The Whistler

 
Mrs. Frankel trudged down the stairs carefully as she always did. The staircase was steep and dark and she had no intention of misstepping. When she got to the bottom, she vigorously drew open the door and stepped into the clamour and colour of Bloor Street. Turning left, she drew abreast of her window and stopped to inspect.

Nachman, her husband, saw to it that the window was 'dressed' to denote the passing of the seasons. Now that the children were a little older, they were sometimes pressed into the family workforce, the oldest being expected occasionally to turn his hand to window dressing. She sighed with satisfaction. It looked pretty good. Nice and neat. Everything in its place. It would not long so remain. Whenever new stock came in, or articles that Nachman wanted to advertise, or that he was particularly proud of having brought into the store for sale, they would be added to the window display and before long, order would be turned into chaos.

And then there were the signs. Nachman could never refuse when someone came to him to display a sign in the window. Always, he forgot to take them out when they no longer advertised a matter of current interest. But for now, the window looked good. She nodded her approval to her short, dark-haired reflection and continued on until she stood before the door of their store.

Such a small place. Blink as you passed the corner of Bloor and Brunswick and you would have overshot the mark. The little business was stuck almost inconspicuously between a large-windowed furniture store and a tiny dry-cleaning store, which itself had been crushed next to the Brunswick Hotel. Still, their customers knew where they were. They had managed to build up over the years a pretty reliable clientele.

She pushed open the door with its Coca-Cola 'welcome' sign and entered. The interior was long and narrow; just enough room for two skinny people or one fat person walking carefully, to traverse its length between the shelving. to the right was a public pay telephone, uncubicled, and rows and racks of newspapers and magazines. Not to speak of a multitude of comic books which continually brought them a harvest of eager young residents of the nearby apartments - always to browse and riffle through the pages, seldom, too seldom, to buy. Across the aisle was the glass-encased showcase wherein lay such diverse articles as made-in-Japan three-tiered cake plates, small green-and-grey made-in-Germany figurines, inexpensive Swiss watches, Timex watches, paste jewellery and a few cheap cameras. On top of the case lay stacks of cigarettes, a large bowl of free paper match books, racing forms and T.V. guides. Next to the cigarettes were the segmented containers of chocolate bars, and beside them racks of potato chips, pretzels and corn chips.

Everything was stacked so high at the counter that when either she or Nachman stood behind it, their disembodied heads were all that could be seen floating between the decrepit old cash register and a display of imported pipes. But then, that was because they were such an unorthodox height; he five feet and she four feet ten inches tall. What they lacked in size, they more than made up in thinking power, she was fond of telling herself. At least she was sure about her own abilities; sometimes Nachman's predilections toward generosity when they could ill afford it, made her wonder about him.

Nachman was busy down at the pop coolers. A little neighbourhood girl had been sent by her mother to bring home a quart of milk and a bottle of Canada Dry ginger ale. Nachman was wiping the bottoms of the bottles and the paper milk container and carefully placing them in a large paper bag. (She saved all the paper bags she could from her own shopping expeditions - every little bit helped, she asserted virtuously.) He walked with the child to the counter, where he inserted in the bag a filter Player's. Then he added up the total. "Mr. Frankel, please, my mother says to put it on the bill." He stopped his figuring on the bag and regarded the skinny child over the top of his glasses. "I'll give you this time on the bill. But I want you to tell your mother it's getting too high. Tell her she has to come in and settle up, okay?" The girl nodded assent, he finished writing the total on the bag, then reached over and dropped a light-coloured Kraft caramel into the bag and handed it to the girl. She thanked him and left.

Nachman reached under the counter and brought out his big black account book, muttering to himself, "Nelson, Nelson, where is Nelson?" found the account he was looking for, added the new charge and totalled again.

"How much is it" asked his wife.
"How much? They owe $40.56. They'll pay. They always do."

"Sure. And they take their time. There is always other things to do first with the money when they get it. How do they expect us to be able to pay for the things we owe? Do they think we can stock the store on their credit? Don't give Nelsons anything more until they pay, Nachman."

"No - No, you heard I said to the little girl, her mother should come in and pay."

"She'll send in the little girl for everything she needs. She knows you won't say to the little girl no. She won't come in, Mrs Nelson, while she owes."

"We'll see, we'll see."
"Go up now, Nachman, have your lunch. I'm sorry I'm a little late today. I had a big wash. I wanted to finish, not to come back up later to finish."

"Don't be sorry. I'm not very hungry. I'll go up in a minute. I want to finish unwrapping the magazines," and he continued unwinding the wire from stacks of German magazines preparatory to placing them on the shelves. They had a large ethnic population nearby in whose service they stocked ethnic-language papers and magazines.

