The Incomparable Atuk

by Mordecai Richler

  Nancy Gore moved closer to Jersey Joe Marchette.

  ‘Another canapé?’ Nancy asked.

  ‘Thank you,’ Jersey Joe said, rubbing against her leg.

  ‘Why lookee over there,’ Nancy said, withdrawing, ‘there’s Ruthy Bone. I hear you clean windows for her too.’

  Ruthy led Seymour Bone into a corner.

  ‘I’m going to have a baby,’ she said.

  ‘Wonderful, wonderful,’ Seymour said. ‘I’ll announce it soon as we’re on camera.’

  ‘Wait. There’s something I must tell you about my background, my Jewish background.’

  ‘Whatever it is, dearest,’ Bone said, patting her hand, ‘you know I am entirely free of prejudice.’

  ‘You see, em, one side of my family is of, ah, Yemenite extraction.’

  Bone was baffled.

  ‘Well, Yemenites are sort of brown you see. Very brown sometimes.’

  ‘You mean our baby …?’

  ‘He might turn out sort of chocolate-y. Just a chance, you know. Does that bother you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he said, trembling, anticipating all the jokes in the office. ‘Why should it?’

  Harry Snipes, on camera again, held up a copy of Ejaculations, Epiphanies, et etc; then he leaped to Buck Twentyman’s defence. ‘If it was only profits that interested him,’ he asked, ‘then why’d he build the Stage Twentyman?’

  Snipes announced that one of Twentyman’s many idea-men had discovered a town in northern Manitoba that was actually called Athens. Twentyman, he said, was putting a million dollars into a proposed Athens arts festival; and Snipes would be in charge. ‘This will be an all-Canadian venture,’ he said. ‘We’re going to open with a production of Oedipus Rex—only we’re going to do it in Western costumes. The sheriff of Thebes is gunned down at a crossroads and only a little while later a notorious gun fighter, Barney “The Kid” Oedipus, rides into town …’

  Bette tugged at Atuk’s sleeve.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I know you went to Twentyman. Let’s just forget we ever knew each other.’

  Rabbi Glenn Seigal and Father Greg ‘Touchdown’ McKendrick began to talk shop together. Glenn told the priest the inside story of his widely reported Wedding-on-the-Ninth-Hole. ‘There was many a chuckle,’ he said, ‘between the arrival of the best man on a go-kart and the finalization of the union.’

  Both men, it developed, were worried about Sunday movies on Channel Nine. Father McKendrick told the rabbi about an enterprising priest in Victoria who had worked out a special deal with the local shopping plaza, and how he now gave away trading stamps in the confession box. ‘The return to the faith, especially among young housewives, has been heartening, very heartening’

  Professor Gore joined the two men. ‘What are you two reactionaries cooking up together?’ he asked with a smile.

  ‘Don’t let him worry you, Rabbi. I’ve known Norm here for a donkey’s years. When the chips are down he stands with us. One of God’s ground crew, if I ever knew one.’

  ‘This is so exciting,’ Rabbi Seigal said as the camera came nearer. ‘If only the bigots of this world could see us together, chatting cosily like this.’

  ‘Judas Priest,’ Father McKendrick said, ‘the Rabbi’s got a point there.’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘Wait, Rabbi,’ Professor Gore called. ‘Come back.’

  The camera dollied in on Snipes again.

  ‘The trouble with Canadians,’ he said, ‘is we’re too damn conventional. I’ll bet if I were to do something spontaneous like, just for the sake of argument, if I were to expose myself right now you’d—’

  A hastily slipped in card read:

  PLEASE DO NOT ADJUST YOUR SETS THE TROUBLE IS TEMPORARY

  A menacing Jean-Paul McEwen took Atuk aside.

  ‘I know all about you and her,’ she said, pointing at Bette who was sobbing on the sofa.

  ‘But I expect to announce my engagement shortly, J-P. I’ve had nothing to do with Bette for months.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Well you just wait until you see my column tomorrow.’

  ‘But your column always gives me immense pleasure. Say, I have an item for you. Did you know that I’m going to be the first contestant on STICK OUT YOUR NECK?’

  ‘Are you crazy? Do you know the rules?’

  Of course Atuk couldn’t tell her about his understanding with Buck Twentyman.

  ‘All I know is that I stand to win a million. That’s good enough for me.’

  Nancy Gore cornered Atuk.

  ‘You,’ she said, ‘enjoy – party? Have – much – fun?’

