1

Duddy’s winter was exceptionally prosperous, and happy too. Mr. Friar had succeeded in making something of the Seigal bar-mitzvah movie and Duddy had picked up a small profit, although he let it go at a reduced price. He did extremely well, too, with his third bar-mitzvah movie and two of weddings. He hired a girl to help Yvette. Making commercial films for television, it seemed to Duddy, might turn out to be even more profitable than — as he called them — his “social featurettes.” He began to think in terms of larger offices with a studio of his own and he made several trips to Toronto to find out what he could about industrial films and the profits to be made there. Meanwhile, on the distribution side, he was breaking even, better sometimes, and building up lots of goodwill. Whenever it was possible he showed films free of charge at, for instance, a Knights of Pythias evening for underprivileged kids or any charity event in Ste. Agathe. He was determined to make friends with the mayor there and he succeeded. He rented his films by the week and Virgil’s salary had to be paid anyway. Lots of his free showings got him mentions in Mel West’s What’s What once he got a whole paragraph to himself. It read: ADD MONTREALERS WITH A HEART: Up-and-coming cineman Duddy Kravitz informs me he’s rarin’ to show movies free any time, anywhere, if the cause is worthy… Kravitz, soon to celebrate his first year in show biz, has three original productions under his belt already, and his plans for the future include a feature-length comedy production with Ourtown’s Cuckoo Kaplan… Howdy dood it? “I work eighteen hours a day,” he says, “and if I drive my staff hard they know I’ve always got my schonzola to the grindstone too.” How old is he? Nineteen! So don’t let any socialist sad sacks tell you it’s no longer possible to go from rags to riches in this country… Born and bred on St. Urbain Street, Duddy was working as waiter not many moons ago… reminder: For those free films DIAL MOVIES.

Virgil never found a room. He stayed on in the apartment — he was on the road three or four days a week anyway — and Duddy got to enjoy having him there. With his second week’s salary Virgil bought Duddy a record player and he never returned from a trip to the Laurentians without flowers or a box of chocolates for Yvette and a trick cigarette lighter or maybe a book for Duddy. Only twice during the first month did he waken with a bruised and bloody mouth.

One of Virgil’s poems was published in Attack!, mimeographed magazine published by some fighting young followers of Ezra Pound. It was called “Himmler Has Only Got One Ball.”

“At least this one rhymes,” Duddy said, “but why don’t you try something longer. You know, with a story.”

Virgil had met the editor of Attack!, fierce little man with a broken nose, at Duddy’s apartment soon after it had become a gathering place for bohemians. That came about through Duddy’s acquisition of the record player and his discovery that he was a music lover. Duddy bought Beethoven’s nine symphonies on long-playing records and listened to them in order. He kept a date stamp and ink pad next to his records and each time he listened to one of them he stamped the date on the album. He also began to collect Schubert and Mozart and Brahms and that’s how he ran into Hersh, his old F.F.H.S. schoolmate. Hersh had come into the record store to collect an extremely rare African war chant record he had ordered some months before.

“For Christ’s sake,” Duddy shouted. “Hersh, of all people.”

Hersh wore his hair long. He had grown a beard.

“Hey,” Duddy said, punching him lightly on the shoulder, “where’s your violin and the cup, eh?”

But Hersh made a sour face.

“I was only kidding,” Duddy said.

Hersh, who had campaigned against the 7¢chocolate bar and come second in the province and won a scholarship to McGill, had quit the university. Duddy was astonished. “Jeez,” he said.

Hersh was no longer short, he’d lost his squint, but he was still somewhat pimply. He had grown up to be a big, chunky man with a long severe head and enormous black eyes. “There was no sense in staying on,” he said. “I had no intention of becoming the apogee of the Jewish bourgeois dream. Namely a doctor or a lawyer.”

“Aha,” Duddy said.

“I think I’ve succeeded in purging myself of the ghetto mentality.”

Duddy took Hersh to his apartment for a drink.

“A writer,” Duddy said. “Can you beat that? How are you doing?”

“Writing isn’t a career. It’s a vocation. I’m not in it for the money.”

“No offense. Publish anything?”

Hersh quickly told him what he thought about editors. He said his writing wasn’t commercial. He pointed out that he didn’t get the usual printed rejection slips, but personal notes from editors, always asking if they could see more of his work.

“Sure,” Duddy said, “but have you published anything?”

“No.”