"Go up already, I'll finish. The water is boiled, you can pour for instant coffee. On the table is a chopped egg sandwich. I just mixed up a salad with sour cream for you, it's in the refrigerator. Go, go."

"You didn't put in tomato?" he enquired absent-mindedly. Although after twenty years of marriage she was well aware of his distaste for tomatoes, he invariably asked whether she had omitted the fruit from his salad.

"No, no tomato. go already."
"Why no salami sandwich? I had egg already this week."
"The last time I made you salami, you said you got heartburn. That kind of meat is too spicy for you. You don't need it, to be sick."
"I won't be sick, I like it. Maybe tomorrow you'll make some fried salami and eggs for a change."
"Fine, we'll see tomorrow. Are you going or not?"

And his work done with the magazines, he raised himself slowly from his one-kneed kneeling position, stretched and went out the door to retrace in reverse the window, to inspect it. It would do, he thought. He stepped back several paces to survey the whole storefront, as he often did. The large Coca-Cola sign proclaimed that it was the crowning diadem of "King's Confectionery and Tobacconist". Who king was he mused, he didn't know, but he, Nachman, was surely king of his little establishment. And he made his way upstairs to the family's apartment squatting over the stores below.

Such an apartment! They fought a running battle with trap-wise mice and insecticide-proof cockroaches of a truly impressive size and determination. Even when they fumigated, the pests would inevitably return from the temporary refuge sought in other nearby apartments. Still, the rooms were generous and living over the business simplified running the store, and the element of time.

In the store, Sylvia edged her way sideways behind the counter, until she reached the middle portion where enough room had been left to permit some comfort. There, a high stool was kept for lax times, when whoever was in charge of the store could sit and read. That is, if a thousand and one other priorities didn't need attending to. She glanced briefly at the new copy of the Vochenblatt open on the stool, then stooped beneath the counter and withdrew an old pair of cotton underpants, minus the elastic waistband. It was lunch time. Usually a very quiet time in the store. She would take advantage of the lull to do some much-needed dusting. She slid open the glass doors behind the counter and started flicking the white cloth across the articles arranged there.

From time to time, a customer would wander in, mostly for cigarettes and she quickly served all comers; those whose faces were familiar and those just passing by. One of the most enjoyable aspects of being in the store was the stimulation of meeting people and initiating conversations. Sometimes little of value was said, but at other times, the talk could become involved and immensely interesting. Home remedies were passed from store-owner to customer and vice versa; information regarding local sales, and some pretty good recipes changed hands too. Best of all, however, was the opportunity for gossip. Because they had been in the store for a goodly number of years, they knew a large number of nearby residents and greater numbers of habitues of the nearby Brunswick Hotel.

Often, advice or commiseration was sought, and sometimes given or withheld, depending on the situation or the need. Too often for Sylvia's taste, a long-time customer would approach Nachman surreptitiously for a loan and invariably, Nachman would lend a required amount of money. (Hoping she wouldn't find out.) He felt that he knew who was being sincere and really needed the money and would pay him back as soon as possible. He saw such loans as no real risk, but as a means by which he could extend goodwill.

Sylvia wasn't so certain. It had happened often enough that those to whom money had been lent, ostensibly to pay for a prescription at nearby Starkman's Chemists, would then stealthily round the corner to the hotel for a quickie that would extend the length of the afternoon. The Frankels didn't themselves drink and although they weren't able to feel too much sympathy for the desperate need of many of their customers for the ameliorating and supportive effects of alcohol, still, they didn't condemn any habits taken in moderation.

They were hard-working people. It was no easy business to run the store. To make ends meet they had to keep long hours between the two of them. There was a good deal of manual labour involved, too, in moving about heavy piles of papers, magazines, boxes of edible goods and crates of toys and other saleable commodities. They stocked knitting wool, breads and cookies, paper-back books, cereals, canned comestibles, plastic toys of various descriptions, clock-work trains, model kits, a full range of tobacco products, ornamental china, jewellery, cameras, film and just about anything else that Nachman thought might sell. It all needed handling and storage.

Sometimes, when Sylvia saw an advertisement at a nearby Dominion store of canned goods that were selling for less than what they paid wholesale themselves for the store, she would bundle out her wire buggy and trek over to the supermarket to stock up their store shelves. Similarly, when Honest Ed's advertised early morning specials on toilet paper, tissues or cleanser, Sylvia would be out bright and early hoping to purchase enough to beef up the store shelves. Their customers came to them for goods when the regular markets were closed. Then too, their customers knew they could run up a reasonable bill when they were short of cash. Sylvia often reflected bitterly how their 'good customers' would go to the supermarket with cash and come to them with promises. Still, it was a living, albeit a hard one.

