Mordecai Richler Read online

  In Richler’s life his companion Cathy’s presence is only a little less shadowy than his previous girlfriend Helen’s. Cathy was from an English Quebec family, was good-looking in a tall and slender sort of way, and a little older than Mordecai. She has had her detractors among Richler’s friends. But, as in the case of Helen, it’s impossible to evaluate a private relationship based on second-hand testimony presented decades later. The two certainly seem to have had some fun times together. It has been suggested that she had gone along to London with Mordecai uninvited; that she had a sharp tongue; that she was boring. One feels sorry for her, and inclined to retort, Perhaps she was in the wrong company. She is so thinly represented, and that too, mostly by his friends. Florence Richler, however, remembers her affectionately: “She was feisty, temperamental, much more bohemian than I, a similar sense of humour, very gregarious. I came to enjoy her, and really liked her a lot.” Mordecai evidently needed her. Surely there must have been some compatibility.

  Upon arrival in London, they rented a basement flat in a very modest part of the city, moving twice within the following few months. Life was hard and Cathy found lowpaying work, such as shorthand-typing, to support them. Richler was busy, feverishly writing his next novel, quite absorbed in himself. He liked his drink, though always after a day’s work.

  But for him now there was the euphoria of being a real writer, associating with other writers, his publisher, his agent. His editor at Deutsch was Diana Athill, who held him in high regard and indulged him a bit, as she did another of her writers from the colonies, V.S. Naipaul. Here is how she saw Richler:

  I liked him very much, but sometimes found myself asking, “Why?”, because he hardly ever spoke: I have never known anyone else so utterly unequipped with small-talk as he was then. How could one tell that someone was generous, kind, honest and capable of being very funny if he hardly ever said a word? I still don’t know how but it happened.…

  What a contrast with his chummy correspondence with William Weintraub and Brian Moore. The person who wrote, as many readers often discovered, was not the man they met in person.

  One day, however, he wrote a rather uncharacteristically brooding letter to Weintraub that vividly captures the mood of those early days in London and the writer’s lonely life even at home. And it gives us a glimpse, a snapshot, of Cathy.

  Idling abt impotently on a cold night, feeling damn depressed, sipping Nescafe by the fire, Cathy knitting a petticoat.…

  The book has slowed down on me. These things happen. I know they happen. But each day you sit vacant writing nothing but still a prisoner to the typewriter—each day like that is a special kind of hell. Questions come to you making small wounds. Why are you making this book? Does it matter? Do you believe in it? That’s when you get up and have a cigarette and/or a cup of coffee. Then, a short walk. Then another cigarette … I thk art or attempts at art are born of despair.

  Brian Moore and his wife, Jackie Sirois, visited the couple at their basement flat in Hampstead in March the following year, and there duly followed nights of seemingly endless pub-crawling, which must have been a relief from the nights of doubt and despair. Moore found Mordecai and Cathy’s flat dingy but not uncomfortable and, as he wrote back to Weintraub, “admired the fact that he seems able to work anywhere.” Richler’s living condition made Moore appreciate his own comfortable Montreal setup, though of course he was ten years older. He had yet to publish his first serious novel, but meanwhile he wrote pulp thrillers, some under rather colourful pseudonyms. He observed, somewhat critically, that Mordecai was too concerned with money—which was natural, since the man was broke, dependent on his partner, and determined to become self-sufficient on his writing. And, he said, Mordecai had picked up a slight British Caribbean accent. If he had, it did not last.