“Well, some people hit it off right away. Others struggle for years. I’m sure you’ll be famous. I’ll bet you’ll be another Ellery Queen.”

“I don’t write detective stories.”

Hersh told him that he was going to Paris in the autumn.

“A St. Urbain Street boy. Isn’t that something. Boy, I understand that the dames there…”

“That’s a clichéIt isn’t true.”

Duddy grinned. “Hoohaw,” he said, and he poured Hersh another drink. “It’s so good to see you. We ought to have reunions like. When I think of all the swell characters I used to know at F.F.H.S. Hey, remember the time that lush-head MacPherson accused me of killing his wife?”

“He’s in an asylum.”

“Wha’?”

“He’s in Verdun. I think I’d better be off. Thanks for the drink.”

“Aw, come on. Sit down.”

“Why pretend we’re friends, Duddy? We hated each other at school.”

Virgil arrived and Duddy sent him out for some smoked meat and more liquor. “Virgie’s a poet. He writes blank verse. Like Patchen.”

“Do you read Patchen?”

“Sure.”

“He’s a minor talent.”

“No kidding?”

Yvette came and Hersh decided to stay. He had a date, though.

“Tell the broad to come here,” Duddy said.

The girl came and brought two others with her. Mr. Friar arrived. One of Hersh’s friends got on the phone and by ten-thirty there were twelve people in the apartment, including the fierce editor of Attack! sent Virgil out for more booze and began a high score competition on the pinball machine. When the party finally broke up at two A.M. or thereabouts he shouted, “Come again. Come any time.”

They did, too, and they brought still more friends. Yvette was amused. “I never thought I’d see the day when you were played for a sucker. Maybe there’s still hope for you.”

“Hersh is going to be another Tolstoi. Boy, are you ever a killjoy.”

“All right,” Yvette said, “but if you think I’m going to clean up this mess every night… “

“Intellectual stimulation is good for you,” Duddy said. “I read in Fortune nowadays many executives go to the university in the summer to read up on philosophy and shit like that. It broadens you.”

Virgil showed Yvette a book of poems by the editor of Attack! signed it for me,” he said.

“He tried to sell me a copy too.”

“Jeez, Yvette, a poet’s gotta live too. Have a heart.”

“Don’t tell me you bought one off him?”

“What if I did?”

One or another of Hersh’s crowd dropped in every night. Keiley was the noisiest and the most troublesome. He left burning cigarettes everywhere and when Yvette got angry with him he said, “A man shouldn’t be dominated by his possessions.” The hardest to get rid of, however, was the fierce editor of Attack! never left until the last bottle was empty. Virgil adored him. After the others had gone he would sit on the floor and Blum would recite his latest poems to him in a booming voice. “I can’t understand it,” Blum said, “when you think how well known the other poets of my generation are… Spender and Dylan and George Barker… I can’t understand it…”

When he had too much to drink and began to cry Blum reminded Duddy of Cuckoo Kaplan. Hersh didn’t like Blum. “An unsigned copy of his poems,” he said, “is a collector’s item.”

But Hersh was hard and cynical only when the others were around. Alone with Duddy he was a different sort of person. “Watch out for some of the others,” he once warned Duddy. “They don’t understand your kind of generosity. They poke fun at you behind your back.”

Yvette agreed. “They’re taking advantage of you,” she said.

“Gwan. The trouble with you, Yvette, is you just can’t understand people who are interested in the higher things.”

“Like what?”

“Man does not live by bread alone,” Duddy said.

It was a rare night when Duddy came home from the office and found nobody sitting in the apartment. He ran up enormous food and liquor bills but Hersh’s crowd gave him more pleasure than he had ever had before. There were other guests too. Max and Lennie came occasionally and Bernie Altman was invited to dinner at least once a week. Duddy, taking him into his confidence one night, told him about Lac St. Pierre, and with Yvette’s help the two boys constructed a relief model of the area. That took them weeks of painstaking work on the floor with balsam wood, flour, paints and airplane glue while Yvette fed them sandwiches and coffee and outside the snow fell. There were fierce arguments too over the site of the camp dining room and whether or not it was in good taste to have the boys’ and girls’ bunkhouses laid out to spell D.K. Bernie lent Duddy books by Mumford and spoke passionately to him about Le Corbusier, but though Duddy swore he would have no other architect design Lac St. Pierre, he still felt that some of Bernie’s designs were a little too unusual.

