Love, Action, Laughter and Other Sad Tales

by Budd Schulberg

  The official looked at his passport and nodded. Everything seemed in order. He stamped the book with a flourish. Then he looked up at Nathan and asked, “And your forty pounds? Hurry up, man.”

  Nathan looked past him dumbly, as if motivated by the fantastic hope that the official would forget about it if he continued to ignore him.

  Nathan looked at him stupidly.

  “I do not understand. I have paid for my ticket.”

  “Listen, stupid, a fine Jew you are! You want to come in with empty pockets and live off the state? We can’t afford that. No one can come in without forty pounds. Two hundred dollars.”

  “But I have my pictures. I can paint.”

  “Dumbhead, only half an hour this ship stops at Jaffa. And we should sit here and argue all night. Forty pounds.”

  “Forty pounds,” said Nathan. “Six hundred zlotys. If a Jew in Poland could get that much money he would not have to come to Palestine.”

  “Forty pounds,” said the official, “or you don’t get off.”

  “Forty pounds?” Nathan asked, repeating the question like a record stuck in a groove.

  He looked into the critical and slightly bloodshot eyes of the passport official. “You do not know how much I want to get into Palestine. The nights I spent dreaming of this, the days …”

  “Maybe you should have spent more time gathering the money,” joked the official, genuinely affected by Nathan’s appeal, trying to appear the mechanical agent of the law he was paid to be.

  “Half an hour,” Nathan repeated, as if this time limit had suddenly registered. “Half an hour—wait, I will see. Wait for me,” he pleaded, and he ran wildly to one of the stewards.

  “Bring me to Mrs. MacKnowlton’s cabin at once, up in first class. She will understand. She will let me in.”

  It was a little more adventure than Mrs. MacKnowlton had bargained for when Nathan pounded on her cabin door shortly before dawn, and she opened it to find a wild-eyed artist waving his canvases in her face.

  “You must help me. You must buy these. My marvelous paintings. My great art. I have only half an hour.”

  She turned on her light, which she seldom did once she had taken off her switches for the night, and asked Nathan in. She could not understand a word.

  The sight of Mrs. MacKnowlton without her makeup quieted Nathan somewhat, and when the steward brought Mr. Nussbaum to interpret again, Nathan was able to explain his difficulty more articulately. All his life, all his life he had wanted to go to Palestine, the one land where he would be free. And now, now that he was here, now that he had crossed every barrier, suddenly there was the greatest barrier of all, money, money, two hundred dollars of it piled high enough to wall him out of Palestine forever. But if only Mrs. MacKnowlton would buy his pictures, if only she would pay the small sum of forty pounds for five great masterpieces, he would forget all about what Irma would think of her. He would kiss her on both cheeks as the greatest philanthropist of all time.

  Mrs. MacKnowlton bit her lip. Adventure is one thing and laying out two hundred dollars is another. Showing a cultural interest in obscure art is one thing and buying five unknown paintings is another.

  Nathan read this in her face, and his blood seemed to stop circulating and stiffen like ice.

  Mrs. MacKnowlton read this in his face. And she decided to become an adventuress, she decided to throw caution to the stormy Mediterranean winds.

  “I’m sorry I can’t afford these pictures,” she told him. “But I can help you. I’ll raise the money. I’ll just wake everybody up I know and tell them I have to have it. I won’t let them say no.”

  East Orange would never, never hear the end of this.

  Nathan flew back to his little official.

  “I will have it. In half an hour I will have it. Don’t leave. Give me time.”

  “Shhh,” said the official. “Don’t shriek so loud, others are sleeping.”

  Mrs. MacKnowlton knocked methodically on the door of every passenger she knew. She knew now how Paul Revere must have felt. And Mr. Nussbaum, Mr. Benturini, the others, they could not help but be infected with Mrs. MacKnowlton’s feeling. It was the germ of a real idea, something different, a real antitoxin, and they gave freely, until Mrs. MacKnowlton feverishly brushed the hair from her face and counted victoriously forty pounds.

