The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz (16 page)

“Sure. Sure thing.”

If Mr. Cohen didn’t bite Duddy would be in bad trouble. The office cost him a hundred dollars a month and, added to that, there was the price of standard office equipment. He had to give up driving
the taxi when Max was off. One night he had just avoided getting Farber for a fare. He could not approach people as a budding businessman by day and take their tips by night. Duddy carried on selling liquid soap and other factory supplies, but that didn’t bring in a hell of a lot. He continued to pursue his father about the Boy Wonder, and soothing Mr. Friar consumed lots of his time. He kept in close touch with Yvette, too. A week after he had returned to Montreal she sent him a large envelope by registered mail. It was a map of Lac St. Pierre with all the bordering fields subdivided into farms and listing the landowners. Duddy was relieved to find that they were all French-Canadians. Farmers, probably. The largest landowner was a man named Cote and Brault, the man Yvette had spoken of, owned a good-sized pasture round the bend of the lake. Duddy hid the map under his mattress. Later he transferred it to his office, where he kept it locked in a desk drawer. A week after it had arrived the map was already greasy from too much handling. Sometimes Duddy would wake at two in the morning, drive down to his office, and study the map until he could no longer keep his eyes open.

Yvette had sent a letter with the map. A notary she trusted had estimated that the land had a market value of four to five hundred dollars an arpent and if Duddy wanted all of it and could pay the price he needed twenty thousand dollars cash. He would have to assume mortgages for the balance – probably another thirty thousand dollars. He could pay these mortgages off over the next five to ten years, at five per cent interest, if he were lucky. But the notary also said that the land was good for nothing better than a pasture. If somebody was foolhardy enough to want to invest in a development of summer cottages there then he’d better count on buttering up more than one member of the town council to get them to bring in electricity and sewers. The half-owner of one large farm was in an insane asylum. Her brother couldn’t sell until she died. Two other farms were owned by a fierce nationalist who would sell to nobody but another French-Canadian. Yvette also wrote that the notary said
it would cost thousands of dollars to build on the land. In a postscript she added that Duddy, in any event, was still a minor and that made for other difficulties. It’s true that he could legally own land. But a minor couldn’t enter into most contracts without being assisted by his tutor, unless the purchase and sale of land was his business. So it would be best to have somebody act for him. His father, perhaps.

Two days later another large envelope came. Maybe Yvette felt she had been too discouraging. Anyway, this one contained sixteen photographs of the lake that Yvette had taken herself. Duddy drove up to Ste. Agathe that Friday night and took Yvette to a bar where they would not be seen. “I think I’m going to be fired,” she said. “Linda’s taken a dislike to me. She finds fault with everything I do.”

Duddy tried to change the subject, but Yvette persisted. “She asked me a lot of questions about us one afternoon. I pretended not to understand what she was talking about and that made her angry.”

“About us?”

“She likes you. You needn’t look so pleased.”

“Who gives a damn?” Duddy told Yvette about Mr. Friar. He said that he wanted her to quit the hotel, anyway, and learn to type and take shorthand because any day now he was going to need her in Montreal. He had to have somebody he could trust in the office. He had thought that would please Yvette and he could not understand why it only made her angrier.

“What makes you think I want to go to Montreal to work for you?”

“Why not?” he said. “Jeez,” and he made a mental note to bring her a gift next time he drove out.

“You’re too sure of yourself,” Yvette said.

“Aw.”

A day before Duddy was supposed to see Mr. Cohen about the bar-mitzvah picture Yvette phoned. She called early in the morning and he was startled when she told him she was actually waiting for him in a drugstore around the corner. Duddy hurried down there.

“Brauk wants to sell right away.”

“Wha’?”

She told him that Brault’s wife had died and he was going to move to Nova Scotia to live with his son. He wanted to sell out for cash and just as quickly as possible. Yvette had gone out with the notary and offered him four hundred and fifty dollars an arpent; half cash. That came to thirty-two hundred dollars down. He had accepted, and Yvette had put down a deposit of two hundred and fifty dollars. “If you can give me a check for the rest,” she said, “I can be back in Ste. Agathe before the banks close.”

Duddy began to bite his nails.

“What’s wrong? I thought you’d be pleased. Look,” she said, “there were two other people interested. I had to act quickly. Maybe we could have got it for less, but –”

“No. The price is O.K.”

