The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz

by Mordecai Richler

  “You’re being too arty-farty. Buck Rogers won’t be sending his kids to my camp but Mr. Cohen might, if you get what I mean?”

  During the winter Duddy purchased two more small lots on the lake. Yvette enjoyed the evenings with Bernie enormously — it was good to have Duddy home and happy for a change instead of pursuing deals — but she was also frightened. More and more it began to look as if one day he would actually own all the land surrounding Lac St. Pierre and what then, she thought. How in the world would he ever raise the thousands and thousands of dollars needed to develop the area? Impossible, she thought, and the day he discovered it would be dreadful.

  Virgil didn’t agree. “Duddy can do anything,” he said.

  “You think so?”

  “I love him.”

  Duddy saw other friends too. He was careful to keep up his contact with Hugh Thomas Calder and he had reason to believe he was making a hit there until the evening he brought up the scrap deal with Cohen. This seemed to displease Mr. Calder even though Duddy, speaking on Cohen’s behalf, offered him two-fifty more a ton than he had been getting up to now.

  “I suppose,” Mr. Calder had said, pushing his plate away, “that I should have expected something like this from you. I had hoped we were friends.”

  “Sure we are,” Duddy had replied, flushing. “But friends help each other.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Aren’t you getting more for the scrap than you got before? Mr. Cohen will do nicely too; that’s true. This deal is to your mutual advantage.”

  “I expect,” Mr. Calder had said, “that you’re earning a good commission on this?”

  Something had risen in Duddy’s stomach. His eyes filled. “I look after myself,” he had said. “Why not?”

  “Why not, indeed?”

  “Listen, Mr. Calder, the truth of the matter is it’s not the money. The commission I get from Cohen is more trouble than it’s worth. My plate is full, as they say. But I’m in your debt because of what you did for Lennie. Speaking frankly, I also happen to know that your reputation in the Jewish community is nothing to shout about. There are even some people who say you’re a lousy anti-Semite. That’s crazy, Iknow. But public opinion counts for plenty in this day and age, a man like you needs the goodwill of all sectors of the community, and that’s why I put myself out to push through the Cohen deal. It’s a good thing for word to get out that you’re not against doing business with people of my faith.”

  The deal had gone through, but a month had passed before Duddy had seen Mr. Calder again and this time he was much cooler.

  White men, Duddy thought. Ver gerharget. them you just didn’t make deals. You had to diddle. They were like those girls you had to discuss God or the Book-of-the-Month with so all the time they could pretend not to know you had a hand up their skirt, but just try to take it away. Just try, buster. He’s offended, Duddy thought, but he made the deal all the same. Two-fifty more a ton, sure. I suppose he wanted me to play golf with him for eighteen years first or something. I haven’t got that much time to waste, he thought.

  Time became an obsession with him and he was soon trying to do two and even three things at once. He kept self-improvement books beside him in the car to glance at when he stopped for a red light. He did exercises while he listened to his records and in bed with Yvette he memorized stuff from How to Increase Your Word Power she went on and on about a scary but horny dream she had had or some dumb story about her childhood. After his anger against Mr. Calder had cooled he bought a set of golf clubs and an instruction book by Ben Hogan and practiced whenever he could. One weekend when Yvette had gone to Ste. Agathe to stay with an old friend and Mr. Friar was out of town somewhere, he invited Bernie round to teach him how to play bridge. That, he felt, was important too.

  “Listen,” he said, “what kind of a friend are you? You must know lots of nice Jewish girls in Outremont. Why don’t you ever fix me up?”

  “What about Yvette?” Bernie asked, embarrassed.

  “Yvette? I could never marry her. She’s my Girl Friday.”

  “Does she know that?”

  “It’s one of the first things I ever told her.”

  So Bernie arranged a double date.

  “Tell me something about this Marlene kid first,” Duddy asked.

  She was pretty, a sweet girl, and studying sociology at McGill. Bernie pleaded with Duddy to take it easy, though. She might neck a little, but no more.

