St. Urbain's Horseman

by Mordecai Richler

  Why did he return to Montreal? He came to fuck me, Jenny said. “If he is hunting this Nazi down and finds him,” Uncle Abe shouted, “he won’t kill him, he’ll blackmail him.” What if the Horseman was a distorting mirror and we each took the self-justifying image we required of him?

  I am the LORD thy God, which brought thee out of the land of Egypt, from the house of bondage.

  Thou shalt have none other gods before me. Thou shall not make thee any graven image, or any likeness of any thing that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the waters beneath the earth:

  Thou shalt not bow down thyself unto them, nor serve them: for I the LORD thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me.

  No, no, Jake argued, and he pulled the Horseman’s saddle out of the cupboard, heaving it onto the floor before him. It wobbled briefly and then fell on its side. With a distinct metallic clunk.

  Jake lunged at the saddle, upending it, and probing its innards he found the pouch. “That’s where he keeps his gat.” There was indeed a revolver, and alarmed, his heart hammering, Jake took it in his hand. Feh, he thought, shrinking from it, setting it down gently on his desk, pointing it away from him. Jake poured himself another brandy and contemplated the weapon. He knew almost nothing of such things, but even to his untrained eye it seemed an archaic gun. Pick it up, chicken. So he took it in his wet palm again, raised it, and pointed it at the window.

  Look sharp, Mengele. Die Juden kommen.

  Then, demonstrating his courage to himself, Jake gritted his teeth and turned the revolver, pressing the barrel to his forehead.

  Putz, you can hurt yourself.

  I want to find out who I am, he had told Issy Hersh. It’s taken years, but now I know. Who am I? Well, I’m not Hedda Gabler. I’m Aaron maybe.

  Now Jake pointed the revolver at that discolored square on the wall where “Sepp” Dietrich’s photograph used to hang. He pointed it, squeezed his eyes shut, and fired. There was a tremendous report, a kick, but, to his astonishment, no hole in the wall.

  Nancy bounded up the stairs and charged into his office, “Jake! Jake!” the tears actually flying.

  He seized her, holding her tight, and explained.

  “Watch this,” he said, taking up the revolver again. With more confidence now.

  He fired at the wall once more. Eyes open this time. A tremendous bang, but no hole.

  “It only fires blanks. It’s an actor’s gun. A souvenir of his film days, probably.”

  Jake poured himself another brandy and slumped on the sofa. “I’ll just finish this and try to get some sleep. I’m all right, Nancy, honestly.”

  She woke him at six to say, “Luke phoned. He wants to take us to dinner.”

  “Say yes.”

  “Really?” she asked, startled.

  “Yes, really.”

  For sentimental reasons, they met at Chez Luba. Jake told Luke he would like to direct his script. Ostensibly, Luke was overjoyed. So was Nancy. So was Jake. But their shared gaiety was forced, a fragile cork bobbing on currents of doubt.

  Even as Jake basked in their concern for his well-being, his belated return to the land of the living, his mind rode with the Horseman. He told them about the other letter he had found, Hanna’s letter. “She doesn’t believe Joey’s dead. She thinks he may be in trouble with the police again and staged the crash to evade arrest and because he needs the insurance money. She’s not touching the money. It’s being kept in a special account, until Joey sends for it.”

  Luke set down his glass wearily. Nancy toyed gloomily with a fork.

  “Of course, it’s absurd,” Jake said.

  They parted, agreeing to meet for lunch tomorrow. To discuss the script. And then, for the first time since the trial’s end, Jake and Nancy made love, shy with each other.

  In his nightmare, he was the Horseman now. It was Jake who was St. Urbain’s rider on the white stallion. Come to extract the gold fillings from the triangular cleft between Mengele’s upper front teeth with pliers. Slowly, he thought, coming abruptly awake in a sweat. “I’ve come,” Jake proclaimed aloud.

  Beside him, Nancy stirred.

  “It’s nothing,” he said softly. “Just a nightmare. Go back to sleep.”

  Careful not to disturb her, Jake slid out of bed and into his dressing gown, sucking in his stomach to squeeze between the bed and the baby in the bassinet.

  Once in his attic aerie, he retrieved the Horseman’s journal from the cupboard, found the page where he had written “died July 20, 1967, in an air crash,” crossed it out, and wrote in over it, “presumed dead.” Then he returned to bed, and fell into a deep sleep, holding Nancy to him.

  Portions of “September 1, 1939” and “In Memory of W. B. Yeats” by W. H. Auden are reprinted by permission of Random House, Inc. Copyright 1940, renewed 1968 by W. H. Auden.

  Portions of “The Girl That I Marry” by Irving Berlin are reprinted by permission of Irving Berlin Music Corporation. Copyright 1946 by Irving Berlin.

  The puzzles for the intelligence test on pp. this page are from Know Your Own I.Q., by H. J. Eysenck, Penguin Books, and The Mensa Puzzle Book, by Nicholas Scripture, New English Library.

  Mordecai Richler was born in Montreal in 1931. In a career that spanned more than forty years, Richler wrote ten acclaimed novels, numerous screenplays, and several books of non-fiction. His last novel, Barney’s Version (1997), was the winner of The Giller Prize, the Stephen Leacock Award for Humour, the QSPELL Award, and the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize for Best Novel in the Caribbean and Canada region. Richler also won two Governor General’s Awards and was shortlisted twice for the Booker Prize.

  Mordecai Richler died in Montreal in July 2001.