The People: And Other Uncollected Fiction

The People: And Other Uncollected Fiction

Bernard Malamud

Language: English

Pages: 288

ISBN: 0374230676

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

Includes Malamud's novel, The People, which was left unfinished at the time of his death in 1986, with the text presented as the author left it, as well as fourteen previously uncollected stories. Set in the nineteenth century, The People has as its hero a Jewish peddler who is adopted as chief by an Indian tribe in the Pacific Northwest.















wet chin with his coat sleeve, and passed the whiskey to Foxglove. “I am feeling no pain,” the elderly man said to the three Indians. “You gents are my friends—right?” He said he was on his way back to the fort and had got lost. None of them spoke. “No speak?” he said. “When we make powwow?” The settler resumed sitting on the snowy ground. After a while each of the three Indians sat with him, first Small Horse, then Foxglove, then Windy Voice holding his ankles. “What should we do with him?”

appeared in the tent and told One Blossom she would stop screaming once she was married. “It is the screaming alone in bed that is hard to do,” said the old woman. “I stopped when I was married,” she said to them, “but now that my brave is dead I scream again like One Blossom. Maybe it is your father the chief who whispers in your ear and makes you scream. What does he say to you?” she wanted to know. “I don’t know what he said in my ear,” One Blossom replied. “He said something I thought I

white-collar employees who followed them about an hour or so later were also gone. Only the stragglers and the women shoppers were left. You couldn’t get much out of them. Wally thought he would wait awhile, and if no one came along soon, he’d go over to the fruit store and ask them if they had any spoiled fruit. At half past eight, Mr. Davido, who lived on the top floor above the delicatessen, came out of the house to open his barbershop across the street. He was shocked when he saw Wally

feet. So did Gary. He sat cross-legged on the couch in tennis socks, holding his papers. Fogel, rocking slowly in his rocker, gazed melancholically at the pile of his own manuscript on the writing table. Remembering his youthful aspirations, the writer wanted Gary’s story to be good. The youth brushed his lips with a wet thumb. “I haven’t got a sure title yet but I was thinking of calling it ‘Three Go Down.’” He began to read and Fogel’s rocker stopped creaking. The narrator of the story was

whites. He had heard of their dirty tricks against the Indians. But Yozip had serious doubts he could do anything for them, or they for him. An Indian brave entered the tepee of solitude. “Our chief commands your initiation to being.” Yozip recognized the young warrior. “Why did you spit me in my eye?” he cried. “This you learned in a Christian school?” “It was meant to tell you to keep your nose out of Indian affairs.” “My nose was invited by the chief.” Indian Head glanced into the

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