Barney's Version - Mordecai Richler [96]
“Brides tend to be touchy about things like that,” he said.
“Yeah, I guess so. My luck, eh?”
Irv Nussbaum had radiated joy at his anniversary-dinner dance.
“Seen this morning’s Gazette? Some guys shat on the front steps of the B’nai Jacob synagogue. My phone’s been ringing all day. Terrific, eh?” This was followed by a wink and an elbow nudge. “You dance any closer with her and I’m going to have to book you a room here.”
Saucy, voluptuous, smelling of everything nice, my future bride did not withdraw from my embrace on the dance floor. Instead, she said, “My father is watching us,” pressing even harder against me.
Seemingly polished bald head. Waxed moustache. Gold-rimmed glasses. Bushy eyebrows. Small beady brown eyes. Jowly. Cummerbund squeezing prosperity belly. Foolish rosebud mouth. And no warmth in that measured smile as he descended on our table. He was a property developer. A builder of biscuit-box office blocks and beehive apartment buildings, owner of an engineering degree from McGill. “We haven’t met,” he said.
“His name’s Barney Panofsky, Daddy.”
I accepted the offer of a damp, limp little hand. “Panofsky? Panofsky? Do I know your father?”
“Not unless you’ve ever been booked for anything, Daddy, and didn’t tell me.”
“My father’s a detective-inspector.”
“I say. Is he, indeed? And how do you earn your daily bread?”
“I’m in television production.”
“You know that commercial for Molson’s beer, it’s such a scream? The one that makes you laugh? Barney produced it.”
“Well, well, well. Mr. Bernard’s son is sitting with us, and he would like to dance with you, precious, but he’s too shy to ask,” he said, taking her firmly by the arm. “Do you know the Gurskys, Mr. … ?”
“Panofsky.”
“We’re good friends of theirs. Come, my sweet.”
“No,” she said, yanking her arm free, tugging me out of my chair, and leading me back onto the dance floor.
You’ve heard of mock turtle soup? Well, the father of the bride turned out to be the ultimate mock WASP Jew. From the points of his waxed moustache to the toes of his Oxford wingtip shoes. Most days he fancied a pinstripe suit, his canary-yellow waistcoat enhanced by a gold pocket-watch chain and fob. For sojourns in the countryside, he carried a malacca walking stick and, out for an afternoon of golf with Harvey Schwartz, he wore plus-fours. But for dinner parties at his Westmount manse, he favoured a magenta velvet smoking-jacket with matching slippers, and was forever stroking his wet lips with his forefinger, as if lost in contemplation of weighty philosophical problems. His insufferable wife, who wore pince-nez, jiggled a tiny bell each time the company was ready for another course. The first time I dined there, she corrected the way I wielded my soup spoon. Demonstrating the proper manner, she said, “Ships sail out to sea.”
Naturally the ladies took their coffee in the living room, while the chaps, lingering at the table, were offered port, the decanter passed to the left, as Mr. Mock WASP announced a subject worthy of debate: “George Bernard Shaw once said …” or “H. G. Wells would have us believe … Now what do you say to that, gentlemen?”
The old fool objected to me, of course. But, to be fair, he was one of those possessive fathers who would have been outraged by the thought of even a Gursky screwing Daddy’s girl, not that we had gone that far yet. Complaining to her, he said, “He talks with his hands.” An attribute he considered compromising. Très Jewy. “I don’t want you to see him again.”
“Oh, yeah? Well in that case I’m moving out. I’m going to rent an apartment.”
Where, in his mind’s eye, the poor man visualized his precious one being ravished morning, noon, and night. “No,” he protested. “You will not move out. I won’t stop you seeing him. But it is my fatherly duty to warn you that you are making a bad mistake. He comes