The Tiger in the Well (34 page)

The last she saw of him before she left the room was his puffy eyes, still hot with desire, still hooded with fear.

Sally had little more than three hours of sleep. Of all the images that haunted her dreams, none was worse than the idea of little Harriet imprisoned in that cellar and trained to act as the Tzaddik's . . . what.-' Nursemaid.'' Putting food into his mouth, wiping his chin . . .

She felt sick when she thought about it. That, and her lack of sleep, made her look pale, and Mrs. Wilson commented on it at midmorning, when Sally was summoned to take a tray of coffee to the library.

"No, it's nothing, Mrs. Wilson," she said. "My head's been aching, but it'll clear up."

There were three cups on the tray. Once again the Tzaddik called for her to come in, and once again she tried not to look up as she brought the tray to the table by the fireplace. She let her eyes flick across to the door she'd gone through to the cellar, inconspicuous in the corner of the room. It was closed.

She curtsied briefly to the Tzaddik and was about to leave when he said, "Stop. Your name is Kemp, is it not.'"'

"Yes, sir," she said, glancing at him swiftly.

"Be so good as to pour some coffee for my guests."

"Very good, sir."

She felt the three of them watch her as she set out the cups and poured the coffee. Who they were she didn't know until she handed the cups around. As one of the men took his cup without acknowledging it, he spoke to the other, and she recognized his voice: it was the man she'd seen on the immigrant ship, Arnold Fox.

She looked up involuntarily then, and saw that the other man was Arthur Parrish, and he was looking at her with a

little frown, as if he was puzzled. But he turned away to answer Arnold Fox, and she breathed again.

Taking as much time as she reasonably could, she poured the second cup and listened.

"You see, the danger in a full-scale pogrom, so to speak, on the Russian model," Parrish was saying, "is that Jews presently on their way to England would be tempted to miss it out altogether and go straight to America. Oh, I know you'd welcome that," he went on as Mr. Fox seemed about to interrupt, "but look at it from a business point of view."

He took his cup from Sally, who turned back to the Tzaddik. The monkey wasn't there, she noticed.

"Pour some for me," the Tzaddik told her.

That voice—oh, there was something in the softness, the K depth, the cracked thickness of it. . . . She'd heard it before, or dreamed it in a nightmare. Thankful for the excuse to stay, she poured another cup as Fox replied, "I have higher considerations than business, Mr. Parrish. I am concerned with the purity of the English race."

"You are a vain, pompous man whose main concern is getting himself elected," said the Tzaddik. "I am supporting you with my funds only to the extent that you are useful. The moment you cease to be so, I shall drop you. Kemp, ' bring me the cup. Lift it to my lips."

"It's hot, sir," she said, aware of the subdued fury on the face of Arnold Fox, the cheerful blandness of Parrish; and aware too of the stillness of her hands as she held the delicate porcelain to his lips.

He sipped noisily once, twice, three times. His bulk, so close to her, was massive and nearly shapeless; the suit he wore, though immaculately tailored, could not disguise the fact that his arms and chest were no more than inert lumps of fat. This close, she could hear him breathing, and see the huge chest inflate with effort and sigh itself empty again. And she could see how the sleek reddish hair was plastered to the scalp with some scented pomade, and how the help-

less fingers, huge and dead in his lap, were perfectly manicured.

"Again," he said, and she put the coffee cup to his mouth, feeling despite her fear and loathing a desperate pity for this man imprisoned in his vast hulk of flesh, utterly unable to make the slightest movement.

Arnold Fox put down his coffee cup with a shaking hand and stood up. Sally was careful not to look at him, but held the cup out of the way for the Tzaddik to face him as Fox said in a throbbing voice, "I shall do as you say. I have no choice. But, Mr. Lee, I am not afraid to label your change of mind as hardly less than a betrayal. Instead of the fine gesture of righteous anger the British people would wish to make, you reduce the affair to a . . .to little more than a drunken brawl. But you know best; doubtless you know best, sir. I am obliged to both of you. Good day."

And he left. Both men watched him indifferently, and when the door had slammed behind him the Tzaddik said, '*Good. That makes the decision for us. I am happy to accept the will of heaven, Parrish."

Mr. Parrish smiled. "So now we press ahead, sir.?"

