Rich Man, Poor Man

by Irwin Shaw

  Half a point would be taken off for a mistake in spelling or a misplaced accent, and a full point for any errors in grammar. The composition had to be at least three pages long.

  Rudolph filled the required three pages quickly. He was the only student in the class who consistently got marks of over 90 on compositions and dictation, and in the last three tests he had scored 100. He was so good in the language that Miss Lenaut had grown suspicious and had asked him if his parents spoke French. “Jordache,” she said. “It is not an American name.” The imputation hurt him. He wanted to be different from the people around him in many respects, but not in his American-ness. His father was German, Rudolph told Miss Lenaut, but aside from an occasional word in that language, all Rudolph ever heard at home was English.

  “Are you sure your father wasn’t born in the Alsace?” Miss Lenaut persisted.

  “Cologne,” Rudolph said and added that his grandfather had come from Alsace-Lorraine.

  “Alors,” Miss Lenaut said. “It is as I suspected.”

  It pained Rudolph that Miss Lenaut, that incarnation of feminine beauty and worldly charm and the object of his feverish devotion, might believe, even for a moment, that he would lie to her or take secret advantage of her. He longed to confess his emotion and had fantasies of returning to the high school some years hence, when he was a suave college man, and waiting outside the school for her and addressing her in French, which would by that time be fluent and perfectly accented, and telling her, with an amused chuckle for the shy child he had been, of his schoolboy passion for her in his junior year. Who knew what then might happen? Literature was full of older women and brilliant young boys, of teachers and precocious pupils …

  He reread his work for errors, scowling at the banality which the subject had imposed upon him. He changed a word or two, put in an accent he had missed, then looked at his watch. Fifteen minutes to go.

  “Hey!” There was a tortured whisper on his right. “What’s the past participle of venir?”

  Rudolph turned his head slightly toward his neighbor, Sammy Kessler, a straight D student. Sammy Kessler was hunched in a position of agony over his paper, his eyes flicking desperately over at Rudolph. Rudolph glanced toward the front of the room. Miss Lenaut was engrossed in her book. He didn’t like to break the rules in her class, but he couldn’t be known by his contemporaries as a coward or a teacher’s pet.

  “Venu,” he whispered.

  “With two o’s?” Kessler whispered.

  “A u, idiot,” Rudolph said.

  Sammy Kessler wrote laboriously, sweating, doomed to his D.

  Rudolph stared at Miss Lenaut. She was particularly attractive today, he thought. She was wearing long earrings and a brown, shiny dress that wrinkled skin-tight across her girdled hips and showed a generous amount of her stiffly armored bosom. Her mouth was a bright-red gash of lipstick. She put lipstick on before every class. Her family ran a small French restaurant in the theatrical district of New York and there was more of Broadway in Miss Lenaut than the Faubourg St. Honoré, but Rudolph was happily unaware of this distinction.

  Idly, Rudolph began to sketch on a piece of paper. Miss Lenaut’s face took shape under his pen, the easily identifiable two curls that she wore high on her cheeks in front of her ears, the waved, thick hair, with the part in the middle. Rudolph continued drawing. The earrings, the rather thick, beefy throat. For a moment, Rudolph hesitated. The territory he was now entering was dangerous. He glanced once more at Miss Lenaut. She was still reading. There were no problems of discipline in Miss Lenaut’s class. She gave out punishments for the slightest infractions with merciless liberality. The full conjugation of the reflexive irregular verb se taire, repeated ten times, was the lightest of her sentences. She could sit and read with only an occasional lifting of her eyes to reassure herself that all was well, that there was no whispering, no passing of papers between desk and desk.

