The Avram Davidson Treasury (70 page)

McMurtry said one last word or two. “If these things weren’t make-believe it would be interesting to examine them. Even a couple of little pieces might do. What can be analyzed could maybe be duplicated.”

Once things got going well at work, Fred thought he would go and ask old Mrs. Brakk…go and ask old Mrs. Brakk
what
? Would she let the sole extant Slovo stove be examined by an expert? be looked at in a lab? be scraped to provide samples for electronic microscopic analysis?

???

He might suggest that, if she didn’t trust
him
, it might be done through a Brakk Family Trust…or something…to be set up for that purpose. Via Wes…and, say,
Nick
…

Sure
he might.

But he waited too long.

Silberman of course knew nothing; how could he have known? The people of the house had just learned themselves. All
he
knew, arriving early one night, was that, as he came up to the house, a tumult began within. Lots of people were yelling. And as he came into the Brakk kitchen, Nick was yelling alone.

“We’re
Amer
icans, ain’t we?” he yelled. “So let’s
live
like Americans; bad enough so the Huzzuks make fun of us, I’m
tired
of all them Old Country ways, what next, what else? Fur hats? Boots? A goat in the yard?” He addressed his wife. “A hundred times I told your old lady, ‘Throw it away, throw the damned thing
away
, I-am
-tired
they making fun of us, Mamma, you hear?’ But she didn’t. She didn’t. So
I, did
.” He stopped, breathing hard. “And that’s all…”

A sick feeling crept into Silberman’s chest.

“
Where
did you throw it?
Where?
It wasn’t
yours!
”—his wife. Nick pressed his lips together. His wife clapped her hand to her head. “He always used to say, ‘I’ll throw it off the bridge, I’ll throw it off the bridge!’
That’s
where! Oh, you hoo
-dlóm!
” For a moment his eyes blazed at her. Then he shrugged, lit a cigarette, and began to smoke with an air of elaborately immense unconcern.

Old Mrs. Brakk sat with her faint smile a moment more. Then she began to speak in her native language. Her voice fell into a chant, then her voice broke, then she lifted her apron to her eyes.

“She says, ‘All she had to remind her of the old home country. All she wanted to do was sometimes warm the baby’s bottle or sometimes make herself a bowl of tea in her own room if she was tired. She’s an old lady and she worked hard and she never wanted to bother nobody—’”

Nick threw his cigarette with force onto the linoleum and, heedless of shrieks, stamped on it heavily. Then he was suddenly calm. “All
right
. Listen. Tomorrow I’ll buy you a little electric stove, a, a whadda they call it?
A hot plate!
Tomorrow for your own room I’ll buy y’a hot plate.
Okay?
”

The effect was great; Nick had never been known—voluntarily—to buy
any
thing for
any
one.

Old Mrs. Brakk exclaimed, in English, “You
will
?”

He gave a solemn nod. “I swear to God.” He crossed his heart. “Tomorrow. The best money can buy. Mamma can come with me,” he added. His wife kissed him. His older brother-in-law patted him on the back. The old woman began to smile again.

Silberman felt his heart pounding at twice its regular rate. He dared say nothing. Then, by and by, Nick strolling out into the yard and lighting up another cigarette, he strolled out after him.

“Nick.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m going to ask you something. Don’t get mad.”

“Gaw head.”

“You really threw the stove parts off the bridge?”

“Yeah. Well…the
pieces.
”

“Pieces?”

Nick yawned. Nodded. “I took the damn thing to the shop. Where I work.
You
know.” Fred knew. “An I runnum through the crusher. And what was
left …
I puttum in a bag. An I threw it offa the bridge.” He wasn’t angry
or
regretful. He let fall his cigarette, stomped it, went back into the house. Fred heard him working the television.

