St. Urbain's Horseman by Mordecai Richler Page B

said evenly.
    â€œMy God, I hope I’m not intruding.”
    But, once at Chez Luba, it was Nancy who began to feel curiously redundant. As the two friends vied for her approval, flicking stories off each other like beach boys with towels, ostensibly in fun, butstinging each time, she was, at once, immensely entertained but hardly ever allowed to get a word in herself. Luke told amusing anecdotes about the actors in his play, evoking her laughter, Jake’s bile.
    â€œTell her about the New York producer,” Jake said, glaring over the rim of his wine glass. “You know, and the girl who was there especially for you to –”
    â€œJake never betrays a confidence,” Luke interrupted.
    Then Jake told her about the time he had directed a play, for Granada TV, and one of the leading actors had died of a heart attack during transmission, and how from there on in he had had to improvise with his cameras.
    Luke invited her to spend an afternoon watching them shoot at Pinewood Studios and Jake asked her to see a television play from the control booth.
    On and on they volleyed, slamming at each other, and Nancy, exhausted, was grateful when it was finally time to go, Jake seizing the bill.
    â€œWe’ll take a taxi,” Luke said, taking Nancy’s arm.
    But Jake, betting on Luke’s stinginess overriding all, said, “No, I’ll drive you. It’s on my way home.”
    Jake held the front door of his car open for Nancy, but she slid gracefully into the back seat, close to Luke. Bitch, whore. “Who shall I drop off first?” Jake sang out.
    â€œWe’re going to Nancy’s place.”
    She didn’t invite Jake in for a nightcap when he braked hard outside her front door. “Shall I wait for you here?” he asked Luke.
    â€œGood night,” he said, whacking the door shut, “and thanks for dinner.”
    Ungrateful bastard. Second-rate talent. Jake swung around the block, waiting out a red light and obliged to make a short detour to avoid a one-way stream, before he pulled up on the other side of the road and doused his lights to wait.
Adonoi, Adonoi
, Jake prayed, letthis be her time of month. Make her bleed.
Not that he’d mind, the filthy goy bastard
.
    A half hour passed. The living room lights went off and the bedroom curtains were drawn.
    â€“ Oooo, she moans, oooo, your hands are driving me crazy. Please come inside me now.
    Trembling with excitement, Jake lit one cigarette off another.
    â€“ But why are you still small?
    Heh heh. Jake laughed out loud, slapping his, knee. Second-rate talent, a miser, and can’t get it up, either.
    â€“ Let me eat you, then.
    Oh, no. Don’t, Nancy. He’s got trench mouth
.
    An hour. The bedroom lights out. Come to think of it, Jake decided, she’s not that bright. Or beautiful. Her teeth are uneven.
    Two hours. And Jake, loathing her, enraged with himself for sitting there in the dark like a moonstruck teenager, reflected, if I die before I wake, and the Lord my soul does take, I will be buried without ever having directed Olivier, had a black girl, seen Jerusalem, delivered my speech turning down the Academy Award, tried heroin, fought for a cause, owned a cabin cruiser, had a son, been a prime minister, given up smoking, met Mao, had a homosexual experience, made a film of the Benye Krick stories, rejected a knighthood, had two ravishing girls in my bed at the same time, killed a Nazi, brought Hanna to London, sailed first class on the
Île de France
, cast Lauren Bacall in a thriller, met Evelyn Waugh, read Proust, come four times in a night (do they, really?) or had a season of my films presented at the National Film Theatre.
    At your age, Orson Welles was famous. Dostoevski had written
Crime and Punishment
. Mozart had done his best work. Shelley, dead.
    It was never my wish
    To be Sir Bysshe
    Ineffably depressed, Jake started the car and drove off. Swinging around a corner, past