The Lion Seeker (3 page)

Isaac lifts his arms. Behind him Nixie says,—We better go hey. He drinking meths, that.

Skots: —He big and mad.

Charlie: —He's cooked in the head. He gone moochoo.

Nixie: —Lez go tell someone.

—Izey? Hey Izey, no man.
Izey!

But Isaac is already moving.

BUXTON STREET, NUMBER FIFTY-TWO
, a corner house. Isaac stops at the front door and the dog on the leash of onionsack string sits at his ankle. Through the window next to the door Isaac sees the business desk with the adding machine, the big black order book and the cashbox. The wall calendar says 1927 in red letters and also
JHB
which are some of the letters he knows how to read even though he hasn't started school yet. Means Johannesburg which is Joburg, where they live. He puts up a hand to cover the glare and looks past the front into the workshop where he also sleeps at night on a foldaway cot. Tutte is there at his bench, bent over; his left foot flat and his bad foot resting up on the low stool. All around him the boxes heap up, holding the gutted clock and watch parts, the springs, cogs, clock faces, clock hands. There's tiny brass tubes in there that give a nice chime if you tap them with tiny hammers, so tiny you can put them on the fingernail of your pinky. On the bench he sees the long half-circle of the lathe attached by a spring cord in a figure eight to the electric motor that powers it. There's mineral oil in long-nosed bottles, piled rags overspilling a shoebox. Tutte uses some screws that are thin as hairs, as eyelashes. Tutte with the magnifying loupe sticking from his right eye like a permanent growth. Tutte—he fixes time.

But when Isaac looks down at the white dog he knows it's not ganna do any good to even ask him.

 

There's a long laneway behind all the houses. Number fifty-two is on the corner where the alley makes a turn and opens onto Buxton Street, Beit Street just a little way up. Isaac turns into the alley and starts down. His back hurts when he walks, right in the middle where the bottle got him, and he's sure there'll be a lekker fat bruise there tomorrow if there isn't one already. Yas, but he was lucky that the big man tripped and fell over. He can't hardly believe he did what he did—all happened so quick. He pushed him and got the dog and ran and when he looked back Puppyman was getting up and chucking the bottle. He'd ducked his head down and that's when he got whacked hard, didn't feel it then only later once he'd climbed up over the rubbish and behind him the others gave it to Puppyman with their catties so that he chased them instead.

He had climbed down the far side of the rubbish and gone over the railway tracks and made a big circle coming home. Stopping a few times to give the little dog water and rinse him off in a horse trough. So little and shivery it is. He ties the leash to a nail in the brick wall, feels its hot little chest and the heart inside going pumpapumpa. You alive still. I got you.

He goes on by himself and the alley turns and he comes around the side of his house to the gateway at the back without a gate, just a gap in the low wall of cracked purple bricks. He stands there watching her in the backyard, a solid wide woman with thick arms in the short sleeves of her handmade dress, one sleeve stuffed with her handkerchief, the muscles in her forearms crinkling as she works, hanging up the wash. Her mouth has that familiar bunched expression, one side smeared pink with scar tissue that runs over the cheek to the jawbone like melted candle wax. The forehead is wide and freckled like his, and the gingerish hair, darker progenitor of his own, is worn back and clipped flat. Without looking at him she says: —Nu, voo iz der chulleriuh?

Where is what? he says, the same language automatic.

You heard. Don't pretend. That piggish cholera, an animal to kill us all in our home.

It's not true.

There's a snigger: Rively at the kitchen door. He punches at her, the bladey tattletale. She musta seen him outside with it.

Now Mame's looking at him, her wide warm face shaking slowly at his rage. My little Isaac, she says, and she smiles her halfsmile, one side clawed down by the scar. He runs to her, folds against her, feels her square hands on his back and her kiss on his crown. You're the beautiful little one, she says, only you. You're my boy, my rainbow, aren't you?

Mame, Mame. I got him for you.

Are you my clever one?

He's wrapped his little arms around her hips and her hands are at the back of his head, the heat of her soft belly eases through the apron into his pressed cheek.

It's all right, love. You take me and show me what you have brought for your mame. Because you are my Clever.

Yes Mame, I'm your Clever.

Tell me the two kinds in this world.

The Clevers and the Stupids.

That's right. And what are you?

