The Pawnbroker (33 page)

So he was caught in the flow of them as he tried to find the wellspring of his own tears. Until he realized he was crying for all his dead now, that all the dammed-up weeping had been released by the loss of one irreplaceable Negro who had been his assistant and who had tried to kill him but who had ended by saving him. For a moment he stopped on the pavement with a frown twisting his face as the people eddied past. What had impelled Ortiz to throw himself like a shield before him? Could it perhaps have been just the practical fear of not wanting the robbery to become too dangerous a venture? Had Ortiz himself had time to really know? He could not have had time to pick his way through the torturous litter of his soul to discover what
else
had prompted that act. And if it had been a mystery in the end to Ortiz, what right did he have to expect more? So his tears continued as he moved through the crowding filth of the people toward the river, dirty himself, mouthing his own salty tears, hopeless, wretched, strangely proud.

Then he was at the river, alone except for two men far down the curbing that bordered the water. He wiped his eyes clear again and he stood watching the river as it slid obscurely under the bridges toward the sea, bright and glittery in the boat lights on its surface, so vast in its total, never anything here and now, as it hurried slowly toward the obscurity of the salty ocean; so great, so touching in its fleeting presence. The wetness dried on his cheeks and a great calm came over him.

The two men, Cecil Mapp and John Rider, came walking by. They said hello to him, but he seemed to be talking to himself. John Rider elaimed he was counting all his money, but Cecil Mapp said, "No, man, that man suffer."

Actually, the Pawnbroker was counting his losses and forgiving himself as he watched the river.

"Rest in peace, Ortiz, Mendel, Rubin, Ruth, Naomi, David ... rest in peace," he said, still crying a little, but mostly for himself. He took a great breath of air, which seemed to fill parts of his lungs unused for a long time. And he took the pain of it, if not happily, like a martyr, at least willingly, like an heir.

Then he began walking to the subway to take the long, underground journey to Tessie's house, to help her mourn.

BOOKS BY EDWARD LEWIS WALLANT
AVAILABLE IN PAPERBACK EDITIONS
FROM HARCOURTBRACE & COMPANY

 

THE CHILDREN AT THE GATE
THE PAWNBROKER
THE TENANTS OF MOONBLOOM