The lawyer had broad shoulders, a broad, flat face, and colorless eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses. He was perusing a letter that must have been from Betty. His voice, when he spoke, was so soft that I could barely hear him.
"You're a refugee?" he whispered.
"Yes."
"Jewish, I presume?"
I made no reply.
"Jewish?" he repeated impatiently.
"No."
"What? You're not Jewish?"
"No," I said in surprise. "Why?"
"I don't work for non-Jewish Germans."
"Why not?"
'I don't believe that requires an explanation. Mrs. Stein should have told me you weren't Jewish."
"The German Jews seem to be more tolerant than their American cousins," I said angrily. "What about you? Are you Jewish?"
"I am an American!" He raised his voice for emphasis, and it went up a whole octave. Aha, I thought, that's why he whispers. "And as an American I have no desire to help Nazis."
I laughed. "You regard all Germans as Nazis?" •
"Potential Nazis at least"
I laughed again and pointed to the inevitable think! sign, the same as in the waiting room, except that his had gold lettering. "That," I said, "doesn't make any more sense than saying that the Jews are to blame for everything. The Jews and the bicycle riders."
"Bicycle riders?" he whispered.
"That's an old joke. A Gentile says to a Jew: "The Jews were to blame for everything. 'Yes,' says the Jew, 'The Jews and the bicycle riders.' 'Why the bicycle riders?' .the Gentile asks. And die Jew answers: 'Why the Jews?'"
I expected the lawyer to throw me out Not at all. A broad smile made his face even broader.
"Not bad," he said. "I hadn't heard that one."
For a minute or two he just sat there chuckling. But then he grew serious. "We have a fatal weakness for jokes," he said. "But I stand by my opinion."
"Think it over," I said. "The Jews left Germany because they had to; they were persecuted and in danger. If they hadn't been persecuted, some of them wouldn't have budged. The non-Jews who left Germany left because they hated the regime."
"Except for the spies."
"A spy wouldn't be coming to you for help. Spies always have beautiful passports and visas."
The lawyer waved that one away. "You say that some Jews wouldn't have opposed the Nazi regime. Doesn't that suggest a touch of anti-Semitism?"
"Maybe it does. But among Jews. It's not my idea, I got it from my Jewish friends."
I stood up. I was sick with this argument Nothing is so tedious as a man trying to show you how clever he is, especially when he isn't
"Have you got a thousand dollars?" the broad face asked.
"No," I said bluntly. "Not even a hundred.'!
He let me get almost to the door. "How were you expecting to pay?" he asked then.
"My friends will help me. But I'd rather face another internment camp than ask them for such an amount"
"Have you already been in oneî"
"Yes," I said angrily. "First in Germany. And there they have a different name."
I expected this know-it-all to tell me that there were also criminals in the concentration camps, which was true. If he had, I'd have lost control. But it didn't come to that. Suddenly a melancholy voice cried out: "Cuckoo. Cuckoo. Cuckoo." A Black Forest cuckoo clock—something I hadn't heard since my childhood.
"Isn't that pretty?" I said, with all the sarcasm I could muster.
"It's a present from my wife," said the lawyer, with a note of embarrassment.
I was going to ask him if the cuckoo was an anti-Semite, but thought better of it, realizing that I had found an unexpected ally in this mechanical bird. In a tone that was almost friendly die lawyer said: "I'll do what I can for you. Call me the day after tomorrow."
"But your fee?"
"I'll discuss it with Mrs. Stein."
"I'd rather you told me," I said.
"Five hundred. In installments if you like."
"Do you think you can do anything?"
"I'm pretty sure I can get you an extension. Then we'll see."
"Thank you," I said.
Lowy Senior came down to the cellar where I was working. He was carrying a bronze. "What do you think of this?"
"What is it supposed to be?"
"Chou. Or even Shang. The'patina looks good to me."
"Have you bought it?"
Lowy smiled. "Would I do that without consulting my expert? A man's just brought it in. He's waiting in the shop. He wants a hundred for it Which means that he'll take eighty. Seems cheap to me."
"Too cheap," I said, looking at the bronze. "Is he a dealer?"
"He doesnt look like one. A young fellow. Says he inherited the piece and needs money. Is it genuine?"
"It's a Chinese bronze. But it's not Chou. Or even Han. More likely Tang, or even more recent Sung or Ming. Yes, I'd say it was a Ming copy of an older piece. And the copyist wasn't too careful. The tao-tieh masks are inaccurate, and the spirals shouldn't be there; such spirals weren't used until after the Han period. The décor, on the other hand, is copied from a Shang piece; it's compact, simple, and strong. But the ogre's mask and the accessory ornament would be much clearer and sharper in an authentic Chou piece. And you'd never find these little curlicues in a really old bronze."
"But look at the patina! It's beautiful."
