David Golder, The Ball, Snow in Autumn & The Courilof Affair (2008) (11 page)

GHE
DALIA
RETURNED TO
the house that same evening.

“I couldn’t let Monsieur Golder leave,” he said, “without making it clear that I can accept no responsibility for him. You see, Madame, the fact is that your husband is in no condition to be moved. Perhaps I didn’t explain myself well enough this morning.

“On the contrary,” murmured Gloria, “you frightened me in a way that was perhaps… excessive?”

She fell silent; they looked at each other for a moment without speaking. Ghedalia seemed to hesitate.

“Would you like me to examine the patient again, Madame? I’m having dinner at Blues Villa, Mrs. Mackay’s house … I don’t have to be there for another half hour. I would be only too happy, I promise you, to be able to make a less distressing diagnosis.”

“Thank you,” she replied grudgingly. She showed him into Golder’s room, then went back into the drawing room and stood behind the closed door, listening; he was talking to the nurse in hushed tones. She moved away from the door, a dark look in her eyes, then went and leaned against the window.

Fifteen minutes later, he came in, rubbing his little white hands together.

“Well?”

“Well, my dear lady, there has been such an improvement that I am now inclined to believe that we are dealing with an attack brought about purely by nerves … That is to say, not by a coronary lesion… It is difficult to be absolutely certain, given our patient’s state of exhaustion, but I can confirm that as far as the future is concerned, I can already say it is clearly possible to be entirely more optimistic. It certainly won’t be necessary for Monsieur Golder to retire for many years to come …”

“Really?” said Gloria.

“Yes.”

He remained silent, then said casually, “Still, I must reiterate that in his current condition, he must not be moved. However, you will have to do what you think best. My conscience is now clear and relieved, I must say, of a great burden.”

“Oh, there’s no question of moving him now, Doctor…”

She held out her hand to him, smiling. “I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I do hope you will agree to forget a very understandable moment of doubt and continue to care for my poor dear husband?”

He pretended to hesitate, hedged for a moment, and finally promised he would.

From then on, every day for nearly two weeks, his red and white car stopped in front of Golder’s house. After that, Ghedalia suddenly disappeared. Golder’s first conscious act, a little while later, was to sign a cheque for twenty thousand francs to pay for the doctor’s services.

On that day, they had sat the patient up on his pillows for the first time. Gloria, her arm behind his shoulders, helped him to lean forward while she held the open cheque-book in her other hand. She looked at him surreptitiously. He’d changed so much. Especially his nose … It had never been that shape before, she thought: enormous and hooked, like the nose of an old Jewish moneylender. And his flabby, trembling flesh smelled of fever and sweat. She picked up the pen that his weak hand had let fall on to the bed, splattering ink over the sheets.

“Do you feel better now, David?”

He didn’t reply. For nearly two weeks, all he had said was “I can’t breathe” or “I’m in pain,” mumbling in a strange, hoarse voice that only the nurse seemed to understand. He lay stretched out, eyes closed, his arms tight against his sides, as silent and still as a corpse. Nevertheless, when Ghedalia left, the nurse would lean over him to tuck in his sheets and whisper, “He was pleased…” and he would raise one quivering eyelid and fix her with a long, hard stare that contained a profound expression of pleading and distress. “He understands everything…” the nurse thought. And yet, even later on, when he was able to give orders,
it was the same; he never asked her or anyone else what was wrong with him, how long it would last, when he could get out of bed. He seemed content with Gloria’s vague assurances: “You’ll be feeling better soon… You’re overworked… You should give up smoking, you know… Tobacco is bad for you, David… No more gambling… You’re not twenty any more…”

After Gloria left, he asked for some cards. He played patience for hours on end, a tray placed across his knees. His sight had deteriorated because of his illness; he wore his glasses all the time now, thick glasses with silver frames, so heavy that they were constantly slipping off on to the bed. He would fumble about looking for them, his trembling hands getting tangled in the folds of the sheets. When he had finished a game, he would shuffle the cards and start again.

That evening, the nurse had left the window and shutters open: it was very hot. It wasn’t until much later, when night was falling, that she tried to put a shawl across Golder’s shoulders; he pushed it away impatiently.

“There, there, you mustn’t get angry, Monsieur Golder, there’s a breeze coming in from the sea. You don’t want to get ill again.”

“Good Lord,” Golder growled, his voice weak and breathless, hesitating on every word, “when will everyone leave me the hell alone? When will I finally be able to get out of bed?”

“The doctor said at the end of the week, if the weather’s good.”

Golder frowned. “The doctor… Why doesn’t the doctor come to see me?”

“I think he’s been called to Madrid for a consultation.”

“Do … do you know him?”

She could see that anxious, eager look in his eyes. “Oh, yes, Monsieur Golder! Of course.”

“Is he really… a good doctor?”

“Very good.”

