The Featherbed. Джон Миллер

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СКАЧАТЬ nape. Afraid that the smell of bread would linger on her if she stayed too long in the shop, she quickly approached the counter and pointed to a bun.

      Mrs. Cristobaldi smiled, wiping her hands on her white smock just below her ample bosom. “You wanna try some different bun today, bambina? You always have the same thing.”

      “No, thank you, Mrs. Cristobaldi. I love this kind.” Rebecca took it with one hand and poured her pennies into the woman’s palm with her other.

      “You have a nice evening. We will see you tomorrow?” The old woman nodded, prompting Rebecca for the answer.

      “Perhaps Sunday. Thank you. You have a nice evening too.” Rebecca tore a piece off of the bread as she walked out the door of the bakery.

      She still had several blocks until she reached the Jewish part of the neighbourhood, but she took her time, walking slowly. As she passed by a storefront, a bearded grocer tried desperately to bait her by catching her eye and calling out to her, waving her in with his fleshy palm. Above him, a woman stirred a huge pot near an open window. She could just smell the sweet aroma of some soup the woman must have had on the boil, but it was quickly overpowered by the tang of dill pickles floating in two barrels standing like gateposts in front of the grocer.

      At the next shop, a pot- and skillet-maker leaned over his table, placed tantalizingly in front of his shop, and accentuated the appeal of his wares by opening his arms at her as if to invite an embrace. He smiled at her, and she smiled back, but his fickle attention shifted to the next passerby when Rebecca failed to stop at his table.

      Pushcart vendors vied for space on the sidewalks and on the streets. Taking a more aggressive approach, they shouted out their prices to her, almost angrily. Rebecca wondered how they could think she would choose to buy from someone simply because he was the loudest. Besides, was it not clear she wasn’t shopping? She was walking far too quickly, and she had no shopping bag. She supposed anyone was fair game, there always being a possibility one could remember suddenly that one needed something after all.

      She avoided their gaze and looked up at the tall buildings, erected shoulder to shoulder so they shared one shadow. Her eyes followed the shadow outwards. In the late afternoon sun it was held out over the street, the ragged rooftops forming the ruffled edges of a cape that draped partially over the backs of a pair of horses standing up ahead. The animals were harnessed to their carriage and scuffing their hooves against the ground to pass the time while they waited for their master to finish a transaction with a woman selling potatoes.

      Beside the horses, she saw a boy try in vain to find a space in which to play in the midst of the chaos. He was balancing a top on the lid of a carton, but each time he spun it, someone would jostle the carton, sending the top flying into the street and the boy diving after it. On his third attempt, the child’s top rolled under the legs of the horses. Recklessly, he scuttled crab-like under their bellies, grabbed the errant top with his left hand, and rolled out the other side. He picked himself up again just in time for Rebecca to avoid stepping on him and jumped out of her way.

      Despite the frenzied activity surrounding her, and despite her guilt, Rebecca enjoyed this part of the day the most, because it was the only time that she had to herself. Her teeth cut through the bun’s crunchy, powdery crust, and her tongue savoured the reward of the sweet-soft doughy centre. On evenings like these, when the November wind blew through the streets, pulling her skin taut, Rebecca liked to heighten her senses by drawing the cold air through her nostrils as she chewed and walked, grateful just to be outside, and alone.

      It was not that she was antisocial, but it did always seem to her that now that she was grown up, there were expectations that came with being in the company of others. She should help her mother with the morning chores, bring her father her wages. She should listen to the troubles of her friends and remain cheerful, no matter how tiresome the complaint. At the factory, she must be dependable to her co-workers, and a diligent employee. Only her friend Hattie didn’t demand much of her, because she was so independent, but Hattie was going to college now and so she hardly saw her.

      During her walks home, Rebecca could breathe. If at other times she found the noise of the streets distracting and upsetting, at this time of the day she could shut it out. The sounds faded into the background, and, once the nagging hunger in her gut was sated by a nice piece of bread, she would retreat into her thoughts.

      It was six-thirty when Rebecca rounded the corner to Ludlow Street, the earliest she had been home all week. The sun had already dipped behind the tops of the buildings when she had left the factory, and now it was almost dark. Rebecca snapped to attention in time to avoid running into the pushcart that was blocking the front stoop of her building.

      “Good evening, Ribecceh!” said Mr. Zussel. He was closing up his herring cart. “Careful, kinderleh! Ein bissel fish for your papa?”

      “Good evening, Mr. Zussel. No, thank you.”

      Mr. Zussel looked down from his considerable height, squinting one eye and frowning at her. In two giant steps he rounded the corner of his cart, his lanky torso following after in syncopation. Because of the way he moved, and also the way his lower jaw jutted out, he reminded her of a pelican. She tried to picture him holding his fish in his teeth.

      “Such a good tochter like you, and no herring for your father? Nu, they don’t give you money for this hard work such you do at the factory?”

      Rebecca’s face burned. “You know very well that if I’m to be a good daughter I have to give all of my wages to my father. My mother didn’t come buy from you today?”

      “Aach! Two weeks, your mother goes to Sender on East Broadway. A good woman she is, sure. Always the bargains for her family, she finds. So good, she’s killing me!” He brought his hands up to his throat.

      “I’m sorry, Mr. Zussel. But maybe if you lowered your prices a penny or two every so often...”

      “Ayy! Exactly like her mother she is. A shark! A shark!” His hands made teeth marks in the air. “All the Ignatow women — beautiful and smart, yes, but so heartless. Like sharks. And I should live from what, lowering my prices — a thank you from your mother and a blessing from God?” He waved her away.

      “Good evening, Mr. Zussel,” she chuckled, and left him still muttering as she pivoted on the stoop and ran in the front door. When she heard the doorknob click behind her, she leaned against the wall and fished a box of matches out of her coat pocket. Her eyes blinked several times, but it was futile. The darkness fell damp and cold upon her face, sending shivers down her spine as it seeped through her.

      Sometimes, but rarely, a person opened a door to an apartment and an oil lamp spilled some weak rays onto the floor-boards. Not today. Today it was heavy and pitch, making it an effort to keep her eyes open. She struck a match against the wall and held her palm around it to shield it from the draft she felt biting at her ankles.

      Her family lived on the top floor, because her parents took the cheapest apartment they could find when they came to New York and then never moved. When they got off the boat from Poland, someone in line at the Castle Clinton processing centre introduced them to his cousin, who showed them the building at number fifty-five. According to her mother, her father believed at first that they had outsmarted the landlord in that the rent on the top floor was cheaper and there was less noise from the street. But her mother knew they were getting what they paid for because every day she had to carry groceries and a small child five flights up the dark stairwell.

      Rebecca was used to the apartment, having known nothing else, but when she thought of her future she wanted more than to live like old Zussel’s herring, packed together in СКАЧАТЬ