"Mr. Lowy," I said, "it is a fairly old patina, but there are no malachite incrustations. Remember that as early as the Han period, at the time of Christ's birth, the Chinese started making copies of Shang bronzes and burying them. That gives them a very nice patina, even if they're not authentic Chou."
Lowy Senior shook his head. "Did you learn all that in your nights at the Brussels Museum?" he asked with mild sarcasm.
"No," I said calmly. "I've learned that in my nights in New York with the help of your excellent public libraries."
"What is this piece worth?"
"Twenty or thirty dollars; but you know that better than I do."
"Want to come up?" Lowy asked, with a malicious glint in his blue eyes.
"Must I?"
"Only if it amuses you."
"To confound a petty crook? What for? And maybe he's not a crook. Who knows anything about archaic Chinese bronzes?"
Lowy gave me a sharp glance. "None of your wisecracks, Mr. Ross."
The tubby little man climbed the stairs with puffy determination. The steps trembled and sent down a shower of dust. For a moment I could only see his shoes and trouser cuffs; the upper part of him was already in the shop.
A few minutes later the legs reappeared. Lowy still had the bronze. "I've bought it," he said. "For twenty bucks. Why not? Ming isn't so bad."
"Not at all," I said. Maybe Lowy didn't know much about Chinese bronzes, but he had a keen eye for business.
"Tell me," he said, "how much longer will you be busy here?"
"That depends on you. Do you want to get rid of me?"
"Certainly not. But we can't keep you here forever. Your work will be done soon. What did you do before?"
"Newspaper work."
"Can't you go back to that?"
"With my English?"
"Seems to me you've been learning fast"
"But I can't even write a letter without making mistakes."
Lowy scratched his bald head with the bronze. After all, it was only a Ming copy. "Do you know anything about paintings?"
"Not much. Just what I learned in Brussels."
He grinned. "That's better than nothing. I'll look around. Maybe some dealer needs an assistant. Business is slack; you can see how it is in antiques. But with paintings it's different. Especially the Impressionists. Nobody's interested in the old stuff right now. Anyway, we'll see."
Lowy stomped back up the stairs. Farewell, cellar, I thought. You've been a dark home to me. Farewell, ye nineteenth-century gilded lamps, ye ornate fin-de-siècle fixtures, ye Louis-Philippe furniture, ye Persian va
ses, ye light-footed dancing girls from the tombs of the Tang period, ye terra-cotta horses, and all ye silent witnesses of dead civilizations! Born through no fault of my own into one of the lousiest of all centuries, unarmed latter-day gladiator in an arena full of hyenas, jackals, and a few lions, enjoying life while waiting to be devoured, I salute you. I bowed in all directions, distributed blessings to right and left, and looked at my watch. My working day was over. The evening sky stretched red over the rooftops, and from the restaurants poured the friendly smell of fried onions.
VI
I wandered aimlessly through the streets, afraid to go back to the hotel. I'd had a nightmare the night before and awakened screaming. Bad dreams were nothing new to me: I had dreamed the police were, chasing me; or that I'd lost my way, crossed the German border by mistake, and fallen into the hands of the S.S. Then, too, I had jumped up screaming. But I had looked out the window at the sky, recognized that this was New York, and gone confidently back to bed. I was saved.
This dream had been different, confused flashes rising endlessly out of a black magma. A pale anguished woman was crying out soundlessly for help, but I couldn't move; she was sinking into a dense mass of pitch, muck, and blood. Only her head emerged. She stared at me out of eyes paralyzed with terror; wordless screams poured from the black cavern of her wide-open mouth. Then blackness, intermingled with flares, shouts of command, a grating voice with a Saxon accent, a hideous smell of murder, raging furnaces. A human form was moving, then only the hand moved, then only one finger, slowly, very slowly, and someone was stamping on it. And then a sudden scream. It came from all directions and* echoed.
I stopped outside a shop window but saw nothing. It was some time before I realized that I was on Fifth Avenue and that this was one of New York's most luxurious jewelry shops. For the first time Lowy's cellar had seemed to me like a prison cell. I had left it precipitately, feeling a sudden need for light and life and movement
A tiara that had belonged to the Empress Eugénie lay on its bed of black velvet, glittering in the artificial light..
Two girls stopped beside me.
"How'd you like to own that?" one of them asked.
"Too flashy," said the other.
I drifted down the avenue, stopping now and then to gaze absently at displays of shoes, cigarettes, china, fashions, anything. The tumultuous life of a late afternoon in New York passed me by. I wanted to be part of it, to swim with the stream like everyone else, but I could not be part of it; I was a lone fugitive, an Orestes pursued by the distant cries of the Furies.