“The land will have to go on my name. You’re still a minor. Is that what’s bothering you?”

“How long have we got to pay the balance?”

“Three weeks. Haven’t you got the money, Duddy? You told me you had nearly three thousand dollars in the bank. You mustn’t lie to me.”

He told her what the camera and other equipment had cost and that he had rented an office. He had six hundred dollars left in the bank, maybe less. He would need money for film too.

“Sell the car,” she said.

Duddy laughed. “The car isn’t even paid for. Look, don’t worry. We’ve got three weeks and I’ll raise the rest of the money even if I have to kill somebody for it.”

But Duddy was obviously worried himself. He drove her back to Ste. Agathe and all the way there he hardly spoke.

“Stay the night with me,” she said.

“I can’t. I have to see that bastard Cohen at nine tomorrow morning.”

“You don’t have to make excuses.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”

Duddy couldn’t sleep. He smoked one cigarette after another. Lennie hadn’t come again, he had told Max he was spending the night at a friend’s house. Duddy knew better, but he didn’t care. All he could think of was that if he was Lennie and needed three thousand dollars he’d only have to say pretty please Uncle Benjy. Son of a bitch, Duddy thought. If he was Lennie he’d probably even be able to get the money from the old man. But for him there was not a hope. Max would say he was too young and too dumb to buy land. He wasn’t even proud that Duddy had an office. “Go ahead,” he had said. “Throw your money away. It’ll teach you a good lesson.” His grandfather might have that much money. He’d lend it to him too. But Duddy had promised him a farm and he wasn’t going to go crawling to Simcha for the money to buy it with no matter what.

Duddy didn’t fall asleep until shortly after seven and he was late for his appointment with Mr. Cohen.

“Sure. That’s right, Duddy. My Bernie’s going to be bar-mitzvah in three weeks’ time. I’m sorry I couldn’t ask you to the dinner, but … well, you know. At second cousins we put a stop to it. Listen, come to the ceremony anyway and have a schnapps.”

Duddy showed him the write-up in the
Star
and the paragraph from Mel West’s column. He told him that when Farber’s daughter got married he was making a movie of it. He went on and on hope-ftdly about Mr. Friar, and how lucky he was to have such a talented director. “All my productions will be in color. A lasting record like,” he said. “For your grandchildren and their grandchildren after them.”

“It’s O.K. for Farber. His girl’s marrying into the Gordons. They can afford it.”

“You say that without even asking me a price. I’ll bet you think it would cost you something like three thousand dollars for the movie.”

“What? Are you crazy? Do you know how much it’s costing me just for the catering.?”

“You see. But it wouldn’t cost that much. I can make you a topnotch movie for two thousand dollars.”

“The boy’s mad.”

“But on one condition only. You mustn’t say a word to Farber about the price we made. It’s a special.”

“Look, when I want to see a movie I can go to the Loew’s for ninety cents. My Bernie’s a fine kid, but he’s no Gary Cooper. I’m sorry, Duddy.”

“All right. No hard feelings. I just felt that since Bernie is such a good friend of the Seigal boy and I’m doing that bar-mitzvah in December –”

“That cheapskate Seigal is paying you two thousand dollars for a movie?”

“He should live so long I’d make him such a price. Well, I’d better go. I’ve got another appointment at eleven.”

“All right, smart guy. Sit down. Come on. Sit down. You’re trembling like a leaf anyway. There, that’s better. I oughta slap your face.”

“Wha’?”

“I happen to know that you’re not making a movie for Seigal. O.K.?”

“Are you calling me a liar?” Duddy demanded in his boldest voice.

“Sit down. Stop jumping around. Boy, some kid you are. Now, for a starter, how do I even know that a kid who’s still wet … wet? … 
soaking
behind the ears can make a movie?”

“Mr. Friar is a very experienced director.”

“Sure. He’s Louis B. Mayer himself. Duddy, Duddy, what’s he doing here making bar-mitzvah pictures with … with a boy?”

Duddy flushed.

“Have you got lots of money invested?”

“Enough.”

“Oi.”

“It’s going to work. It’s a great idea.”

Mr. Cohen sent out for coffee. “O.K., Duddy, we’ll see. I want you to tell me straight how much it would cost you to make a color movie of the bar-mitzvah.”

