‘Presumably,’ I said, ‘you are interested in part exchange.’
‘These suits are all bran-new, my friend.’ He scratched himself under his yarmulke as he stared up at the ranks of trousers and jackets. ‘You want second-hand, you go down the street. Here it’s cash, strictly. What have you got to exchange?’ And he hooked down a suit with a swift flick of his hand and arm. ‘That’s you, mister. Do you want to try it on?’
‘My jacket and trousers are of finer quality,’ I said. ‘It must be obvious to any judge of cloth.’
‘Once,’ he agreed, ‘that was a good suit. Whoever had it made was a man of taste. But now - look at it! It would have to be repaired. It can’t be saved.’
‘Take it and five dollars,’ I offered. Whereupon the man’s mood changed and he reverted to type, shouting at me and telling me to get out of his shop and not to waste his time. Furious, I left with dignity, calling to Mr Mix to follow.
I made my way towards a sign advertising Pledges. Here, I thought, I might get what I needed. But before I went in, Mr Mix grasped my arm.
‘Put this on,’ he said softly. ‘It’ll help balance you up at any rate.’
He had taken a brogue from the rack. It was a near-match to my own and, astonishingly, an exact fit. ‘I thought it looked about right,’ he said. He steadied me on the kerb while I tied the laces. ‘You’d hardly know it weren’t a pair. Now that was lucky, wasn’t it?’
I murmured that it was more a tribute to his skill as a thief than to the intercession of any Guardian Angel and this made him chuckle. Somewhat heartened, I entered an even darker cavern than the last. This one reeked of mouldy leather and damp paper, of mildew and old dust. The clothes hung on racks on one side of the shop while the other was crowded with a miscellany of household goods, of bicycles and washtubs, of mechanical kitchen utensils, and all the gadgets bought to appease wives who had waited with growing fury while their housekeeping was poured down the throats of the feckless immigrants crowding these disease-ridden slums. Such shops were set up to exploit the likes of myself and, I supposed, sailors needing to enter the civilian world. My five dollars, I was told, was good for a jacket but ‘pants is another two-fifty’. Time was running out. I could not waste it in bargaining. At length I settled for a jacket which, although a little small for me, was a reasonable match to my trousers and at least, though stinking of camphor, was clean. I jammed the money into the Jew’s hand and ran from his premises. It would not be more than half-an-hour before I was reunited with my soulmate!
The great liner in all the glory of her scintillating brass and chrome, her white, jet and scarlet livery, still quivering from her journey, now dwarfed even the three-storey embarkation sheds to which her gangplanks stood ready to carry the first flood of passengers. There was a general rattle and clatter, great thumps and clangs. Sailors and dockhands shouted to one another, hawsers and chains were flung in expert loops, the securing blocks slammed into place: the stink of oil and smoke mingled with the sharp ozone from the sea, and I knew that I was not too late. The passengers were only now coming off the ship. A line of customs and naval officers strolled down the main gangplank casually giving the signal for the ropes to be clipped back. The first passengers, hastily refreshed, peering down into the sheds for sight of their friends, began to emerge. With Jacob Mix in pursuit I ran to a door in the fence facing the main street and banged on it for some while until it was opened by a uniformed guard whose angry questions were couched as unpleasant rhetorical oaths. ‘What motherfucking son of a bitch bastard of a camel’s whore is making all that noise?’ I told him I was late and needed to go straight through to the ship. He laughed in my face. ‘Even the VIPs can’t do that without my say-so.’ He seemed to have spent the worst of his rage already. With some dignity I informed him that I was a man of considerable substance; my appearance was entirely due to unfortunate circumstances. He laughed again and asked in that case who Jacob Mix was.
I put a defensive arm around the negro and told the arrogant official that Mr Mix was my valet. At which point, no doubt shamed by his misreading of my status, the fool slammed the door rather than apologise. I accepted a pull from the bottle the negro handed me. ‘I ain’t your valet, Max,’ Mr Mix pointed out as I ran alongside the fence, turning the corner to the main entrance of the sheds where a large sign proclaimed arriving passengers. But this entrance was also guarded by another corpulent individual in the company uniform who, below a purple nose, sported a moustache like a hunter’s trophy. He stepped forward as we made to enter. ‘And what would the likes of you gentlemen be wanting with the First-Class passengers?’
‘One of those passengers, my good man,’ I told the beefy mick, ‘is my future bride. It was my money which paid for her ticket. Do not be deceived by my appearance.’
‘It ain’t so much your appearance as your smell.’ Theatrically the cretin waved his hand in front of his nose. ‘On your way, boys. You won’t pick up a hand-out here. And there’s regular porters to carry people’s bags as wants them carried.’
‘My fiancée is on the ship,’ I said levelly.
‘And his, too?’ The guard indicated Jacob Mix. ‘This ship sailed out of Italy, not Cape Town. Go on away now, boys, and don’t give me a hard time, or I’ll have to get tough with you.’
‘You are uttering nonsense.’ I controlled my mounting hysteria. So little sleep and food, so much pain, so much ill fortune, had begun to affect my mind. ‘I warn you again - you’ll lose your job if you don’t let me through.’
‘More likely lose it if I do.’ He dismissed us. ‘I’ll take my chances.’
I could see the women in their brilliant silks and furs, the men in their beautifully cut Continental suits, laughing and calling as they descended to where the customs people gave respectful attention to the occasional valise. I sought my Esmé, but she was doubtless shyly hanging back, hoping to catch sight of me from the rail. My mind was filled with the image of a frightened, bewildered little girl, so desperate for one reassuring glimpse of her beloved. I pushed through the gate, towards the barrier where others awaited their arriving friends. Suddenly I was grabbed by my hair and coat, hauled backwards while Jacob Mix pleaded with the man to release me. ‘You can see the poor bastard’s had a hard time.’
But there was no pity in that officious oafs unchristian heart. By now the first passengers were coming through, stepping into waiting private limousines. Others hailed eager taxis. My Esmé must certainly come through to the street. We should eventually at least be together, but until then I could imagine the anxiety, the uncertainty she might already be feeling.
I shall never cease to curse that fat commissar and his appalling arrogance. Had I known how his actions would change the whole course of my life, I think I might have risked arrest and murdered him. Ferbissener? Can I blame myself? Surely not. I was no schnorrer. I was a mere pisher. Come with me now, Esmé, there is still time.
I tried once more. ‘Please, sir, will you listen! I am a man of substance. Do not be deceived by outside appearances. I can explain how I came to this. The story begins in Hollywood, California - ‘
‘You said it, Jerusalem!’ sneered the swaggering kocheleffel. And produced a monstrously phallic club from within his costume.
Then I saw her! O, Esmé, meyn naches. I am coming! The vision in my heart was suddenly a reality. She glowed with an unreal radiance like some ambassadress from the Land of Dreams. Her hair, short against her head in the latest fashion, shone like black fire. And she moved naturally with exquisite lively grace.