  ‘Much-much.’

  ‘Go eat.’ Nancy Gore led him to the tables. ‘Good,’ she said, rubbing her stomach. ‘You eat.’

  Panofsky sighed impatiently, red-eyed, rocking to and fro: his glass kept spilling over.

  ‘But of course you’re a Protestant. I could tell at once. You have the typical no-face. You know, the funny little turned-up nose and the pasty complexion and—’

  ‘What’s wrong with my complexion?’ Derm Gabbard asked, retreating a step.

  ‘But you’re not to blame. It’s inherited. I put it down to generations of ignorance and bad diet. You know, it’s the bread you people eat. It’s the Spam and the tinned pilchards and the tartar that forms between your buck-teeth from too much boozing. White Protestant, northern species; it’s written all over your face, like acne. Too much pork.’ He poked Derm with his elbow. ‘You know what pigs thrive on, don’t you?’ Panofsky laughed. ‘You put me in a room full of strangers and I’ll pick out the goyim for you.’

  ‘Just what have you got against us, Mr Panofsky?’

  ‘Look around you. Take a good look.’

  ‘Well, em, all kinds of people are Protestants, you know. We’re good and bad.’

  ‘But these I like the best. They are in the natural goy state. Pissed.’

  Derm, insulted, turned to go. Panofsky grabbed him by the arm.

  ‘A goy, Gabbard, is for running elevators or carrying a rifle. Theirs not to reason why, etc etc. On the assembly lines they’re unexcelled. Look, in some fields you can’t beat them. I admit it. As hockeyists, where brawn and not brain is the rule, as agriculturalists, where a taste for manure heaps is called for, the goy is supreme. Look at them, look around you, the way they guzzle the booze. Know why? They have learned to read and cannot support the weight of it. Knowledge is not natural to the goy’s condition. Life has become too complex for the goy. What does he worship? The cowboy. Out there on a horse, unwashed and crawling with fleas, eating pork-beans out of a tin, and sitting tall in the saddle is the blockhead healthy goy in his natural state. Well, I’d give it back to him, bull-pies and all. Gabbard, the most boring, mediocre man in the world is the White Protestant goy, northern species, and in Canada he has found his true habitat.’

  Derm Gabbard sat down on the sofa and began to talk to Bette tenderly.

  His eyes red and inflamed, Panofsky went to the bar and poured himself another drink.

  Harry Snipes couldn’t shake Rabbi Seigal who, it appeared, was under the impression Snipes was looking for another TV series to do. So Snipes listened, making polite noises.

  ‘You see, my son, he could be modelled after Father Brown. Of course, I’m a man of the cloth myself, hardly a thespian, so my interest in the matter is purely sociological. Such a series you know, might destroy once and for all the stereotype of the Hebrew as a physical coward. Not, you understand, that I want it to be another violent series. I don’t see Rabbi Rocky Rubin in the same light as Eliot Ness. On the contrary. His would be more … well, the intellectual approach to crime.’

  ‘Ah-ha.’

  ‘Busy as I am, I would be willing to supervise the scripts for you.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Financial considerations are hardly the issue. Good taste is, Mr Snipes. Perhaps if I were to introduce each episode, as Walter Winchell does, it might give the venture a certain tone.’

 
‘Well, Rabbi, it sure would. But Pd like to sleep on the idea.’

  ‘You don’t sound stimulated.’

  ‘Oh, I am. It’s very ballsy stuff, but—’

  ‘Among my flock, you know, there’s Arnold Beal. You know, Beal Distilleries. Well, he is interested in a video prestige series and I could broach the subject with him, if you like.’

  ‘A swell idea. Can I call you tomorrow?’

  ‘Certainly. Oh, one further thought, my son. I’ve mailed myself a copy of the idea by registered letter. This is no reflection on you. But I’m an innocent in these matters—’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  ‘—and I was advised—’

  ‘Tomorrow, Rabbi, OK?’

  Ti-Lucy found Atuk at the tables, filling his plate again.

  ‘What … how in the hell did you get in here?’ Atuk asked.

  ‘You must come at once, Atuk. At once’

  Outside, a troubled Derm Gabbard led Bette towards her car. Suddenly he was seized from behind. Panofsky knocked him down, grabbed his arm, and began to twist it.

  ‘Hey!’

  Bette sat down in the snow.

  ‘Who destroyed the Temple?’ Panofsky asked.

