The Pawnbroker. Edward Lewis Wallant
an outgrowth of the Greek drama, a direct outgrowth. Why Herbert Spencer goes on to say . . .”
The Greek drama! What was all this, a madhouse? And yet he let himself form words that made brilliant sense to the incubus-ridden creature before him.
And in spite of everything, their talk created a small, faintly warming buzz in the pawnshop. It did nothing to disturb or alleviate the abandoned wreckage of the stock; nothing profound or original was arrived at, no conclusions were even dared. Just so might the conversation of two prisoners talking late at night in their cell ease the talkers; because of nothing more than the sounds of another voice that did not importune or demand. Only, perhaps, the burned spirit of the colored man was warmed in the bright, myriad reflections of the big names and words, and possibly also, in some lesser, more remote way, the consciousness of the rock-colored Pawnbroker, who put a proper face on their vagary all the while by thumbing in a businesslike fashion through the big ledger.
Until finally a point was reached beyond the Pawnbroker’s discretion. Someone outside studied the assortment of cameras and musical instruments in the window, threatened to come in to buy. Sol, all business again, wrote out the record of their transaction, put the lamp under the counter, and solemnly gave George Smith the ticket. George studied the little piece of cardboard with a regretful yet hopeful sigh, knowing his visit was over beyond appeal; but knowing, too, that he had at least the rain check for another time.
Some minutes after he had gone, a curse of anger and pain erupted from the lips of the Pawnbroker. “That damned fool with all his talk—crazy Shwartsa bastard! What does he want from me?” And all of it was no more than a whisper, so that Jesus Ortiz only turned curiously toward the sibilance for a moment on his way out to get their lunches.
In the evening, Ortiz took his pay from Sol’s hand and then stood blowing dreamily over the edges of the bills.
“I got a uncle lives out in Detroit,” he said, staring now at the sleeve that covered Sol’s tattoo. “He been in business for forty years—clothes he sell. My old lady tell me that man solid as the Rock of Gibraltar in that town. All the time he plow the profit back in, get better capitalize all the time. They have race riots, depressions out there, but that business of my uncle get stronger and stronger all the time, no matter what. The cops even call him Mister. He belong to merchant organizations and all. He got him a son ’bout my age, and that kid in the store gonna get it all when my uncle kick off. See, that business make him solid. Hey, like a king a little, pass his crown on down to the kids. My mother tell me we was out there to visit when I was around four years old. I think I remember him; it’s hard to tell. I seen pictures of him so I don’t know if I remember seein’ him or just seem like I do from all the times I look at his picture.” He snatched his eyes from the empty space and took a deep, resolute breath. “I’m gonna get me a business, I got that in mind for sure,” he said almost fiercely to Sol. “All I need is the money, the goddam loot!” He flicked contemptuously at the little sheaf of bills and then put it into his pocket.
“Save your pennies,” Sol said with all the warmth of a carnival shill.
“I gonna do that, Sol,” he said with a level, ruthless stare. Then his face performed that mimelike change to smile. “Anyhow I learnin’ something about business from a master, meantime.” His eyes were flat with his undeniable curiosity, and there was something reminiscent of Tangee’s dissecting gaze as he looked at Sol. “Tell me one thing,” he demanded in a voice shaded by whispering intensity. “How come you Jews come to business so natural?”
Sol looked at him with harsh amusement.
“How come, how come. You want to steal my secret of success, hah. Well, Jesus,” he said ironically, “I will do you a favor; it is part of my obligation to you as an apprentice. Really it is very simple. Pay attention, though, or you may miss something.”
Jesus held out against the stinging humor for whatever might slip from his employer’s scornful monologue, his eyes as clear and receptive as those of a cat searching the dusk for nourishment.
“You begin with several thousand years during which you have nothing except a great, bearded legend, nothing else. You have no land to grow food on, no land on which to hunt, not enough time in one place to have a geography or an army or a land-myth. Only you have a little brain in your head and this bearded legend to sustain you and convince you that there is something special about you, even in your poverty. But this little brain, that is the real key. With it you obtain a small piece of cloth—wool, silk, cotton—it doesn’t matter. You take this cloth and you cut it in two and sell the two pieces for a penny or two more than you paid for the one. With this money, then, you buy a slightly larger piece of cloth, which perhaps may be cut into three pieces and sold for three pennies’ profit. You must never succumb to buying an extra piece of bread at this point, a luxury like a toy for your child. Immediately you must go out and buy a still-larger cloth, or two large cloths, and repeat the process. And so you continue until there is no longer any temptation to dig in the earth and grow food, no longer any desire to gaze at limitless land which is in your name. You repeat this process over and over and over for approximately twenty centuries. And then, voilà—you have a mercantile heritage, you are known as a merchant, a man with secret resources, usurer, pawnbroker, witch, and what have you. By then it is instinct. Is it not simple? My whole formula for success—‘How to Succeed in Business,’ by Sol Nazerman.” He smiled his frozen smile.
“Good lesson, Sol,” Jesus said. “It’s things like that make it all worth while.” All right, you are a weird bunch of people, mix a man up whether you holy or the worst devils. I figure out yet what’s behind that shit-eatin’ grin. “I thank you for the lesson, boss, oh yes. So much better listenin’ to you than goin’ out for the quick dollar. I can’t hardly wait for tomorrow’s classes.” He whirled around like a dancer, at least capable of that reminder, that taunt of his grace and youth. “You all heart, Solly, all heart,” he said over his shoulder as he sauntered out with his leopard walk in the cold light of Sol’s smile.
“Go, Jesus, go in peace,” the Pawnbroker murmured, his hand resting on the phone, which he expected to ring at any moment.
And that pose, which might have suggested only arrested motion in anyone else, in him had a different connotation. One hand extended to the phone, the other on the counter, he was like one of those stilted figures in old engravings of torture, hardly horrible because of its stylized remoteness from life; just a bloodless, black-and-white rendition, reminiscent of pain.
The policeman Leventhal found him like that.
“Vas macht du, Solly? Where’s all the business? Slow today, I bet. Seemed like the whole damn city was out of town.”
He ignored Sol’s silence, began roving around the store, touching things lightly with the tip of his club. “Boy, the stuff you got here.” He shook his head in exaggerated awe. “These shines buy stuff at the drop of a hat. They got the newest cars, the latest models of television. Easy come, easy go. They buy on installment and end up here with it; you get it all. It’s a good business. Hey, Solly,” he said, looking up with an idea on his gross face, “my wife been looking for an electric mixer. You got one here?”
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