I'm a Clever, Mame, I'm your Clever.

Come, Clever. Show me.

They go hand in hand to the puppy dog, sitting flat on its back legs, loose tongue unscrolled.

It looks a thirsty one, she says. How did you get it?

I asked for him. For free I got him.

Someone gave for free in the street?

Yes, free. A present.

Who was it?

He doesn't answer. She's looking down, scrapes loose a sound like someone readying to spit. He sinks and reaches for the dog but she yanks him back. —Sish! she says. Disgust! Don't touch your eyes. Can go blind. Now we'll have to boil up water to wash you good.

Wash?

Filthy animal from you don't even know where it's been. Gives you warts. A fever.

He shakes his head. The dog is watching him, his face. It tries Mame and its tail quivers then droops.

Backhome I remember how the poyers used to put such a dog with a stone in the lake and finished.

No!

She turns his chin, looks down at him. What you so upset? If I told you to go and do
that
, your mame, would you?

No.

—Neyn?

—Neyn!

You see, so you don't listen to Mame. If you had said yes to me, because you're a good boy, so then you could keep him.

He thinks on this, gnaws his bottom lip. Feels his eyes start to glisten. No, I would have, Mame. I would listen and say yes.

Don't make up grannystories now. It's written a thousand truths can't clean one lie. Come inside.

He pulls against her, stretching down. The dog whines, licks at his fingertips.

See how you don't listen, not even what I am telling to you this second. Leave it.

Pleading, he reaches for another language: —Oh Ma. Oh Ma
please
. He's not dirty. Auntie Peaches gave him to me and I washed him also, look how clean.

She stiffens as if slapped. Turns very slowly. What did you just say?

 

Now they are moving across the crowded jumble of Beit Street traffic then down the long stoep under the tin roof. Ma pulling him by the hand and the little dog on its string behind. At the end of the block: Is this the place? Is this it? But he can't speak. People are looking. Mr. Epstein the tailor next door comes out with a tape measure looping his skinny neck, his sharp nose twitching, pretending not to listen. A tram rumbles past while a truckload of dirty workers sitting on burlap sacks of coal passes on the other side, the men singing Zulu together, a mingled wave of sound deep and sweet and sad through the traffic. Outside Siderman's dry goods they're brooming shmootz off the edge of the stoep.

Mame shakes his arm. This the place or not?

It's the churu grocery on the corner and he peers in. Where they come to steal naartjies and Cadbury's chocs. Round rock candy gobstoppers that everyone calls niggerballs. They come in here, the five of them, and one will sing a mocking song to make the churu get cross and chase him while the other ones lift the things. Singing,

 

Hurry churu

Hurry curry

Kuk banana

Two for tickey

No bonsela

 

Churu, dirt word for Indian, never fails to get the man shouting and lunging. Mame is starting to get cross herself. Why did he have to tell her this place? It just jumped into his mind.

Now he looks inside and the proprietor behind the desk, with thick eyelids half down against the evening light, lifts up his fly swatter as a warning. Isaac's face he knows. Calls him the little redhair rubbish.

—She's not here, Isaac says.

Where is she then? says Mame. You know where she lives?

—No Ma.

How can you not?

—Ma, she was here, here's where she give him to me, I—

He stops because he's seeing someone behind her. She is coming to the churu shop like they sometimes do. He had been counting on no one being here, but here she is crossing the street and Mame turns to watch where he's watching. Not Auntie Peaches or Marie. Auntie Sooki.

What are you looking?

Nothing.

Who you looking? What?

That's when he steps out and waves—can't help it. Auntie Sooki slants her head, lifts a hand to her brow to see him in the cutting light. He shouts, the right tongue automatic: —Allo daar Auntie!

She sees him then. Lifts her other arm. She's stopped in the middle of the road to let the bikes and the Studebakers and the Chevs go by. When they're passed he sees her big loose grin, her hoarse voice carries: —Allo Izey. Howzit my boy! Howzee my boy!

Isaac is running off the stoep to her when his teeth clack, his head jerks. Mame's grip digs into his arm and then they're moving so fast away that his feet skip and the strung dog yelps to keep up. He thinks don't cry, mustn't cry. Sees the face of Mr. Epstein flash past, the eyes huge in their staring.