  Rudolph gave himself to the delights of erotic art. He continued the line down from Miss Lenaut’s neck to her right breast, naked. Then he put in her left breast. He was satisfied with the proportions. He drew her standing, three-quarter view, one arm extended, with a piece of chalk in her hand, at the blackboard. Rudolph worked with relish. He was getting better with each opus. The hips were easy. The mons veneris he drew from memory of art books in the library, so it was a bit hazy. The legs, he felt, were satisfactory. He would have liked to draw Miss Lenaut barefooted, but he was bad on feet, so he gave her the high-heeled shoes, with straps above the ankle, that she habitually wore. Since he had her writing on the blackboard, he decided to put some words on the blackboard. “Je suis folle d’amour,” he printed in an accurate representation of Miss Lenaut’s blackboard script. He started to shade Miss Lenaut’s breasts artistically. He decided that the entire work would be more striking if he drew it as though there were a strong light coming from the left. He shaded the inside of Miss Lenaut’s thigh. He wished there were someone he knew in school he could show the drawing to who would appreciate it. But he couldn’t trust the boys on the track team, who were his best friends, to treat the picture with appropriate sobriety.

  He was shading in the straps on the ankles when he became conscious of someone standing beside his desk. He looked up slowly. Miss Lenaut was glaring down at the drawing on his desk. She must have moved down the aisle like a cat, high heels and all.

  Rudolph sat motionless. No gesture seemed worthwhile at the moment. There was fury in Miss Lenaut’s dark, mascaraed eyes and she was biting the lipstick off her lips. She reached out her hand, silently. Rudolph picked up the piece of paper and gave it to her. Miss Lenaut turned on her heel and walked back to her desk, rolling the paper in her hands so that no one could see what was on it.

  Just before the bell rang to end the class, she called out, “Jordache.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Rudolph said. He was proud of the ordinary tone he managed to use.

  “May I see you for a moment after class?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  The bell rang. The usual chatter broke out. The students hurried out of the room to rush for their next classes. Rudolph, with great deliberation, put his books into his briefcase. When all the other students had quit the room, he walked up to Miss Lenaut’s desk.

  She was seated like a judge. Her tone was icy. “Monsieur l’artiste,” she said. “You have neglected an important feature of your chef d’oeuvre.” She opened the drawer of her desk and took out the sheet of paper with the drawing on it and smoothed it with a rasping noise on the blotter of the desk top. “It is lacking a signature. Works of art are notoriously more valuable when they are signed authentically by the artist. It would be deplorable if there were any doubts as to the origin of a work of such richness.” She pushed the drawing across the desk toward Rudolph. “I will be much indebted to you, Monsieur,” she said, “if you would have the kindness to affix your name. Legibly.”

  Rudolph took out his pen and signed his name on the lower right hand corner of the drawing. He did it slowly and deliberately and he made sure that Miss Lenaut saw that he was studying the drawing at the same time. He was not going to act like a frightened kid in front of her. Love has its own requirements. Man enough to draw her naked, he was man enough to stand up to her wrath. He underlined his signature with a little flourish.

  Miss Lenaut reached over and snatched the drawing to her side of the desk. She was breathing hard now. “Monsieur,” she said shrilly, “you will go get one of your parents immediately after school is over today and you will bring it back for a conversation with me speedily.” When she was excited, there were little, queer mistakes in Miss Lenaut’s English. “I have some important things to reveal to them about the son they have reared in their house. I will be waiting here. If you are not here with a representative of your family by four o’clock the consequences will be of the gravest. Is it understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Good afternoon, Miss Lenaut.” The “good afternoon” took courage.
He went out of the room, neither more quickly nor more slowly than he usually did. He remembered his gliding motion. Miss Lenaut sounded as though she had just run up two flights of stairs.

  When he reached home after school was over, he avoided going into the store where his mother was serving some customers and went up to the apartment, hoping to find his father. Whatever happened, he didn’t want his mother to see that drawing. His father might whack him, but that was to be preferred to the expression that he was sure would be in his mother’s eyes for the rest of her life if she saw that picture.

  His father was not in the house. Gretchen was at work and Tom never came home until five minutes before supper. Rudolph washed his hands and face and combed his hair. He was going to meet his fate like a gentleman.

