Barney's Version - Mordecai Richler [26]
Izzy Panofsky’s problems on the force were endless.
“Hey, when I went to pass an exam on promotions, Gilbert was on the board then, he says to me, how come the Jews are smarter? I got two answers, I says. You’re wrong. There’s no such thing as a superhuman. But the only thing I got to tell you, if you take a dog and kick him around he’s got to be alert, he’s got to be more sharper than you. Well, we’ve been kicked around for two thousand years. We’re not more smarter, we’re more alert. My other answer is the story about the Irishman and the Jew. How come you’re smarter? the Irishman asks the Jew. Well, we eat a certain kind of fish, the Jew says. In fact, I’ve got one right here, and he shows it to the Irishman. Christ, the Irishman says, I’d like to have that fish. Sure, the Jew says, give me ten bucks. So he gives it to him. Then the Irishman looks at it good and says, hey, that’s no fish, that’s a herring. So the Jew says, you see, you’re getting smarter already.”
5
Last night I dreamt that Terry McIver had been nicked on the ankle by a deer tick, and had stupidly dismissed it as a mosquito bite. Lying in his bed on the twentieth floor of The Four Seasons Hotel in Toronto a month later, the dreaded Lyme’s disease pulsing through his bloodstream, flooding it, McIver was wakened by a horn honking in his room and then a panicky voice coming over the PA system: “We have a serious fire here. The elevators aren’t working. Black smoke has made the stairways temporarily impassable. Guests should remain in their rooms and spread wet towels under the door. Good luck and thank you for choosing The Four Seasons Hotel.” Choking smoke began to seep into McIver’s room, but, overcome by paralysis, he couldn’t even raise his arms, never mind move his legs. Flames consumed his door and began to dance round him, licking at a stack of Of Time and Fevers on the floor, every copy as yet unsigned, therefore still qualifying as collectors’ items … and that’s when I leaped out of my own bed with a song in my heart. I retrieved my morning papers from outside my apartment door, made coffee, and soft-shoed into my kitchen, singing: “Take your coat and grab your hat …”
Turned to the Montreal Gazette sport pages first, a lifelong habit. No joy. The fumblebum Canadiens, no longer nos glorieux, had disgraced themselves again, losing 5–1 to — wait for it — The Mighty Ducks of California. Toe Blake must be spinning in his grave. In his day only one of his inept bunch of millionaires could have played in the NHL, never mind suiting up for the once-legendary Club de hockey canadien. They don’t have one guy willing to stand in front of the net, lest he take a hit. Oh for the days when Larry Robinson would feed a long lead pass to Guy Lafleur, lifting us out of our seats chanting, “Guy! Guy! Guy!” as he went flying in all alone on the nets. He shoots, he scores.
The phone rang and of course it was Kate. “I tried your line maybe five times last night. The last call must have been at one o’clock. Where were you?”
“Darling, I appreciate your concern. Honestly I do. But I’m not your child. I’m your father. I was out.”
“You have no idea how I worry about you all alone there. What if, God forbid, you had a stroke and couldn’t come to the phone?”
“I’m not planning on it.”
“I was on the verge of calling Solange to ask her to see if you answered your door.”
“Maybe I should phone you every night after I come in.”
“Don’t worry about waking me. You could leave a message on our answering machine, if we’re asleep.”
“Bless you, Kate, but I haven’t even had breakfast yet. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Tonight. Are you having fried eggs and bacon in spite of your promise?”
“Stewed prunes. Muesli.”
“Yeah. I’ll bet.”
I’m rambling again. Wandering off the point. But this is the true story of my wasted life and, to come clean, there are