by John Gardner
“Of course, Mr. Packensteiner.” Mrs. Meyerberg gave her dimpled pudding-faced smile, as though she were doing him a very great favor. “Anything, Mr. Packensteiner.” She wagged a finger at him and there was a small glint of humor in her eye. “Anything, as long as I get my usual receipt.”
Louis wrote out the receipt, and the check changed hands. After the lunch break, Louis was a little late back into the shop. In his pocket, three hundred dollars almost burned through the lining. In his mind, the plans were already made.
He lost no time: first getting Ruth on her own. How about a night out on Thursday? The usual—dinner in a fancy place to which he often took her, just off Times Square; then back to the store. She smiled and nodded energetically.
This was his last chance, Louis thought. It had to happen to Ruth on Thursday, whether she liked it or not.
That evening, he stopped in at a hotel and asked to use the telephone. The call he made was long distance, to Chicago. He spoke for around five minutes. Then, on the following night, he made a trip over to Grand Central Station to purchase a one-way ticket, first class to Chicago, for Sunday.
On Thursday, he took Ruth out for what would be the last time. They ate well, and he made sure the young girl had more than usual to drink. As they stepped out onto the sidewalk she clung to him and giggled. “Louis, dear, I feel quite giddy. My, all that wine. I know what you’re after.”
“Let’s go back to the store and talk about it,” he said. He did not suppose that she noticed he was not smiling.
For the first time, Ruth seemed more pliable. There was no talking once they got to the store. Louis would never know if she had finally decided to surrender herself to him or if the drink, or even his charm, was the main cause.
Hardly were they inside, before the girl coiled herself around him, like a python, her hands moving everywhere. They half groped and half shuffled their way to the stockroom. There, in the pitch black, Louis quickly undressed her, not hearing any of the usual expressions of doubt.
As he pinched her breasts, and cupped them, Ruth seemed to be tearing at his pants, opening his loins to the air, so that his manhood sprang from his clothes—“Like a jack-in-the-box, Herb.” She grasped at him. “Exquisite agony, Herbie. Oh, I can feel her now. Times gone. Feelings gone. But I can feel her.”
He could not remember how they got to the floor, yet, forever after, he recalled her voice, quiet and a little frightened, as she whispered, “Louis! Have care, but don’t worry about hurting me. Go on, even if I scream.”
She did not scream, except in a kind of ecstasy, clasping him hard and locking her legs against him.
On the second occasion, some thirty minutes later, she even took most of the initiative. On their reluctant parting, she clung to him and muttered that she had been a fool to wait for so long. Then, as an afterthought—“Louis, if you’ve … if I’m … if there’s a child …”
Louis grinned. “Then we get married damned quick,” he said, knowing he would not be around if the piper had to be paid.
On Saturday night, he packed the cardboard suitcase before going to bed. He did not need to worry about waking early. His train did not leave until four in the afternoon—a time when his father and mother habitually went for a stroll together.
However, there was no lying in, or sleeping late on the following morning.
He came out of some erotic dream very slowly, conscious of raised voices in the main room of the apartment. As his eyes opened, to his horror, Louis heard the sound of violent sobbing. It was a noise he knew well enough, for it came from Ruth.
He lay there, frozen with fear, then, with no warning, the bedroom door burst open and Joseph Packensteiner stood on the threshold, fury on his face.
“Get dressed, and come out here at once!” He commanded.
“What’s wrong, for heaven’s sake?”
“Get out here and explain yourself,” his father shouted, slamming the door.
Louis dressed quickly; did not stop to shave, but ran a comb through his hair. When he emerged, he had decided on the only course of action. He felt completely in command, looking calm, and vaguely interested.
Ruth sat, still weeping, in a chair. Behind her stood a powerfully built man, dark and approaching middle age. From his looks alone, Louis recognized him as Ruth’s father.
His mother was hunched, rocking, in an attitude of both pain and grief. She glanced up, red-eyed and reproachful, at Louis, who smiled pleasantly, bowed to Ruth’s father, and said, “Shalom.”