  The Acrobats was published in the spring of 1954, but not before Richler agreed to a few changes to satisfy the printers, who had refused to go ahead on the grounds that its language was obscene or blasphemous in places. Richler, for example, agreed to change “tits” to “breasts,” “kick you in the balls” to “kick you where it hurts,” and “bloody christ” to “christ.” The book received mixed reviews. A fair smattering of London’s literati attended the launch party at Athill’s, including Louis MacNeice, the poet. The young author was thrilled to no end. There were people present who actually knew T.S. Eliot as “Tom” and William Faulkner as “Bill”! Soon afterwards, Richler went to Germany to promote the book and also visited France, where he met up with old friends. This time he did not like Paris, found it full of pretentious people. “Honest, Paris is shit … American one-year crap artists … Paris Review and Merlin crowd. Everyone an editor and writer and conforming non-conformist.” Hadn’t he been one of them, only a few years before? Exactly. Which was why he saw through them, through all the talk. He had moved on. Weintraub, never to balk as a gentle scold, took his friend to task for his quick judgment of the city they had loved.

  There is no doubt some posturing involved in this attitude, a little showboating, natural in a first-time young novelist. He now belongs in the company of a select few. After a long and uncertain apprenticeship, he has been admitted to the literary pantheon, among the great and the glamorous. Perhaps, he thinks, a more critical acumen and distanced attitude are expected from him, as someone who has created complex characters struggling with complex and universal issues. The truth of course is that the next book awaits to be accomplished, writing which means to return daily to the loneliness of the work desk, stare at the raw page on the typewriter, and resurrect all those doubts of before; the new one will be judged harshly; and that first one, perhaps, doesn’t seem so great after all.

  How good is The Acrobats? It is a young man’s book and somewhat derivative. Friends and critics saw in it echoes of Hemingway, Sartre, and Malraux. But it had a good share of very positive reviews, which must have warmed the author’s heart. Even he knew its limitations as a first book. For a person of twenty-two, it is a remarkable achievement nonetheless. Richler himself, later, didn’t think much of it and kept it out of print; it was reissued only after his death. His editor at Deutsch, writing many years later, wondered, “What on earth made us take it on? It really is very bad.” This may be too harsh and defensive in retrospect, but she had by this time published the best of Naipaul, Roth, Mailer, and indeed Richler. It was not the book they had acquired as much as its writer, his potential and dedication, and Athill, answering her own question, commends herself and Andre Deutsch for having recognized this. It is the kind of break a beginning writer needs; Richler was lucky to receive it, but he had worked hard and believed in himself to an extraordinary degree.

  That August, in London, Mordecai and Cathy got married. It was she who brought the subject up, and he said, “I don’t really want to get married, but I don’t want to lose you either.” That is what Cathy would remember. It was not exactly holding a gun to his head. She had supported him for a year; no doubt she had also cooked for him and done his laundry. Richler would later say he agreed because he felt compassion for her. And perhaps guilt. It is Florence who puts the finger on the situation: “Most of us are lonely, and most of the mistakes we make in any relationship are because of loneliness.” How true. Richler needed Cathy to be by his side on cold, lonely London nights, forget the food and the laundry.

  After the wedding ceremony his agent Joyce Weiner gave a luncheon in celebration. Among the guests were a young George Lamming, Brian Moore, and E.M. Forster. Lamming, from the West Indies, had already published (1953) his groundbreaking semi-autobiographical novel, In the Castle of My Skin. Mordecai Richler was finishing his own autobiographical novel, Son of a Smaller Hero. He gave a big celebration party for his wedding, during which William Weintraub made a congratulatory trunk call from Montreal, which was the talk of the town, so rare and expensive were these long-distance calls.

  In 1955 Cathy had a miscarriage; Richler was not unhappy. One wonders how Cathy felt. One recalls H
elen.

  MORDECAI AND CATHY’S CIVIL MARRIAGE was not only a question of how much love the couple shared, which was what their London friends might have asked. It was something that devastated the family back home, for it went against the tribe.

  When news of the proposed nuptial with a shiksa (gentile) reached Montreal, Mordecai’s older brother Avrum sent off a long letter in an attempt to dissuade him. The letter is remarkable, first, because it reflects an attitude to assimilation and intermarriage that for Jews in North America today is no longer so prevalent. And second, it is written, mostly, with Lily in mind. “The shock of the news is still around,” wrote Avrum, “and it was a shock … because of what it’s done to Mom.… She is quite ill over the whole business. It seems that you had given her your word that you wouldn’t marry a gentile, much less an older woman.”