He leaned back against his cushions, lowered his eyes, then whispered, “I’ve been ill for a long time …”

“It’s all over now.”

“All over.”

He felt his chest, raised his head, stared at the nurse. “Why does it hurt here?” he suddenly asked, his lips quivering.

“There? Oh…”

She gently took his hand and put it back down on the sheet.

“You know very well, don’t you? You heard the doctor? It was an anxiety attack. Nothing serious.”

“Nothing serious?” He sighed, automatically sitting up to start playing cards again.

“So it’s not my … heart?”

He had spoken quietly and quickly, obviously very upset, and without looking at her.

“No, no,” she replied, “come on now…”

Ghedalia had given her strict instructions not to tell him the truth. Still, he’d have to be told sooner or later… But that wasn’t up to her. Poor man, he was so afraid of dying… She pointed to the cards.

“Look, you’ve made a mistake. You need the ace of clubs here, not the king. Let me see… put the nine there.”

“What day is it?” he asked, without listening to her.

“Tuesday.”

“Already? I should have been in London by now,” he said quietly.

“Oh, you’ll have to travel less now, Monsieur Golder…”

She saw him suddenly go completely white.

“Why?” he whispered in a broken voice. “Why? What are you saying, for God’s sake? You must be mad! Have I been forbidden to travel… to leave here?”

“Not at all,” she reassured him quickly. “Where did you get such an idea? I didn’t say anything of the sort. It’s just that you have to take care for a while. That’s all.”

She leaned over and wiped his face; great, heavy drops of sweat were running down his cheeks, like tears.

“She’s lying,” thought Golder. “I can hear it in her voice. What’s wrong with me? My God, what’s wrong with me? And why aren’t they telling me the truth? I’m not a woman, for God’s sake…”

Weakly, he pushed her aside and turned away. “Close the window, I’m cold.”

“Would you like to get some sleep?” she asked, as she walked quietly across the room.

“Yes. Leave me in peace.”

SHORTLY
AFTER ELEVEN
o’clock, the nurse was woken by Golder’s voice in the next room. She rushed in and found him sitting on the bed, red-faced and waving his arms about.

“Write … I want to write …”

“He’s got a high fever,” she thought. She tried to get him back into bed, reasoning with him as if he were a child. “No, no, not now, it’s too late. Tomorrow, Monsieur Golder, tomorrow… You have to get some sleep now.”

Golder cursed her and repeated his order, trying to speak in a more lucid, calmer tone of voice.

She finally ended up bringing him his pen and a sheet of writing paper. But he could manage to scribble only a few letters. His hand was so heavy and painful, he could barely move it. He groaned and murmured, “You write…”

“To whom?”

“To Doctor Weber. You’ll find his address in the Paris telephone directory, over there. ‘Please come at once. Urgent.’ Then my name and address. Understand?”

“Yes, Monsieur Golder.”

He seemed appeased, asked for something to drink, then dropped back on to his pillows. “Open the windows and shutters,” he said, “I can’t breathe…”

“Do you want me to stay with you?”

“No. There’s no point. I’ll call if… The telegram, tomorrow, as soon as the post office opens, at seven o’clock…”

“Yes, yes. Don’t worry. Get some sleep.”

He dragged himself over on his side; he was wheezing and it was agony to breathe; the pain wouldn’t go away. He lay still, looking sadly out the window. The big white curtains were billowing in the breeze like balloons. For a long time, he just listened to the tide … One, two, three … The sound of the
waves crashing against the rocks of the lighthouse in the distance; then the light, rhythmical lapping of the water as it flowed between the pebbles. Silence … The house seemed empty.

“What is it?” he thought again. “What’s wrong with me? Is it my heart? My heart? They’re lying. I know they are. You have to be able to face things…”

He paused, nervously wringing his hands. He was trembling. He didn’t have the courage to say the word, or even think it clearly: death … He looked at the dark sky filling the window with a kind of horror. “I can’t. No, not yet, no … There’s still work to do. I can’t…
Adenoi,
” he whispered in despair, suddenly remembering the forgotten name of the Lord. “You know very well that I can’t… But why aren’t they telling me the truth? Why?”

It was so strange. While he was ill, he’d believed everything they’d wanted him to. Ghedalia… And Gloria. Still, he
was
getting better, that much was true. He was allowed to get up, go outside … But he didn’t trust that Ghedalia. He could barely remember what he looked like. And as for his name … It was the name of a charlatan. Gloria couldn’t do anything right. Why hadn’t it occurred to her to call for Weber, the most highly esteemed doctor in France? When she’d had that attack of indigestion, she’d called him immediately, of course. Whereas for him … Golder … Anything would do for him, wouldn’t it? He pictured Weber’s face, his penetrating, weary eyes that seemed able to see straight into your heart. “I’ll just say to him,” he murmured, “that I have to know, I have my work, that’s all there is to it. He’ll understand.”