“You’re being too arty-farty. Buck Rogers won’t be sending his kids to my camp but Mr. Cohen might, if you get what I mean?”

During the winter Duddy purchased two more small lots on the lake. Yvette enjoyed the evenings with Bernie enormously — it was good to have Duddy home and happy for a change instead of pursuing deals — but she was also frightened. More and more it began to look as if one day he would actually own all the land surrounding Lac St. Pierre and what then, she thought. How in the world would he ever raise the thousands and thousands of dollars needed to develop the area? Impossible, she thought, and the day he discovered it would be dreadful.

Virgil didn’t agree. “Duddy can do anything,” he said.

“You think so?”

“I love him.”

Duddy saw other friends too. He was careful to keep up his contact with Hugh Thomas Calder and he had reason to believe he was making a hit there until the evening he brought up the scrap deal with Cohen. This seemed to displease Mr. Calder even though Duddy, speaking on Cohen’s behalf, offered him two-fifty more a ton than he had been getting up to now.

“I suppose,” Mr. Calder had said, pushing his plate away, “that I should have expected something like this from you. I had hoped we were friends.”

“Sure we are,” Duddy had replied, flushing. “But friends help each other.”

“Certainly.”

“Aren’t you getting more for the scrap than you got before? Mr. Cohen will do nicely too; that’s true. This deal is to your mutual advantage.”

“I expect,” Mr. Calder had said, “that you’re earning a good commission on this?”

Something had risen in Duddy’s stomach. His eyes filled. “I look after myself,” he had said. “Why not?”

“Why not, indeed?”

“Listen, Mr. Calder, the truth of the matter is it’s not the money. The commission I get from Cohen is more trouble than it’s worth. My plate is full, as they say. But I’m in your debt because of what you did for Lennie. Speaking frankly, I also happen to know that your reputation in the Jewish community is nothing to shout about. There are even some people who say you’re a lousy anti-Semite. That’s crazy, Iknow. But public opinion counts for plenty in this day and age, a man like you needs the goodwill of all sectors of the community, and that’s why I put myself out to push through the Cohen deal. It’s a good thing for word to get out that you’re not against doing business with people of my faith.”

The deal had gone through, but a month had passed before Duddy had seen Mr. Calder again and this time he was much cooler.

White men, Duddy thought. Ver gerharget. them you just didn’t make deals. You had to diddle. They were like those girls you had to discuss God or the Book-of-the-Month with so all the time they could pretend not to know you had a hand up their skirt, but just try to take it away. Just try, buster. He’s offended, Duddy thought, but he made the deal all the same. Two-fifty more a ton, sure. I suppose he wanted me to play golf with him for eighteen years first or something. I haven’t got that much time to waste, he thought.

Time became an obsession with him and he was soon trying to do two and even three things at once. He kept self-improvement books beside him in the car to glance at when he stopped for a red light. He did exercises while he listened to his records and in bed with Yvette he memorized stuff from How to Increase Your Word Power she went on and on about a scary but horny dream she had had or some dumb story about her childhood. After his anger against Mr. Calder had cooled he bought a set of golf clubs and an instruction book by Ben Hogan and practiced whenever he could. One weekend when Yvette had gone to Ste. Agathe to stay with an old friend and Mr. Friar was out of town somewhere, he invited Bernie round to teach him how to play bridge. That, he felt, was important too.

“Listen,” he said, “what kind of a friend are you? You must know lots of nice Jewish girls in Outremont. Why don’t you ever fix me up?”

“What about Yvette?” Bernie asked, embarrassed.

“Yvette? I could never marry her. She’s my Girl Friday.”

“Does she know that?”

“It’s one of the first things I ever told her.”

So Bernie arranged a double date.

“Tell me something about this Marlene kid first,” Duddy asked.

She was pretty, a sweet girl, and studying sociology at McGill. Bernie pleaded with Duddy to take it easy, though. She might neck a little, but no more.

“A bang I can get any time, Bernie. What’s her father in?” Mr. Cooper owned Cooper Knitting. He had no sons. “That’s for me,” Duddy said.

But he had a lousy time, so did Marlene, and for Bernie it was an awful evening. Duddy behaved in a stiff, unnatural way, and he was embarrassingly aggressive about paying all the bills wherever they went. He insisted on discussing Shakespeare and Patchen with Marlene and whether or not Canada would be wise to pull out of the UN. “She’s a very refined girl,” Duddy whispered to Bernie at one point. “I think she goes for me too. But help me, for Christ’s sake. I’ll dance the next one with Charlotte and you build me up to her while I’m gone. O.K.?”

