The Pawnbroker (7 page)

"It goes without saying. All the great scientists have had imagination and emotion. I mean, they are not mechanics." George chuckled with the mellow exultation of someone responding to a glass of wine. "Particularly in philosophy—there you see where the two fields overlap."

"Socrates was really on the borderline of drama," Sol said, running his eyes over the ledger for appearance's sake. Appearance for whom? For George Smith or Sol Nazerman? What was the difference? So he gave the poor beast a few minutes of talk!

"I wouldn't be at all surprised if his philosophy wasn't an outgrowth of the Greek drama, a direct outgrowth. Why Herbert Spencer goes on to say..."

The Greek drama! What was all this, a madhouse? And yet he let himself form words that made brilliant sense to the incubus-ridden creature before him.

And in spite of everything, their talk created a small, faintly warming buzz in the pawnshop. It did nothing to disturb or alleviate the abandoned wreckage of the stock; nothing profound or original was arrived at, no conclusions were even dared. Just so might the conversation of two prisoners talking late at night in their cell ease the talkers; because of nothing more than the sounds of another voice that did not importune or demand. Only, perhaps, the burned spirit of the colored man was warmed in the bright, myriad reflections of the big names and words, and possibly also, in some lesser, more remote way, the consciousness of the rock-colored Pawnbroker, who put a proper face on their vagary all the while by thumbing in a businesslike fashion through the big ledger.

Until finally a point was reached beyond the Pawnbroker's discretion. Someone outside studied the assortment of cameras and musical instruments in the window, threatened to come in to buy. Sol, all business again, wrote out the record of their transaction, put the lamp under the counter, and solemnly gave George Smith the ticket. George studied the little piece of cardboard with a regretful yet hopeful sigh, knowing his visit was over beyond appeal; but knowing, too, that he had at least the rain check for another time.

Some minutes after he had gone, a curse of anger and pain erupted from the lips of the Pawnbroker. "That damned fool with all his talk—crazy
Shwartsa
bastard! What does he want from me?" And all of it was no more than a whisper, so that Jesus Ortiz only turned curiously toward the sibilance for a moment on his way out to get their lunches.

In the evening, Ortiz took his pay from Sol's hand and then stood blowing dreamily over the edges of the bills.

"I got a uncle lives out in Detroit," he said, staring now at the sleeve that covered Sol's tattoo. "He been in business for forty years—clothes he sell. My old lady tell me that man solid as the Rock of Gibraltar in that town. All the time he plow the profit back in, get better capitalize all the time. They have race riots, depressions out there, but that business of my uncle get stronger and stronger all the time, no matter what. The cops even call him Mister. He belong to merchant organizations and all. He got him a son 'bout my age, and that kid in the store gonna get it all when my uncle kick off. See, that business make him
solid.
Hey, like a king a little, pass his crown on down to the kids. My mother tell me we was out there to visit when I was around four years old. I
think
I remember him; it's hard to tell. I seen pictures of him so I don't know if I remember seein'
him
or just
seem
like I do from all the times I look at his picture." He snatched his eyes from the empty space and took a deep, resolute breath. "I'm gonna get me a business, I got that in mind for sure," he said almost fiercely to Sol. "All I need is the money, the goddam loot!" He flicked contemptuously at the little sheaf of bills and then put it into his pocket.

"Save your pennies," Sol said with all the warmth of a carnival shill.

"I gonna do that, Sol," he said with a level, ruthless stare. Then his face performed that mimelike change to smile. "Anyhow I learnin' something about business from a master, meantime." His eyes were flat with his undeniable curiosity, and there was something reminiscent of Tangee's dissecting gaze as he looked at Sol. "Tell me one thing," he demanded in a voice shaded by whispering intensity. "How come you Jews come to business so natural?"

Sol looked at him with harsh amusement.

"How come, how come. You want to steal my secret of success, hah. Well,
Jesus,
" he said ironically, "I will do you a favor; it is part of my obligation to you as an apprentice. Really it is very simple. Pay attention, though, or you may miss something."