Usually dreams are dispersed by daylight; only a few tatters linger on, and little by little these, too, are forgotten. But this dream kept its hold on me; I couldn't shake it off. In Europe I hadn't 'dreamed much. I had been too busy keeping myself alive. Here in America I thought I had escaped. But now I knew that the shadows had followed me across the ocean. And what was that acrid, yet cloying smell? Could it be the smoke of the crematoriums?
I looked around. No one was watching me. I turned to the shop windows for help. As though so much treasure could not be contained inone row of shop windows, there were more on the second and sometimes even the third floor. Never in all my life had I seen so many paintings and vases, so much furniture, so many lamp shades. Temples of luxury and comfort. A voice seemed to whisper: "Take what you need, take more than you need. There's plenty of everything!"
I yearned to embrace this country, which paints the faces of its dead, which worships youth, and sends its soldiers to die; with no idea of what they were dying for, in countries they never heard of.
Why couldn't I be part of this? Why must I belong to the army of homeless souls who climb endless flights of stairs, ride eternally up and down elevators, and wander from room to room, tolerated but unloved, and only too ready to love in return for being tolerated?
I looked into the windows of Dunhill's at the rows of deep-brown dull-polished pipes, symbols of peace and security, giving promise of long quiet evenings by the fireside —a far cry from the bitter Gauloise with which the homeless fugitive tries to quiet his nerves.
I'm getting sentimental, I thought. Seeing that Fifth Avenue was undermining my morale, I turned westward on Forty-second Street The Public Library, the penny arcades and theaters. Then I passed through streets of brownstone houses. The grown-ups were taking the air on the stoops, while the children flitted about on the sidewalk, looking for all the world like dirty white butterflies. I looked at the people on the stoops, and, as far as I could see in the failing light, they seemed at peace with the world, not seriously worried about anything.
A woman, I thought, that's what I need. A stupid, unthinking animal with blond hair and a promising wiggle to her ass, who knows nothing and whose curiosity is confined to the state of one's pocketbook. We could drink a bottle of California Burgundy, and I'd spend the night with her somewhere, and I wouldn't have to go back to the hotel. But where was. she, this woman, this girl, this whore? This wasn't Paris, and I had already learned that the New York police were very strict about the morals of the poor—the whores you could recognize by their umbrellas and outsized handbags were unknown in this town. Of course there were phone numbers you could call, but that took time and you had to know the numbers.
"Good evening, Felix," I said. "Where's Melikov?" "It's Saturday," said Felix. "My day."
Good God, Saturday. I'd forgotten. A long empty Sunday ahead of me. Today I dreaded the prospect more than ever. I still had a little vodka left—maybe à few sleeping pills.
"Miss Natasha is here," said Felix indifferently. "She's been asking for Melikov, too."
I saw her in the dim light of the lobby. If only she doesn't start crying,' I thought. She rose to meet me, and again I was surprised to see how tall she was. "On your way to the photographer's?" I asked.
She nodded. "I felt like a drop of vodka, but Vladimir Ivanovich isn't here today. I'd forgotten."
"I've got some vodka," I said eagerly. "I'll go and get it"
I ran up the stairs and opened the door. Looking neither to right nor to left, I picked up the bottle and two glasses. But on the way out I risked a look around. Nothing. Not a ghost in sight. The bed shimmered pale in the darkness. I shook my head at my foolishness and went out.
She seemed different from my memory of her—less hysterical and more American. A bit of an accent, but, as far as I could judge, it was more French than Russian. She was wearing a loose-fitting turban of lavender silk. "To keep my hair neat," she said. "I'm modeling evening clothes."
"What makes you come hereî" I asked.
"I like hotel lobbies. They're never boring. People come and go. They meet, they part. Those are the best moments in life."
"Do you really think so?"
"Anyway the least boring. What is there in between?" She made a gesture of impatience. "The big hotels are colorless. The people hide their emotions. You feel that there's adventure in the air, but you never really see it"
"And here you see it?"
"More. The people let themselves go. So do I." She laughed. "I don't have to tell you that. Besides I like Vladimir Ivanovich."
She stood up. "I've got to go." She hesitated a moment "Why don't you come along? Are you busy?"
"No. But won't the photographer throw me out?"
"Nicky? Don't be silly. The place is swarming with people. One more or less ..."
I could guess why she had asked me to come: to make up for her behavior at our first meeting. I had no great desire to go; what would I do in such a place? But that evening anything seemed preferable to sitting in the hotel. I couldn't agree with her; to me there was nothing adventurous about the place. And certainly not that evening.
"Should we take a cab?" I asked.
She laughed. "People who live at the Reuben don't take cabs. It's not far. And it's a beautiful evening. Oh, these New York nights! I wasn't made for country life. What about you?"
"I don't really know."
"Haven't
you ever thought about it?"
"No," I said. When would I have had time for such luxurious thoughts?