  What lies behind this letter, to which there is more, is anybody’s guess. Did Lily put Avrum up to it? Did Avrum use Lily’s name, knowing Mordecai was close to her? Avrum concluded his letter with a plea for tribal loyalty: “Think it over many times … think of your ancestors, & of your descendants.… It can’t do you or your name, or your career, any earthly good.”

  And Moe’s response? Moe, who so rarely chided Mordecai, who collected clippings and magazines and sent them to his son, who kept him informed about the family— Clifford got his diploma, Cousin Mike sneezed then fainted. He had already in the past expressed his concerns about Mordecai’s possible “religious deviations,” to which Mordecai had replied that the suspicions were “absolutely silly!” The old man was furious, Avrum now wrote to his brother, punctuating with two exclamation marks. And the old man was. He wrote, on July 24, 1954:

  Dear Son;—

  … Now you have struck the blow, and where it hurts, not the pocket book this time, but personally. You take it for granted that I would be agreeable, and bless this unholy marriage, and seal it with a gift cheque, but I am sorry that I have to disappoint you. You also know that up till now I always did your bidding without hesitation, with money, with parcels, and also I had to defend your character.… I was beginning to be proud of you when your first book came out, and was able to have more confidence in you, that some day soon, perhaps you’ll come out with a good book, and being successful, you would find yourself a proper lifemate.…

  For Moe, success meant financial, and a good book was one that made money. He had the impression that Cathy was a European, used to chocolates and nylons from expatriate North Americans, who had now latched on to Mordecai as a rich Canadian who could give her a better life. He goes on, in perhaps the longest letter he wrote to his son. He could be a soft touch with money, but now

  … I have to be stern and very hard when it comes to honour, and respect. You will dishonour me when you go through with your plans, and I see no alternative but to do what I see fit. You will have to forget my address, and not try to see me, because seeing you after then will only reopen the wounds of sorrow.…

  It is up to Mordecai to choose between “an unwelcome woman” and his father, who wishes him to be happy “with respect from the family, and respect from your people, your birthright.”

  The letter seems to have caught Richler by surprise. He found it somewhat funny, he wrote to Weintraub, but also very human. The fact that he confided in his friend suggests that nevertheless he was disturbed by it. What response he had expected from his family is not clear. But in his reply to his father he takes a high tone and states his beliefs as he has developed them. This is a far cry from the boy in Ibiza begging his father not to abandon him, or the young author wondering what was wrong with assimilation. He wrote now:

  The Jewish tradition is not dependent on what kind of meat you eat or what God the woman you love was brought up to believe in.… I am—like it or not—more within the truly Jewish tradition than any of the Richlers. I know more abt it, am better educated to it, and am more sensitive to its implications. Yr father worshiped God the way other ignorant men long before him worshiped stones.…

  He goes on to call his grandfather, Shmariyahu Richler, a petty thief. “You are, fundamentally,” he says to Moe, “a much more decent person.” And, “my attachment to you is stronger, and I hope you’ll reconsider yr harshness.”

  He also can’t resist adding that he will bring honour to the family and lists his accomplishments so far. However far he moves away from them in his attitudes, he seems to be saying, he is still a part of them. His glory is theirs. And we cannot help thinking, he is still young.

  It is unclear how and to what degree Moe carried out his threat, what he could actually do. One imagines his predicament, having gone through a humiliating marriage himself, now facing the community every day and defending a son who had written a book of dubious merit and got married to a shiksa. There appear to be no letters from him until several years later. Then, Cathy is referred to as “your wife,” never by name. Mordecai Richler, in his moving tribute to his father upon his death, chose to remain silent about his rejection of Cathy.