He stopped and looked up at Sally, who could feel his eyes on her but kept hers modestly cast down.

"Thank you, Kemp," said the Tzaddik. "You may go."

"Thank you, sir," she said, curtsying, and left.

In the hall she looked around quickly. No one in sight, and she knew Mr. Clegg was busy in his pantry, and Mrs. Wilson was in the kitchen, and . . .

She bent down and pretended to be adjusting her bootlace.

Parrish's voice came through the door: "... the whistles.?"

"Not yet," said the Tzaddik. "The English mob is not disciplined enough. It has lost the taste for rioting, besides. It will have to be educated."

"But you want a full-scale riot.?"

"I want deaths, and lootings, and I want an entire street

burned down. A street of Jewish houses. That will create the most panic and resentment. And it will look as if Mr. Fox was behind it, and he will try to stop it, thinking that's what we want, and he'll fail. The press will blame him for encouraging it; we will blame him for not stopping it. So we discard him at once, and pledge our support for Jewish charities and reconstruction and so forth. . . . They will come to us voluntarily, Parrish. The little fish will swim into the net!"

"Magnificent," said the other man. "What date did you have in mind, Mr. Lee.'*"

Sally leaned closer to the door to hear.

And then a hand clasped her mouth, and an arm encircled her waist and lifted her clear of the floor.

For a second she struggled, until she realized that the hand over her mouth was wearing a white glove. It wasn't Michelet—it was one of the footmen. Suddenly she let herself flop, as if she'd fainted.

Startled, he loosened his grip. She fell forward, but found her balance and whipped around to face him.

"What d'you think you're doing.'*" she hissed.

"Just having a bit of fun—"

He was a strapping, swaggering sort of fellow, with a broad, confident grin. But he was looking a little uneasy now in the face of her anger.

"How dare you touch me like that.'"' she said, keeping her voice low so as not to be heard through the door. And as she looked, she saw a different expression come into his face, and realized that she'd made a mistake.

"Who are you, anyway.'"' he said. "You're not a bloody maidservant—I can see that now. What are you doing here.'"'

What she'd done was to act like a lady: to do what a person of her class would naturally do if a man behaved as he'd done. She'd assumed that any giri would have done the same. Now, in a split second, she recalled the different way men looked at her when they thought she wasn't a lady, and realized that a real servant wouldn't have had the option of

being ruffled and indignant. She should have been wearily contemptuous.

But as soon as she realized that, she saw a way of winning back the initiative. She'd have to move fast, though; keep him off balance.

She put a fmger to her lips, hushing him, looked around, and then beckoned him to follow her into the dining room next-door.

Intrigued, as she knew he would be, he followed. She shut the door behind him and looked around before whispering "What's your name.? Is it John.'"'

"John's the other footman. I'm Alfred. But—"

"Listen, Alfred, I want your help. You're right—I'm not here as a maidservant. I'm here because of my cousin. ..."

She was standing close, looking up at him, hoping she looked appealing and desperate. His expression was still suspicious, but he was interested now too, and not unwilling to stand close to a pretty girl while she confided in him.

"Your cousin.'"'

"Yes. Lucy. You remember—she had to leave because of that Frenchman—that ..."

Understanding dawned. "The valet!" he said. "Ah."

"Yes, the pig," she said. "She told me everything. How he promised to marry her, how he swore he'd look after her, everything. It broke my mother's heart—that's Lucy's aunt, see. We was like sisters. And I swore I'd get even with him, the swine. So . . . but no one's got to know. 'Specially him."

"What're you going to do.?"

"I don't know yet. I'll find something. I'll destroy him, I will. She was such a sweet girl. . . . And she's ruined now; she'll never get another situation. ..."

He nodded. He wasn't very bright, she thought—vain, conceited, like all footmen, fond of showing off his broad chest and his manly legs in their white stockings; but good-heaned, on the whole, if she was any judge. And he knew what happened to servants without a character.

"So, please, Alfred, can I trust you? There's no one else here I can say a word to."

"Yeah," he said. "I won't give yer away. I hates that prinking French popinjay, anyway. We all do. Nasty bit o' work. We all thought you was making up to him."

