Redouté’s
Roses
to study while he ate.
Karp owned a large library of books on plants, flowers, trees, and animals. He was aware that people like Winkleman, Landis, and Graves said that a flower was “pretty” or a tree was “nice.” They never knew the proper names. This was one reason why Karp was so fond of Norman. Walking with him a comment on a tree, the breed of a dog, or the especial charm of a certain hybrid of rose was not lost.
Most Jews are remarkably deficient in a knowledge of nature. Karp was determined to remedy this and any other traits, like an emotional distaste for sea food and a tendency to tell self-deprecating jokes, that might brand him. This was neither self-hatred nor the idle fancy of a social climber. Karp had already paid an exorbitant price for being a Jew. The next time they were rounded up he wanted to get off free. He already knew a lot about Catholicism and when the going got tough again he planned to convert. This was not a repudiation of his people. It was part of his plan for survival.
Norman came at last. He stumbled into the living room, his eyes red and glassy.
“Norman,” Karp said gleefully. “Why, Norman, you’ve been drinking.”
Norman slumped back on the sofa and removed his glasses.
“I read a few pages of your book earlier this evening,” Karp said, “and I must say that I found a lot to criticize.”
“I’ll thank you not to go through my papers.”
“You were late for dinner. I went up to your room to see if you were sleeping and –”
“And there was my manuscript,” Norman said. “At the bottom of a locked suitcase.”
“The key was on the bureau.”
For ten years Norman had been working on his book.
A History of John Dryden and His Times
. The book was a secret and a work of love. If it was ever published, which was doubtful, he would dedicate it to his father, but meanwhile, like Sunday painting for others, it was something he could return to with hope again and again. Polishing, rewriting, and, most of all, enjoying himself. Norman meant to present Dryden and his period in the round. Finishing the book was of some consequence to him – more than he chose to admit – for this, however humble, or academic, was to be his special contribution to scholarship. Meanwhile, the book was fun. A private world. A little source of sanity for Norman Price.
“Would you care for a drink?” Karp asked.
“I love her, Karp. I love Sally.”
Karp patted Norman’s back. “There,” he said. “There, there.”
“How could she prefer that Aryan bastard to me?”
“Are you hungry?”
“No. I’m not hungry.”
Karp poured Norman a scotch and soda. “You look older,” he said. “Your brother’s death has affected you.”
“Affected me?” Norman said. “Nothing affects me. Didn’t you know?”
“There,” Karp said. “There, there.”
“Why didn’t I have the courage to tell Sally how much I loved her when I had the chance?”
“Are you sure you’re not hungry?”
“Jesus.”
“Then, if you don’t mind, I’ll go ahead with my dinner.”
“I’m going away. As soon as I can scrape enough money together I’m going to go to the Continent. I must keep my life free of disturbances. I’m afraid, Karp.”
IV
Norman woke late the next morning. He woke with a hangover. But once he had read his mail his head cleared and he was jubilant. His agent in New York had written to say that Star Books had accepted revisions on his thriller and that a cheque for two thousand dollars was forthcoming. Norman phoned Winkleman right away.
“I’ve got bad news for you, Sonny. I want to back out of that script deal.”
“The hell you do. I paid Charlie another two-fifty yesterday just because you promised to get right down to work. What happened?”
Jesus, Norman thought. He couldn’t write Charlie’s scripts for him. He would explain everything and lend him some money. That was the most he could do. “I’ll get you the money back,”
Roses
to study while he ate.
Karp owned a large library of books on plants, flowers, trees, and animals. He was aware that people like Winkleman, Landis, and Graves said that a flower was “pretty” or a tree was “nice.” They never knew the proper names. This was one reason why Karp was so fond of Norman. Walking with him a comment on a tree, the breed of a dog, or the especial charm of a certain hybrid of rose was not lost.
Most Jews are remarkably deficient in a knowledge of nature. Karp was determined to remedy this and any other traits, like an emotional distaste for sea food and a tendency to tell self-deprecating jokes, that might brand him. This was neither self-hatred nor the idle fancy of a social climber. Karp had already paid an exorbitant price for being a Jew. The next time they were rounded up he wanted to get off free. He already knew a lot about Catholicism and when the going got tough again he planned to convert. This was not a repudiation of his people. It was part of his plan for survival.
Norman came at last. He stumbled into the living room, his eyes red and glassy.
“Norman,” Karp said gleefully. “Why, Norman, you’ve been drinking.”
Norman slumped back on the sofa and removed his glasses.
“I read a few pages of your book earlier this evening,” Karp said, “and I must say that I found a lot to criticize.”
“I’ll thank you not to go through my papers.”
“You were late for dinner. I went up to your room to see if you were sleeping and –”
“And there was my manuscript,” Norman said. “At the bottom of a locked suitcase.”
“The key was on the bureau.”
For ten years Norman had been working on his book.
A History of John Dryden and His Times
. The book was a secret and a work of love. If it was ever published, which was doubtful, he would dedicate it to his father, but meanwhile, like Sunday painting for others, it was something he could return to with hope again and again. Polishing, rewriting, and, most of all, enjoying himself. Norman meant to present Dryden and his period in the round. Finishing the book was of some consequence to him – more than he chose to admit – for this, however humble, or academic, was to be his special contribution to scholarship. Meanwhile, the book was fun. A private world. A little source of sanity for Norman Price.
“Would you care for a drink?” Karp asked.
“I love her, Karp. I love Sally.”
Karp patted Norman’s back. “There,” he said. “There, there.”
“How could she prefer that Aryan bastard to me?”
“Are you hungry?”
“No. I’m not hungry.”
Karp poured Norman a scotch and soda. “You look older,” he said. “Your brother’s death has affected you.”
“Affected me?” Norman said. “Nothing affects me. Didn’t you know?”
“There,” Karp said. “There, there.”
“Why didn’t I have the courage to tell Sally how much I loved her when I had the chance?”
“Are you sure you’re not hungry?”
“Jesus.”
“Then, if you don’t mind, I’ll go ahead with my dinner.”
“I’m going away. As soon as I can scrape enough money together I’m going to go to the Continent. I must keep my life free of disturbances. I’m afraid, Karp.”
IV
Norman woke late the next morning. He woke with a hangover. But once he had read his mail his head cleared and he was jubilant. His agent in New York had written to say that Star Books had accepted revisions on his thriller and that a cheque for two thousand dollars was forthcoming. Norman phoned Winkleman right away.
“I’ve got bad news for you, Sonny. I want to back out of that script deal.”
“The hell you do. I paid Charlie another two-fifty yesterday just because you promised to get right down to work. What happened?”
Jesus, Norman thought. He couldn’t write Charlie’s scripts for him. He would explain everything and lend him some money. That was the most he could do. “I’ll get you the money back,”
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