Jesus held out against the stinging humor for whatever might slip from his employer's scornful monologue, his eyes as clear and receptive as those of a cat searching the dusk for nourishment.

"You begin with several thousand years during which you have nothing except a great, bearded legend, nothing else. You have no land to grow food on, no land on which to hunt, not enough time in one place to have a geography or an army or a land-myth. Only you have a little brain in your head and this bearded legend to sustain you and convince you that there
is
something special about you, even in your poverty. But this little brain, that is the real key. With it you obtain a small piece of cloth—wool, silk, cotton—it doesn't matter. You take this cloth and you cut it in two and sell the two pieces for a penny or two more than you paid for the one. With this money, then, you buy a slightly larger piece of cloth, which perhaps may be cut into three pieces and sold for
three
pennies' profit. You must never succumb to buying an extra piece of bread at this point, a luxury like a toy for your child. Immediately you must go out and buy a still-larger cloth, or two large cloths, and repeat the process. And so you continue until there is no longer any temptation to dig in the earth and grow food, no longer any desire to gaze at limitless land which is in your name. You repeat this process over and over and over for approximately twenty centuries. And then,
voilà
—you have a mercantile heritage, you are known as a merchant, a man with secret resources, usurer, pawnbroker, witch, and what have you. By then it is instinct. Is it not simple? My whole formula for success—'How to Succeed in Business,' by Sol Nazerman." He smiled his frozen smile.

"Good lesson, Sol," Jesus said. "It's things like that make it all worth while." All right, you are a weird bunch of people, mix a man up whether you holy or the worst devils. I figure out yet what's behind that shit-eatin' grin. "I thank you for the lesson, boss, oh yes. So much better listenin' to you than goin' out for the quick dollar. I can't hardly wait for tomorrow's classes." He whirled around like a dancer, at least capable of that reminder, that taunt of his grace and youth. "You all heart, Solly, all heart," he said over his shoulder as he sauntered out with his leopard walk in the cold fight of Sol's smile.

"Go,
Jesus,
go in peace," the Pawnbroker murmured, his hand resting on the phone, which he expected to ring at any moment.

And that pose, which might have suggested only arrested motion in anyone else, in him had a different connotation. One hand extended to the phone, the other on the counter, he was like one of those stilted figures in old engravings of torture, hardly horrible because of its stylized remoteness from life; just a bloodless, black-and-white rendition, reminiscent of pain.

The policeman Leventhal found him like that.

"
Vas macht du,
Solly? Where's all the business? Slow today, I bet. Seemed like the whole damn city was out of town."

He ignored Sol's silence, began roving around the store, touching things lightly with the tip of his club. "Boy, the stuff you got here." He shook his head in exaggerated awe. "These shines buy stuff at the drop of a hat. They got the newest cars, the latest models of television. Easy come, easy go. They buy on installment and end up here with it; you get it all. It's a good business. Hey Solly," he said, looking up with an idea on his gross face, "my wife been looking for an electric mixer. You got one here?"

Sol nodded and bent down to a low shelf where several appliances stood in the dust. "I got here a Hamilton Beach, last year's model."

"Hey, that would be great. How about billing me for it?" Leventhal said, pulling it possessively over to him.

"This is a cash business," Sol answered.

"Ah, I'll pay you when I get my check. How much is it?"

"To you, nine dollars. Come in when you have the money; I'll reserve it," Sol said impassively as he pulled the mixer back and returned it to the low shelf.

Leventhal's face went hard but he bent his mouth in a minimal smile to cover the shock of his anger. "Okay, Solly, you do that." He slapped his palm menacingly with his club and began looking around the store with narrowed eyes. Suddenly he noticed the lawn mower. "Who the hell would have a brand-new power mower around here? I think I'll just mark down the serial number, if you don't mind."

Sol shrugged; he felt a sardonic amusement. Here he was in the classic role of the interrogated again, and Leventhal was playing the part of the oppressor. It was getting confusing; soon you wouldn't know the Jews from their oppressors, the black from the white.

"It's not on the list; otherwise, I can't know," Sol said, his palms out in caricature.

"Okay, Solly, okay for now. Just keep your nose clean."

