Frank Herbert

by Frank Herbert

  Angelo’s face darkened. He spoke through tight lips: “And who you want go out with? That no-good … Carlos!”

  Paul sighed, returned to the boot. “It isn’t that I want to go out with Carlos. It’s … Oh, hell! It doesn’t matter who it is. You always get just as mad.”

  “Ask little respect for your olders,” muttered Angelo. And he thought: Who need friend like that Carlos? He lapsed into Greek, mumbling.

  “Oh, speak English!” snapped Paul.

  “Why don’t I speak my own language?” demanded Angelo. “My own language I got born with?”

  “You’re an American citizen now,” said Paul. “That’s the whole idea.”

  “You got hole in your idea!” growled Angelo. He blinked, swallowed. Silence stretched between them—then, “Pavl … Paul, let’s don’t fight, hah?”

  Paul took a deep breath. “Okay, Uncle. Drop it.”

  “If you leave all this work to me,” ventured Angelo. “Go school in day so you got more time for study your …”

  “Let’s drop it!” snapped Paul.

  Angelo frowned, sighed. Such a stubborn, proud boy, he thought. Won’t let me work for him. Proud, just like all Serafims. Then, because he couldn’t avoid it, he asked himself, But does he go to night school? Is it classes, or does he run around with Carlos and young hoodlums?

  He studied Paul covertly while taking down a blank of hard-cured steer hide to cut new soles.

  “Shoe get scuffed,” said Angelo. “But if is good shoe inside, it lasts and lasts and …”

  “What’s wrong with my going out, making friends?” asked Paul. “With Carlos or anyone else? So he’s a little wild, okay. I can take care of myself. Work and study! What do I see of the world?”

  “You already see army! You just home four months!”

  “Yeah, the army. One barracks after another.” Paul gestured with his hammer toward the shallow window at eye level above them. In contrast with the dusty glass at the stairwell, this window shone. “See the world from a barracks!” he barked. “The narrow view—like that!” He pounded a nail into the boot with extra vehemence.

  A staccato of feminine heels went by on the walk outside. Through the window above the bench, Angelo caught a glimpse of slim ankles, brown alligator pumps. She went to the mailbox on the corner. It clanged. Presently, she returned. Angelo grinned as he saw Paul’s gaze following the ankles.

  The rhythm of her walk felt good to Angelo’s ears—pert, alive. That is a nice girl. Secretary in law offices down Seventh Street. No pushing, man-posing in her walk as it is with so many women nowadays. A feminine woman.

  Above the sound of Paul’s hammering, Angelo said, “You think my little window’s not much of world, hah? You be surprised … what I know from my little window. Thirty-one years I watch from here. God give man senses. Man should use what God give wherever he is. I know everybody walks regular by my window. I know more about those people than they think. They look down here, see old man working, they think he doesn’t know much. They be surprised.”

  “Sure,” said Paul. “You read minds.”

  Angelo smiled, nodded. “You take young woman just now. She is secretary. With lawyer. Mr. Carter. Down street there.” He gestured with his head. “Name is Miss Lovett. Jean. Nice name. She support mother, but mother die. Now she is very lonely girl. Work from when she is sixteen. Never have boyfriend time.” He shrugged. “Now … how does girl learn new tricks from old dogs?”

  “If you’ve just seen her through your window, how do you know so much about her?” asked Paul. He put aside one of the boots, took up the other.

  “Well …” Again, Angelo smiled to himself. “I know name because she is customer. Yes. Got shoes right over there in work pile. I bring for her.”

  “Sure, but all that other …”

  “I tell you! Don’t jump on gun.” Angelo’s smile became a grin. “When I fix my will at lawyer office. Before she is customer even. I hear walk. Same girl. Look at feet. Same girl. I ask Mr. Carter. A jewel he calls her, like she is diamond! He tells me. About mother. About work. And she got nice voice, too. And pretty. Like they say: a stacked dish.”

  It was too much. Paul grinned. “Uncle, what’re you doing—running a marriage bureau like in the old country?”