“My son, Louis,” Joseph Packensteiner said, in an unnaturally clipped manner.
“Ruth?” Louis creased his brow, and looked around him, as if lost and uncertain. “What’s the matter? What is it?”
It was Ruth’s father who answered, “I think you know very well what the matter is, Louis Packensteiner.”
“I …” he began.
“Oh, Louis. I didn’t mean to tell them,” Ruth wailed.
“Mama found blood on my clothes. My father beat me, and they made me tell them who had done it.”
“Done what?” Louis was pleased that he could sound so amazed. “Blood? I don’t understand.”
Ruth’s father took a step forward. “You have denied my daughter. You have raped her and defiled her.”
Louis shook his head in bewilderment. “Defiled her? I have … What nonsense is this?”
Ruth’s sharp intake of breath was audible to everyone in the room.
“Come on,” Louis was shouting now, his voice full of indignation. “What do you mean? You’re accusing me of something … something foul. Accuse, then, so I can give my answer.”
Ruth’s voice lifted an octave, in horror. “Louis, after all we’ve been … after all you promised …”
Louis shook his head, and spoke gently to her, “Ruth, what are you talking about?”
The girl let out a long moan.
Joseph Packensteiner appeared to relax a little, the heat going out of his voice. “Ruth has accused you of taking her by force, as a man will take a woman. She says you have been alone together on many occasions; that you have given her meals in fancy restaurants; and that you have now raped her. To her credit she says it was her own fault. That she led you on.”
“Ruth?” Louis laughed. “I’ve raped … ? Papa, that’s nonsense. Would I go out with somebody who merely worked for us? If you ask me, she’s got herself into trouble with some young boy and wants to blame it on a family who can provide … Oh, yes. Now it makes sense. Benny made a joke at the store the other day. He said she was sweet on me because I was my father’s son. It’s the business she’s after, Papa. The business and the money. Get rid of them now.”
Ruth began to scream, near hysteria, so that her father had to restrain her with his hand on her shoulder. “Louis Packensteiner, you’re a liar. A liar and a thief. Mr. Packensteiner, go and check your receipts, and the money from the store. Your precious son’s been bleeding you.”
Louis appealed to his father. “Papa, she’s crazy. Would I steal from my own flesh and blood?”
“I would hope not.” The iron had returned to Joseph’s voice.
Ruth continued to shout abuse and accusations. Then, her father spoke up. “You have an easy way to find out, Packensteiner. If your accounts are in order, then your son might be trusted. If not, then he is a thief, as my daughter says; and if a thief, then what else?”
The silence now seemed to swell within the room. At last, Joseph nodded. “You speak sense. I shall go today, and collect the books from both stores. I shall go through them tonight. First thing tomorrow I shall visit the bank. It will not take long to find out if Louis is a liar. I agree with you. If he lies over one thing, then he could lie over another. Tomorrow we shall see.”
“Indeed, tomorrow we shall see,” Louis echoed, with confidence. “There must be some law in our country against people who make false accusations.”
At the door now, one arm around the sobbing Ruth, her father replied, with
some menace, “There is such a law among our people.”
“Good. Then tomorrow it will all be settled.” Louis turned his back on the pair as they left the apartment.
At three o’clock that afternoon, Joseph and Gerda Packensteiner left for their usual Sunday walk. Only today, they were to call at both the stores to collect the books.
Though he barely had time to make the train, Louis paused long enough to scribble a farewell note, saying good-bye to his parents, promising the money he had stolen would be repaid, and that he was not running away from consequences, but to make a life for himself in music. “Aaron Hamovitch does not know where I am going,” he finished. “He will tell you, though, that I have been planning it for a long time. The girl Ruth is the liar. At least believe that.”
He made Grand Central with only a few minutes to spare and, as the train pulled out, heading for Chicago, he lit a Chesterfield cigarette and leaned back in the comfortable first-class compartment. Tomorrow he would be with his old friend, Carlo Giarre, who now worked for a new boss. A man called Alphonse Capone. Capone, Carlo said, ruled Chicago better than the police ever could. He had a job waiting for Louis.