  In the classic manner, she called for a steward. “Tell Mr. Solomon in the third class I have succeeded, I will come right down.”

  There was just the right note of mystery.

  The steward delivered the message to Nathan, and Nathan hugged him, and he wanted to hug the passport official too, but he edged away, saying cautiously, “You have ten more minutes. Then we must get off.”

  While Nathan was rejoicing, there was a knock on Mrs. MacKnowlton’s door. She opened the door and found herself looking at the sturdy Roman features of the first mate. He was a very military fellow and saluted stiffly.

  “Excuse me, madame, for disturbing you at this hour, but the Captain has heard of your—generosity to a Mr. Solomon. He regrets to inform you that he cannot allow such a collection as you have just made. He feels it would not—ah—not please the Fascisti.”

  This was more drama than Mrs. MacKnowlton had realized there was in the world before.

  “But this poor man, I was only trying to help him get off the boat,” she argued weakly.

  “The Captain appreciates your kindness, but he feels it would set a—ah—dangerous precedent.”

  “Only five more minutes,” said the official.

  “Just wait, only wait, one more moment,” Nathan pleaded.

  Then a messboy brought him a second note from Mrs. MacKnowlton. He read it. And then he sat down and read it again. He crumpled it in his hand. And then he straightened it out and read it again.

  “Don’t wait,” he said.

  “I’m sorry,” said the official.

  “You can go now,” Nathan said.

  “Good luck,” said the official. He put his hand on Nathan’s bent shoulder. “Maybe soon I will see you again.”

  Nathan didn’t answer.

  Next morning the Venus de Milo drew anchor for its return trip. Nathan stood in the stern, watching the lights of Jaffa fade away like stars in the dawn. The homeland.

  An Italian sailor came by, and stood by him a moment.

  “Leaving Jaffa—a good thing—it means home to Naples soon again.”

  The last light was gone.

  Breakfast was lonely without Mr. Brownstein. While he was eating silently, the chief steward entered.

  “Mr. Solomon, your fare is only paid as far as Jaffa. I have orders to put you off at the first stop, Larnaca.”

  Nathan stopped eating, but he didn’t look up.

  “But you can’t. I have no money. I know nobody there.”

  “I am sorry. There is nothing we can do.”

  “But this Larnaca—I never heard of it—it is a black dot—let me work my way back to Naples, anywhere.”

  “I am very sorry. That is impossible.”

  Nathan ran his hands over his face. Then he flung them to his side in anger at the futility of the gesture. It was evening when the Venus reached Larnaca again. Nathan moved slowly down the gangplank, his bag in one hand, his paintings in the other and his easel slung across his back. Never changing his pace he walked to the end of the pier where he was directed to the immigration office.

  Behind the pier he could see the narrow, dark streets, running off into the darkness.

  The city seemed dark and shut to him; the whole world.

  Someone asked him for his passport. He began, falteringly to explain. The man shook his head. He could not understand him. He went away to find an interpreter. Nathan waited. There was a stillness inside him, and a draining out. He could wait. He had time.

  The interpreter came, another Jew.

  “Where is your passport?”

  Nathan gave it to him quietly, braced for the man’s retort. “But this says
nothing about Cyprus! Why have you come here?”

  Nathan shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know.”

  The interpreter looked at him more carefully. The man is a loon. He does not know the right answers. He is dangerous. The interpreter did not know how to handle this. He left abruptly to consult his superiors.

  Nathan was alone. It was not possible. Here, exiled in the darkness of an island he had never known, walked Nathan Solomon, the lone Jew, artist of passivity, with a sickness for friendship, who wanted only to paint his Poland yellow and green. Who wanted only Irma, cheese for breakfast, and a place to paint.

  The interpreter returned. This was a serious case. Nathan must return in the morning to consult the chief immigration official. He would decide. Perhaps they could keep him. Perhaps they would have to send him—somewhere.

  Nathan said, “Where shall I sleep? I have no money. I have nothing.”

