whomever was not buried in it. He untied the sack and dumped the dusty banknotes on the rug, sending up a noxious cloud of ammonium sulphate. Then, stepping up to the gasping banker, he slapped him hard on the back with one hand while shaking his hand with the other.
‘Busquilla, Mordecai, director,’ he announced. ‘It’s all in cash, as agreed. Please be so kind as to count it.’
Busquilla is my right-hand man. He’s a good friend too, though he’s a generation older than me. A short, sharp, thin-haired, thin-bodied man who always gives off an agreeable smell of green soap.
While the banker gathered up the notes, Busquilla showed me around the large house, leading me over entrapping rugs, past fancy crystal and a collection of silver goblets. Sketches and portraits peered down at me in anger and astonishment from every wall. Busquilla stuck his head into a walk-in cupboard where dozens of suits were hanging, and fingered the fabrics with an appraiser’s expertise.
‘What will you do with all this?’ he asked. ‘His clothes will be small on you.’
I told him to take whatever he liked. He put on a record, flooding the white interior with the soprano screech of an opera singer. The banker rushed furiously over.
‘Can’t you wait to have your party until I leave?’ he snapped.
‘The faster you count, the faster that will be,’ smiled Busquilla. ‘It’s for your own good.’ He put an arm around the banker’s portly waist, spun him around in a dance step, and steered him gently back toward the pile of money.
Soon the lawyers arrived with the papers to sign. The banker took his luggage and made a quick getaway, and Busquilla, a drink already in his hand, went to wish him bon voyage from the terrace. Returning, he saw I looked depressed.
‘Maybe I should leave?’
‘Stay,’ I said. ‘You may as well sleep here. We’ll have breakfast together, and then you can go.’
The banker’s large bed was the first in my life that my legs did not stick out of. My body was not used to the submissive mattress, the black feel of silk perfumed with degeneracy, the redolence of fancy women who had left their prurient crinkles in the sheets. And yet the walls built in me by Pinness and Grandfather were impregnable. The calloused soles of my feet shredded the soft fabric, and the scent of leather and wood panelling left no more trace on my skin than the glitter of chrome and crystal.
It was a quarter of an hour before dawn when I fell asleep, and then only for a few minutes. Grandfather’s schedule was branded in my flesh like a tattooed clock. He always woke before me, put my breakfast on the table, gave me a quick, rough shake, and went out to work in the orchard. ‘It’s best to catch the pears before they’re wide awake,’ he explained to me.
Busquilla was still sleeping. I opened the large glass door and stepped outside. The banker’s garden was too sweet-smelling, full of pompous flowers I had never seen before. Pinness had taught us to be experts in wildflowers and field crops exclusively.
‘Dahlias and freesias are bourgeois plants,’ he told us. ‘Our ornamentals are the jonquil and the burnet, our gardens the vineyard and the clover patch.’
‘That Burbank of yours,’ he jeered at Grandfather, ‘wasted good time growing chrysanthemums.’
Looking about me, I saw the sea for the first time in my life. It had always hidden behind the mountain, though I knew of it from Grandfather’s stories, because its waves had borne him and my father to this country and sprayed the handsome face of my lost uncle Efrayim as they carried him off to war. Half an hour later I was joined on the lawn by Busquilla, wearing a dressing gown and carrying a tray full of toast and tall glasses of juice.
We sat at one end of the garden, where my eyes, peering into the bushes, immediately picked out a balloon spider’s web still shiny with dew. Busquilla guffawed while I crawled over on all fours to
‘Busquilla, Mordecai, director,’ he announced. ‘It’s all in cash, as agreed. Please be so kind as to count it.’
Busquilla is my right-hand man. He’s a good friend too, though he’s a generation older than me. A short, sharp, thin-haired, thin-bodied man who always gives off an agreeable smell of green soap.
While the banker gathered up the notes, Busquilla showed me around the large house, leading me over entrapping rugs, past fancy crystal and a collection of silver goblets. Sketches and portraits peered down at me in anger and astonishment from every wall. Busquilla stuck his head into a walk-in cupboard where dozens of suits were hanging, and fingered the fabrics with an appraiser’s expertise.
‘What will you do with all this?’ he asked. ‘His clothes will be small on you.’
I told him to take whatever he liked. He put on a record, flooding the white interior with the soprano screech of an opera singer. The banker rushed furiously over.
‘Can’t you wait to have your party until I leave?’ he snapped.
‘The faster you count, the faster that will be,’ smiled Busquilla. ‘It’s for your own good.’ He put an arm around the banker’s portly waist, spun him around in a dance step, and steered him gently back toward the pile of money.
Soon the lawyers arrived with the papers to sign. The banker took his luggage and made a quick getaway, and Busquilla, a drink already in his hand, went to wish him bon voyage from the terrace. Returning, he saw I looked depressed.
‘Maybe I should leave?’
‘Stay,’ I said. ‘You may as well sleep here. We’ll have breakfast together, and then you can go.’
The banker’s large bed was the first in my life that my legs did not stick out of. My body was not used to the submissive mattress, the black feel of silk perfumed with degeneracy, the redolence of fancy women who had left their prurient crinkles in the sheets. And yet the walls built in me by Pinness and Grandfather were impregnable. The calloused soles of my feet shredded the soft fabric, and the scent of leather and wood panelling left no more trace on my skin than the glitter of chrome and crystal.
It was a quarter of an hour before dawn when I fell asleep, and then only for a few minutes. Grandfather’s schedule was branded in my flesh like a tattooed clock. He always woke before me, put my breakfast on the table, gave me a quick, rough shake, and went out to work in the orchard. ‘It’s best to catch the pears before they’re wide awake,’ he explained to me.
Busquilla was still sleeping. I opened the large glass door and stepped outside. The banker’s garden was too sweet-smelling, full of pompous flowers I had never seen before. Pinness had taught us to be experts in wildflowers and field crops exclusively.
‘Dahlias and freesias are bourgeois plants,’ he told us. ‘Our ornamentals are the jonquil and the burnet, our gardens the vineyard and the clover patch.’
‘That Burbank of yours,’ he jeered at Grandfather, ‘wasted good time growing chrysanthemums.’
Looking about me, I saw the sea for the first time in my life. It had always hidden behind the mountain, though I knew of it from Grandfather’s stories, because its waves had borne him and my father to this country and sprayed the handsome face of my lost uncle Efrayim as they carried him off to war. Half an hour later I was joined on the lawn by Busquilla, wearing a dressing gown and carrying a tray full of toast and tall glasses of juice.
We sat at one end of the garden, where my eyes, peering into the bushes, immediately picked out a balloon spider’s web still shiny with dew. Busquilla guffawed while I crawled over on all fours to
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