The Price Page 3

  Don’t laugh, the only thing you can do today without a license is you’ll go up the elevator and jump out the window. But I don’t have to tell you, you’re a policeman, you know this world. Hoping for contact: I’m right?

  VICTOR, reserved: I suppose.

  SOLOMON, surveying the furniture, one hand on his thigh, the other on the chair arm in a naturally elegant position: So. He glances about again, and with an uncertain smile: That’s a lot of furniture. This is all for sale?

  VICTOR: Well, ya.

  SOLOMON: Fine, fine. I just like to be sure where we are. With a weak attempt at a charming laugh: Frankly, in this neighborhood I never expected such a load. It’s very surprising.

  VICTOR: But I said it was a whole houseful.

  SOLOMON, with a leaven of unsureness: Look, don’t worry about it, we’ll handle everything very nice. He gets up from the chair and goes to one of the pair of chiffoniers which he is obviously impressed with. He looks up at the chandeliers. Then straight at Victor: I’m not mixing in, Officer, but if you wouldn’t mind—what is your connection? How do you come to this?

  VICTOR: It was my family.

  SOLOMON: You don’t say. Looks like it’s standing here a long time, no?

  VICTOR: Well, the old man moved everything up here after the ’29 crash. My uncles took over the house and they let him keep this floor.

  SOLOMON, as though to emphasize that he believes it: I see. He walks to the harp.

  VICTOR: Can you give me an estimate now, or do you have to—?

  SOLOMON, running a hand over the harp frame: No-no, I’ll give you right away, I don’t waste a minute, I’m very busy. He plucks a string, listens. Then bends down and runs a hand over the sounding board: He passed away, your father?

  VICTOR: Oh, long time ago—about sixteen years.

  SOLOMON, standing erect: It’s standing here sixteen years?

  VICTOR: Well, we never got around to doing anything about it, but they’re tearing the building down, so … It was very good stuff, you know—they had quite a little money.

  SOLOMON: Very good, yes … I can see. He leaves the harp with an estimating glance. I was also very good; now I’m not so good. Time, you know, is a terrible thing. He is a distance from the harp and indicates it. That sounding board is cracked, you know. But don’t worry about it, it’s still a nice object. He goes to an armoire and strokes the veneer. It’s a funny thing—an armoire like this, thirty years you couldn’t give it away; it was a regular measles. Today all of a sudden, they want it again. Go figure it out. He goes to one of the chests.

  VICTOR, pleased: Well, give me a good price and we’ll make a deal.

  SOLOMON. Definitely. You see, I don’t lie to you. He is pointing to the chest. For instance, a chiffonier like this I wouldn’t have to keep it a week. Indicating the other chest: That’s a pair, you know.

  VICTOR: I know.

  SOLOMON: That’s a nice chairs, too. He sits on a dining-room chair, rocking to test its tightness. I like the chairs.

  VICTOR: There’s more stuff in the bedroom, if you want to look.

  SOLOMON: Oh? He goes toward the bedroom. What’ve you got here? He looks into the bedroom, up and down. I like the bed. That’s a very nice carved bed. That I can sell. That’s your parents’ bed?

  VICTOR: Yes. They may have bought that in Europe, if I’m not mistaken. They used to travel a good deal.

  SOLOMON: Very handsome, very nice. I like it. He starts to return to the center chair, eyes roving the furniture. Looks a very nice family.

  VICTOR: By the way, that dining-room table opens up. Probably seat about twelve people.

  SOLOMON, looking at the table: I know that. Yes. In a pinch even fourteen. He picks up the foil. What’s this? I thought you were stabbing your wife when I came in.

  VICTOR, laughing: No, I just found it. I used to fence years ago.

  SOLOMON: You went to college?

  VICTOR: Couple of years, ya.

  SOLOMON: That’s very interesting.

  VICTOR: It’s the old story.

  SOLOMON: No, listen—What happens to people is always the main element to me. Because when do they call me? It’s either a divorce or somebody died. So it’s always a new story. I mean it’s the same, but it’s different. He sits in the center chair.

  VICTOR: You pick up the pieces.

  SOLOMON: That’s very good, yes. I pick up the pieces. It’s a little bit like you, I suppose. You must have some stories, I betcha.

  VICTOR: Not very often.