By tomorrow night, he thought, I shall be playing piano in one of Mr. Capone’s clubs. I shall be paid for it as well.
Louis Packensteiner also decided, at that moment, to change his name. From now on he would be called Packer. Carlo’s boss would get that legalized pretty quickly.
Big Herbie Kruger had hardly looked at Louis Passau as he told his story. Now, he lifted his eyes. The great Maestro was weeping.
(15)
HERBIE KRUGER LEANED FORWARD and placed one big hand on the old man’s left shoulder, which heaved under the sobs.
Herbie was a man of infinite compassion.
“Maestro,” he said quietly. “This is like being in analysis: like talking it out with a shrink. It’s bound to hurt, reliving some of this stuff. There has to be pain. What the hell, so you were a pretty bad boy, huh?”
The shoulders stopped shaking and the old man wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Shit, Herbie, I don’t cry over bad things. Listen to me. Don’t let people ever tell you that, when you get older, it’s a relief, that you feel happy when there is no point to the chase anymore. Me? I’m upset because nothing like any of those times will ever come again. It’s a shitty reflection on life, Herb. God’s little joke. He gives us so much to use and misuse, then he takes the whole fucking lot away.”
Kruger withdrew his hand, as though he had touched a hot stove. Standing up, he went silently to the door. It was bad enough, he considered with some fury, to be forced to listen to a blow by blow account of this vile old man’s youthful peccadilloes. But to show some sympathy, because he thought Passau was in a glut of guilt over past crimes, only to discover he was wallowing in self-pity. … Well, fuck him, he thought.
This was a man who had interpreted the greatest music ever written; a man whom he had revered, who had the ability to make people laugh, cry, think, broaden their horizons, and now—“This idol has feet of funny putty,” he whispered.
Passau called out from behind him, “Herb, do me a favor, huh?”
“Whatcherwant? Copy of Playboy magazine?”
“Don’t be like that, Herb. I only wondered, has the lady of this house got a good recording of Sacre?”
Muttering to himself, Big Herbie went over to the tall CD holders near the player. “Sure, she has von Karajan, Maazel and Dorati. Take your pick.” Behind his reply, Herbie thought, “You want to pester your brain with images of what you could not now do to that poor Ruth girl, and the thousands of others in your life?”
“She hasn’t got mine?”
“The lady has taste.”
“What do you mean, taste? Stravinsky himself sat in on my 1956 recording—now available on CD.”
He talks like a TV commercial, Herbie thought. “Well, is not available here.”
“So. Stravinsky was a funny devil. I visited his workroom once, in L.A. If it wasn’t for the piano, you’d think he was some graphic artist. He had bottles of ink, graded by different colors; pens, erasers, scissors, paste. Incredible. Pity he missed the computer age. Igor would’ve been at home with computerized music.”
“Which one you want?” Herbie tapped his foot.
“He talked only of his own music, you know. Hadn’t time for other people. You know what Aaron Copland said about him? He said that Stravinsky was the Henry James of modern music. I couldn’t understand that. Incredible.”
“Which one, Louis?”
“Karajan was a precision instrument, an accurate mechanic. Sacre is primitive, but there is soul. I’ll take Maazel. Would you put it on for me?”
“Sure, Maestro. You want me to wipe your ass while I’m about it?”
“What?”
“Never mind. There you go. Igor Stravinsky in all his glory. Le Sacre de Printemps, or The Rite of Spring as us lesser mortals call it.”
As he pottered around in the kitchen, Herbie heard the heaving, pulsating menace of the strings. The old bastard must love that piece, he thought. The rhythms were very good for copulation. Then, with a sense of loathing, Herbie realized he had actually done just that, many times; and to the second movement of the Mahler First, the old Frère Jacques march; and, he clearly recalled with some horror, in a safe house—very drunk—to a recording of the Berlioz Requiem.