  “Good thing,” said Angelo. His face suddenly sobered. “When I am young jerk in old country, no papa or mama to do for me. Only sister younger from me. Maybe things be different.” He sighed, shrugged. “But they could use in America fine honorable proxenetes. So many people lonely. Need proxenetes to fix marriage. Nice man people trust.”

  “Like you?” asked Paul.

  “Why not?”

  “And you’ve got the girl all picked out for me,” said Paul.

  “You need good woman,” said Angelo. “And this girl—secretary! In law office! She know all about your work.”

  At the end of the bench, the ticking of the yellow clock was drowned abruptly by its alarm.

  “So soon,” said Angelo. He slipped off his apron, gestured toward the brogans. “I promise Mr. Levy he gets shoes tonight. When you finish boots, you work on these, hah? I be back one hour.”

  Paul turned a puzzled frown on Angelo. “Where do you go every Wednesday, Uncle? Before I went away in the army, you never …”

  “Don’t ask! How many times I tell you don’t ask?” Angelo scowled, put a hand to his chest, coughed. “I be back in one hour.” He turned away, exchanged his apron for the coat on the hook, slipped into the coat with stiff movements, and left the shop.

  As he labored up the steps, Angelo thought, Why don’t I tell Pavlos where I go? So I go to a doctor. Do I hide this from everyone? No … I just try to hide it from myself. I tell Pavlos sometime. Then he was in the street, and again he thought of the fat man with killer eyes. Is it really a killer? Who could he want? He shook his head. I am an old fool. I see ghosts.

  Through the dusty front windows, Paul had watched his uncle’s progress up the steps. Presently, Angelo’s feet moved across the little window above the bench. He was wearing shoes he had made for himself: low oxfords in two tones of brown and with ornate floral patterns punched into the toes. They were a young man’s shoes, but the shoes of a European young man. They shuffled out of view to the left.

  Paul returned to his work, thinking, Where does he go?

  And now he found his attention caught by the view through the shallow window. A fireplug stood at the curb across the sidewalk. Marks from wrench jaws scarred the square metal heads of the outlets. An old brownstone with outcurving front steps dominated the view across the street. As Paul watched, an armored car pulled up below the steps. Two uniformed men wearing sidearms emerged, took a pair of canvas bags up the steps, returned empty-handed, and drove off.

  The wind blew a scrap of paper like a dancing white insect from left to right along the sidewalk. And people walked past just outside the window.

  The look of the moving feet caught Paul’s mind. Their rhythm … or lack of it. There was something disquieting in this view of people: cut off (most of them) around the calf. They were like disembodied pieces of marionettes dancing past for his benefit alone. It was like an unguarded view into the soul. Here, down at ground level, lay a thin strip where human inhibitions did not extend.

  Paul thought of his uncle—thirty-one years staring out at people as though they were nude! He felt sudden rage at the window, thinking, Without this window, Uncle Angie would have been forced to go outside, see people face to face, make friends. How can you make friends with bodiless feet?

  A man’s feet came from the left—dark blue pants with knife-edge creases, black shoes shined to a hard gloss. They sauntered slowly past, full of elaborate casualness compounded by something furtive: a hesitant pause on the balls of the feet.

  Paul thought of a beast walking in its jungle. Imagination conjured up a swarthy face, glittering eyes. The feet paused, still in the frame of the window, turned back the way they had come, and passed out of
view. Paul found himself feeling deeply uneasy, as though he had witnessed a crime that he had been powerless to prevent.

  He shook his head to drive away the imagery. Nonsense! It’s just a game Uncle Angie plays. This is the kind of thinking that traps people in basements!

  “Damn Uncle Angie and his window game!” he muttered.

  Feminine heel taps clattered along the walk—alligator pumps, slim ankles, and sleek silk stockings. It was the young woman his uncle said worked in the law offices. Same shoes. Same walk.

  Uncle Angie, matchmaker! thought Paul.

  She passed out of sight, headed for the corner. He expected to hear the mailbox clang, waited for it. But the staccato of her heels stopped at the head of the stairwell, clap-clap-clapped into the echoing concrete hole at the front of the shop.

