"What is the name of the party?"
"What I wanted to know," said Noah, "is the range of prices. I haven't very much money and…"
"I will have to know the name of the party," the voice said, very official.
"Ackerman."
"Waterfield," said the thick voice on the other end. "First name, please…" and then, in a whisper, "Gladys, stop it! Gladys!" Then back into the phone, with the hint of a smothered laugh, "First name, please."
"Ackerman," said Noah. "Ackerman."
"Is that the first name?"
"No," said Noah. "That's the last name. The first name is Jacob."
"I wish," said the voice, with alcoholic dignity, "you would talk more clearly."
"What I want to know," said Noah loudly, "is what you charge for cremation."
"Cremation. Yes," the voice said, "we supply that service to those parties who wish it."
"What is the price?" Noah asked.
"How many coaches?"
"What?"
"How many coaches to the services?" the voice asked, saying "shervishes". "How many guests and relatives will there be?"
"One," said Noah. "There will be one guest and relative."
Night and Day came to an end with a crash and Noah couldn't hear what the man on the other end of the wire said.
"I want it to be as reasonable as possible," Noah said, desperately. "I don't have much money."
"I shee, I shee," the man at the Mortuary said. "One question, if I may. Does the deceased have any insurance?"
"No," said Noah.
"Then it will have to be cash, you understand. In advance, you understand."
"How much?" Noah shouted.
"Do you wish the remains in a plain cardboard box or in a silver-plated urn?"
"A plain cardboard box."
"The cheapest price I can quote you, my dear friend" – the voice on the other end suddenly became large and coherent – "is seventy-six dollars and fifty cents."
"That will be an additional five cents for five minutes," the operator's voice broke in.
"All right." Noah put another nickel into the box and the operator said, "Thank you." Noah said, "All right. Seventy-six dollars and fifty cents." Somehow he would get it together.
"The day after tomorrow. In the afternoon." That would give him time to go downtown on January 2nd and sell the camera and the other things. "The address is the Sea View Hotel. Do you know where that is?"
"Yes," the drunken voice said, "yes, indeedy. The Sea View Hotel. I will send a man around tomorrow and you can sign the contract…"
"Okay," Noah said, sweating, preparing to hang up.
"One more thing, my dear man," the voice went on. "One more thing. The last rites."
"What about the last rites?"
"What religion does the deceased profess?"
Jacob had professed no religion, but Noah didn't think he had to tell the man that. "He was a Jew."
"Oh." There was silence for a moment on the wire and then Noah heard the woman's voice say, gayly and drunkenly, "Come on, George, le's have another little drink."
"I regret," the man said, "that we are not equipped to perform funeral services on Hebrews."
"What's the difference?" Noah shouted. "He wasn't religious. He doesn't need any ceremonies."
"Impossible," the voice said thickly, but with dignity. "We do not cater to Hebrews. I'm sure you can find many others… many others who are equipped to cremate Hebrews."
" But Dr Fishbourne recommended you," Noah shouted, insanely. He felt as though he couldn't go through all this again with another undertaker, and he felt trapped and baffled. "You're in the undertaking business, aren't you?"
"My condolences to you, my dear man," the voice said, "in your hour of grief, but we cannot see our way clear…"
Noah heard a scuffle at the other end of the wire and the woman's voice say, "Let me talk to him, Georgie." Then the woman got on the phone. "Listen," she said loudly, her voice brassy and whisky-rich, "why don't you quit? We're busy here. You heard what Georgie said. He don't burn Kikes. Happy New Year." And she hung up.
Noah's hands were trembling and he felt the sweat coming out on his skin. He put the receiver back on the hook with difficulty. He opened the door of the booth and walked slowly towards the door, past the jukebox, which was playing a jazz version of Loch Lomond, past the group of blonde and drunk and sailors at the bar. The blonde smiled at him and said, "What's the matter, Big Boy? Wasn't she home?"
Noah hardly heard her. He walked slowly, feeling weak and tired, towards the unoccupied end of the bar near the door and sat on a stool.
"Whisky," he said. When it came, he drank it straight and ordered another. The two drinks had an immediate, surging effect on him, blurring the outlines of the room, blurring the music and the other people in the bar into softer and more agreeable forms, and when the blonde, in her tight, flowered, yellow dress with red shoes and a little hat with a purple veil, came down the bar towards him, swaying her full hips exaggeratedly, he grinned at her.
"There," the blonde said, touching his arm softly, "there, that's better."
"Happy New Year," Noah said.
"Honey…" The blonde sat down on the stool next him, jiggling her tightly girdled buttocks on the red leatherette seat, rubbing her knee against him. "Honey, I'm in trouble, and I looked around the bar and I decided you were the one man in the room I could depend on. Orange Blossom," she said to the bartender, who had padded up to where she was sitting. "In time of trouble," she went on, holding Noah's arm at the elbow, looking earnestly at him through her veil, her small, blue, mascara'd eyes inviting and serious, "in time of trouble I like Italian men. They have more character. They're excitable, but they're sympathetic. And, to tell you the truth, Honey, I like an excitable man. Show me a man who doesn't get excited and I'll show you a man who couldn't make a woman happy for ten minutes a year. There are two things I look for in a man. A sympathetic character and full lips."
"What?" Noah asked, dazed.
"Full lips," the blonde said earnestly. "My name is Georgia, Honey; what's yours?"
"Ronald Beaverbrook," Noah said. "And I have to tell you… I'm not an Italian."
"Oh." The woman looked disappointed and she drank half her Orange Blossom in one smooth gulp. "I could have sworn. What are you, Ronald?"
"An Indian," Noah said. "A Sioux Indian."
"Even so," the woman said, "I bet you can make a woman very happy."
"Have a drink," Noah said.
"Honey," the woman called to the bartender. "Two Orange Blossoms. Double, Honey." She turned back to Noah. "I like Indians, too," she said. "The one thing I don't like is ordinary Americans. They don't know how to use a woman properly. On and off and bang, and on their way home to their wives. Honey," she said, finishing her first drink, "Honey, why don't you go over to those two boys in blue and tell them you're taking me home? Take a beer bottle with you, in case they give you an argument."
"Did you come with them?" Noah asked. He was feeling very light-headed now, remote and amused, and he caressed the woman's hand lightly and smiled into her eyes as he talked. Her hands were calloused and worn and she was ashamed of them.
"It comes from working in the laundry," she said sadly.
"Don't ever work in a laundry, Honey."
"Okay," said Noah.
"I came with that one." With a gesture of her head, the veil fluttering in the green and purple light of the jukebox, she indicated the drunk with his head on the bar. "Knocked out of the box in the first innings. I'll tell you something." She leaned close to Noah and whispered to him, and he got a strong impression of gin and onions and violet perfume. "The sailors are plotting against him. In the uniform of their country. They are going to roll him and they're planning to follow me and snatch my purse in a dark alley. Take a beer bottle, Ronald, and go talk to them."