby in her arms at seven thirty, followed by Molly, followed by Sammy, Mrs. Hersh opened her door to join them. Mrs. Hersh was wearing pink flowery pajamas and slippers with baby-blue pompoms. The winged tips of her glasses were silver-speckled. “Good morning, my precious ones,” she said.

“Got a present for me?” Sammy asked.

“Devil! Such a devil!”

“Me too, it’s not fair,” Molly said.

“You hear, it’s not fair. Do you hear how I’m being threatened? Do you hear? Already yet. I could eat you. Both of you!”

Nancy discovered Jake asleep on the sitting room floor, moaning.

“Oh.” Mrs. Hersh’s big stricken brown eyes went from her son to the empty glass beside him on the floor. She brought a hand to her mouth, appalled. “Oh, my. I’ll get the C-H-I-L-D-R-E-N out of the way immediately.”

“He’s asleep,” Nancy said evenly. “He’s asleep, that’s all,” and she shut the sitting room door softly behind her.

Jake surfaced to have his mother’s voice come clawing at him out of the kitchen. She must have Molly on her lap again, he thought.

“Sweetie-pie! My precious one! Beauty! Such a face. Have you ever seen such a face? Well, do you love your granny? Tell me.”

No answer.

“Say I love you. I-LOVE-YOU.”

“Ilubyou.”

“You hear? She loves me! She loves me, the beauty.”

“Would you care for some coffee, Mrs. Hersh?”

“Only if you’re making.”

“But I make coffee every morning, Mrs. Hersh.”

“And who said no?”

Molly began to whine.

“I suppose it’s uncomfortable for her, the dirty diaper. Maybe I should wake Jake.”

“Jake has never changed a nappy in his life. Let’s not wake him yet. And please, Mrs. Hersh, I’m not criticizing but –”

“Of course not, doll. Why should you?”

“– but when Jake comes in please don’t give him the long sad look. As if this was his last day on earth. Ignore him. Let him read his newspapers.”

“Certainly, doll,” Mrs. Hersh said, sighing.

Seated with them at the kitchen table, Jake read,

The doorbell rang.

“Jake!”

Does she have to disturb him? It’s such a pleasure to see him laugh.

Resentfully, Jake lowered his newspaper.

“I’ll get it,” Mrs. Hersh said, leaping up. “Let him read.”

“He’ll get it.”

Usually, Pilar would have answered the door. But she had picked this, of all times, to visit her family near Malaga, and so they would be without a housekeeper for another week.

It was the postman.

“Gorgeous day, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose you’re grateful for this sort of weather?”

This was the flip side of a record they sometimes played. Then Jake was supposed to say, At home, I’ve seen blizzards in September, and the postman would shake his fat foolish head, astonished but grateful to have been born in such a temperate and civilized climate.

Screw him. This morning Jake would say nothing. But the postman didn’t budge or hand over his mail.

“O.K., so you’ve seen the newspapers,” Jake said.

“No.”

“I don’t see how you could have missed it.”

There was, among other things, a familiar, yet all the same ominous-looking, brown envelope that had come OHMS. The tax inspector again.

“I’m sure the girl’s lying,” the postman said vehemently. Then he spoiled it by adding, “You’re just not the type,” but hopefully, quizzically.

“Neither was Christie,” Jake said, shutting the door.

Molly said, “I ate my lunch.”

“You mean breakfast, you nit,” Jake said, yanking her curly blond hair.

Molly was only four, but Sammy was seven, so it was necessary to conceal the newspapers from him. Jake retreated into the sitting room and had already begun to rip open the long brown envelope when the door began to inch open tentatively.

“Is it bad news?”

“I haven’t opened it yet, Maw.”

“You’re pleased I’ve come to stay with you. It’s a help, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Maw.”

“I’m glad. The children love me, they’re adorable.”

Jake squashed the unopened letter into his dressing gown pocket.

“I’ve been here a week and you haven’t once said how I look to you. Wouldn’t you say I carry my years well? Don’t you think I look young for my age?”

“Yes.”

“Everybody says so. Dr. Bercovitch, he adores me, when I went to see him about the lump on my breast, this one, he was amazed. Simply amazed. You’re sixty-two, he said. I don’t believe it. With such breasts. And he’s a doctor, you know. I get hot flushes, that’s all. Nature is full of amazing beauty, but it can be cruel too. Well, the lawyers will cost you plenty?”

Nancy called from the kitchen. “Darling, would you like some coffee?”

“Coming.”

Sipping coffee, pretending to be engrossed in the Guardian, Jake slid his foot along under the table until he touched Nancy. How he wished she would not nurse the baby at the kitchen table while his mother was there. Mrs. Hersh’s hot appraising eye on Nancy’s bosom enraged Jake. Suddenly Nancy let out a cry.

“Jake was a biter too, such a biter. I had tooth marks all around the nipples. He wouldn’t remember, would you, ketzelle?”

“Do you mind,” Jake asked, “if I take my coffee into the sitting room?”

But he could still hear her from there.

“Jake says I carry my years very well. He thinks I look young for my age. Of course,” Mrs. Hersh added, probing, “maybe he was just flattering?”

This once, Nancy failed to deliver reassurances.

“My jaw’s caved in a little, but listen, you can’t tell with me, my teeth they’re artificial. With others, they have them done up so white it’s pathetic. With me it isn’t vanity. Listen, I’m no fool. I don’t kid myself or go in for blue rinses. To grow old isn’t a pleasure.”

“But one must retain a certain dignity,” Nancy said in spite of herself.

“Yes, that’s the truth. But it isn’t like I was ever a raving beauty.” Shooting Nancy a hot bright look, she added, “For a beautiful woman, it’s worse, it must be utter hell to grow old.”

