Tom Murphy Chapter 17

The following morning, I slipped the five pounds into an envelope. I was on the point of sticking on a stamp when I remembered the cleverness of the force. A policeman's son should not make simple mistakes. I slipped the envelope into my pocket and sauntered to the doctor's house.

As I got closer, my paranoia grew fast. I became convinced that every person must know about the crime and recognise me. As I had feared, it had featured in a corner of The Petrie Chronicle. The newspaper had quoted a cryptic comment by sergeant Murphy that the housebreaker had left the surgery floor in an unsightly disorder.

When I crossed the city gardens, there was the house. Its spooky spectre had often loomed inside my day dreams and nightmares. I looked around. There was not a soul in sight. There was no trace that evil spirits had cast bad spells on the magic house. I sauntered up the front entrance. I slipped the envelope under the door. With my heart in my mouth, I walked smartly into the city gardens and into the main street. I was a free boy again at last.

That night, Gustav, Maria and I went to the pictures. Going to the pictures was not a habit for Gustav and me. Maria was a movie fanatic and amused us with her day dreams of becoming a star in Hollywood. My sisters were equal fanatics but they had no day dreams that they would be anything but adoring and weepy onlookers of the stars. When they weren't working for a living or chasing boys, their faces would shine or fill with tears at their movie memories.

Dad would rant at them.

That American rubbish is filling your pretty little heads with crazy ideas. It's made you all figments of foreigners' imaginations instead of my little girls. Go on the town and have real fun like when I was a boy.

My sisters would put up their noses at Dad and ignore him.

That night we went to the flea pit to see The Jazz Singer. Maria and I were disappointed that we would see this old chestnut.

I don't want to see a silent movie in the smelly old flea pit, said Maria.

I nodded. A silent movie and the flea pit were a dreary return to entertainment when I was in the primers.

Let's go and see ‘King Kong’ again, you both enjoyed that, I said.

Gustav glanced up irritably from The Petrie Chronicle. He didn't like my gleeful reminders that he had fallen from his lofty heights and enjoyed King Kong.

We three had seen that at The Majestic last Saturday night. It had been its opening night, and the queuing crowds had numbered thousands. My sisters and their boy friends had sat in front of us. They cuddled all through the show except during the exciting parts when the giant ape pursued and molested the girl. Maria had squealed and jumped up and down in her seat. I had enjoyed its thrilling qualities but had thought it was one of Dad's examples of American rubbish.

To my surprise, when we left the picture theatre, Gustav had told us that he had enjoyed it.

It brings back my childhood adventure books, but here I see it on the screen instead of inside my head, he said gravely.

I had not let him forget that lapse but seeing his now irritation made a mental note to let him off.

I have seen ‘The Jazz Singer’ already, I lamely protested.

I was in Standard One. There were no Cowboys & Indians nor Charlie Chaplin. I had fallen asleep in the middle.

We haven't, pronounced Gustav. It is banned in Germany.

That settled it. As the Germans had banned it, that interested me. A few nights ago, I had had a very odd dream that I was in a bath having my back scrubbed by my sisters who all were naked. It had been exceedingly soothing and delectable. I vaguely hoped something like that might be also in the movie.

At a quarter to eight, we three were buying our tickets at the ticket box at the flea pit. Its real name was the Gaiety Theatre. Among my earliest memories, we Murphys were in the bewitching hours in the Gaiety.

I had always remembered a queue before the building of The Majestic. Since then, the Gaiety had been promptly renamed by everyone the ‘Flea Pit‘. It had rapidly lived up to its name. Now it only showed left-overs.

I felt nostalgic. The gilded stars on the walls smiled down at us. I paid for our tickets and bought our ice creams. We sat down almost alone inside the claustrophobic auditorium. It stank and I already felt like scratching. The orchestra in the pit had vanished. We shuffled to our feet as a solo piano banged out God Save The King.

There was the projector whirl but now no bewitching. I groaned inwardly when the main feature started. Silent images lit up the screen and the piano tinkled feebly.

It finished at last. I remembered how startled everyone had been at its first screening when the star talked and burst into a tinny song at the finale. We had never dreamed that the stars would speak or sing to us. Now I just smiled at such a backward show. As far as I could work the story out, a young man disobeyed his old dad's orders to sing at the Synagogue. He performed instead jazz songs at a wicked night club. When his old Dad was expiring, he did his duty at the Synagogue. Virtue was rewarded. He could still keep his night club act.

I turned with a snigger to Gustav. His face was streaked with tears. I glanced at Maria. She too was silent and wiping her eyes.

What's happened? I asked anxiously.

They said nothing. When we had left the theatre and were in the noisy crowded street, Gustav turned to me and spoke at last.

This is the night it began.

What's it ? I asked, trying to pass it off lightly.

But I was uneasy. What new disastrous adventure would Gustav lead us into?

It is my destiny, pronounced Gustav.

Gustav's face had become even leaner lately. His eyes were fixed in their sockets and flashed their eerie glare. Was he now going mad?

When he spoke again, it was entirely unexpected and disturbing. Gustav the boy seemed to have been turned into a vessel. A manly resonant voice spoke through his mouth.

The bones in the valley of death sing and dance again. Abraham was a Bedouin. He saw God in the stars in the bright desert sky. The American Negro is a janitor or cotton picker. He sweats all day for his employer. When his shift is over, his soul is filled with the spirit of the Lord. He sees God in a night of sexual love or a cup of brimming coffee. The New York Jews rediscover their ancient religion in the jazz and blues of the Negro.

I laughed uneasily. I glanced at Maria for support in my levity. She was too preoccupied with sailing full wind into the crowds.

In a few more weeks, my family will be on our way to New York and I will be a Broadway composer.

Gustav pronounced New York and Broadway with awe as if he was the Prody preacher talking about the Celestial Kingdom. I was now very alarmed.

How are you going to get there? I interjected.

Where there's a will there's a way, said Gustav in airy tones.
Here we live a dog's life. Why should we live this way?

I had no answer to that.

If we go on existing here, we will all go crazy. There is no place for us here.

I agree with that, said Maria suddenly and sharply.

We will be alive in New York, and we will go there before the year is ended, said Gustav.

They were his last words to me that night.
I farewelled them at the gate of the big house.

In the twilight hours, the Murphy household got a shock phone call from Mrs Rosenblum. After I had left, Gustav had said to Maria he would be away for a little while. He had then disappeared down the dark silent street. His mother and sister had waited for him in growing panic.

Dad swore, ‘That bloody kid!’ under his breath. He began putting on his uniform.

Then we got another phone call from Mrs Rosenblum. Gustav had arrived. He had refused to be contrite and only said he had needed time to himself. He had climbed the hill overlooking the town and had studied the stars for several hours.

He should be studying how to fix up his own head, grumbled Dad as he pulled off his boots.

My heart trembled for the Rosenblums because I knew much trouble was afoot.