All men were equal in sin, though some were more equal than others. Aloud, he said, “Let him who is without sin cast the first stein,” then laughed to himself. Passau was such an evil old man: Herbie almost dreaded what would come out next. He was also very concerned about the girl, Pucky Curtiss.
He put the lasagna in the microwave, thinking about Pucky. He had never met her, but his old friends in the trade brought him reports. A yuppie, they said. A college-educated yuppie who thought she had all the answers from behind a desk.
No, that was not fair—he set the timer on the microwave—they said she was good. Smart, very clever, learned quickly and was close to the top brass. This in itself made her dangerous. If the top brass were soft on the Americans, the Pucky woman would come charging in, ready to hand both Passau and himself to Langley without a qualm. The trick would be to make her see what they could gain through keeping a tight hold on the reprobate musician.
So, he could do one of two things. Run now, tonight, taking Passau with him. Florida. Marty Forman would front for them. But, in the end, Marty would want a large slice of the pie, which would go straight to Langley. Marty was a hood but, he suspected, Langley would toss him a few thousand dollars for being an extra good boy.
Should he risk it and deal with the Pucky female? If she did not play ball, there were always things he could do. Like what? Herbie asked himself. Like restraining her? Holding her against her will? Big deal. Big time spook stuff. Anyhow, what was the point now? The Cold War had come to an end, and the old Marxist-Leninist—Stalinist also—doctrines were being given the last rites. Over. Finished. The days of the old-style spooks were numbered. But, Pucky Curtiss? Well … ?
He worried half the night about Pucky Curtiss, but the fact that he did not subject the old man to a long drive, through the darkness into the never-never land of Florida, meant he had made a subconscious decision to take Pucky Curtiss head-on. Lock horns with her, he thought, wondering what kind of complexion she had.
Maestro Passau, if truth be told, had a bad night. Herbie was right. Any interrogation that meant bringing the darkness and pleasures of the past into the light of the present had a disturbing effect. Louis Passau wondered if, in his dotage, he was starting to develop a conscience. Why should he? After all, his conscience had never bothered him before. His pride had made him deny it was guilt which had made him sob. The denial was yet another falsehood in his long list of deceits. Sure, he was telling Kruger the truth—well, one version of the truth—but his pride stood between the image he presented of himself and the honest workings of his emotions. As he dropp
ed into troubled sleep, he knew that his conscience was being shattered into a million shards by just thinking about his past. In sleep, the demons prowled around his subconscious.
He dreamed of a hot Mediterranean morning, the sea deep blue and the buildings dazzling in their whiteness. He stood on the beach, his feet feeling the heat lapping around his toes, and the woman came running towards him, the sand spurting from her heels like bullets slamming into the beach. Her dark hair fanned around her head as she ran calling him by name—“Lou … Louis … darling Louis.”
He woke, suddenly, at dawn, shouting in his sleep, “Stanza … Stanza … Stanza …” When he realized it was a dream, he wept again, in secret and not for himself. Not out of any self-pity, but because of that shattered illusion which was Louis Passau’s guilt; because so much misery had been visited on so many people.
“SO, LOUIS, YOU went to Chicago and you worked for the infamous Al Capone.”
Passau nodded, showing no pleasure.
“Well, talk to me. Tell me about it. Orchestrate it for me, Lou. Make your strings, woodwinds, brass and timpani tell me what happened to you in Chicago.”
He began to talk, but it was a false start. He sidetracked, then backtracked about the final hours with Ruth, her father and his parents in New York.
Herbie thought, “If I were a psychiatrist, heaven forbid, I might think this man had some very unpleasant memory rooted in that Chicago period. Could be: after all, I was the first person to hear that Maestro Passau had even been in Chicago in the twenties, let alone worked for Capone.” Aloud he said, “Lou, you know someone once said, ‘Autobiography is a vehicle for telling the truth about other people.’ Tell the truth about the Capone years, eh?”
Finally, after fumbling for the words, the Maestro began to tell the story, and was soon back in his stride, painting pictures which moved and lived on the screens of both their minds.