  “A bang I can get any time, Bernie. What’s her father in?” Mr. Cooper owned Cooper Knitting. He had no sons. “That’s for me,” Duddy said.

  But he had a lousy time, so did Marlene, and for Bernie it was an awful evening. Duddy behaved in a stiff, unnatural way, and he was embarrassingly aggressive about paying all the bills wherever they went. He insisted on discussing Shakespeare and Patchen with Marlene and whether or not Canada would be wise to pull out of the UN. “She’s a very refined girl,” Duddy whispered to Bernie at one point. “I think she goes for me too. But help me, for Christ’s sake. I’ll dance the next one with Charlotte and you build me up to her while I’m gone. O.K.?”

  But while Duddy was gone Bernie had to pacify Marlene. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t understand what’s got into him tonight.”

  “What a drip! He told me Cooper Knitting turned out some of the finest sweaters on the market. He wanted me to tell my father that.”

  Marlene wouldn’t go out with him again. There were other girls, but few of them would see him twice.

  “Do you think I’m ugly?” Duddy asked Virgil once. “Be objective.”

  “There’s so much character in your face.”

  “I think so too, you know. I just can’t understand…”

  He couldn’t understand, but he was relieved too. I’ve got plenty of time to find myself a rich wife, he thought. Meanwhile, with Yvette, he could be himself. She came from a poor family too and she knew that a guy’s underwear got dirty sometimes and didn’t look disgusted if you scratched your balls absently while you read Life the living room floor. It was true that she didn’t have class like Marlene or some of those other Outremont broads but he didn’t have to watch himself with her every minute, just in case he did something vulgar. With those rich girls probably a guy couldn’t even read in the toilet. He didn’t know, not for sure, but that’s how it looked to him anyway. She’ll have to have lots money, he thought.

  During that winter when Duddy prospered and made so many new friends he did not have much time for his family. He kept his eye on Lennie, however, and whenever he was in vicinity of Eddy’s he dropped in to see if his father was there. “Look who’s here,” Eddy would say. “Montreal’s own Cecil B. DeMille-nik.”

  Eddy’s hair was beginning to fall out.

  “Where’s Debrofsky?”

  “Retired to the pastures. Like Whirlaway.”

  Max was depressed. “It’s not like it used to be,” he said.

  “Don’t worry, Daddy. You’ll be able to retire soon too. Lennie and me will look after you.”

  “I don’t like the way you’re living. I don’t approve. I’m beginning to see I should have given you more of a religious upbringing.”

  Then one day Duddy ran into Uncle Benjy on the street. “Jeez,” he said, “I hardly recognized you. Have you ever lost weight.”

  “An operation. Luckily it was only an ulcer. Well, Duddel, how are you?”

  “Can’t complain.”

  “And your grandfather?”

  “I haven’t seen him in weeks. But I’m going to visit him tomorrow afternoon, that’s definite.”

  But first Duddy phoned Lennie. “Listen,” he said, “what’s with Uncle Benjy? He looks terrible.”

  “Auntie Ida left him for good.”

  “Wha’?”

  “She wants a divorce. There’s another man. Somebody she met in Miami.”

  What a family, Duddy thought, what a bunch we are.

  “I guess it should have been expected,” Lenni
e said. “You know.”

  “Is that how come he’s so skinny all of a sudden?”

  Lennie hesitated.

  “Tell me,” Duddy shouted.

  “Daddy’s here,” Lennie whispered. “I can’t talk.”

  Duddy found his grandfather seated next to the Quebec heater in the shoe repair shop. “I won’t beat around the bush,” Duddy said.

  “Good.”

  “Maybe it’s not in my place, Zeyda, don’t you think whatever it is you have against Uncle Benjy it’s time to forgive and forget?”

  “How can I go and see him now?”

  “But you used to be so close. Can’t you let bygones be bygones?”

  “Your Uncle Benjy is no idiot and he knows me very well. If I went to see him all of a sudden he’d understand right away why.” Simcha put the kettle on top of the Quebec heater and brought the bottle out. “All I’d have to do is ring his bell and he’d know it was no ulcer.”

  “Does Auntie Ida know?”