  Derm winced as Panofsky gave his arm another twist.

  ‘Admit it. Who sacked Jerusalem?’

  ‘Help,’ Derm shouted. ‘Help!’

  Bette heard the call clearly and began to undress.

  ‘Confess,’ Panofsky demanded.

  ‘Let go!’

  Panofsky kicked Derm in the ribs.

  ‘Ouch! Bette! Help me! Oh, my God. You’ll catch the death of a cold.’

  ‘Who sacked Jerusalem? Answer, goy-boy.’ ‘Oooh.’

  ‘You killed Trotsky,’ he shouted, kicking him once more.

  Atuk wrapped a handkerchief round his bleeding hand and summoned them all into the living-room for another count. Ti-Lucy sobbed brokenly. ‘It was Ignak,’ she said, ‘he broke the window and—’

  ‘It’s not Ignak I’m worried about. I was going to send him back to the Bay tomorrow anyway. Why did Mush-Mush go with him?’

  ‘They took some of the Queen’s pictures. You know, the green papers.’

  ‘Some of the orange ones too, Atuk.’

  ‘Goddam it. Back to bed. All of you.’

  14

  ‘You must find him at once. At once,’ Twentyman said. ‘I warned you the story mustn’t break until Tuesday.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, Buck.’

  ‘Didn’t I offer to fly them all the way back to the Bay at my own expense?’ ‘Don’t worry. I’ll find them.’

  ‘You’re the one who should be worried. Not me:

  Atuk agreed. But, concerned as he was, the boys’ escape was not his only problem. He was late for his appointment with Rabbi Siegal.

  Rabbi Seigal waited by the phone in his office. Harry Snipes had not called yet. May he burn in hell, Seigal thought.

  Seigal had felt secure, the Temple executive had seemed pleased when the Standard had decided to run his column on a three-a-week basis, but then young Bergman, the new Rabbi at the other temple, had been signed on by the Gazette. Rory Peel, may his teeth rot in his mouth, had made a survey and it was discovered that the little mamzer had a larger readership. What the drecks on the executive didn’t understand was that Bergman ran on the same page as Sheilah Graham while he was buried in the classified ads section with that latter-day yoshka of a Billy Graham. Well, if Snipes took to the idea of this series …

  ‘Rabbi, I’m sorry to intrude, but there’s somebody here to—’

  ‘I told you—’

  ‘It’s Atuk. The Eskimo poet. He says it’s urgent. You did give him an appointment, you know.’

  Atuk told the Rabbi about his trouble with Rory Peel. He explained what he wanted to do.

  ‘I see, my son. I see.’

  Rabbi Seigal turned his back to Atuk, hard put to conceal his enthusiasm. This would be the biggest catch since Sammy Davis. Bigger, by Canadian standards.

  ‘I don’t want you to rush into this, though. Perhaps you ought to reflect for a week or two. It’s a big decision, Atuk.’

  ‘You call me Abe, Rabbi. Like Abraham, may he rest in peace. I want my name altered.’

  ‘It’s good to see you’re familiar with the Old Testament, but frankly we don’t go in for those style names any more. What about … Ashley?’

  ‘Rabbi, I want you to know I intend to study Yiddish. I—’

  ‘Mm, Yiddish isn’t necessary. We’re modern Jews here, Atuk.’

  ‘I was going to ask you about that, Rabbi. I don’t mean to be impertinent, but what is that Christmas tree I saw in the hall?’

  ‘Inter-Faith, Atuk. This year Father McKendrick will start off the Christmas dinner at the Concrete Club with chopped liver and we—’

  ‘But the Concrete Club doesn’t admit Jews. Those bastards, they—’

  ‘We have to learn to walk before we can run, my son. Blind anger breeds violence.’

  ‘An eye for an eye, it is written. A tooth for a tooth.’

  ‘Tell me, son, would you object if I were to alert the press about this wedding with Miss Panofsky?’

  Atuk hesitated.

  ‘You see, last week in Miami Rabbi Bergman scored a hole-in-one. Well, I happen to know what Bergman’s game is like. I’d hate to call him a liar, but … Well you probably saw his picture in all the papers and—’

  ‘Rabbi, whatever you say. Another thing I would like you to know. We’re going to keep a kosher home. No chazer-fleisch in our house.’ Atuk looked up at the ceiling. ‘If I forget thee, Jerusalem.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right. A charming custom; charming. Will you be joining our country club?’

