A New Yorker's Stories

by Philip Gould

  YOU CAN’T WIN THEM ALL

  Yesterday evening was the setting of a rather unusual meeting. My old friend Abdul, an African dealer, came by around nine p.m., at the end of one of the hottest days of the summer. He carried a backpack with a heavy weight within. He had announced this visit and this object earlier in the day: a terra cotta figure from the Nok culture in Northern Nigeria. Abdul took a long time, so it seemed to me, to remove the figure from the sack and hold it up for my inspection. I must say I was not impressed. The figure had been broken and repaired in several places in a rather clumsy fashion. The face was clearly abraded and reworked to restore some definition that had been lost. Nok figures frequently have surface features in mere outline and are therefore easily lost by abrasion. Besides, the whole lower face appeared to be reconstructed into a rather formless mouth. The best parts of the sculpture were the cloth accoutrements around the body such as shoulder and waistbands, front and back. In my judgment, the figure had been too seriously compromised to be worthy of consideration for purchase. I did not say anything while Abdul went on singing praises about the authenticity of the piece and how wonderful to have a genuine Nok sculpture at hand. He spoke in vague terms about how the piece had been unearthed years ago, kept in seclusion until quite recently, and was exceedingly rare nowadays. He didn’t mention price, not even when I asked what the owner was looking for. Abdul wanted me to be the first to announce the amount I would be willing to pay, and I had no intention of naming any price as I was definitely not interested in buying. But I was curious to find out what sort of price might be expected. It was a cat and mouse game. I had the impression that my friend knew the piece was defective and that almost any “reasonable” offer from me would be welcomed. Any price to be liberated from such an unsaleable object. The night was still hot and the room stuffy: definitely not a setting for an agreeable negotiation. Finally, out of desperation, I said the piece was too big and too heavy for my collection. I’ve learned long ago never to criticize a work of art in the bargaining process. My explanation only drew angry retorts as to the unrewarded efforts of Abdul in lugging such a heavy object on such a torrid day. Abdul was casting me as ungrateful for his efforts and in some way obliged to respond positively to his initiative. For my part I felt put upon for the implication that I was obliged to buy the object not because I liked it but because Abdul went to so much trouble. He left the house without saying “goodbye”; not a very good way to continue a relationship. I think calmer minds will prevail in the long run. (6/10/08)

  SHIFTING GEARS IN ONE LONG DAY

  This was some day. I had a call yesterday from an African dealer to announce his arrival in New York. We set a meeting for the next day at ten in the morning. His hotel was not far from my home: an easy short trip on the subway. We met a number of times before at this hotel. He wasn’t in his room when I arrived but I knew from previous experiences that he was probably in the restaurant two doors away. He was there, in fact, with one of his “brothers” just finishing a coffee. We went up to his room together. He unloaded some things from his luggage, things he thought would interest me. He knows me well enough to make a good judgment about that: a ceremonial knife from Cameroon; a set of seven iron currencies from Chad; and two wood fetishes or “grigris” with iron points to set the figures into the ground, from Chamba, Nigeria. My friend was right, I liked all these objects. I asked the price and the price was exceedingly high. I was ready to get up and leave the room. That was a feint and my friend immediately reduced the price in a serious way. I knew then that the price was negotiable. Now he was quite firm pointing out the importance of the objects and the expense and trouble he had in traveling through difficult terrain to find the pieces and in the actual cost in buying the objects. The exchange thus far made me nervous and hungry as though bargaining was an exhausting process. I suggested that we go back to the next-door restaurant for coffee. In the restaurant, while waiting for my toasted English muffin, I drew the three objects in question on the paper napkin from memory. Well, the recollection was not that old and I have a good visual memory but recreating the objects on paper impresses people. I put a new and higher price next to each object. We lingered a while over this new overture, neither one of us saying anything more. I could see the price was still not right for my friend. Then I made a slightly higher offer which my friend had the good sense to sense was my final offer. He accepted and we retired back to his room. I don’t usually carry that much cash on me but I came prepared with seven traveler’s checks. I cashed them in at a bank on the corner. My friend had the cash and I carried away the three objects for a final price that was one-fifth the first asking price. It took about an hour and a half of give and take; not at all unusual for such an encounter. I suppose we both felt satisfied.