And yet… What was the point, for God’s sake? Why know in advance? It would happen in a flash, like when he’d fainted there in the casino. But forever, then, forever… My God …

“No, no! There’s no illness that can’t be cured! Come on … I keep saying, ‘My heart, my heart,’ like some sort of idiot, but even if it is… With medical attention, a diet, I don’t know… Perhaps? Surely… Business… Yes, business… Well, that’s the worst part. But I won’t always be involved in business, not forever. There’s the Teisk deal now, of course. That will have to be sorted out first. But that will only take six months, maybe a year,”
he thought, with the invincible optimism of a businessman. “Yes, a year at the most. And then, that will be that. I’ll be able to rest, to live a quiet life. I’m old … Everyone has to stop someday. I don’t want to work until the day I die. I want to enjoy life. I’ll stop smoking… I’ll give up drinking, I won’t gamble any more … If it is my heart, I need peace and quiet. I’ll have to stay calm, not get upset, or… ” He gave a bitter laugh as a thought crossed his mind. “Business without stress! I’ll die a hundred deaths before I finish the Teisk deal, a hundred deaths…”

Wincing, he turned over on to his back. He suddenly felt extremely weak and weary. He looked at the time. It was very late. Nearly four o’clock. He wanted something to drink. Feeling for the glass of lemonade that was left for him at night, he accidentally knocked it over on to the wooden table.

The nurse woke up with a start and peered into the room through the partially open door.

“Did you sleep a little?”

“Yes,” he replied mechanically.

He drank greedily, handed her the glass, then suddenly stopped to listen to something. “Did you hear that? In the garden …What is it? Go and see.”

The nurse leaned out of the window.

“It’s Mademoiselle Joyce coming home, I think.”

“Call her.”

The nurse sighed and went out on to the landing; Joyce’s high stiletto heels were clicking on the floor.

“What’s wrong?” Golder heard his daughter say. “Is he worse?”

She ran into the room, flicked a switch, and light flooded down from the ceiling.

“I wonder how you can leave it so dark in here, Dad. It’s so gloomy with just that old night light.”

“Where have you been?” murmured Golder. “I haven’t seen you in two days.”

“Oh, I can’t remember… I had things to do … “

“Where were you tonight?”

“Saint-Sebastien. Maria-Pia gave a wonderful ball. Look at my dress. Do you like it?”

She opened her large coat. Beneath it she appeared half-naked, the pink chiffon dress so low-cut that it barely covered her small, delicate breasts; she was wearing a pearl choker, and her golden hair was tousled by the wind. Golder looked at her for a long time without saying anything.

“Dad, you’re acting so funny! What’s wrong with you? Why aren’t you answering me? Are you angry?”

She sprang up on the bed and knelt at his feet. “Dad, listen… I danced with the Prince of Wales tonight. I heard him tell Maria-Pia: ‘She’s the loveliest girl I’ve ever seen…’ He asked her my name! Doesn’t that make you happy?” she murmured with a joyous laugh that brought out two childlike dimples in her powdered cheeks. She leaned so far over the sick man’s chest that the nurse, standing behind the bed, gestured for her to go away. But Golder, who usually felt suffocated by the weight of the sheets on his heart, let her rest her head and bare arms against him without saying a word.

“You’re happy, dear old Dad, I knew it, I just knew it,” cried Joy.

Golder’s tired, closed lips grimaced in an attempt at a smile.

“You were cross because I left you to go out dancing, weren’t you? But it’s still me who made you smile for the first time. Say, Dad, did you hear? I bought the car! If you could only see how beautiful it is. It goes like the wind… You’re such a dear, Dad.”

She yawned and ran her fingers through her dishevelled golden hair.

“I’m going to bed, now. I’m exhausted… I didn’t get home until six in the morning yesterday … I’m worn out, and tonight I danced and danced…”

She half closed her eyes and played with her bracelets and hummed softly, as if in a dream, “
Marquita—Marquita—your secret desires—shine in your eyes—when you dance …
Good night, Dad, sleep well. Sweet dreams…”

She leaned over and gently kissed his cheek.

“Off you go,” he whispered. “Go to bed, Joy…”

She went out. He listened until the sound of her footsteps faded, his face relaxing into an expression of peace. His daughter… her pink dress… She brought joy and life with her.
He felt calmer, stronger now. “Death,” he thought. “I’m just letting myself get depressed, that’s all. It’s laughable. I’ll have to work and keep on working. Even Tubingen is sixty-eight. For men like us, work is the only thing that keeps us alive.”

The nurse had switched off the light and brewed some herbal tea over the small spirit lamp. He suddenly turned towards her. “The telegram,” he murmured, “don’t bother… Tear it up.”

“Very well, Monsieur.”

As soon as she left, he fell into a peaceful sleep.