Okay, I'll keep it in the back of my noodle. I'm toddling along now. Paying my last respects to the dead.
So long!
A few doors distant a radio was blaring away. It was a commercial advertising Last Supper tablecloths, only two dollars a pair.
My way lay along Myrtle Avenue. Dreary, weary, flea-bitten Myrtle Avenue striped down the middle with a rusty Elevated line. Through the ties and the iron girders the sun was pouring shafts of golden light. No longer a prisoner, the street assumed another aspect. I was a tourist now, with time on my hands and a curious eye for everything. Gone the atrabilious fiend listing to starboard with the weight of his ennui. In front of the bakery where O'Mara and I once lapped up egg drop soup I paused a moment to inspect the show window. Same old crumb cakes and apple cakes in the window, protected by the same old wrapping paper. It was a German bakery, of course. (Tante Melia always spoke affectionately of the Kondittorei she visited in Bremen and Hamburg. Affectionately, I say, because she made little distinction between pastry and other kind-hearted beings.) No, it wasn't such a god-awful street after all. Not if you were a visitor from that far off planet Pluto.
Moving along I thought of the Buddenbrooks family and then of Tonio Kruger. Dear old Thomas Mann. Such a marvellous craftsman. (I should have bought a piece of Streuselkuchen!) Yes, in the photos I'd seen of him he looked a bit like a storekeeper. I could visualize him writing his Novellen in the back of a delicatessen store, with a yard of linked sausages wrapped around his neck. What he would have made of Myrtle Avenue! Call on Gorky while you're at it. Wasn't that fantastic? Easier far to obtain an audience with the King of Bulgaria. If there were any calls to be made I had the man already picked: Elie Faure. How would he take it, I wonder, if I asked to kiss his hand?
A street car rattled by. I caught a glimpse of the motor-man's flowing moustache as it rushed by. Presto! The name leaped to mind like a flash. Knut Hamsun. Think of it, the novelist who finally earns the Nobel Prize operating a street car in this God-forsaken land! Where was it again—Chicago? Yeah, Chicago. And then he returns to Norway and writes Hunger. Or was it Hunger first and then the motorman's job? Anyway, he never produced a dud.
I noticed a bench at the curb. (Most unusual thing.) Like the angel Gabriel, I lowered my ass. Ouf! What was the sense in walking one's legs off? I leaned back and opened my mouth wide to drink in the solar rays. How are you? I said, meaning America, the whole bloody works. Strange country, isn't it? Notice the birds! They look seedy, droopy, eh what what?
I closed my eyes, not to snooze but to summon the image of the ancestral home carved out of the Middle Ages. How charming, how delightful it looked, this forgotten village! A labyrinth of walled streets with canals running serpent wise; statues (of musician only), malls, fountains, squares and triangles; every lane led to the hub where the quaint house of worship with its delicate spires stood. Everything moving at a snail's pace. Swans floating on the still surface of the lake; pigeons cooing in the belfry of the church; awnings, striped like pantaloons, shading the tesselated terraces. So utterly peaceful, so idyllic, so dream like!
I rubbed my eyes. Now where on earth had I dug that up? Was it Buxtehude perhaps? (The way my grandfather pronounced the word I always took it for a place, not a man.)
Don't let him read too much, it's bad for his eyes.
Seated at the edge of his work bench, where he sat with legs doubled up, making coats for Isaac Walker's menagerie of fine gentlemen, I read aloud to him from Hans Christian Andersen.
Put the book away now, he says gently. Go out and play.
I go down to the backyard and, having nothing more interesting to do, I peek between the slats of the wooden fence which separated our property from the smoke house. Rows and rows of stiff, blackened fish greet my eyes. The pungent, acrid odor is almost overpowering. They're hanging by the gills, these rigid, frightened fish; their popping eyes gleam in the dark like wet jewels.
Returning to my grandfather's bench, I ask him why dead things are always so stiff. And he answers: Because there's no joy in them any more.
Why did you leave Germany? I ask.
Because I didn't want to be a soldier.
I would like to be a soldier, I said.
Wait, he said, wait till the bullets fly.
He hums a little tune while he sews. Shoo fly, don't bother me!
What are you going to be when you grow up? A tailor, like your father?
I want to be a sailor, I reply promptly. I want to see the world.
Then don't read so much. You'll need good eyes if you're going to be a sailor.
Yes, Grosspapa. (That's how we called him.) Goodbye, Grosspapa.
I remember the way he eyed me as I walked to the door. A quizzical look, it was. What was he thinking? That I'd never make a sailor man?
Further retrospection was broken by the approach of a most seedy looking bum with hand outstretched. Could I spare a dime, he wanted to know.
Sure, I said. I can spare a lot more, if you need it.
He took a seat beside me. He was shaking as if he had the palsy. I offered him a cigarette and lit it for him.
Wouldn't a dollar be better than a dime? I said.
He gave me a weird look, like a horse about to shy. What it is? he said. What's the deal?
I lit myself a cigarette, stretched my legs full length, and slowly, as if deciphering a bill of lading, I replied: When a man is about to make a journey to foreign lands, there to eat and drink his fill, to wander as he pleases and to wonder, what's a dollar more or less? Another shot of rye is what you want, I take it. As for me, what I would like is to be able to speak French, Italian, Spanish, Russian, possibly a little Arabic too. If I had my choice, I'd sail this minute. But that's not for you to worry about. Look, I can offer you a dollar, two dollars, five dollars. Five's the maximum—unless the banshees are after you. What say? You don't have to sing any hymns either...
He acted jumpy like. Edged away from me instinctively, as if I were bad medicine.
Mister, he said, all I need is a quarter ... two bits. That'll do. And I'll thank you kindly.
Half rising to his feet, he held out his palm.
Don't be in a hurry, I begged. A quarter, you say. What good is a quarter? What can you buy for that? Why do things half-way? It's not American. Why not get yourself a flask of rot gut? And a shave and hair-cut too? Anything but a Rolls Royce. I told you, five's the maximum. Just say the word.
Honest, mister, I don't need that much.
You do too. How can you talk that way? You need lots and lots of things—food, sleep, soap and water, more booze...
Two bits, that's all I want, mister.
I fished out a quarter and placed it in his palm. Okay, I said, if that's the way you want it.
He was trembling so that the coin slipped out of his hand and rolled into the gutter. As he bent over to pick it up I pulled him back.
Let it stay there, I said. Some one may come along and find it. Good luck, you know. Here, here's another. Hold on to it now!
He got up, his eye riveted to the coin in the gutter.
Can't I have that one too, mister?
Of course you can. But then, what about the other fellow?
What other fellow?
Any old fellow. What's the difference?
I held him by the sleeve. Hold on a minute, I've got a better idea. Leave that quarter where it is and I'll give you a bill instead. You don't mind taking a dollar, do you? I pulled a roll out of my trousers pocket and extracted a dollar bill. Before you convert this into more poison, I said, closing his fist over it, listen to this, it's a real good thought. Imagine, if you can, that it's tomorrow and that you're passing this same spot, wondering who'll give you a dime. I won't be here, you see. I'll be on the Ile de France. Now then, your throat's parched and all that, and who comes along but a well-dressed guy with nothing to do—like me—and he flops down ... right here on this same bench. Now what do you do? You go up to him, same as always, and you say—'Spare a dime, mister?’ And he'll shake his head. No! Now then, here's the surprise, here's the thought I had for you. Don't run away with your tail between your legs. Stand firm and smile ... a kindly smile. Then say: Mister, I was only joking. I don't need no dime. Here's a buck for you, and may God protect you always! See? Won't that be jolly?