  SOLOMON: What are you, a traffic cop, or something …?

  VICTOR: I’m out in Rockaway most of the time, the airports.

  SOLOMON: That’s Siberia, no?

  VICTOR, laughing: I like it better that way.

  SOLOMON: You keep your nose clean.

  VICTOR, smiling: That’s it. Indicating the furniture: So what do you say?

  SOLOMON: What I say? Taking out two cigars as he glances about: You like a cigar?

  VICTOR: Thanks, I gave it up long time ago.

  VICTOR: So what’s the story here?

  SOLOMON: I can see you are a very factual person.

  VICTOR: You hit it.

  SOLOMON: Couldn’t be better. So tell me, you got some kind of paper here? To show ownership?

  VICTOR: Well, no, I don’t. But … He half-laughs. I’m the owner, that’s all.

  SOLOMON: In other words, there’s no brothers, no sisters.

  VICTOR: I have a brother, yes.

  SOLOMON: Ah hah. You’re friendly with him. Not that I’m mixing in, but I don’t have to tell you the average family they love each other like crazy, but the minute the parents die is all of a sudden a question who is going to get what and you’re covered with cats and dogs—

  VICTOR: There’s no such problem here.

  SOLOMON: Unless we’re gonna talk about a few pieces, then it wouldn’t bother me, but to take the whole load without a paper is a—

  VICTOR: All right, I’ll get you some kind of statement from him; don’t worry about it.

  SOLOMON: That’s definite; because even from high-class people you wouldn’t believe the shenanigans—lawyers, college professors, television personalities—five hundred dollars they’ll pay a lawyer to fight over a bookcase it’s worth fifty cents—because you see, everybody wants to be number one, so …

  VICTOR: I said I’d get you a statement. He indicates the room. Now what’s the story?

  SOLOMON: All right, so I’ll tell you the story. He looks at the dining-room table and points to it. For instance, you mention the dining-room table. That’s what they call Spanish Jacobean. Cost maybe twelve, thirteen hundred dollars. I would say—1921, ’22. I’m right?

  VICTOR: Probably, ya.

  SOLOMON—clears his throat: I see you’re an intelligent man, so before I’ll say another word, I ask you to remember—with used furniture you cannot be emotional.

  VICTOR—laughs: I haven’t opened my mouth!

  SOLOMON: I mean you’re a policeman, I’m a furniture dealer, we both know this world. Anything Spanish Jacobean you’ll sell quicker a case of tuberculosis.

  VICTOR: Why? That table’s in beautiful condition.

  SOLOMON: Officer, you’re talking reality; you cannot talk reality with used furniture. They don’t like that style; not only they don’t like it, they hate it. The same thing with that buffet there and that … He starts to point elsewhere.

  VICTOR: You only want to take a few pieces, is that the ticket?

  SOLOMON: Please, Officer, we’re already talking too fast—

  VICTOR: No-no, you’re not going to walk off with the gravy and leave me with the bones. All or nothing or let’s forget it. I told you on the phone it was a whole houseful.

  SOLOMON: What’re you in such a hurry? Talk a little bit, we’ll see what happens. In a day they didn’t build Rome. He calculates worriedly for a moment, glancing again at the pieces he wants. He gets up, goes and touches the harp. You see, what I had in mind—I would
give you such a knockout price for these few pieces that you—

  VICTOR: That’s out.

  SOLOMON, quickly: Out.

  VICTOR: I’m not running a department store. They’re tearing the building down.

  SOLOMON: Couldn’t be better! We understand each other, so—with his charm—so there’s no reason to be emotional. He goes to the records. These records go? He picks up one.

  VICTOR: I might keep three or four.

  SOLOMON, reading a label: Look at that! Gallagher and Shean!

  VICTOR, with only half a laugh: You’re not going to start playing them now!

  SOLOMON: Who needs to play? I was on the same bill with Gallagher and Shean maybe fifty theaters.

  VICTOR, surprised: You were an actor?

  SOLOMON: An actor! An acrobat; my whole family was acrobats. Expanding with this first opening: You never heard “The Five Solomons“—may they rest in peace? I was the one on the bottom.

  VICTOR: Funny—I never heard of a Jewish acrobat.

  SOLOMON: What’s the matter with Jacob, he wasn’t a wrestler?—wrestled with the Angel?