The shop
. Sneaky as could be, Fred lurked and skulked and peeked. The light was on, the door was open. Had Nick left them so? No matter; surely
some
crumbles of blue, of black, would be left, and he would zip in, scoop them off the floor by the crusher, and—A long shadow oozed across the floor. The janitor, humping his broom. A real, old-time Slovo, immense moustache and all, of the real, old-time Slovo sort; in a minute he was gone. Fred zipped, all right. But he didn’t scoop; there was nothing to scoop.
No
crumbles. There wasn’t even
dust
. Tanta Pesha was not physically present but her voice sounded in her great-nephew’s ears:
The Slovos? They are very clean…you could eat off their floors…

He drove his car up and down the silent streets. Shouted aloud, “I don’t
believe
it! The greatest discovery in thermodynamics since the discovery of
fire!
And it’s
gone.
It’s
gone!
It can’t be gone! It can’t be—”

In the days that followed, in the weeks and months, he knocked on doors, he advertised, he offered rewards. Pleaded. Begged. That incredible discovery, mysteriously having come to earth who knew how and who knew how many thousands of years ago or how many thousands of miles away.

It was
gone.

Fred threw himself into his work. Developed, locally, an active social life. Womanized. Thought of marriage.
Changed.
Other things changed too. Wes Brakk abruptly moved to Idaho, why Idaho? Of all places. “Because he said it was as far away from the Huzzuks as he could get and still wear shoes.” Oh. And the rest of the Brakk family, plus Nick—
led
by Nick—almost as suddenly moved to Brownsville, Texas. Why Brownsville,
Texas
? “To get away from the cold.” Others might move to Florida, California, Arizona, to get away from the cold: the rest of the Brakk family (plus Nick) moved to
Brownsville, Texas,
to get away from the cold.

It seemed, somehow, a very Slovo sort of thing to do.

They were ripping up Statesman Street again and Fred had to detour.
Had
he to drive along Tompkins, Gerry, and De Witt streets? For one reason or another, he did drive along there:
my
, the neighborhood had changed! The new neighbors glanced at him with unneighborly glances. There was Grahdy’s store. But one whole once-glass pane was missing, boarded up. He stopped. Went in. There was Mr. Grahdy, part of his face bandaged, the other part bruised and discolored. His violin was in his hand. He nodded his jaunty nod. “Would you enjoy to hear a little Paganini?” he asked. Began to play.

Silberman felt that he was present at almost the last scene of a very antick drama. Old Mat. Grahdy, with his wife’s alexandrines, his violin, Heine, Schiller, Lermontov, Pushkin, Paganini, and the Latin
Psal
ms—how long could he last? If he didn’t starve to death in his almost empty store, how long before they killed him?

The old man let the violin fall to his side. For an odd, long moment he gazed at Silberman with a very level gaze. Then a smile twitched onto his swollen, battered face. He shrugged one shoulder. He began to laugh. “
It didn’t even get warm,
” he chuckled.

I
NTRODUCTION BY
F. M. B
USBY

With publication of “My Boy Friend’s Name Is Jello” in an early 1954 issue of
F&SF,
Avram Davidson served notice that a new and unique viewpoint had joined the sf and fantasy fields. Over the years he made good on that notice. His stories and novels covered a wide range of themes and treatments, but always they had two features in common: a rare degree of erudition, and the evident fact that no one else could have written them.

It was on the final day of PittCon, the eighteenth World sf Convention at Pittsburgh, PA, that Elinor and I first met Avram. In those days the pros for some reason tended to hide out from the vast (three-figure!) Worldcon crowds; I forget who tipped us off where to find him, but there we went and there he was, being witty and affable as might be expected. With a train to catch, we had to leave much sooner than we wanted to.

Next meeting, I think, was at the 1962 Westercon, in Los Angeles. Avram and Grania were expecting—and late that year Avram wrote a wonderful new-father testimonial for our local group’s fanzine
, Cry.

Well, it go along and it go along: the stories, the letters, the books. All to be remembered warmly—but with regret that we’ll never know where
The Phoenix and the Mirror,
for instance, eventually wound up. And that we can’t ever ask him.

But now here’s a book to remind us, to symbolize all the goodies Avram did give us. “The Last Wizard” and “Revenge of the Cat-Lady” are, I submit, fine examples of his craft.

F
OR THE HUNDREDTH TIME
Bilgulis looked with despair at the paper and pencil in front of him. Then he gave a short nod, got up, left his little room, and went two houses up the street, up the stairs, and knocked on the door.

Presently the door opened and high up on the face which looked out at him were a pair of very pale gray-green eyes, otherwise bloodshot and bulging.