  Lily, on the other hand, as early as 1955 and despite what Avrum wrote to Mordecai about her reaction to news of the marriage, could write (in one of the very few letters available from that time): “Give my love to Cathy. Loads and loads of love. Mother.” She was not one to let go, but then she was the insecure one.

  HE WAS DOING anything he could to raise money—writing the odd magazine article, selling a story to the CBC or to some periodical, applying to the Canada Council. He even thought of applying to the Canadian Jewish Congress for a $1,000 grant, in return for acknowledging it in all editions of his next book. He gave that up. It was not a good idea, anyway, considering the offence that book would cause. Foreign rights to The Acrobats were gradually selling, though advances were meagre and royalties were not due for months, if at all. He was excited about Simone de Beauvoir reading his novel for Les Temps Modernes, news given to him by Ellen Wright, Richard Wright’s wife; nothing came of it. His father, before the breakup, sent food parcels, including precious cigarettes. William Weintraub faithfully sent magazines from Canada. Richler read American novels for his publisher, for modest pay. He attempted writing (or having Cathy write) pornography, for quick money. With Brian Moore he discussed collaborating on a crime thriller; that didn’t pan out either.

  A typical scene in the Richler household on Winchester Road is described by Weintraub, who visited London in 1956, to Moore: “a real lit factory with George Lamming batting out a novel in guest room, Mort polishing novel in front room, and Cathy doing script-typing for Reuben Ship in kitchen.”

  In 1954, the year of the British publication of The Acrobats, Richler completed a draft of his second novel, called “Losers” and eventually to be published as Son of a Smaller Hero. In a letter to Weintraub, describing the novel, Richler said it would trace the development of Jewish life in the Montreal ghetto. He expected to be criticized. “The only people who would consider this bk anti-Semitic … are those Jews who are very frightened. I don’t consider myself a Jewish or a Canadian writer. I am a writer. I’m not interested in the fact that Jews can’t get into certain hotels or golf courses. I’m interested in Jews as individual persons.…” And, perhaps alarmingly for some, “Briefly, you can put it this way: I think those who were murdered at Dachau should not be mourned as Jews but as men.”

  Evidently he’s still struggling with issues of identity and assimilation, as he had done in Ibiza when preparing “The Rotten People,” which also is a very personal book. In any case, the conclusions of this twenty-three-year-old about the Jews can hardly be taken as written in stone or without inner contradictions. This much was clear: he didn’t want to be corralled into a literary ghetto; he didn’t want to be a spokesman for a people or a country. He simply wanted to write from what he knew. It was not, it is never, an easy place to be.

  The hero, Noah, of Son of a Smaller Hero shares his last name, Adler, with Kerman of the “The Rotten People.” Both protagonists borrow liberally from the
life of their author, and it appears that “The Rotten People” was in fact the progenitor of both The Acrobats and Son of a Smaller Hero. The latter, though, is set entirely in Montreal, just as the former is set in Spain.

  Noah Adler’s dictatorial grandfather, his uncles, his unsuccessful father, and strong-willed mother, all are based on Richler’s own extended family. To Noah, this Orthodox setup is a cage, with all its psychic comforts and safety, to which he can no longer belong. He leaves eventually for Europe, but not before discovering that he is still a part of them: “I am going and I am not going,” he tells his zeyda. “I can no more leave you, my mother, or my father’s memory than I can renounce myself. But I can refuse to take part in this.” In demonstrating an understanding of their hurts, the younger Richler is in fact much kinder to Noah’s zeyda and mother than he is to their real-life counterparts in the essays he wrote much later in which he described his boyhood, and in his later novels. Although considered an early and therefore not quite mature work, in it the streets of the ghetto come alive, its characters are observed intimately, their voices ring true. It is obvious that here Richler has found his true material, a fictional space he can develop and call his own. One can only imagine his excitement.