Mitla Pass - Leon Uris [107]
“Can I be helping you, Admiral?” a voice behind him said.
He turned and looked at a disreputable personage, whose breath reeked of rum, a man of the lowly type who hung around the wharfs in every port in the world.
“Do you know where the proprietor lives?”
“Try the back of the shop, Yer Worship.”
At that, Percy Holifield banged and shouted again.
“Ah sure, that will do you no good at all. It’s the Sabbath to old Moses, and he won’t be coming out till sunset. He’s a quare sort, a Hebrew, you know.”
The commodore fumed, then gave the informant tuppence, for which he was voraciously thanked. He took out his pocket watch. Two hours until sunset. After another unsuccessful round of door thumping, he drew in a deep breath, clasped his hands behind his back, and paced before the shop with one eye on the sun.
As twilight at last overcame the quay, he knocked again, but this time respectfully. The door opened a crack and there stood Moses Balaban, a slight Jew, mostly likely in his late twenties, with a straggly goatee and wearing a black cuplike cap on his head and a shawl over his shoulders. He could well have been Shylock from The Merchant of Venice.
“Why are you making all that noise?” he demanded. To Holifield’s surprise, the man spoke with an obvious twinge of an Irish accent. “You desecrated my Sabbath.”
The commodore, not used to being reprimanded, ground his teeth, mumbled beneath his breath, but held back his pride, for he needed this chap, urgently. “Kindly accept my apologies. I am somewhat desperate for a tailor. You are Mr. Balaban?”
The Jew looked him up and down, then opened the door. “Come in,” he said tersely.
The shop was shockingly unkempt, something that would obviously grate upon a naval officer who ran a shipshape vessel. Bolts of cloth were askew without rhyme or reason. Tailor’s dummies were fitted with half-sewn uniforms being made for men at sea to collect when they returned. The shop had a foul, stale aroma, and from the rear the commodore could hear the voices of two young squabbling children.
“Shut up back there,” Moses shouted, “or you’ll get a lump on your noggins.” He turned to Holifield. “Just what is it you want that is so important as to interrupt my prayers?”
“Sir, my ship has been ordered to sail to England to join a celebration in honor of Her Majesty Queen Victoria. My uniforms are threadbare from months at sea. I have, outside in the carriage, cloth and everything else needed, as well as photographs for a new uniform. I am willing to pay a handsome bonus for the job. I do realize that this will be more ornate ...”
Moses held up his hand for silence. “I am Romanian. Have you ever seen all the junk on a Romanian admiral’s uniform? You are an American?”
“I am indeed, sir.”
The tailor looked pensively out of the door to the quay. “I have watched a thousand ships sail to America from here, filled with half-starved Irishmen and -women. This is a port of tears, of misery,” he said as though speaking to himself. “Your name?”
“Excuse me. I am Percy Holifield, newly promoted from captain to commodore. My ship is laid up here for repairs.”
“When do you sail for England?”
Holifield closed his eyes and prayed beneath his breath. “Next Friday.”
Moses Balaban studied the configuration of the commodore, encircling him slowly. He had a difficult body to enhance. He was stubby, potbellied, and swaybacked, a challenging combination to overcome in so short a time. Percy Holifield’s eyes watered with silent pleading.
“You have not kept yourself in very good shape,” the Jew said.
The commodore smarted but held his tongue.
Moses Balaban walked around him again, then threw up his hands. “All right, it can be done.”
“Oh, thank you, sir, thank