  Paul turned, saw through the grimed front windows as she descended: the alligator pumps, shapely legs, a tailored green skirt, then a matching suit jacket of reserved and classic cut that swelled unreservedly over a full figure.

  What had his uncle said—“A stacked dish!” Paul grinned.

  The front door creaked open. She was redheaded, her face spattered with freckles. It was an alive face—generous lips, stubborn chin, a nose that turned up ever so slightly, and level, grey-green eyes.

  “You must be Paul Herro,” she said. Her voice was a sparkling contralto. She swung the door closed, advanced to the counter, and plopped an alligator bag on the linoleum top.

  Paul crossed to stand opposite her, the counter between them. What had Angelo said her name was? He found that the name was important. Jean! Jean Lovett! He smiled at a sudden urge, said: “What can I do for you, Miss Jean Lovett?”

  The grey-green eyes opened wide—a level, examining stare followed immediately by a flickering of long lashes, a shy downward glance. “We’ve met?” Her gaze flicked up, down. “No … I’ve never been in here be …” She looked directly at him. “Your uncle told you my name!”

  Laughter bubbled in Paul. He explained about the window. At his urging, she came around to see the view for herself. Four boys ran past playing stickball. An old man with a cane followed. The cane had a brass tip that glistened in the spring sunlight, catching the eye.

  “It’s like … it’s like those one-way mirrors,” she said. “You know—where you can see the person on the other side, but he can’t see you. Imagine that funny old man standing here every day, looking right through people from his little window!”

  Paul’s mouth went thin. A nerve twitched along his jaw. Funny old man! He had a sudden image of this girl and her lawyer-boss laughing at Angelo.

  “I’m glad the funny old man amuses you,” he grated. “His accent’s hilarious and he uses all kinds of words wrong and he talks too much and he repeats him—”

  “Just a minute!” She took a backward step. The freckles stood out like spattered brown paint against her suddenly pale face. “I was …”

  “I know what you were doing.” He closed the gap between them. “But that funny old man has been mother and father to me since I was sixteen. No smart-mouth dame is—”

  “That’s quite enough!” she flared. “I meant no disrespect.” She whirled, strode back to the counter, retrieved her purse, and snapped it open. Sharp, jerking motions emphasized each word as she spoke. “And I’m only here now as a favor to him, to deliver this!” She threw an envelope onto the counter, started toward the door.

  “Wait!” Paul ran to the counter. The anger was gone, leaving him feeling drained, foolish.

  She paused, glared back at him. Moisture glistened in her eyes.

  His lips quirked upward in a rueful smile. “The name’s Pavlos Heropolis,” he said. “Jerk. A Greek jerk with a short temper. I’m sorry.”

  As suddenly as it had come, the anger melted from her face. “Well … perhaps I should’ve chosen my words more carefully. I only meant that I like your uncle—that he amuses me because he tries to amuse me … to make me laugh.” She matched his smile. “I’m always opening my mouth and putting my foot in it.”

  He looked down. “And a nice foot, too.”

  “And there’s nothing wrong with your accent,” she said.

  Suddenly they were both laughing.

  Paul shook his head. “And if you only knew some of the things I was thinking about Uncle Angie just a little while ago.”

  “That’s the way it is,” she said. “We say anything we like to people we love. But just let some outsider step in and be the least bit critical. When my mother …” She stopped, a sudden stillness coming over her features, then continued, “Sometimes I forget she’s gone.”

  Into the silence, Paul said, “I was all primed to blow up this afternoon, too. Uncle Angie’s been riding me because I …” He broke off, thinking, Old Angie, matchmaker. He sent this girl down here so that …

  “He’s been picking on you?” she said. She smiled encouragement.

  He continued rather lamely, “Because I’ve been getting kind of tired of nothing but work work work—school and here. You know how it is.

  She spoke softly. “Yes.”

  And he thought, She is a stacked dish. At least Uncle Angie has a good eye.

  “Your uncle told me you’re studying law,” she said.

  “Yeah. I’m in night school. I just got out of the army a few months ago.”