Farther down they veer through traffic unstopping like he's not supposed to, and she doesn't slow, not once, all the way home.

 

Supper will be late tonight. Isaac is sitting with Mame in her room and the door is shut and she's speaking very softly but very firmly, gripping his chin to make him look in her brown eyes. Say it again, she tells him.

—Auntie Peaches gave me the dog.

She is the mother of your friend.

—She's Skots's ma. That was Auntie Sooki by the churu. I think she's the sister of Auntie Maggie, who's Charlie's ma.

A deep breath, her chest lifting. I want you to listen. Those women are not your aunties. You have aunties. That woman, she is a
Coloured
.

—I know Ma, you said it.

Listen. A Coloured is half of a Black. It's coffee in your blood. We are Whites. We are Jews but we are Whites here. If People see you with Coloureds and hear you talk like that about
aunties
who are Coloureds, then they will think maybe we have coffee in our blood also. You understand?

—Ja Ma.

Don't
ja Ma
. Listen. We are Whites, like anyone. No one can think we have coffee in the blood. That's dangerous. Do you understand me?

—Yes Ma.

She stares at him, into him, for so long he starts to shiver. Who is this
Skots?

—I go by his house sometimes. To play, like. My friends.

Where's this house?

—In the Yards, he says.

Ma is silent for a long span; her breathing whistles a little in her nostrils. You go in the Yards. Do you go into their houses?

He trembles and won't look. Her fingers pinching his chin. Look at me, Isaac. You don't mix in with dirt people in the Yards. Ever. You could be killed or anything. The filthy Yards. Bring the diseases home and make your family sick.

He can't hold it in anymore, the tears come. They tumble through his snivelling. Mame pulls him close then and kisses his head, his brow. Her lips are so rough on one side. Oh my good boy, she says in his ear, my good fine boy. I only wish you knew your real aunties, it rips my heart you don't know your own. Auntie Trudel-Sora, Auntie Orli, Auntie Friedke, your uncle Pinchus and uncle Shlayma, Auntie Dvora and Rochel-Dor. Your cousins. The most important thing.

I'm sorry Mame, he says in Jewish in his weeping. I'm so sorry.

I know, my boy, my beautiful.

 

She makes him look at black-and-white pictures in the albums, images of women he can only just touch at the far edge of his memories. These are your only aunties. Your father, bless him, has no one. Don't ever talk about any other aunties.

Sitting next to him on the bed and turning the stiff pages. This is Rochel-Dor. This is her husband Benzil. This is your grandfather Zalman of peaceful memory, he was the butcher and a clever scholar, you remember? This is by the bridge . . . 

She makes him put his fingertip under each black-and-white face and say the name that belongs to it. Uncles, cousins, especially aunties.

Orli. Friedke. Trudel-Sora.

Say the name. Say it aloud.

Rochel-Dor. Dvora.

One day they will be here with us. We will have a house for them and they can stay as long as they want or need to. In our own house we'll decide who stays, not miserable creeping little Greenburg, sniffing for his rent every month, the moping cholera.

—Yes Mame.

Outside, Tutte is knocking again. Gitelle, the girl is hungry. I'm hungry.

I'm coming, she says. Another minute. This is more important.

 

From the kitchen table Isaac can see the dog tied in the backyard next to the water bowl he set for it. Mame sees him looking as she dishes up thin slices of brisket with pumpkin latkes and mashed potatoes. Rively is asking Tutte a question about God, if God ever talks to people at shul. Tutte nodding very slowly. Yes but you have to know how to listen because God whispers.
Have you heard him Tutte?
Of course, all the time.
When Tutte?
Like when I was working just today.
What did He say, Tutte, what did He say to you?
He says what He always says, that He is looking after us.
Why doesn't He talk to me, Tutte?
He does, but you have to be quiet to hear Him, my mind is only quiet when I pray or I work. He turns up his long fingers and wiggles all of them like an insect on its back and Rively giggles. When my fingers are talking for me in my work then my heart is quiet, and my head, and that's when I sometimes can hear Him whispering. It's written that it's this whisper of God that sustains the world. Whispering underneath everything, always the whispering, because if it ever stopped the world would go out like a light.
Tutte, I want to hear Him whisper
. You will, my beautiful girl. You only have to have a good heart and to do what you love to do with a good heart, that's all you need in this world.