  I took the local bus uptown to my regular senior citizen center for lunch with my loot in hand. When I returned home I thought I would work on the notes for my lecture that afternoon. I started the computer, put the CD in the hard drive, and by golly the image on the screen froze. I couldn’t make the computer do anything. I was furious for I tried several strategies without success. I hate to call up for technical help but I felt I had to get unstuck. Calling the service number is such a terrible pain and answering all the questions is nerve-racking. At the end of it all I am told that I must pay a service charge just to speak to a technical aide. I virtually screamed over the phone at the agent in Bangalore at the unfairness of it all. I asked to speak to the supervisor. I heard some clicking sounds and hung up the phone. I thought to myself that I was just wasting my time. In a gesture of defiance I flipped the switch on my circuit breaker and then turned it back on, and voilà, the computer was unfrozen and I could work again. But I was so enervated by the telephone encounter that I decided to forget the lecture notes: I could live without them. I flopped down in bed for the rest I had intended to have before the lecture. The hour was soon upon me for making my appearance at the lecture site. Without fifteen minutes rest, I headed out of the house for the trip down town.

  I was a little frazzled but determined to do my stuff. I arrived at the hospital greeted by friends who were waiting with just a pinch of anxiety. There is always a moment of concern before the equipment is set up. I dread the feeling that something may go wrong at the last minute and that emergency measures will be necessary. I have the skill of “making do” under any circumstances to save the situation. Fortunately the set up at the hospital was OK and the lecture went off without a hitch. Afterwards I was invited by my Chinese friends to a dinner in Chinatown. I was wiped out but made an effort to look up to the meal put before us. The restaurant was an elegant one with white tablecloths and pink cloth napkins and the menu was full of special dishes. It was fun to be patronized, to be treated like the elder (that I am) and the scholar in retirement. It was ten-thirty by the time I got home via the subway and I was really ready to flop into bed. What a day! (5/29/08)

  A MINI-TRAGI-COMIC WEEKEND

  Last Saturday, as is customary, I made my way down to the senior citizen center on 43rd Street for lunch. I found a table where my good friends were already gathered. We share common interests in the arts and current concerts about town. This day we lingered a bit longer to reminisce about the past, about old movies, about former political leaders in the city and in the country. We also had time to rerun some really old jokes and salty limericks. And then I took my leave because I have other things to do on Saturday afternoons.

  I waited for the cross-town bus on 42nd Street by the entrance to the number 1 line of the subway. The cross-town bus service is often lousy and this day was no exception. I would rather walk than wait standing and since the weather was not cold, just a bit windy, I decided to walk to my destination, the 39th Street flea market.

  I looked for my friend Stephen who presides over his space of Chinese artifacts like Peking glass beads and jade amulets, Mao period posters and so forth. Stephen had recently returned from a trip to his former country bringing som
e new acquisitions for sale. I took no time at all to spot several ceramic pieces, all done in underglaze blue. I examined each one of the four objects looking for signs of wear, for the quality of the blue pigment, and for the treatment of the unglazed bases. I made a decision to buy all four objects once the price was agreed upon. I wrote out a check and placed it on the table at my elbow, taking the care to secure it under the Bic pen I was using. I turned away, pleased with my decision. The next moment I turned again to look for my check. It was gone. As I noted before, the day was windy so I was sure a gust of wind must have lifted the check and sent it flying. Stephen was not so sure; he was not about to give up the merchandise without a check. We looked around, underneath, peeked into other possible hiding places. I walked to the stalls to the right and to the left of Stephen’s space. No luck.