But while Duddy was gone Bernie had to pacify Marlene. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t understand what’s got into him tonight.”

“What a drip! He told me Cooper Knitting turned out some of the finest sweaters on the market. He wanted me to tell my father that.”

Marlene wouldn’t go out with him again. There were other girls, but few of them would see him twice.

“Do you think I’m ugly?” Duddy asked Virgil once. “Be objective.”

“There’s so much character in your face.”

“I think so too, you know. I just can’t understand…”

He couldn’t understand, but he was relieved too. I’ve got plenty of time to find myself a rich wife, he thought. Meanwhile, with Yvette, he could be himself. She came from a poor family too and she knew that a guy’s underwear got dirty sometimes and didn’t look disgusted if you scratched your balls absently while you read Life the living room floor. It was true that she didn’t have class like Marlene or some of those other Outremont broads but he didn’t have to watch himself with her every minute, just in case he did something vulgar. With those rich girls probably a guy couldn’t even read in the toilet. He didn’t know, not for sure, but that’s how it looked to him anyway. She’ll have to have lots money, he thought.

During that winter when Duddy prospered and made so many new friends he did not have much time for his family. He kept his eye on Lennie, however, and whenever he was in vicinity of Eddy’s he dropped in to see if his father was there. “Look who’s here,” Eddy would say. “Montreal’s own Cecil B. DeMille-nik.”

Eddy’s hair was beginning to fall out.

“Where’s Debrofsky?”

“Retired to the pastures. Like Whirlaway.”

Max was depressed. “It’s not like it used to be,” he said.

“Don’t worry, Daddy. You’ll be able to retire soon too. Lennie and me will look after you.”

“I don’t like the way you’re living. I don’t approve. I’m beginning to see I should have given you more of a religious upbringing.”

Then one day Duddy ran into Uncle Benjy on the street. “Jeez,” he said, “I hardly recognized you. Have you ever lost weight.”

“An operation. Luckily it was only an ulcer. Well, Duddel, how are you?”

“Can’t complain.”

“And your grandfather?”

“I haven’t seen him in weeks. But I’m going to visit him tomorrow afternoon, that’s definite.”

But first Duddy phoned Lennie. “Listen,” he said, “what’s with Uncle Benjy? He looks terrible.”

“Auntie Ida left him for good.”

“Wha’?”

“She wants a divorce. There’s another man. Somebody she met in Miami.”

What a family, Duddy thought, what a bunch we are.

“I guess it should have been expected,” Lennie said. “You know.”

“Is that how come he’s so skinny all of a sudden?”

Lennie hesitated.

“Tell me,” Duddy shouted.

“Daddy’s here,” Lennie whispered. “I can’t talk.”

Duddy found his grandfather seated next to the Quebec heater in the shoe repair shop. “I won’t beat around the bush,” Duddy said.

“Good.”

“Maybe it’s not in my place, Zeyda, don’t you think whatever it is you have against Uncle Benjy it’s time to forgive and forget?”

“How can I go and see him now?”

“But you used to be so close. Can’t you let bygones be bygones?”

“Your Uncle Benjy is no idiot and he knows me very well. If I went to see him all of a sudden he’d understand right away why.” Simcha put the kettle on top of the Quebec heater and brought the bottle out. “All I’d have to do is ring his bell and he’d know it was no ulcer.”

“Does Auntie Ida know?”

“She’s in New York.”

“With the other man?”

Simcha nodded. “Somebody should tell her. She has a right to know.”

“Yeah.”

“Benjy can’t even get into the States any more. They say he’s a communist.”

“Guess who goes? Shit.”

Simcha served him tea and brandy. “You have to be very, very careful because if she does come back with you he mustn’t suspect why. Your Uncle Benjy is a proud man.”

“There’s no love lost between us. You know that, I hope.”

“You don’t understand each other.”

“I worked for him once,” Duddy said.

“We’re a small family, Duddele.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t going, did I? It’s just that he’d do anything for Lennie and he’s always made fun of me and my ambitions. I’m living with a shiksa,” said.

“I know.”

Duddy rose. “There are lots of scientists working on it,” he said. “Maybe they’ll find a cure for it before…”

“Maybe.”

