Read Online The Sea Beach Line by Ben Nadler - Free Book Online

you said you heard he was. But I don’t know anything for sure. Do you know any details?”
    â€œNo, I’m afraid I don’t. He’d been away from the street for a week or so, which wasn’t so strange, but then I heard about his death. Maybe it was from Goldov, actually, that I heard it first? I think it was, though I wouldn’t swear to it.” This brought me back to the idea that the story of Alojzy’s death had been purposefully crafted, by either Goldov or Alojzy. “Then everyone was talking about it. But that was all anyone seemed to know, that he was dead.
    â€œLet me be clear,” Mendy said. “I’m only telling you what I know. I can’t tell you for sure he’s dead. I can only tell you that he disappeared from the street. But my opinion is, to be perfectly honest with you, I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting for him to come back. I’m sorry to say.”
    â€œExcuse me!” A man in a jacket and tie jabbed a stack of books at us.
    â€œNo,” said Mendy. “Excuse me, I’m having a conversation here.”
    â€œSure, I just wanted to make a purchase, if you can imagine that.”
    â€œListen, I don’t care what you want to do. I told you I’m having a conversation.”
    â€œAre you serious? Is this the way to run a business?”
    â€œNo, I don’t think this is any way to run a business. You’re right about that, pal.” The man started to say something else, but couldn’t think what and shook his head instead. He tossed the books onto the table and stomped off.
    â€œMy father,” I said. “What can you tell me for sure? You worked on this street together? What do you know about his life?”
    â€œYour father. He sold down here, off and on, for years. Everybody down here knew him. He was, I don’t know, he brought something out in people. Women especially. There were always women looking for him.” Mendy smiled. I imagined my father and this man exchanging little jokes about women’s bodies, in a streetwise male language I’d never quite learned. “But he could talk to anyone. He would just as soon stay quiet, he wasn’t one to run his mouth for no reason, but he was capable of talking to anyone. The gift of gab, I guess they call it. He spoke like six languages.”
    â€œSix? English and Polish and Hebrew . . .”
    â€œSome Arabic. Some Russian.”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œA little Yiddish too, I found out. He had a girlfriend who was teaching him Spanish, for a while.” Mendy looked at his fingers. “Now we’re up to seven. He had all that up on me. I got English, scraps of high school German, and some house Yiddish. That’s about it, for me. It all adds up to just English, really. My parents never let me learn Yiddish proper, because they didn’t want I should have an accent. Better I should speak like an American. They came from Poland too. But before the war. When there were Jews in Poland, still. Lots of them. I talked to Al about that, sometimes.”
    â€œAbout . . .?” I had lost the thread of what Mendy was saying.
    â€œAbout Poland, and the Jews who lived there. The history of it.”
    â€œOh. Okay. Is there anything else you can tell me about him, though? I mean, him personally?” I needed clues.
    â€œPersonally? He is—was—a rough person. But kind. He had ziskeit . You know the word? There’s no other word for it. I know he did some things. I know he hurt Goldov. I know he hurt some girlfriends. I imagine he hurt others. Maybe he hurt you . . . if I might be so bold, as to interpret the look on your face. He was involved in I don’t know all what. But I always thought of him as kind.
    â€œI remember—I had a van for a while—I told Al he could borrow it one time, when he needed to move some books. He was shocked. He said, ‘Mendy, you’re really trusting me