"I was! I want to trap him, see! I want to catch him and pay him out. You don't mind me telling you this, do you, Alfred.'' I don't want to get you into trouble."

" 'S all right. I'll stick up for yer. They was wondering about you in the kitchen—them others. 'Cause you don't seem like a housemaid—too ladylike. You bin a lady's maid.'* Thought so. Well, that explains it. If you don't want to stick out, you want to act a bit more natural-like. Have a laugh. Then you won't seem so out of place. You don't look like your cousin."

"She took after her pa. Oh, Alfred, I am grateful."

She laid a hand on his chest, but only for a moment. She felt him stir with a chivalry that probably took him quite by surprise.

"Where is he now.-^" she said quietly. "Mr. Michelet.'"'

"He'll be upstairs, with the secretary. Second floor. That's where the master works most of the time. The master's own staff, they have their sitting room up there too. Next to the lift."

"Do the household staff clean up there, or is that Mr. Michelet's job, like the cellar.'"'

"Who told you about the cellar.?"

Careful, she thought. "I saw the open door in the library when I took the master's tea in yesterday. I asked Eliza about it."

"Ah ... no, he cleans down there, but not upstairs. You'll be doing that. Here—^what you going to do to him.'"'

"I don't know. I just need to get close to him first, get his confidence, let him get all sweet with me like he got with Lucy. I need to find out—oh, everything, what he does for the master, when he has time off, what he likes to eat . . .

everything. Alfred, Fm trusting you—^you won't let me down, will you?*'

He looked down at her, tall and confident and masterful. Then he winked and tapped his nose.

"You leave it to me," he said.

Then before leaving she did something she'd never have believed possible before all this began: she stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. It was just a swift, hurried brush of the lips, but it seemed to fulfill some expectation of his, and it cost her nothing. And it might help save Harriet.

"Mama! Mama!"

Harriet was inconsolable. Rebecca tried to pick her up, but Harriet squirmed away and threw herself down on the worn carpet. Ever since she'd woken up the morning before and Mama hadn't been there, she'd alternated between helpless indignant rage and gasping, tearful suspicion. It might have been easier for Rebecca if it hadn't been raining, because then they could have gone into the little backyard where Morris Katz had fixed up a plank and a rope as a swing for Leah when she was younger. But the rain was incessant.

Rebecca had sung to her, drawn pictures for her, played with the wooden dog for her, tried to pick her up, tried to put her down when she finally started dozing, tried to feed her, tried to make her drink: but Harriet's rage and unhap-piness were enormous, unbounded, as deep as the foundations of the earth.

"I never heard a child cry like that!" said Leah admiringly. "She's got lungs like a prima donna."

"What can I do to stop her.^" said Rebecca helplessly.

"Join in," said Leah.

"I feel like it. Sally left me looking after her, and all I do is make her cry. What a noise ..."

Just then they heard another voice in the hall, and Mr. Katz came in. It was unusual to see him there at midday.

But here he was, and he hadn't even taken off his apron. His deep voice filled the room—and Harriet stopped crying.

She looked up, tear-stained, at this big, rumbling bear, with his dark whiskers and his dirty apron, and he looked down at her little frown and determined, trembling lip, and he swept her up in a moment.

Too astonished to protest, she stared at him in amazement as the strange, urgent words tumbled out of those nearly hidden lips. He was serious: she could tell that from his eyes. But he was strong, and she was safe: she could tell that from his solid arms and his deep voice.

Then he stopped talking and turned his eyes to her. And, weak with sorrow and fear, tears still wet on her eyelashes, she had enough energy left to wonder where his mouth had gone, so she reached up and lifted the mustache to see if it was still there.

When she found it, it was smiling. What a surprise! She looked up, uncertain, and saw his dark eyes smiling too. So she smiled back. She couldn't help it.

"Eh, bubeleh! What an eloquent silence!" said the big man in Yiddish, and his deep voice rumbled in his chest. She could feel it as she leaned against him.

She gave a long, shuddering, exhausted sigh, and her thumb came up to her mouth. She gazed at him solemnly.

"Look at that!" said Mrs. Katz. "The injustice of it! There's Leah and Rebecca spent all day yesterday and all day today trying to stop her crying, and he comes in and lets her play with his whiskers and she stops in a moment."