Duddy asked for a pencil and paper. “About nine hundred to a thousand,” he said at last.

“Lies. You lie through your ears, Duddy. O.K., your costs are six hundred dollars let’s say.”

“But-”

“Shettup! I’d like to see you get a start and I’ll make you a deal. You go ahead and make me a film of Bernie’s bar-mitzvah. If I like it I’ll give you a thousand dollars for it. If not you can go and burn it.”

Duddy took a deep breath.

“Before you answer remember I should have thrown you out of the office for lying to me. Think too of the prestige you’d get. The first production for Cohen. I could bring you in a lot of trade. But it’s a gamble, Duddy. I’m a harsh critic. There are many academy award winners I didn’t like and if I don’t care for the picture …”

“I can make you a black-and-white for twelve hundred dollars.”

“Get out of here.”

“Look, Mr. Cohen, this is a real production. I have to pay for the editing and the script and –”

“All right. Twelve hundred. But color, Duddy. And only if I like it. Come here. We’ll shake on it. What a liar you are. Wow!” Mr. Cohen pinched his cheek. “If you’re going to see Seigal now about his boy’s bar-mitzvah you have my permission to say you’re making one for me. Tell him I’m paying you two thousand. He can phone me if he wants. But listen, Duddy, he’s not like me. Don’t trust him. Get five hundred down and the rest in writing. Such a liar. Wow!”

Duddy drove for fifteen minutes before he figured out that he had no advance and nothing in writing from Mr. Cohen. The film would cost him at least five hundred dollars – more, when you considered the work and time it would take – and there was no guarantee of a
return on his investment. That lousy bastard, Duddy thought, and he makes it sound like he was doing me a favor. He went to see Seigal at home and his wife talked him into letting Duddy make the picture. Seigal paid an advance of two hundred and fifty dollars and signed an agreement to pay fifteen hundred in all if he liked the film and another six hundred even if he didn’t want it. It was a mistake to see Cohen at the office, Duddy thought afterwards. You’ve got to get them at home with the wife and boy there.

He phoned Yvette and told her he was sending her a check for three hundred dollars in the morning. He said he was making the movie for Mr. Cohen, but he didn’t tell her that if Mr. Cohen didn’t like it there was no deal. He was so happy about Seigal, too, that he didn’t realize until he got home that the Seigal bar-mitzvah was six weeks off and even if he got paid right away it would be too late. He still had to raise twenty-five hundred dollars to pay Brault and twenty days was all the time he had. In the next three days Duddy visited eight potential clients. They were interested. Nobody showed him the door exactly, but first they wanted to see one of his productions.

“You can’t blame them,” Duddy told Mr. Friar. “We’ll have to rent a screening room or something for the Cohen picture. I want to send out lots of tickets.”

“When’s the bar-mitzvah?” Mr. Friar asked.

“Two weeks from Saturday,” Duddy said, rubbing his face with his hands.

“I’d like to start looking at some of the locations tomorrow.”

“Wha’?”

“Can you take me to the synagogue?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I say, old chap, you do look down in the mouth. Haven’t you been eating?”

“Sure. Sure I have.” Jeez, he thought, even if Cohen likes the picture that money will be too late too.

“We’ve got to hit them with something unusual right in the first frame. Have you ever seen Franju’s
Sang des Bêtes?”

“I don’t think so.”

“It was a documentary, old chap. A great one. We could do worse than to use it for our model.”

“It’s got to be good, Mr. Friar. Better than good, or I’m dead.”

Mr. Friar could see that Duddy was depressed. He gave him his most genial smile. “Come on, old chap, I’m going to take you out for a drink. But this time it’s definitely on me.” In the bar Mr. Friar tried to amuse him with scandalous stories about celebrities, but Duddy didn’t even smile once.

“I want you to think about that picture, Mr. Friar. I want you to think about it night and day. It’s got to be great.”

Mr. Friar assured him that he kept a notebook by his bed and marked down all his creative ideas, even if he had to get up at three
A.M
. to do it. “I’m thinking of the part when the boy is up there reading his chapter from the Torah. I see a slow dissolve into the boy’s racial memory. We could begin with the pain of the baby’s circumcision and –”

Duddy jerked awake. “Hey, you can’t show a kid’s pecker in this picture. There are going to be women and children there.”