Outside, the spring thaw had begun. Driving past the mountain, Duddy saw clumps of dirty yellow grass thrusting through the snow. There were no more skiers and the streets were black with slush. Stopping for a red light, Duddy was taken aback to see Linda Rubin seated with Jerry Dingleman in the back of his Cadillac. Duddy averted his eyes, hoping Linda wouldn’t see him. He felt like sleeping, that’s what, and for the first time in weeks he hoped there would be nobody in the apartment when he got there.

“Hullo?”

No answer. But Duddy had no sooner stripped down to his shorts than the doorbell rang.

“It’s Yvette. Let me in, Duddy.”

He opened the door. “Listen,” he said, “I’m getting into the bath. Mix a couple of drinks and come in.”

Yvette brought one of the kitchen chairs with her. “Here,” she said, “take a long sip and prepare yourself for a shock. Friar’s run off.”

“Are you sure he’s not off on a drunk somewhere?”

“He’s gone for good this time. He took the cameras with him.”

“Jeez. I thought he was so happy working for me.”

Yvette laughed.

“A big joke. We’ve got the Hershorn wedding coming up in two weeks.”

“We’ll have to hire Reyburn full time, that’s all.”

Reyburn had worked on the last two films. Duddy didn’t like him. “Let’s try to find somebody else,” he said.

“There isn’t enough time.”

“Did you say he took the cameras?”

“The insurance will cover that.”

“What a bastard. He didn’t even say good-by to me.”

“He left because he was in love with me.”

“Look,” Duddy said, “it floats.”

“He asked me to marry him.”

“Are you kidding? He was my friend. I liked him.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Aw, you’re crazy. He wasn’t in love with you.”

Yvette threw her drink in Duddy’s face.

“What in the hell’s going on here?” he asked. But Yvette rushed out of the bathroom and by the time Duddy had wrapped a towel around himself he heard the outside door of the apartment slam. Virgil had arrived, he was typing at the table by the window. “When are you going to find yourself a room?” Duddy shouted.

Virgil flushed.

“Oh, what’s the use? Were you writing a poem? I mean I hope I’m not disturbing you or something.”

“I was writing a letter to my father. You know what I said, Mr. Kravitz?”

“No, I don’t know what you said, Mr. Kravitz, and I don’t give a shit either.”

“I wrote him that one day you’d be as big a hero to epileptics as Branch Rickey is to the Negroes.”

“Come again, please?”

“Look at it this way, Mr. Kravitz. Before Branch Rickey hired Jackie Robinson —”

“Come here, Virgie. We’re going to play high score. For twenty dollars but.”

“Gee whiz, Mr. Kravitz, I couldn’t take any more of your money. I’d feel —”

“For Christ’s sake!”

“You’re upset. Is it something Yvette said?”

“Why don’t you just kiss my ass and die!”

Duddy gulped down his drink, secured the towel round his waist, and ran down to Yvette’s apartment. She was lying on the bed with a book.

“Are we not having dinner tonight?” he asked.

No answer.

“We’re not speaking, I see.”

Yvette turned her back to him and Duddy stuck out his tongue and made an obscene gesture. Turning around, she almost caught him. Duddy lifted his hand quickly to his mouth and coughed twice delicately.

“Did it ever occur to you,” Yvette asked, “that you’re still under age and all the deeds are made out in my name?”

“What is this? Traitor’s night on Tupper Street? I’m hungry. Make dinner.”

“Go to hell.”

“Now, is that a way to talk?”

“Are you to teach me “Listen, I just got an idea. Why don’t you move upstairs and Virgil move down here? Living this way is crazy.”

“Are you trying to cut expenses?”

“Are you ever in a mood. Boy! Did Friar write you little poemsy-woemsies?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“You’re a real poet’s delight, aren’t you?”

“You don’t know how to treat a woman. That’s your trouble.”

“Aw, let’s eat, eh? I’m starved.”

“He was in love with me, you know. It was nice.”

“I’m tickled for you.”

“Wouldn’t you ever be surprised if I did get married one of these days?”

“Guys stop you on the street to propose left, right, and center. Oh Christ, I almost forgot. Get me a sleeper on the train to New York tomorrow night.”

“Why are you going to New York?” .

Duddy told her about Uncle Benjy.

“Does it always have to be you?” she asked.

“That’s show biz, I guess.” Duddy stopped, his face went white. “He’s going to die, Yvette. Isn’t that terrible?”