  ‘I hope Rory Peel will see to my application.’

  The Rabbi’s secretary interrupted. ‘A telephone call for you, Mr Atuk. The man says it’s urgent.’

  It was Rory.

  ‘We’ve found Mush-Mush. Two of McEwen’s operators have him. They’ve taken him to the Standard office.’

  On the fifth floor of the Standard, outside Jean-Paul McEwen’s office, the two men held Mush-Mush between them on the bench. He seemed amused. He stared at the enormous redhead behind the desk at the head of the room.

  The big redhead went to his filing cabinet, opened the T-Z drawer, and began to flip through some folders. T-Ty-Tyn. He found the folders he wanted, extracted a long clipping from it, and set it down beside his typewriter. ‘In my estimation,’ Seymour Bone wrote, ‘last night’s production of The Hostage—’ Bone leaned over to study the clippings again. He frowned. ‘Larry,’ he called, ‘be a good fellow and get me the Shorter Oxford, please.’

  Jean-Paul McEwen opened the door. ‘OK,’ she said, ‘bring him in. Christ, couldn’t you have given him a shower first?’

  ‘But we just took him to the can. He’s afraid of water, Jean-Paul.’

  ‘O?. Shoot.’ McEwen leaned back in her swivel chair, her half-closed eyes sheltered by her hand.

  ‘Well,’ Arnold said, ‘he’s wandering through Lob-law’s, the big one on St Clair, like in a daze, when he suddenly comes to the frozen food counter. He sees all this fish, and the next thing he’s ripping packages open right there, and it takes five guys …’

  They went on to tell McEwen how the little fellow, who said he was an Eskimo, claimed to have been separated from his brother in a crowd. The cops couldn’t make anything out of his story, but they figured McEwen might be interested.

  ‘Who figured?’ McEwen demanded. ‘Just who passed him on to you?’

  ‘Captain Whitaker.’

  ‘How many times have I told you I will accept compromising favours from no man?’

  McEwen, unlike many another Toronto columnist, not only returned all cases of liquor, cheques, and automobiles, but she had also, according to report, refused birthday gifts from her nieces on the grounds that, as girl guides, they represented a pressure group.

  ‘But wait till you hear his story, Jean
-Paul. He’s from Baffin Bay. He says he’s been incarcerated for the last few months in a factory that makes Eskimo sculpture. He also says he can give you something hot on the DEW-line case.’

  ‘You stupid bastards,’ McEwen said, ‘you know Twentyman’s out to get me ever since I wrote that column on Metro. Well, some of his boys have put this creep on to me. He’s a plant. I’m supposed to fall for his story and look like an idiot when the Gazette exposes me tomorrow morning. Eskimo. Look at him.’

  ‘I’m Eskimo.’

  ‘Charlie Chan’s Number One Son,’ McEwen said, ‘get the hell out of my office.’

  ‘Don’t you even want to hear his DEW-line story?’

  ‘No.’

  The boys looked hurt.

  ‘O?, OK, but make it quick.’

  ‘Oh, one thing, Jean-Paul. He won’t talk unless you show him a trick or two. You see, we’ve already got his confidence, to some extent.’ Arnold winked. ‘We showed him the magic.’

  ‘What?’

  Arnold whispered an explanation in McEwen’s ear.

  ‘Take this kook back to the funny-farm and I’ll deal with you later.’

  In his eagerness to reach McEwen’s office the book reviewer slipped and almost fell on a banana peel as he passed the desk outside. ‘Hey,’ he shouted, ‘wait till you hear what’s happened in the john!’

  ‘I thought that son-of-a-bitch promised to cut that out. If we lose one more copy boy—’

  ‘No, no, it’s not that again. Somebody’s been in there wiping his ass with fifty-dollar bills. The floor’s covered with them.’

  McEwen turned on Mush-Mush. ‘Empty his pockets,’ she said.

  Out came a few more fifty dollar bills.

  ‘Bring me coffee. OK, fella. From the beginning. Take it nice and easy.’

  ‘In Baffin Bay, at the time of the great ice-sheet, when the land was ours from sea to sea, was very long night—’

  ‘Hiya!’

  ‘Atuk!’ Mush-Mush stepped quickly behind Arnold. He began to whimper.

  ‘Hiya, J-P. I was in the neighbourhood and thought I’d drop in to tell you what a charge I got out of your column yesterday.’

  ‘This,’ Jean-Paul said, ‘is beginning to get very interesting.’