  “We will board you for the night.”

  The man pointed through the window to a house across the street.

  Irma was far away. Poland was far away. Revolution was far away. Forty pounds was far away. Hope was far away.

  It was all a maze of bewilderment and torturous uncertainty. For there is no oppression so great as loneliness. Wandering up a blind alley of the world, Nathan heard Irma speak: There is no freedom but the struggle’s brotherhood. But he could not answer. His throat was silent with fear and doubt.

  He would never know. He would never know.

  The door of the immigration office closed behind him. Nathan stepped into the darkness of the narrow street. He was safe for a moment. Darkness was the only refuge now.

  Then he reached the new door. His nails dug into his flesh. Then he knocked, a brush of his knuckles, ever so timidly.

  THE

  FUNNY PART

  IS …

  She was working behind a counter in her old man’s diner in West Liberty, was where it all started. I had come into town with an alleged heavyweight by the name of Big Boy Price. Big Boy had looked so bad the referee had stopped the fight and called it no-contest, which meant we didn’t even get our money. By the time I paid the training expenses, I was so flat it looked like I might even have to go to work for a living. Unless I rightaway found myself a meal ticket and I didn’t expect to find any world-beaters in a one-mule town like West Liberty.

  If I had to be stranded anywhere, though, West Liberty had its points. At least that’s the way it looked to me the night I strolled into Foley’s Diner and spotted Shirley. From that moment on I was a regular at Foley’s. Talked to Shirley every chance I got. Even walked her home a couple of times. Never got to first base, though. But those first few weeks, I wasn’t rushing things. I talked about New York City and Chicago, about all the bigtime people I knew and the important money I had thrown around—oh, they didn’t call me Windy Johnson for nothing—and I figured it was just a question of time until I wore down this little Oklahoma pigeon with my fancy patter and my big city ways. At least it looked like I had the field pretty much to myself. I didn’t see anything in pants in West Liberty that was any competition.

  To make it look like even more of a cinch, I talked Indian Joe Wood, the toughest middleweight in Oklahoma, into signing up with me, and in a couple of months or so I was back in the big money again. At least big money for West Liberty. I bought myself a yellow Chrysler roadster and I told Shirley she could drive it around all day while I was hanging around the gym, keeping an eye on Indian Joe. I figured she’d get so used to that Chrysler she’d have to move in with me to keep it in the family. She still had me at arm’s length, you understand, but I’m a patient sort of a fellow, especially when it comes to Shirley. I figured she’d have to come around and it was just a question of time.

  And I still think I would have been right, if it hadn’t been for this no-goodnik Billy Bonnard. Billy the Kid, they called him. Every time I get to thinking how, if it hadn’t been for me, this little louse Billy would never even have met Shirley, I get so tight inside, I need another drink.

  Halfway between West Liberty and Oklagee there is a place called Dillon’s Barn, where the amateurs beat each other’s brains out every Friday night. They’re called amateurs but they’re really semi-pros because Fatso Dillon gives the winner of each fight an Elgin wrist watch which he buys back from the boy next day for twenty-five bucks. They’re just punks, sixteen, seventeen years old, and they fight for blood, nothing fancy and everything goes. Well, one of the kids is a little baby-face who looks like he should be home doing his geography lessons instead of climbing into the ring at Dillon’s to trade punches with a flat-nose who looks twice his age and has at least a ten-pound pull in the weights. Dillon never paid too much attention to how he matched ’em. As long as somebody came as close to getting killed as was within the law, Dillon and his customers were satisfied.

  This Billy “The Kid” Bonnard didn’t even own a bathrobe. He just came into the ring with a torn hotel towel over his shoulders. His body looked scrawny and white and he had a face like a sweet little choirboy. I settled back in my seat to watch the slaughter.