  He went downstairs and into the shop. His mother was putting a dozen rolls into a bag for an old woman who smelled like a wet dog. He waited until the old woman had left, then went and kissed his mother.

  “How were things at school today?” she asked, touching his hair.

  “Okay,” he said. “The usual. Pa around anywhere?” “He’s probably down at the river. Why?” The “Why?” was suspicious. It was unusual for anyone in the family to seek out her husband unnecessarily.

  “No reason,” Rudolph said carelessly.

  “Isn’t there track practice today?” she probed.

  “No.” Two customers came into the shop, the little bell over the door tingling, and he didn’t have to lie any more. He waved and went out as his mother was greeting the customers.

  When he was out of sight of the shop he began to walk quickly down toward the river. His father kept his shell in the corner of a ramshackle warehouse on the waterfront and usually spent one or two afternoons a week working on the boat there. Rudolph prayed that this was one of those afternoons.

  When he reached the warehouse he saw his father out in front of it, sandpapering the hull of the one-man shell, which was propped, upside down, on two sawhorses. His father had his sleeves rolled up and was working with great care on the smooth wood. As Rudolph approached, he could see the ropy muscles of his father’s forearms hardening and relaxing with his rhythmic movements. It was a warm day, and even with the wind that came off the river his father was sweating.

  “Hi, Pa,” Rudolph said.

  His father looked up and grunted, then went back to his work. He had bought the shell in a half-ruined condition for practically nothing from a boys’ school nearby that had gone bankrupt. Some river memory of youth and health from his boyhood on the Rhine was behind the purchase and he had reconstructed the shell and varnished it over and over again. It was spotless and the mechanism of the sliding seat gleamed with its coating of oil. After he had gotten out of the hospital in Germany, with one leg almost useless and his big frame gaunt and weak, Jordache had exercised fanatically to recover his strength. His work on the Lake boats had given him the strength of a giant and the grueling miles he imposed on himself sweeping methodically up and down the river had kept him forbiddingly powerful. With his bad leg he couldn’t catch anybody, but he gave the impression of being able to crush a grown man in those hairy arms.

  “Pa …” Rudolph began, trying to conquer his nervousness. His father had never hit him, but Rudolph had seen him knock Thomas unconscious with one blow of his fist just last year.

  “What’s the matter?” Jordache tested the smoothness of the wood, with broad, spatulate fingers. The back of his hands and his fingers were bristling with black hairs.

  “It’s about school,” Rudolph said.

  “You in trouble? You?” Jordache looked over at his son with genuine surprise.

  “Trouble might be too strong a word,” Rudolph said. “A situation has come up.”

  “What kind of situation?”

  “Well,” Rudolph said, “there’s this French woman who teaches French. I’m in her class. She says she wants to see you this afternoon. Now.”

  “Me?”

  “Well,” Rudolph admitted, “she said one of my parents.”

  “What about your mother?” Jordache asked. “You tell her about this?”

  “It’s something I think it’s better she doesn’t know about,” Rudolph said.

  Jordache looked across the hull of the shell at him speculatively. “French,” he said. “I thought that was one of your good subjects.”

  “It is,” Rudolph said. “Pa, there’s no sense in talking about it, you’ve got to see her.”

  Jordache flicked a spot off the wood. Then he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and began rolling down his sleeves. He swung his windjacket over his shoulder, like a workingman, and picked up his cloth cap and put it on his head, and started walking. Rudolph followed him, not daring to suggest that perhaps it would be a good idea if his father went home and put on a suit before the conversation with Miss Lenaut.

  Miss Lenaut was seated at her desk correcting papers when Rudolph led his father into the room. The school building was empty, but there were shouts from the athletic field below the classroom windows. Miss Lenaut had put lipstick on at least three more times since Rudolph’s class. For the first time, he realized that she had thin lips and plumped them out artificially. She looked up when they came into the room and her mouth set. Jordache had put his windjacket on before entering the school and had taken off his cap, but he still looked like a workman.

