pier, and we’d have silk fans to flap like this.” She picked up the Christian tract and fanned herself like a lady. She was making an extra bit from rolling men, and she figured she could buy her freedom in—she multiplied and divided like her oldest sister had taught her—seventeen months. “If only I didn’t have to pay for the entrance fee,” she muttered. “You know what it’s like, Fay. A stone around your neck.”
“What are you talking?” Fay asked.
“The entrance fee for foreigners to get their papers to stay in London.” Nehama went over the numbers again, hoping she’d made a mistake.
“There’s no entrance fee. Why do you think they call it the free land?”
“I mean the ten pounds the Squire paid for me,” Nehama said.
Fay laughed, all her good teeth showing and a couple of the bad ones. She wore a black straw hat that flapped as she laughed. “Oh, that’s rich. It went to Mr. Blink.” She waved her hand, and the barmaid poured another glass of gin. “It’s a finder’s fee, that’s all. He’s good at finding, he is.”
“No entrance fee,” Nehama repeated. Then there wasn’t any Newcomers’ Committee and Mr. Blink had tricked her from the start. She’d been the fool. A bloody fool, and for that the world requires a usurious rate of interest.
“What difference does it make?” Fay asked. “You have to make it up just the same and pay for your lovely dress, too.”
“I’m not hungry.” Her hands were cold and her belly hot. She pushed her plate of sheep’s trotters toward Sally. “Here, you have the rest.”
“And me?” Fay lit her short pipe. “I’m a mother’s child, too. What’s the matter with you? Doesn’t a landsmann come first?”
Nehama didn’t answer. The Squire was waiting, and she had to make her way to the back of the pub between the rough-hewn tables of men drinking and playing draughts while they boasted of how much they’d got from coshing and rolling. The Squire smiled. He always smiled when he was annoyed.
“Well?” he asked. His table was round, just big enough for three to sit and talk while they drank, heads close together. He was knitting another scarf, this one of gold and silver. The other one had been found on a customs agent, ankles and wrists tied together, his jaw broken.
She handed the Squire a pile of money, and he let the coins drop through his fingers, clattering on the table. One fell onto the floor. He didn’t move to pick it up. He was drinking with his old friend who smuggled tobacco and the customs agent they were bribing, the smuggler wearing his greatcoat and the customs agent his uniform. The two men were eyeing her as if they could get her cheap, being the ponce’s friends. It was the same word in Yiddish and in English: ponce . Where did it come from first?
“That’s all?” the Squire asked.
Nehama nodded. She’d given Sally half her take this morning. The younger girl’s cough had kept her from earning what would be expected.
“It’s not enough,” the Squire said.
There were two kinds of criminals, liars and thieves. Mr. Blink was one and she was the other, so she shrugged, and then she spoke in a voice that didn’t seem to belong to her but said cheerfully, “There’s not many customers about. It’s too cold.”
“How much do you owe me now?” the Squire asked. There was another crack in the glass that covered the map of London on the wall, but the door marked PRIVAT was just the same. He sometimes took a girl there for rough pleasure after time was called and the pub emptied. “You’re the best of my girls, Nell.” The Squire looked at her fondly. There was so little fondness in this street.
“This is everything,” she said, and hated herself because she wondered if his lips were as soft as they seemed. His hands were never chapped, nor his lips. He made up some kind of grease for his skin that he’d learned about in his sailing days.
“Are you quite all right, then?” he asked.
“What are you talking?” Fay asked.
“The entrance fee for foreigners to get their papers to stay in London.” Nehama went over the numbers again, hoping she’d made a mistake.
“There’s no entrance fee. Why do you think they call it the free land?”
“I mean the ten pounds the Squire paid for me,” Nehama said.
Fay laughed, all her good teeth showing and a couple of the bad ones. She wore a black straw hat that flapped as she laughed. “Oh, that’s rich. It went to Mr. Blink.” She waved her hand, and the barmaid poured another glass of gin. “It’s a finder’s fee, that’s all. He’s good at finding, he is.”
“No entrance fee,” Nehama repeated. Then there wasn’t any Newcomers’ Committee and Mr. Blink had tricked her from the start. She’d been the fool. A bloody fool, and for that the world requires a usurious rate of interest.
“What difference does it make?” Fay asked. “You have to make it up just the same and pay for your lovely dress, too.”
“I’m not hungry.” Her hands were cold and her belly hot. She pushed her plate of sheep’s trotters toward Sally. “Here, you have the rest.”
“And me?” Fay lit her short pipe. “I’m a mother’s child, too. What’s the matter with you? Doesn’t a landsmann come first?”
Nehama didn’t answer. The Squire was waiting, and she had to make her way to the back of the pub between the rough-hewn tables of men drinking and playing draughts while they boasted of how much they’d got from coshing and rolling. The Squire smiled. He always smiled when he was annoyed.
“Well?” he asked. His table was round, just big enough for three to sit and talk while they drank, heads close together. He was knitting another scarf, this one of gold and silver. The other one had been found on a customs agent, ankles and wrists tied together, his jaw broken.
She handed the Squire a pile of money, and he let the coins drop through his fingers, clattering on the table. One fell onto the floor. He didn’t move to pick it up. He was drinking with his old friend who smuggled tobacco and the customs agent they were bribing, the smuggler wearing his greatcoat and the customs agent his uniform. The two men were eyeing her as if they could get her cheap, being the ponce’s friends. It was the same word in Yiddish and in English: ponce . Where did it come from first?
“That’s all?” the Squire asked.
Nehama nodded. She’d given Sally half her take this morning. The younger girl’s cough had kept her from earning what would be expected.
“It’s not enough,” the Squire said.
There were two kinds of criminals, liars and thieves. Mr. Blink was one and she was the other, so she shrugged, and then she spoke in a voice that didn’t seem to belong to her but said cheerfully, “There’s not many customers about. It’s too cold.”
“How much do you owe me now?” the Squire asked. There was another crack in the glass that covered the map of London on the wall, but the door marked PRIVAT was just the same. He sometimes took a girl there for rough pleasure after time was called and the pub emptied. “You’re the best of my girls, Nell.” The Squire looked at her fondly. There was so little fondness in this street.
“This is everything,” she said, and hated herself because she wondered if his lips were as soft as they seemed. His hands were never chapped, nor his lips. He made up some kind of grease for his skin that he’d learned about in his sailing days.
“Are you quite all right, then?” he asked.
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