  I made my way home empty handed worrying all the time about what to do about the missing check. If the check fell into the hands of someone dishonest forging the signature of the addressee would be easy to do. I had to reach my bank as soon as possible to put a stop payment order on the check. The day was Saturday and the next day was Sunday so I had to wait until Monday. The first thing on Monday morning I called my bank only to discover that the bank was closed, like all other banks, because this Monday was Columbus Day, a National Holiday. Stymied again. I thought time was running against me. The good news came late on Monday when I opened my computer to read my new messages. There was a brief two-line note from Stephen informing me that his neighbor had, in fact, found the errant check, recognized the name and returned it to Stephen before the end of the day. I might’ve silently hoped for such a denouement but the reality was even sweeter. I did not have to place a stop payment order which saved me at least 25 dollars. I was proven to be honest in writing the check in the first place and best of all I would be the lawful owner of the four Chinese blue and white ceramics to add to my collection.

  Stephen, in an act of expiation, I suppose, took the trouble to drive from Flushing, Queens to my apartment in Manhattan to hand deliver the four ceramics after sundown on Tuesday evening.

  ADVENTURE IN MIDWOOD, BROOKLYN

  I read recently that among the things that comprise the good life is a visit to a new place every day. I thought I would follow this injunction by looking for a neighborhood in Brooklyn. I was inspired by an article in the Times about a stretch on Coney Island Avenue described as “Little Pakistan” and photos of Central Asian men in white knee length tunics busily conversing on the street. The caption on the photo called the neighborhood “Midwood.” I had no idea where Midwood was located. I called MTA information but the responder said you must give me the street number and nearest cross street, otherwise I cannot help you. Well, if I had that information I wouldn’t need anyone’s help. So I set out only with my determination to find the desired destination. I discovered the name Midwood on the map in the subway entrance near the turnstiles so I quickly figured out the subway line to take and the most likely station stop: the Q line to H station. I was on my way. This was the first time I took the Q train to get to Brooklyn. After the Canal Street station the train passes over an East River bridge with fantastic views of lower Manhattan and pretty good views of upper Manhattan depending on whether you were looking to the right or the left. Brooklyn is mysterious, that is, strange in its unfamiliarity. So I scanned every station attentively careful not to overlook H Street Station. H Street Station looked quaint squeezed in, as it were, by the small private houses on both sides. A lady directed me toward Coney Island Avenue, a walk that was lined with large private houses dressed by wraparound porches and ample lawn areas on all sides. The trees that lined the street were surely over a hundred years old, strong trunks and branches reaching well above the houses providing lots of shade below. I thought this district of Brooklyn must have been really affluent at one time.

  I was walking faster now as I approached Coney Island Avenue and my heart beat a little stronger as well. When I hit the corner I was stunned by the wide avenue lined with low-lying buildings on both sides; it looked like a mid-western small town might have looked a hundred years ago with a string of mismatched shops not quite dilapidated but certainly not elegant. I was in a way both disappointed and relieved. Disappointed because I was looking for more color, more atmosphere and relieved because here was a part of New York not yet gentrified.

  Well, I wasn’t just sightseeing. I had a mission. I stopped in the first restaurant I passed. It was dark inside, spacious and the tables were set with white tablecloths. Must be expensive I thought but when I opened the menu nothing was over five dollars. I sat down after pointing to the pudding pot behind the counter and got served a portion. It was overly sweet, difficult to swallow but I did while trying to make conversation with a gentleman at the next table. He hardly spoke English like most of the people I encountered that afternoon. But I asked the boss behind the counter where I could find a bookstore. Just down the street he advised me. The direction was too vague. I didn’t spot any bookstore as I walked down the street. I just had to try my luck, so I walked into a jewelry shop to inquire once again about a bookstore. The man in the shop got up from his seat and escorted me to a sort of convenience store with shelves of packaged foodstuffs and a pharmacy in the rear.