  Miss Lenaut stood up as they approached the desk.

  “This is my father, Miss Lenaut,” Rudolph said.

  “How do you do, sir?” she said, without warmth.

  Jordache said nothing. He stood there, in front of the desk, chewing at his moustache, his cap in his hands, proletarian and subdued.

  “Has your son told you why I asked you to come this afternoon, Mr. Jordache?”

  “No,” Jordache said, “I don’t remember that he did.” That peculiar, uncharacteristic mildness was in his voice, too. Rudolph wondered if his father was afraid of the woman.

  “It embarrasses me even to talk about it.” Miss Lenaut immediately became shrill again. “In all my years of teaching … The indignity … From a student who has always seemed ambitious and diligent. He did not say what he had done?”

  “No,” Jordache said. He stood there patiently, as though he had all day and all night to sort out the matter, whatever it turned out to be.

  “Eh, bien,” Miss Lenaut said, “the burden devolves upon my shoulders.” She bent down and opened the desk drawer and took out the drawing. She did not look at it, but held it down and away from her as she spoke. “In the middle of my classroom, when he was supposed to be writing a composition, do you know what he was doing?”

  “No,” said Jordache.

  “This!” She poked the drawing dramatically in front of Jordache’s nose. He took the paper from her and held it up to the light from the windows to get a better look at it. Rudolph peered anxiously at his father’s face, searching for signs. He half expected his father to turn and hit him on the spot and wondered if he would have the courage to just stand there and take it without flinching or crying out. Jordache’s face told him nothing. He seemed quite interested, but a little puzzled.

  Finally, he spoke. “I’m afraid I can’t read French,” he said.

  “That is not the point,” Miss Lenaut said excitedly.

  “There’s something written here in French.” Jordache pointed with his big index finger to the phrase, “Je suis folle d’amour,” that Rudolph had printed on the drawing of the blackboard in front of which the naked figure was standing.

  “I am crazy with love, I am crazy with love.” Miss Lenaut was now striding up and down in short trips behind her desk.

  “What’s that?” Jordache wrinkled his forehead, as though he was trying his best to understand but was out in waters too deep for him.

  “That’s what’s written there.” Miss Lenaut pointed a mad finger at the sheet of paper. “It’s a translation of what your talented son has written there. ‘I am crazy wi
th love, I am crazy with love.’” She was shrieking now.

  “Oh, I see,” Jordache said, as though a great light had dawned on him. “Is that dirty in French?”

  Miss Lenaut gained control of herself with a visible effort, although she was biting her lipstick again. “Mr. Jordache,” she said, “have you ever been to school?”

  “In another country,” Jordache said.

  “In whatever country you went to school, Mr. Jordache, would it be considered proper for a young boy to draw a picture of his teacher nude, in the classroom?”

  “Oh!” Jordache sounded surprised. “Is this you?”

  “Yes, it is,” Miss Lenaut said. She glared bitterly at Rudolph.

  Jordache studied the drawing more closely. “By God,” he said, “I see the resemblance. Do teachers pose nude in high school these days?”

  “I will not have you mock of me, Mr. Jordache,” Miss Lenaut said with cold dignity. “I see there is no further point to this conversation. If you will be so good as to return the drawing to me …” She stretched out her hand. “I will say good day to you and take the matter up elsewhere, where the gravity of the situation will be appreciated. The office of the principal. I had wanted to spare your son the embarrassment of putting his obscenity on the principal’s desk, but I see no other course is open to me. Now, if I may have the drawing please, I won’t detain you further …”

  Jordache took a step back, holding onto the drawing. “You say my son did this drawing?”

  “I most certainly do,” Miss Lenaut said. “His signature is on it.”

  Jordache glanced at the drawing to confirm this. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s Rudy’s signature. It’s his drawing, all right. You don’t need a lawyer to prove that.”

  “You may expect a communication from the principal,” Miss Lenaut said. “Now, please return the drawing. I’m busy and I’ve wasted enough time on this disgusting affair.”