Humboldt's Gift (1976 Pulitzer Prize) - Saul Bellow [177]
“Come on, Waldemar,” said Menasha. His chest was high with feeling and his voice rose and rose. “I’ve known Charlie from a kid. I want to tell you you can trust Charlie. Long ago, soon as I laid eyes on him, I said to myself, This kid’s heart is right up there in his face. He’s getting along in years himself. Although compared to us he’s a strong fellow still. Now Waldemar, whyn’t you come clean and tell him what’s on your mind?”
“In Humboldt’s papers, as papers, there probably isn’t much money,” I said. “One might try to sell them to a collector. But perhaps there is something in what he left that could be published.”
“It’s mostly the sentiment,” said Renata. “Like a message from an old friend in the next world.”
Waldemar looked at her, obstinate. “But suppose it is valuable, why should I get screwed? Am I entitled to get something out of it or not? I mean, why should I stick in this lousy home here? As soon as they showed me Humboldt’s obituary in the Times—Christ! Imagine what that did to me! Like my own kid, the last of the family, my own flesh and blood! I got on the BMT as fast as I could and went up to his room. His stuff was half gone already. The cops and the hotel management were grabbing it off. The cash and the watch and his fountain pen and the typewriter disappeared.”
“What’s the use of sitting on this stuff and dreaming you’ll make a killing?” said Menasha. “Hand it over to somebody who knows.”
“Don’t fink on me,” said Waldemar to Menasha. “We’re in here together. This much I’m willing—I’ll level with you, Mr. Citrine. I could have peddled this stuff long ago. If you ask me there is a real property in this.”
“You have read it then,” I said.
“Hell, sure I’ve read it. What the hell else have I got to do? I couldn’t make heads or tails out of it.”
“I wouldn’t dream of doing you out of anything,” I said. “If it has got value I’ll tell you honestly.”
“Why don’t we get a lawyer to draw up a legal document?” said Waldemar.
He was Humboldt’s uncle all right. I became very persuasive. I am never so reasonable as when I badly want something. I can make it seem natural justice itself that I should have it. “We can make things as legal as you like,” I said. “But shouldn’t I read it all? How can I tell without examining it?”
“Then read it here,” said Waldemar.
Menasha said, “You’ve always been a sport, Charlie. Take a gamble.”
“Along that line my record isn’t so hot,” said Waldemar. I thought he would cry, he sounded so shaky. So little stood between him and death, you see. On the bald harsh crimson of the threadbare carpet, a pale patch of weak December warmth said, “Don’t cry, old boy.” Inaudible storms of light, ninety-three million miles away, used a threadbare Axminster, a scrap of human manufacture, to deliver a message through the soiled window of a nursing home. My own heart became emotional. I wished to convey something important. We have to go through the bitter gates of death, I wanted to say to him, and give back these loaned minerals that comprise us, but I want to tell you, brother Waldemar, that I deeply suspect things do not end there. The thought of the life we are now leading may pain us as greatly later on as the thought of death pains us now.
Well, finally I got around him with my good sense and honesty and we all went down on our knees and began to pull all sorts of stuff from under his bed—bedroom slippers, an old bowling ball, a toy baseball game, playing cards, odd dice, cardboard boxes, and valises, and, finally, a relic that I could identify—Humboldt’s briefcase. It was Humboldt’s old bag with the frayed straps, the one that was always ‘riding, crammed with books and pill bottles,