  Victor laughs.

  Jews been acrobats since the beginning of the world. I was a horse them days: drink, women, anything—on-the-go, on-the-go, nothing ever stopped me. Only life. Yes, my boy. Almost lovingly putting down the record: What do you know, Gallagher and Shean.

  VICTOR, more intimately now, despite himself; but With no less persistence in keeping to the business: So where are we?

  SOLOMON—glancing off, he turns back to Victor with a deeply concerned look: Tell me, what’s with crime now? It’s up, hey?

  VICTOR: Yeah, it’s up, it’s up. Look, Mr. Solomon, let me make one thing clear, heh? I’m not sociable.

  SOLOMON: You’re not.

  VICTOR: No, I’m not; I’m not a businessman, I’m not good at conversations. So let’s get to a price, and finish. Okay?

  SOLOMON: You don’t want we should be buddies.

  VICTOR: That’s exactly it.

  SOLOMON: So we wouldn’t be buddies! He sighs. But just so you’ll know me a little better—I’m going to show you something. He takes out a leather folder which he flips open and hands to Victor. There’s my discharge from the British Navy. You see? “His Majesty’s Service.”

  VICTOR, looking at the document: Huh! What were you doing in the British Navy?

  SOLOMON: Forget the British Navy. What does it say the date of birth?

  VICTOR: “Eighteen …” Amazed, he looks up at Solomon. You’re almost ninety?

  SOLOMON: Yes, my boy. I left Russia sixty-five years ago, I was twenty-four years old. And I smoked all my life. I drinked, and I loved every woman who would let me. So what do I need to steal from you?

  VICTOR: Since when do people need a reason to steal?

  SOLOMON: I never saw such a man in my life!

  VICTOR: Oh yes you did. Now you going to give me a figure or—?

  SOLOMON—he is actually frightened because he can’t get a hook into Victor and fears losing the good pieces: How can I give you a figure? You don’t trust one word I say!

  VICTOR, with a strained laugh: I never saw you before, what’re you asking me to trust you?!

  SOLOMON, with a gesture of disgust: But how am I going to start to talk to you? I’m sorry; here you can’t be a policeman. If you want to do business a little bit you gotta believe or you can’t do it. I’m … I’m … Look, forget it. He gets up and goes to his portfolio.

  VICTOR, astonished: What are you doing?

  SOLOMON: I can’t work this way. I’m too old every time I open my mouth you should practically call me a thief.

  VICTOR: Who called you a thief?

  SOLOMON, moving toward the door: No—I don’t need it. I don’t want it in my shop. Wagging a finger into Victor’s face: And don’t forget it—I never gave you a price, and look what you did to me. You see? I never gave you a price!

  VICTOR, angering: Well, what did you come here for, to do me a favor? What are you talking about?

  SOLOMON: Mister, I pity you! What is the matter with you people! You’re worse than my daughter! Nothing in the world you believe, nothing you respect—how can you live? You think that’s such a smart thing? That’s so hard, what you’re doing? Let me give you a piece advice—it’s not that you can’t believe nothing, that’s not so hard—it’s that you still got to believe it. Thafs hard. And if you can’t do that, my friend—you’re a dead man! He starts toward the door.

  VICTOR, chastened despite himself: Oh, Solomon, come on, will you?

  SOLOMON: No-no. You got a certain problem with this furniture but you don’t want to listen so how can I talk?

  VICTOR: I’m listening! For Christ’s sake, what do you want me to do, get down on my knees?

  SOLOMON, putting down his portfolio and taking out a wrinkled tape measure from his jacket pocket: Okay, come here. I realize you are a factual person, but some facts are funny. He stretches the tape measure across the depth of a piece. What does that read? Then turns to Victor, showing him.

  VICTOR—comes to him, reads: Forty inches. So?

  SOLOMON: My boy, the bedroom doors hi a modern apartment house are thirty, thirty-two inches maximum. So you can’t get this in—

  VICTOR: What about the old houses?

  SOLOMON, with a desperation growing: All I’m trying to tell you is that my possibilities are smaller!

  VICTOR: Well, can’t I ask a question?

