St. Urbain's Horseman by Mordecai Richler

Author:Mordecai Richler [Richler, Mordecai]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Tags: Fiction, Performing Arts, Canadian, Cousins, General, Literary, Canadian Fiction, Individual Director, Literary Criticism
ISBN: 9780771075193
Publisher: Emblem Editions
Published: 1972-01-02T05:00:00+00:00

8

IN THE MORNING HARRY WAS DISPATCHED TO THE Dorchester to deliberate over a star’s newly acquired mass of bills; an affair’s detritus. The star, internationally known, obscenely overpaid, was attended in his suite by a bitch-mother private secretary, a soothing queer architect to keep everybody’s glasses filled with chilled Chevalier Montrachet, and, kneeling by the hassock on which his big bare feet rested, a chiropodist. The chiropodist, black leather toolbox open before him, scissors-filled drawers protruding, black bowler lying alongside on the rug, was kneading the star’s feet, pausing to snip a nail reverently or caress a big toe, lingering whenever he provoked an involuntary little yelp of pleasure.

“I am ever so worried,” the chiropodist said, “about your returning to Hollywood, sir.”

“Mmmnnnn.” This delivered with eyes squeezed ecstatically shut.

“Who will look after your feet there?”

Harry, riding too much wine at an unaccustomed hour, contrived to leave in company with the chiropodist, inviting him to the pub.

“Do you get to do many of the stars?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. They all send for me.”

“The women too?”

“You’d be surprised some of the things I’ve seen,” he burbled. “You learn to knock on the door first.”

“And to keep your eyes down when you’re on the job, what?”

“Now look here, they’re all good types. All of them.”

“And the bigger they are,” Harry said, ordering another round over the chiropodist’s objections, “the nicer to deal with.”

“Just so.”

Harry motioned the portly pink-faced man closer. Lowering his voice, he asked, “What about the bloody toe jam?”

“What’s that?”

“Do you think it smells better than yours? Or mine?”

The chiropodist laughed, “Oh, I say. I say,” his eyes darting, “you’re a salty one.”

“Keep it. You could sell it, don’t you think? If you were doing Elizabeth Taylor, for instance, there’d have to be a lot of money in her toe jam.”

“Why that’s nasty. That’s very nasty, indeed, sir.”

“Then there’s the toenails. Think of the toenails. You could store them. Do you know that Christie used to pluck the pubic hairs from his victims and keep them in a tobacco tin?”

“I’ve had enough. Quite enough.”

“Or their farts. Did you ever think of that,” Harry persisted, driving him into a corner. “Their bloody farts are totally wasted. If you had an airtight bag in that case of yours and were quick enough to trap their farts, why there’d be a bloody fortune in it. Take Marilyn Monroe, now that she’s dead. Why, if you had one of her farts trapped in an airtight container –”

“I refuse to listen to any more. I’m not listening.”

“You’re a servile little turd,” Harry said, knocking his bowler off. “Do you hear me? A servile little turd.”

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