  After being passed around several salespersons I was taken to a small section filled with books. I said I was looking for a copy of the Koran. The salesman asked if I wanted one in English or Arab. I replied Arab. This took him back a bit and he asked me if I read Arabic. I replied no but I liked the Arabic script and furthermore I wanted a handwritten one, a manuscript, in short. Well, he said, I’ll have to call the boss which he did on his cell phone. The boss will be over in a few minutes. Sure enough I didn’t have to wait long before several people entered the shop led by an elderly, slightly stooped man with a white beard, wearing a traditional white cap and holding prayer beads in his hand. There’s my man, I thought. But no, the boss was the young fellow just behind. He introduced himself and took my inquiry in stride. We exchanged business and calling cards. He said he would make a few calls and get back to me a little later. He was the man who could make things happen, I thought to myself. I called him the next day only to learn that nothing could happen on the weekend. Monday was the day, he would call again with the results of his contacts. It is Sunday night as I write. I can’t wait until tomorrow.

  CHAPTER III: FAMILY

  GROWING UP

  Moving in New York in the Depression Period was a common and frequent event. Families were constantly seeking either cheaper rents or a cleaner apartment or both. The effects on children were secondary concerns. I had just begun the first grade when my family moved to a new apartment in a new neighborhood. I entered the class in the new school one week after classes had begun. The teacher, Mrs. McCarthy distributed slips of paper with words written in multilith ink. The words were meant to be memorized for the next class meeting. I had no inkling about the purpose of the lists so I could not respond to the “tests” the next day. Before the end of the week the teacher, fed up with my stupidity dragged me across the hall to another first grade class and dumped me there. The new teacher, Mrs. Roberts, was younger and of a more gentle demeanor. Before too long she asked me to be the window monitor because I was already tall for my age. The window monitor had a long pole with a brass fixture at its end to open or close the windows. Having somehow earned a distinction of having a responsibility changed my life. I suddenly became aware of myself as a person: I was somebody. After that moment I never had a learning problem.

  In fact, elementary school was an experience of exemplary conduct: students always sat quietly in their desk seats, were always dressed “properly,” and only spoke when spoken to. We were, in fact, well-behaved children. The only thing I remember from six years of elementary school happened in the fifth grade. One day while the pupils were quietly sitting in the classroom I passed gas with a remarkably loud sound that lasted an interminably long five seconds or
so it seemed. I couldn’t believe that trumpet note was coming out of me. No one moved, no one said a thing, not even the teacher. After a moment the silence was broken and everything continued as though nothing untoward had happened. I was mortified, of course, and grateful at the same time because such good manners prevailed in the school at that time.

  I was eleven or twelve when I graduated from elementary school, an event that passed without any fanfare. What was earth moving was my assignment to a Junior High School. I suddenly felt like I was a big shot. I was moving up in the world. With very little effort on my part I was elevated to a new status. I think this sense of euphoria was enhanced by the fact that hormones were racing through my body. At twelve I was growing fast accompanied by a sense of enhanced power. The empty lot next to the Junior High School was left in an unhampered natural state with rock outcroppings. I was thrilled to jump from one peak to another: I was Johnny Apple Seed scaling huge mountain chains and that was exciting. In class I was too absorbed in my newfound exultation to pay close attention to the proceedings of the teacher. In elementary school I can’t ever remember being challenged to think. In Junior High I was caught unprepared for that awesome demand. I was expected to read books, whole books, and to write essays. One assignment asked students to write about the pros and cons of fire. I didn’t have the slightest idea of where to begin. Fortunately I had a friend who was two years older who had passed this frontier. One evening while he was taking his bath I sat on the pooper with note pad in my lap. My friend rattled off the obvious points: fire was good because it provided heat when the weather was cold, heat to cook food and light in the night time, while fire was bad because it could destroy homes and hurt people. Why hadn’t I thought of these reasons? The world of thinking was revealed…at last. What a quantum leap for me. There was no going back to innocence. I could see I would forevermore have to cope with existence on my own, come up with explanations about experience that stood up to reality. What an awesome discovery. Unfortunately this revelation came just a little too late to salvage my first semester in Junior High School. I was falling further and further back and in the end I was failing. This reality hit me like a ton of bricks, devastating. The prospect of being left back was so mortifying. My mother came to speak to the teacher and finally I did also, to beg to be advanced with a sincere promise to work harder. The teacher relented. I got to complete the second semester without problems and understood education was a serious business.