  But at the bell the choirboy rushed out of his corner like Stanley Ketchel, come back for a second try. His lips were pressed tight together, and with no blink to his eyes, the look on his face … The other guy was just big and wild and tough and The Kid moved around him with tantalizing grace. The Kid peppered the big guy with his left, threw a beautiful right, and brought his left up so fast you didn’t even see it. The bum had to be dragged away like a dead horse. The Kid had skinny arms and not enough strength in his shoulders to look like that kind of a puncher. But he was lithe and wiry and he knew how to snap his punches in.

  I hurried around to the dressing room to line him up before any of the other managers could get to him. “Kid,” I said, “I’m Windy Johnson, manager of champions. You looked sensational tonight. I’m going to give you a big break and add you to my stable.”

  He was a good-looking kid all right but his lips were thin and there was a hardness in him that came through the baby face. My sweet talk didn’t go to his head—he was ahead of me. “Why shouldn’t I look sensational?” he said. “I’m good. I c’n beat tomato cans like that half-a-dozen at a time.”

  “Here’s half a C,” I said, handing him a crisp fifty. “That’s an advance on our first fight. A year from now I’ll have you in the big time.”

  “A year!” The Kid said. “I fuckin’ oughta be there now.”

  That’s the way The Kid was, cocky, impatient and not taking anything from anybody. The day of his first pro fight, at the West Liberty Arena, I took him in the diner to buy him a couple of chops before he went back to the hotel to lie down. Shirley came over to take the order. “Kid,” I said, “I want you to meet my girl.”

  “Hey, Windy,” The Kid says, right in front of her, “you been holdin’ out on me. Why din’tcha tell me you knew a beautiful broad like this? Scared I’d break trainin’ or something?”

  Now there wasn’t a guy came into the diner who didn’t give Shirley the eye or the line but one thing that stood out about her was the way she brushed them off. Most of the waitresses in the joints in West Liberty were the friendly type but Shirley was special. Shirley played harder to get than a first-division deb, but she always seemed to know how to let them off easy, unless she really went up against a fresh guy and then she could be mean as a mother dog. So I was ready to see her put this young punk in his place. But she didn’t put. She even smiled as if she liked it. And she was the one who had been telling me she never let the customers flirt with her. Inconsistency, thy name is woman!

  When Shirley came back with the check, The Kid said, “How’d ya like to come to the arena and see me knock somebody stiff tonight?”

  “Stop wasting your breath,” I said. “I been trying to take her to the fights for months. Shirley don’t like the fights.”

  “I think maybe I’d like to go this time,” Shirley said.

  Billy looked o
ver at me and laughed. “See that, Windy? She’s got the hots for me!” He was really talking to Shirley.

  “Well, you certainly have a high opinion of yourself,” she said. But she said it kind of smilingly.

  “Why not?” he said. “Ever since I was an eight-year-old kid peddlin’ papers, the kids ran away from me and the broads ran to me.”

  Then he did something that showed he was just as nervy with his hands as he was with his mouth. He reached out and patted her on her sweet little keister. Real familiar. I waited for Shirley to let him have one. Shirley just blushed and said, “Fresh!” And when she walked away, something told me she was walking for The Kid.

  The opponent they put in there with Billy for his first pro fight wasn’t a world-beater but he was a real club-fighter who could take a good punch, what they call a crowd-pleaser, which means he’s the kind of pug who doesn’t spare the blood, his or the other guy’s. A target for The Kid’s fast left hand, a sucker for the straight right, but plenty of competition for a boy with no professional experience. He liked to get inside and hold on with one hand and club with the other, strictly a saloon fighter, and in the first round The Kid was getting bloodied up a little bit because he wouldn’t stay away and box the fella like I told him to.

  He was a great little piece of fighting machinery, The Kid, but a know-it-all from way back and very slow to take advice. So he had to get his nose bloody and a red blotch over his kidneys before he began to stay away and make the guy fight his fight the way I wanted him to in the beginning. After that it was all ours and The Kid got a nice hand when he left the ring. He looked around for Shirley and blew her a kiss. My girl, and the first day he meets her he’s moving in!

  “How you feeling, Kid?” I asked him when he came out of the shower.