Sol raised his eyebrows at the familiar warning.

"And keep in mind what I said about staying open so late. There's been a couple of stick-ups in the neighborhood. I wouldn't want my landsman to get hurt now, would I?"

Sol nodded. "I will keep it in mind," he said, and watched the uniformed figure stroll out of the store.

And then the phone rang.

"It's me, Uncle," said the recorded voice.

"That Savarese didn't come in today," Sol said.

"No? Well that's all right, I'll take care of that," the lifeless voice of Albert Murillio said. "He will be in tomorrow. Nothing else new?"

"Nothing important. That cop, Leventhal, is nosing around for a handout. He would like to make trouble."

"Leventhal?" There was metal laughter. "That son of a bitch. He don't know what's going on. Don't worry about
him.
"

Sol agreed in silence; there was never any small talk on his end of their conversations.

"Okay then, Uncle, look for Savarese tomorrow. Otherwise, keep your nose clean. I'll be in touch." And then the voice was gone.

So that was where Leventhal picked up his phrase. They were all around him like so many guards.

He kept the store open until eight thirty out of a childish feeling of spite against someone unnamable. It was a perverse thing, too, for he was unnaturally tired and shaky-feeling.

As he moved about doing petty, unnecessary chores, he sensed the beginning of a deep, unlocalized ache, a pain that was no real pain yet but only the vague promise of suffering, like some barometrical instinct. No one came in, and only occasionally did a person pause outside before the windows jammed with merchandise. As he fumbled needlessly with papers that suddenly resembled bits of ancient papyrus loaded with hieroglyphics, he forced plausible reasons on himself for that odd oppression. In little fragments of unspoken words, he told himself that he might be coming down with some minor disease, that he was overworking and hadn't been getting enough sleep, that he was going through a
phase.

 

I grow old ... I grow old...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

 

He chuckled hoarsely, and the sound of his voice shocked him. I think I will go over to Tessie tonight. Yes, that is what I will do. "All right, all right," he said aloud, as though to someone's urging. And he gave in then to the sudden failure of his body. He closed and locked and bolted, and put the heavy screens over the windows. Then he walked toward the subway that would take him to Tessie Rubin's apartment. As he walked, he had the feeling he had narrowly escaped one thing and was now treading precariously the edge of countless other dangers.

And as he descended the grimy steps of the subway, it seemed as if the gray, humid air fell on him like a solid, crushing mass, so that even the roar of the buried train was a sound of escape.

Tessie Rubin opened the door to Sol and gave him access to a different kind of smell from that of the hallway of the apartment house. The hallway, with its tile floors and broken windows, smelled of garbage and soot; Tessie's apartment gave forth the more personal odors of bad cooking and dust.

"Oh, it's you," she said, opening the door wider. The immediate apprehension on her yellowish face settled down to the chronic yet resigned look of perpetual fear. "That Goberman has been bothering me for money. He curses—imagine—
curses
me for not giving money to the Jewish Appeal. Is that any way to get charity from people, to curse!"

Sol walked past her, down the hall whose walls were so dark and featureless that they seemed like empty space.

"He pockets it himself," he reassured her as she followed him to the living room.

"He's a devil is what he is. Says to me, 'You of all people should contribute to saving Jewish lives.' What does he want from me, blood? Can't he see how I live? Maybe he doesn't know I don't have a single penny in the house. Every week he comes, and when I give him something he looks at it like it's
dreck.
'Is this what you call a contribution?' he says. What does he want from me, I'm asking you." She fell wearily into an armchair which leaned swollenly to one side under its faded cretonne covering, like an old sick elephant under shabby regal garments. She had a large, curved nose, and her face was very thin; there were hollows in her temples, and her eyes, stranded in the leanness of all the features, were exceptionally large and dismal. She threw her arms outward, splayed her legs in exhaustion: their thinness was grotesque, because her torso was heavy and short, with huge breasts. "Why doesn't he look around how I live? How can he think I'm a Rothschild, a Baruch! Maybe he should know that I made bread soaked in evaporated milk for supper for me and the
alta.
"