  “She’s in New York.”

  “With the other man?”

  Simcha nodded. “Somebody should tell her. She has a right to know.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Benjy can’t even get into the States any more. They say he’s a communist.”

  “Guess who goes? Shit.”

  Simcha served him tea and brandy. “You have to be very, very careful because if she does come back with you he mustn’t suspect why. Your Uncle Benjy is a proud man.”

  “There’s no love lost between us. You know that, I hope.”

  “You don’t understand each other.”

  “I worked for him once,” Duddy said.

  “We’re a small family, Duddele.”

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t going, did I? It’s just that he’d do anything for Lennie and he’s always made fun of me and my ambitions. I’m living with a shiksa,” said.

  “I know.”

  Duddy rose. “There are lots of scientists working on it,” he said. “Maybe they’ll find a cure for it before…”

  “Maybe.”

  Outside, the spring thaw had begun. Driving past the mountain, Duddy saw clumps of dirty yellow grass thrusting through the snow. There were no more skiers and the streets were black with slush. Stopping for a red light, Duddy was taken aback to see Linda Rubin seated with Jerry Dingleman in the back of his Cadillac. Duddy averted his eyes, hoping Linda wouldn’t see him. He felt like sleeping, that’s what, and for the first time in weeks he hoped there would be nobody in the apartment when he got there.

  “Hullo?”

  No answer. But Duddy had no sooner stripped down to his shorts than the doorbell rang.

  “It’s Yvette. Let me in, Duddy.”

  He opened the door. “Listen,” he said, “I’m getting into the bath. Mix a couple of drinks and come in.”

  Yvette brought one of the kitchen chairs with her. “Here,” she said, “take a long sip and prepare yourself for a shock. Friar’s run off.”

  “Are you sure he’s not off on a drunk somewhere?”

  “He’s gone for good this time. He took the cameras with him.”

  “Jeez. I thought he was so happy working for me.”

  Yvette laughed.

  “A big joke. We’ve got the Hershorn wedding coming up in two weeks.”

  “We’ll have to hire Reyburn full time, that’s all.”

  Reyburn had worked on the last two films. Duddy didn’t like him. “Let’s try to find somebody else,” he said.

  “There isn’t enough time.”

  “Did you say he took the cameras?”

  “The insurance will cover that.”

  “What a bastard. He didn’t even say good-by to me.”

  “He left because he was in love with me.”

  “Look,” Duddy said, “it floats.”

  “He asked me to marry him.”

  “Are you kidding? He was my friend. I liked him.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Aw, you’re crazy. He wasn’t in love with you.”

  Yvette threw her drink in Duddy’s face.

  “What in the hell’s going on here?” he asked. But Yvette rushed out of the bathroom and by the time Duddy had wrapped a towel around himself he heard the outside door of the apartment slam. Virgil had arrived, he was typing at the table by the window. “When are you going to find yourself a room?” Duddy shouted.

  Virgil flushed.

  “Oh, what’s the use? Were you writing a poem? I mean I hope I’m not disturbing you or something.”

  “I was writing a letter to my father. You know what I said, Mr. Kravitz?”

  “No, I don’t know what you said, Mr. Kravitz, and I don’t give a shit either.”

  “I wrote him that one day you’d be as big a hero to epileptics as Branch Rickey is to the Negroes.”

  “Come again, please?”

  “Look at it this way, Mr. Kravitz. Before Branch Rickey hired Jackie Robinson —”

  “Come here, Virgie. We’re going to play high score. For twenty dollars but.”

  “Gee whiz, Mr. Kravitz, I couldn’t take any more of your money. I’d feel —”

  “For Christ’s sake!”

  “You’re upset. Is it something Yvette said?”

  “Why don’t you just kiss my ass and die!”

  Duddy gulped down his drink, secured the towel round his waist, and ran down to Yvette’s apartment. She was lying on the bed with a book.

  “Are we not having dinner tonight?” he asked.

  No answer.

  “We’re not speaking, I see.”