  “My father was in the army,” she said. “He died when I was sixteen.” She looked down, long lashes flickering, a disconcertingly feminine motion accented by its complete unconsciousness. “I work in a law office now.”

  He nodded. “Uncle Angie told me.”

  She glanced around the shop, then at Paul’s hands on the counter. “This must be hard work. Your Uncle’s hands always look so … rough.”

  “He’s done this work all his life,” said Paul.

  She shook her head. “And he still works every day.”

  “Yeah.” Paul took a deep breath. “And if I’d let him, he’d have me attending school during the day and not helping at all here in the shop.”

  “He’s such a nice old man,” she said. “Mr. Carter—that’s my boss—he always says it brightens up his day whenever Mr. Serafim comes in.”

  Paul had a sudden image of his uncle as a succession of masks: one for the shop, one for the apartment, one for Mr. Carter’s office—and he wondered if he actually knew what was beneath his uncle’s masks, the real face they hid.

  To fill the silence, he said, “Uncle Angie’s worked hard all his life. That’s all he knows—work.”

  “And you’re the independent type,” she said. “That’s what he told me.”

  “Well, why should I sponge off him? The government pays my tuition. I earn my own keep.” Her words had touched another small spark to his anger, and he thought, Independent type! And he’s working on that, too. A nice little wife, two-three kids!

  “He’s told me a lot of things about you,” she said.

  “I’ll bet! Like I’m always reaching too high. What a fine husband I’d make. He thinks he’s a matchmaker just like they have in the old country.”

  Her eyes looked round and deep. “Old people are like that in every country. You have to … well, discount it.”

  “It was kind of obvious, wasn’t it?” he asked. “Giving me the big buildup with you? Then asking you to bring this …” He touched the envelope. “When he could just as well bring it himself.”

  A dark flush spread from her neck up across her face. “But I …”

  “Not that I’m really objecting,” said Paul.

  She spoke shortly. “No. I can see that.” She gestured toward the envelope. “So we’ve met, and there’s your envelope.”

  “Look …”

  “I’ve looked.” She glared at him.

  “Now who’s got a foot in the mouth?” he asked.

  She didn’t rise to his banter. “I really must be going. I have my own keep to earn.”

  “I guess I’m not the only independent type,” he said. />
  The grey-green eyes remained level and aloof. “Of that you can be sure.”

  “May I see you again?”

  She shrugged. “Why don’t you consult your uncle on it?”

  “Oooof!” He ducked his head, started to reply, but she was already letting herself out. He watched her climb the stairs—a last flash of slim ankles and alligator pumps.

  “So much for Uncle Angie, matchmaker,” he muttered.

  Presently, he turned back to the bench. It was lonely and empty in the shop. He saw how dirty the place was: cobwebs in the corners, leather dust in every crack, stains on the floor, decrepit chairs beside the front windows.

  He kicked the buffer stand.

  Footsteps sounded in the stairwell. He whirled, hoping she was coming back. But it was a man. The door opened. Paul recognized him: Carlos Besera, the Carlos whom Uncle Angie did not like. He was a pale-skinned young man with a sharp, beaked nose dominating a narrow face. His raven’s wing of black pompadour always appeared too neat, and the close-set dark eyes carried a look of thinly veiled panic.

  “Well, look who’s watching the till,” he said. He closed the door behind him with a curious sealing-off motion, darted a glance around the shop.

  For no reason he could explain, Paul felt anger at the intrusion. He spoke curtly. “What do you want, Carlos?”

  “Do I have to want something?” Carlos crossed to the counter, slipped around it, bending like a dancer. “Maybe I just come for friendly visit.”

  Paul shrugged. “I have lots of work to do. Besides, Uncle Angie’ll be back pretty soon. He doesn’t like you hanging around here all the time.”

  “Now, you’re not being very friendly,” said Carlos. “Nowhere near as friendly as I bet you were with that doll who just left.”

  “I don’t feel friendly!” snapped Paul. The other man’s tone rasped on him: the way he spoke, as though saying one thing but meaning something different.

  “But man, the company you keep!” said Carlos. He moved past Paul in a soft, springy stride, headed for the workbench.