Nachman liked to read books on just about anything, but particularly world politics and the dynamics of economics. Their ideological outlook on life was decidedly socialist-oriented, always had been. Many of their regular customers would come in as much to purchase something as to hold  philisophical discourse with Nachman. He was in his element defending the socialist doctrine as opposed to the capitalist system of government.

It was Nachman's habit to lie down for a short snooze on the chesterfield in the apartment after his lunch. Sylvia would stay alone in the store until he came down, or one of the children would come home from school. From time to time, a customer would wander into the store for groceries or magazines. Pre-schoolers, unkempt and wild-haired would proffer their nickels for a Rollo ice-cream cone.

As the afternoon wore on, Bloor Street became more alive with children returning early from school, and mothers out walking their young children in strollers, doing the daily shopping. Often when Sylvia found herself with a few spare moments, she enjoyed standing before the window where she had a grandstand view of the passing scene. When occasionally, she might spot a regular customer stagger by arms loaded with groceries from the Dominion store, eyes studiously avoiding the store front, she would mutter about fair-weather customers.

Absent-mindedly returning a tall well-dressed stranger change for a package of cigarettes, her eyes followed his figure out the door and then were arrested by the sight of a familiar figure crossing the stranger's path, preparing to turn into the store.

Hah! She clicked in recognition, the Whistler comes! Nachman's favourite talking companion had at first elicited her admiration at his impeccably neat although shabby attire and his courteous manner. Her husband, of course, was unimpressed with manners, it was the knowledge freely exchanged by the frequent visitor that he looked forward to. Karl was a well-read man and enjoyed as much as the little storekeeper did, their frequent heated but good-natured exchanges, as one attempted to dissuade the other, from long and strongly-held opinions. She had thoroughly approved of the tall, painfully thin man until she had beheld in shocked dismay his woman-wandering eye and heard him whistle approvingly at women passing in the street.

Nachman had noted her changed reaction to Karl's frequent visits and he had asked her to account for her change in attitude.

"Nachman", she said, "Karl has a wife and two lovely little children, no?"
"Sure. What has that to do with anything?"
"With his family, it isn't enough? I saw him twice whistle at women!"
"So is what? Men like to look at women. What harm does it do? It makes him feel good. It makes a woman feel good. Karl is a good boy."
"A boy he isn't. By you anyone under forty is a boy; anyone who reads books can't be bad. By me, a man is married, he doesn't make eyes at other women."

Her face tightening in disapproval, she watched him hesitate before turning into the store, then turn to watch a woman strolling by pushing a baby in a carriage, with two others, graduating neatly in size dragging along beside her. Through the door, pulled slightly open by Karl's hand, she heard him whistle and comment approvingly.

Then his cheerful thatch-haired face confronted her smilingly, enquiring as usual after her health. Humph! She wasn't ready yet for the grave, Mr. Whistler. But she was perplexed and decided to take the bull by the ears, uh horns, and ask the Whistler to clear up her confusion.

"Karl?" she asked his back as he stood beside the revolving stand of paperbacks.

He turned obligingly, his attention on the printed matter of a new book opened in his hands, and reluctantly lifted his steady blue gaze to her enquiring and slightly accusatory brown eyes. "Yes, Mrs. Frankel?"

"Karl, you wouldn't mind if I ask you something?"
"Of course not, Mrs. Frankel. You know we don't stand on ceremony. Ask away."
"I saw, Karl, outside you whistled at a woman. Who did you whistle to? I saw only a woman with three children."

"That's the one."
"That's the one? You mean you made approval of a fat woman with messy hair schlepping three little kids? To this you whistle?"

Carefully, Karl returned the book to its former resting place and turning back once more, patiently explained.

"Mrs. Frankel, I don't whistle at good-looking women. The pretty ones have plenty of men to express their appreciation of their good looks. I focus my attention on women like the one you saw pass before. I recognize what she looks like; dowdy, obese and unkempt. No one thinks to make a woman like that feel she's valued. It bothers me. It isn't right. It makes me feel good to think that such a woman might feel flattered that a man admires her. Everyone should have a good opinion of themselves. Everyone needs a lift sometimes. Okay?"

"Okay, okay, Karl. You didn't mind I asked?"
"Not at all, Mrs. Frankel, not at all."

Thereafter, no one was permitted to say a bad word about Karl, Mrs. Frankel's hero.