  Yvette turned her back to him and Duddy stuck out his tongue and made an obscene gesture. Turning around, she almost caught him. Duddy lifted his hand quickly to his mouth and coughed twice delicately.

  “Did it ever occur to you,” Yvette asked, “that you’re still under age and all the deeds are made out in my name?”

  “What is this? Traitor’s night on Tupper Street? I’m hungry. Make dinner.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “Now, is that a way to talk?”

  “Are you to teach me “Listen, I just got an idea. Why don’t you move upstairs and Virgil move down here? Living this way is crazy.”

  “Are you trying to cut expenses?”

  “Are you ever in a mood. Boy! Did Friar write you little poemsy-woemsies?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  “You’re a real poet’s delight, aren’t you?”

  “You don’t know how to treat a woman. That’s your trouble.”

  “Aw, let’s eat, eh? I’m starved.”

  “He was in love with me, you know. It was nice.”

  “I’m tickled for you.”

  “Wouldn’t you ever be surprised if I did get married one of these days?”

  “Guys stop you on the street to propose left, right, and center. Oh Christ, I almost forgot. Get me a sleeper on the train to New York tomorrow night.”

  “Why are you going to New York?” .

  Duddy told her about Uncle Benjy.

  “Does it always have to be you?” she asked.

  “That’s show biz, I guess.” Duddy stopped, his face went white. “He’s going to die, Yvette. Isn’t that terrible?”

  2

  His memories of Auntie Ida were jumbled. He recalled his lips touching one of the curly red locks when she held him tight for one of so many good-bys. Her ear had seemed enormous, with waxy hairs inside. But she had the whitest, most delicate skin, and the only time she had taken him down the street for an ice cream, men had stopped to smile. He remembered the dizzying smell of violets that lingered in his grandfather’s house after she’d gone. Taken to his uncle’s house once, he had stumbled on her in the soft pink bedroom. Ida had just emerged from her bath and she sat in a powder blue nothing before a mirror at a little table crammed with jars. The mirror had an elaborate white frame with armed cupids carved into each corner. The cupids, cheeks puffed, blew at Aunt Ida’s re
flection. Humming a tune, Aunt Ida picked up a tiny bottle, spilt something on the palm of her hand, and rubbed it into her calves and wrists and neck. There were two packed suitcases on her bed and a trunk on the floor. The sticker on the trunk read NOT WANTED ON VOYAGE.

  That, Duddy figured, must have been twelve years ago, and he had not seen her since. There had been rumors and reports, however. “She’s here again,” Max would say, sitting stiffly in his best dark suit. “I just come from there.” And turning to Lennie, he’d add, “Is-payed again, the two of them.”

  But there were always gifts delivered via Max. Crazy ones, too. A seashell, perhaps, or an elaborately tooled leather book cover. For his bar-mitzvah she had sent Duddy a small hand-woven carpet from Algiers. Rolling his eyes, he had said, “Come with me to the Casbah, Pepele.”

  Duddy couldn’t remember what had happened to the carpet but he had made good use of another one of her gifts. This one had actually been sent to Lennie for his twenty-first birthday. It was an enormous scroll with lots of Chinese writing running down it and a faded drawing of a man and a house and a lake and some trees.

  “You can hardly make it out any more,” Max had said. “She probably got it reduced.”

  A certificate signed by somebody from the Louvre had come with the scroll. Lennie and Duddy, somewhat baffled, had taken the scroll to How Lee, the laundry man. “It’s an old prayer,” he told them. “It is a blessing on your house and everyone who visits there.”

  Soon after he had moved into his own apartment Duddy had given Lennie twenty-five dollars for the scroll and had it cut up into place mats with bamboo frames.

  She won’t even recognize me after all these years, Duddy thought. This is crazy.

  Her hotel was a small junky-looking place not so far from where Dingleman had taken him to that party on his last trip to New York. Duddy was surprised, he had thought Uncle Benjy gave her a whopping allowance. A slender young man opened the door. He wore a T shirt and blue jeans that seemed too small for him.

  “I beg your pardon,” Duddy said. “I’m looking for a Mrs. Ida Kravitz.”