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Authors: Edward Lewis Wallant
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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.
Â
I grow old ... I grow old...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Â
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.
FOUR
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 cursesâimagineâ
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
"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.
Â
I grow old ... I grow old...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Â
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.
FOUR
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 cursesâimagineâ
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
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