  SOLOMON: I’m giving you architectural facts! Listen—Wiping his face, he seizes on the library table, going to it. You got there, for instance, a library table. That’s a solid beauty. But go find me a modern apartment with a library. If they would build old hotels, I could sell this, but they only build new hotels. People don’t live like this no more. This stuff is from another world. So I’m trying to give you a modern viewpoint. Because the price of used furniture is nothing but a viewpoint, and if you wouldn’t understand the viewpoint is impossible to understand the price.

  VICTOR: So what’s the viewpoint—that it’s all worth nothing?

  SOLOMON: That’s what you said, I didn’t say that. The chairs is worth something, the chiffoniers, the bed, the harp—

  VICTOR—turns away from him: Okay, let’s forget it, I’m not giving you the cream—

  SOLOMON: What’re you jumping!

  VICTOR, turning to him: Good God, are you going to make me an offer or not?

  SOLOMON; walking away with a hand at his temple: Boy, oh boy, oh boy. You must’ve arrested a million people by now.

  VICTOR: Nineteen in twenty-eight years.

  SOLOMON: So what are you so hard on me?

  VICTOR: Because you talk about everything but money and I don’t know what the hell you’re up to.

  SOLOMON, raising a finger: We will now talk money. He returns to the center chair.

  VICTOR: Great. I mean you can’t blame me—every time you open your mouth the price seems to go down.

  SOLOMON, sitting: My boy, the price didn’t change since I walked in.

  VICTOR, laughing: That’s even better! So what’s the price?

  Solomon glances about, his wit failed, a sunk look coming over his face.

  What’s going on? What’s bothering you?

  SOLOMON: I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come. I thought it would be a few pieces but … Sunk, he presses his fingers into his eyes. It’s too much for me.

  VICTOR: Well, what’d you come for? I told you it was the whole house.

  SOLOMON, protesting: You called me so I came! What should I do, lay down and die? Striving again to save it: Look, I want very much to make you an offer, the only question is … He breaks off as though fearful of saying something.

  VICTOR: This is a hell of a note.

  SOLOMON: Listen, it’s a terrible temptation to me! But … As though throwing himself on Victor’s understanding: You see, I’ll tell you the truth; you must have looked in a very old phone book; a couple of years ago already I cleaned out my store
. Except a few English andirons I got left, I sell when I need a few dollars. I figured I was eighty, eighty-five, it was time already. But I waited—and nothing happened—I even moved out of my apartment. I’m living in the back of the store with a hotplate. But nothing happened. I’m still practically a hundred per cent—not a hundred, but I feel very well. And I figured maybe you got a couple nice pieces—not that the rest can’t be sold, but it could take a year, year and half. For me that’s a big bet. In conflict, he looks around. The trouble is I love to work; I love it, but— Giving up: I don’t know what to tell you.

  VICTOR: All right, let’s forget it then.

  SOLOMON, standing: What’re you jumping?

  VICTOR: Well, are you in or out!

  SOLOMON: How do I know where I am! You see, it’s also this particular furniture—the average person he’ll take one look, it’ll make him very nervous.

  VICTOR: Solomon, you’re starting again.

  SOLOMON: I’m not bargaining with you!

  VICTOR: Why’ll it make him nervous?

  SOLOMON: Because he knows it’s never gonna break.

  VICTOR, not in bad humor, but clinging to his senses: Oh come on, will you? Have a little mercy.

  SOLOMON: My boy, you don’t know the psychology! If it wouldn’t break there is no more possibilities. For instance, you take—crosses to table—this table … Listen! He bangs the table. You can’t move it. A man sits down to such a table he knows not only he’s married, he’s got to stay married— there is no more possibilities.

  Victor laughs.

  You’re laughing, I’m telling you the factual situation. What is the key word today? Disposable. The more you can throw it away the more it’s beautiful. The car, the furniture, the wife, the children—everything has to be disposable. Because you see the main thing today is—shopping. Years ago a person, he was unhappy, didn’t know what to do with himself—he’d go to church, start a revolution—something. Today you’re unhappy? Can’t figure it out? What is the salvation? Go shopping.

  VICTOR, laughing: You’re terrific, I have to give you credit.

  SOLOMON: I’m telling you the truth! If they would close the stores for six months in this country there would be from coast to coast a regular massacre. With this kind of furniture the shopping is over, it’s finished, there’s no more possibilities, you got it, you see? So you got a problem here.