Bilgulis said, “I want you teach me how to make spell. I pay you.”

The eyes blinked rapidly, the face retreated, the door opened wider, Bilgulis entered, and the door closed. The man said, “So you know, eh. How did you know?”

“I see you through window, Professor,” Bilgulis said. “All the time you read great big books.”

“‘Professor,’ yes, they call me that. None of them know. Only you have guessed. After all this time. I, the greatest of the adepts, the last of the wizards—and now you shall be my adept. A tradition four thousand, three hundred and sixty-one years old would have died with me. But now it will not. Sit there. Take reed pen, papyrus, cuttlefish ink, spit three times in bottle.”

Laboriously Bilgulis complied. The room was small, crowded, and contained many odd things, including smells. “We will commence, of course,” the Professor said, “with some simple spells. To turn an usurer into a green fungus:
Dippa dabba ruthu thuthu
—write, write!—
enlis thu
. You have written? So. And to obtain the love of the most beautiful woman in the world:
Coney honey antimony funny cunny crux
. Those two will do for now. Return tomorrow at the same hour. Go.”

Bilgulis left. Waiting beside his door was a man with a thick briefcase and a thin smile. “Mr. Bilgulis, I am from the Friendly Finance Company and in regard to the payment which you—”

“Dippa dabba ruthu thuthu enlis thu,”
said Bilgulis. The man turned into a green fungus which settled in a hall corner and was slowly eaten by the roaches. Bilgulis sat down at his table, looked at the paper and pencil, and gave a deep sigh.

“Too much time this take,” he muttered. “Why I no wash socks, clean toilet, make a big pot cheap beans with pig’s tail for eat? No,” he said determinedly and once more bent over the paper and pencil.

By and by there was a knock on his door. Answering it he saw before him the most beautiful woman in the world. “I followed you,” she said. “I don’t know what’s happening …”

“
Coney honey antimony
,” said Bilgulis,
“funny cunny crux.”

She sank to her knees and embraced his legs. “I love you. I’ll do anything you want.”

Bilgulis nodded. “Wash socks, clean toilet,” he said. “And cook big pot cheap beans with pig’s tail for eat.” He heard domestic sounds begin as he seated himself at the table and slowly, gently beat his head. After a moment he rose and left the house again.

Up the street a small crowd was dispersing and among the people he recognized his friend, Labbonna. “Listen, Labbonna,” he said.

Labbonna peered at him through dirty, mended eyeglasses. “You see excitement?” he asked, eager to tell.

“I no see.”

Labbonna drew himself up and gestured. “You know Professor live there? He just now go crazy,” he said, rolling his eyes and dribbling and flapping his arms in vivid imitation. “Call ambulance but he drop down dead. Too bad, hey?”

“Too bad.” Bilgulis sighed.

“Read too much big book.”

Bilgulis cleared his throat, looking embarrassed. “Listen, Labbonna—”

“What you want?”

“How long you in country?”

“Torty year.”

“You speak good English.”

“Citizen.”

Bilgulis nodded. He drew a pencil and piece of paper from his pocket. “Listen, Labbonna. Do me big help. How you make spell in English,
Please send me your free offer
? One ‘f’ or two?”

I
N A SAD-SMELLING HOUSE
on a weedy back street, Beulah Gurnsey sat watching a TV program. She was sitting in a sagging armchair whose upholstery had gone slick. Her face was sallow and its contours had long since slipped, and her eyes were large behind her eyeglasses. In the house next door three Oriental refugee children peered openmouthed from a window at the children of a darker and more abundant people playing in the street. These latter had not yet made up their minds about those former. They had long since made up their minds about Beulah Gurnsey, who nowadays tended not to go out very often. On the TV screen two women faced each other against the background of a house interior, to furnish which would have taken several years of Beulah’s income. These women often spoke about their being poor, but not right now.

“I feel so
sorry
about Loretta,” said one of them, right now. “It’s such a shock for her, her daughter Kimberly not being able to graduate because of that terrible scandal, when, after all, she was only an innocent victim of Brett Brock’s malice.”

“Yes, I feel terribly sorry for her, too,” said the other woman in the television. “And just when she was recovering from her—”