Read Online Shylock Is My Name by Howard Jacobson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Howard Jacobson
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have wanted something he had, the offices of a philanthropist, of no matter what religion, being always in demand.
“Don’t use yourself up,” his mother used to warn him. “There’s only one of you.”
It was only as he was getting out of the car—again conscious of something not quite right in Brendan’s demeanour, not quite what one expected of a chauffeur—that he realised he had again not attended her grave.
The day had held too much excitement. And as his mother said, there was only one of him.
But there was always an excuse.
So what was Brendan’s? He hadn’t been behaving rudely exactly. He hadn’t driven too fast, or cornered aggressively. He hadn’t been slow or resentful in opening the doors for his passengers. But he seemed ruffled. So who or what had ruffled him? The presence of Shylock, was it? The Christian-baiting? The Jew-talk?
Strulovitch wondered how his dogs would react. But they took no notice when he let himself and his guest in. They didn’t even look up.
—
He suggested a drink and maybe something light to eat before bed. But he didn’t want it to sound as though he couldn’t bear to be left alone. Needy was he? He had just come, in a manner of speaking, from burying his mother. He had no wife he could talk to. He had no daughter he could trust. He had scores to settle—some social, some religious, some metaphysical—never mind what scores, just scores. Of course he was needy.
Shylock declined food, but found the idea of a drink agreeable. Strulovitch offered him grappa. He shook his head. Kümmel, perhaps. Strulovitch didn’t have kümmel. Slivovitz, then? Strulovitch didn’t have slivovitz. Shylock shrugged. Amaretto? Strulovitch thought he had amaretto somewhere. Shylock didn’t want to put him to trouble. I’ll have water, he said. Or cognac. Strulovitch had cognac. Shylock was in no hurry to retire. He didn’t sleep much, hadn’t slept much for a long time. And he seemed to be stimulated by Strulovitch’s furniture—the leather and steel armchairs, the art deco rugs, the prints of resurrections on the walls, the uncannily lifelike clay sculpture of a half-naked couple wrapped around each other in a death embrace.
“Is it permissible to sit in this room?” he asked. “Or should I be standing to inspect its contents?”
“Sit, sit,” Strulovitch said, ushering his guest into a chair. Had Shylock been in such a house before, he wondered. It must have been this thought that led him to say something stupid about the changes he must have seen.
“Yes,” said Shylock. “I’ve seen a few.”
Strulovitch opened his eyes wide. “Such as?” he still more inanely said.
“You don’t have the time,” Shylock told him.
“And you presumably don’t remember.”
“On the contrary I remember everything.”
“So go on, humour me, what’s the biggest change?” Shylock closed his eyes and pretended to take something—a straw, a raffle ticket—from an imaginary hat. “They used to spit on me, now they tell me Jewish jokes.”
“Good jokes?”
“Not the way they tell them.”
“But kindly meant, presumably.”
“Tell me a joke that’s kindly meant.”
Strulovitch didn’t try, but made a weighing motion with his hands. “Well, on balance I’d say joking, kindly or otherwise, has to beat spitting.”
Shylock peered deep into his glass. When he concentrated, his eyes seemed to recede and close over as though they contained more of darkness than of light. Strulovitch knew he could appear stern himself, but the deep shadows cast by Shylock’s eyes unnerved even him. Was this look another of his reprimands, he wondered. Have I trespassed in some way? Is it for me to decide for him whether joking beats spitting?
“What strikes me as more interesting,” Shylock said peremptorily, as though to make it clear to Strulovitch that he was not keeping up conversationally, “is that they can’t see a Jew without thinking they have to tell him a joke. Do
“Don’t use yourself up,” his mother used to warn him. “There’s only one of you.”
It was only as he was getting out of the car—again conscious of something not quite right in Brendan’s demeanour, not quite what one expected of a chauffeur—that he realised he had again not attended her grave.
The day had held too much excitement. And as his mother said, there was only one of him.
But there was always an excuse.
So what was Brendan’s? He hadn’t been behaving rudely exactly. He hadn’t driven too fast, or cornered aggressively. He hadn’t been slow or resentful in opening the doors for his passengers. But he seemed ruffled. So who or what had ruffled him? The presence of Shylock, was it? The Christian-baiting? The Jew-talk?
Strulovitch wondered how his dogs would react. But they took no notice when he let himself and his guest in. They didn’t even look up.
—
He suggested a drink and maybe something light to eat before bed. But he didn’t want it to sound as though he couldn’t bear to be left alone. Needy was he? He had just come, in a manner of speaking, from burying his mother. He had no wife he could talk to. He had no daughter he could trust. He had scores to settle—some social, some religious, some metaphysical—never mind what scores, just scores. Of course he was needy.
Shylock declined food, but found the idea of a drink agreeable. Strulovitch offered him grappa. He shook his head. Kümmel, perhaps. Strulovitch didn’t have kümmel. Slivovitz, then? Strulovitch didn’t have slivovitz. Shylock shrugged. Amaretto? Strulovitch thought he had amaretto somewhere. Shylock didn’t want to put him to trouble. I’ll have water, he said. Or cognac. Strulovitch had cognac. Shylock was in no hurry to retire. He didn’t sleep much, hadn’t slept much for a long time. And he seemed to be stimulated by Strulovitch’s furniture—the leather and steel armchairs, the art deco rugs, the prints of resurrections on the walls, the uncannily lifelike clay sculpture of a half-naked couple wrapped around each other in a death embrace.
“Is it permissible to sit in this room?” he asked. “Or should I be standing to inspect its contents?”
“Sit, sit,” Strulovitch said, ushering his guest into a chair. Had Shylock been in such a house before, he wondered. It must have been this thought that led him to say something stupid about the changes he must have seen.
“Yes,” said Shylock. “I’ve seen a few.”
Strulovitch opened his eyes wide. “Such as?” he still more inanely said.
“You don’t have the time,” Shylock told him.
“And you presumably don’t remember.”
“On the contrary I remember everything.”
“So go on, humour me, what’s the biggest change?” Shylock closed his eyes and pretended to take something—a straw, a raffle ticket—from an imaginary hat. “They used to spit on me, now they tell me Jewish jokes.”
“Good jokes?”
“Not the way they tell them.”
“But kindly meant, presumably.”
“Tell me a joke that’s kindly meant.”
Strulovitch didn’t try, but made a weighing motion with his hands. “Well, on balance I’d say joking, kindly or otherwise, has to beat spitting.”
Shylock peered deep into his glass. When he concentrated, his eyes seemed to recede and close over as though they contained more of darkness than of light. Strulovitch knew he could appear stern himself, but the deep shadows cast by Shylock’s eyes unnerved even him. Was this look another of his reprimands, he wondered. Have I trespassed in some way? Is it for me to decide for him whether joking beats spitting?
“What strikes me as more interesting,” Shylock said peremptorily, as though to make it clear to Strulovitch that he was not keeping up conversationally, “is that they can’t see a Jew without thinking they have to tell him a joke. Do
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