The baby howled briefly as Nancy moved him to another breast.

“You must take care, doll. The milk can stretch the skin something awful. You want to take care of yourself.”

Oh Nancy, Jake thought, Nancy my darling, and he began to sob. Without control. Without dignity. But with sufficient presence of mind to slip out of the sitting room and into the toilet. A torn section of the Saturday edition of the Montreal Star was folded over the radiator, opened at a full page Eaton’s ad. Sports equipment and clothes.

Eaton’s, Jake remembered, on a Saturday morning. It was Duddy, Duddy Kravitz, who took him there, only this time instead of trying to lift stuff in the toy department, they went directly to lingerie and when nobody was looking darted into the hall with changing rooms. Duddy pushed open the door just in time to gawk at a gorgeous girl stooping to snuggle into a black lace brassiere. A fat saleslady let out a shriek.

“I was only looking for my Aunt Ettie,” Duddy whined, retreating.

The saleslady snatched Duddy by the arm. “I’m going to get the manager and have you sent to reform school for life. Filthy things.”

“Aunt Ettie,” Duddy hollered.

“Oh, let him go,” the girl said.

Duddy stepped on the saleslady’s foot and they were off, scooting between shoppers, and flying down the escalator. Outside, Duddy said, “Did you see her bazooms, butt? What a handful!”

“A lot of good it did you.”

“Shmeck! Let him go, that’s what she said, but did you see where she was looking? Right at my bone. One more minute and I would have had her up against the wall.”

They found some butts, lit up, and climbed Mount Royal in search of couples in the bushes. “Everybody’s doin’ it, doin’ it,” Duddy sang, “pickin’ their nose and chewin’ it, chewin’ it.” He told Jake that once he discovered a couple stuck together, just like dogs, and had to summon the St. John’s Ambulance man to get a kettle of boiling water to break them apart. Jake didn’t believe him. But there, your lordship, you have a scene from my early sex life. How Hersh was first led astray, he thought, feeling better, much better.

Jake reached into his dressing gown pocket for a cigarillo, but came up with the most urgent of the morning mail instead. The letter from the tax inspector. The Grand Inquisitor, bless him, was keen to meet with Jake and his accountant for further epiphanies.

If only he had listened to Luke.

“I happen to know of at least three of Hoffman’s clients who are being reassessed. If I were you, Jake, I’d move elsewhere.”

“I’m scared to. He knows too much about me.”

It was the sapient Oscar Hoffman who had first incorporated him, with a capital of one hundred pounds and three directors. Jake had come to him with a tangled and confused carton of accounts, receipts, and statements from his agent, which a bony little man, a bantam with steel-rimmed glasses, had gathered together, his smile servile, retreating from Hoffman’s office as unobtrusively as he had entered. Then Hoffman had told Jake that from this day forward he would draw a salary of five thousand pounds from his company, P.A.Y.E being deducted at source. A further ten thousand pounds could be left in company accounts, for outgoings, as it were, and there would be no need for more inventive measures to be taken until such time as Jake’s earnings burgeoned, as they certainly would, Hoffman assured him, beaming.

But at the end of the first year in the troubled life of Jacob Hersh Productions, Hoffman pondered the balance sheets and was displeased. “My goodness! Five thousand pounds in withdrawals!”

“Yes. I’m afraid so.”

“Surely, you invested some of this in screen properties.” Here he paused to peer at Jake. “Paying cash, you understand.”

“Yes. Sure I did.”

Which earned him a benevolent smile.

“And on your trip to Canada in February you hired a writer, I suppose. Took options on this and that. Kept a secretary, paying her in cash.”

“Damn right I did.”

“And here I see you were in Paris … 1959 … The George V, from the twelfth of April to the fifteenth …”

Nancy in a light blue Givenchy negligée with white lace cuffs and a high collar, tied in a bow around her neck, seated by the dressing table, head inclined, combing out her long black hair.

“… was that not to meet with a producer, which would have made the trip deductible?”

Producer of my first-born son.

“Yes.”

“Good. Very good, Mr. Hersh. Now you take these accounts home again and try to recall any other business trips, properties and options paid form cash, and so forth and so on.”

In his attic aerie, Jake opened the Horseman’s cupboard and removed the journal. The entry on the first page read, “The Horseman: Born Joseph Hersh in a miner’s shanty in Yellowknife, Yukon Territories. Winter. Exact date unknown.” Following, there was a list of Joey’s aliases. Jake flipped to another section, still sadly incomplete.

There was a cross-reference to Fitzgerald, F. Scott, The Last Tycoon. Monroe Stahr “guessed that the Jews had taken over the worship of horses as a symbol – for years it had been the Cossacks mounted and the Jews afoot. Now the Jews had the horses …”

Another entry, this one penciled in, read:

The Horseman. Right now, Jake thought, maybe this very minute, he is out riding somewhere. Over the olive-green hills of the Upper Galilee or maybe in Mexico again. Or Catalonia. But, most likely, Paraguay.

“All right, then,” Uncle Abe had said, seething. “Chew on this, Jake. From what I know of your cousin, if he is actually searching for Mengele, which I don’t believe for a minute, if he is hunting this Nazi down and finds him,” Uncle Abe had shouted, pounding the table, “he won’t kill him, he’ll blackmail him.”

No, Jake thought, shutting out the obtruding voice, Uncle Abe was only trying to justify his own chicanery, no, no, and Jake imagined the avenging Horseman seeking out the villa with the barred windows off an unmarked road in the jungle, between Puerto San Vincente and the border fortress of Carlos Antonio López, on the Paraná River.

Joey, Joey.

In his mind’s eye, Jake saw him cantering on a magnificent Pleven stallion. Galloping, thundering. Planning fresh campaigns, more daring maneuvers.