David Golder, The Ball, Snow in Autumn & The Courilof Affair (2008) (8 page)

GOLDER
SPOTTED THE
chauffeur standing at the door of a new car; he suddenly remembered that his wife had sold the Hispano.

“It’s a Rolls now, of course,” he grumbled as he shot a look of hostility at the dazzling white car. “I wonder what she’ll have to have next.”

The chauffeur stepped forward to take his overcoat from him, but Golder stayed where he was, peering through the car’s open window, trying to see if anyone was inside. Hadn’t Joyce come? He took a few hesitant steps forward to take a final hopeful but humble look at the dark corner where he imagined he would see his daughter with her light dress, her golden hair. But the car was empty. He got in slowly, then shouted, “Get going, for God’s sake. What are you waiting for?”

The car sped off. Golder sighed.

His daughter… Every time he came back from a trip, he looked for her in the crowd, in spite of himself. She was never there, and yet he continued to expect her with the same humiliating, tenacious, and vain sense of hope.

“She hasn’t seen me in four months,” he thought. He felt deeply hurt; he didn’t deserve this, and yet his daughter so often aroused this very feeling within him. He felt it grasp his heart, as sharp and agonising as physical pain. “Children…They’re all the same … and they’re the reason we live. It’s for them that we keep working. Not like my own father, no … At thirteen, get the hell out, fend for yourself… That’s what they all deserve.”

He took off his hat, slowly wiped his hand across his forehead to remove the dust and sweat, then stared out the window. But there were too many people, too much shouting, sun, wind. The short Rue Mazagran was so crowded that the car couldn’t move; a young boy stuck his face against the car window as it passed by.
Golder moved back into the corner and pulled up the collar of his coat. Joyce … Where was she? Who was she with?

“I’m going to give her what for,” he thought bitterly. “This time, I’m going to tell her off about it. ‘Whenever you need money, it’s “Dearest Dad, Daddy, Darling,” but not the slightest sign of affection, of…’” He stopped himself with a weary gesture of his hand. He knew very well that he wouldn’t say a thing… What was the point? And after all, she was still at the age when girls were silly and insensitive. A little smile played at the corners of his mouth, then quickly disappeared. She was only eighteen.

They had crossed Biarritz, passed the Hotel du Palais. He gazed coldly at the sea; it was choppy, despite the fine weather, with enormous waves. The dazzling green hurt his eyes; he shaded them with his hand and turned away. It was only fifteen minutes later, when they were on the road past the golf course, that he finally leaned forward and looked at his house in the distance. He came here only between trips, to spend a week or so, as if he were a stranger, but every year he loved it more and more. “I’m making myself old. Before it wasn’t a problem… hotels, sleeping compartments… But now it’s all so tiring… It’s a beautiful house…”

He had bought the property in 1916 for one million five hundred thousand. Now it was worth fifteen million. The house was made of stone, as white and heavy as marble. A beautiful, imposing house … When he saw its outline against the sky, with its balconies, its gardens—still slightly bare, for the sea winds prevented the young trees from growing quickly, but striking and magnificent nevertheless—a look of tenderness and pride spread across Golder’s face. “A very good investment,” he sighed deeply.

“Drive faster, Albert, faster,” he shouted impatiently.

Down below, he had a clear view of the rose-covered arches, the tamarind trees, the rows of cedars leading down to the sea.

“The palm trees have grown…”

The car stopped in front of the steps, but only the servants came out to greet him. He recognisedJoyce’s little chambermaid who was smiling at him.

“Is there no one at home?” he asked.

“No, Monsieur, Mademoiselle will be coming home for lunch.”

He didn’t ask where she was. What was the point?

“Bring me the post,” he said sharply.

He took the packet of letters and telegrams and began to read them as he climbed the stairs. On the landing, he hesitated for a moment between two identical doors. The servant, who had followed him with the suitcase, pointed to one of the bedrooms.

“Madame told me to put Monsieur in this room. His own room is being used.”

“Fine,” he said, indifferent.

Once in the room, he sat down on a chair, with the weary, blank look of a man who has just arrived at a hotel in some unfamiliar city.

“Is Monsieur going to have a rest?”

Golder shuddered and stood up with great effort.

“No, it’s not worth it.”

“If I go to bed,” he was thinking, “I’ll never get up again.”

Nevertheless, when he’d washed and shaved, he felt better; there was just a slight, persistent trembling in his fingers. He looked at them. They were as white and swollen as a corpse.

“Are there many people staying?” he asked with difficulty.

“Monsieur Fischl, His Imperial Highness, and Count Hoyos…”

Golder silently bit his lip.

“Which Highness have they invented now? These damned women…And Fischl,” he thought, annoyed, “why Fischl, in the name of… and Hoyos…”

But Hoyos was inevitable.

He went slowly downstairs and headed for the terrace. A large purple awning was stretched across it at the hottest time of the day. Golder stretched out on a chaise-longue and closed his eyes. But the sun penetrated the canvas and flooded the terrace with a strange red light. Golder fidgeted nervously.

“That colour…” he murmured, “it must be one of Gloria’s idiotic ideas. What does it remind me of? Something terrifying.
Oh, yes… How had she put it, that old witch? ‘His mouth was full of foam and blood.’ ” He shuddered. Sighing, he turned his painful head from side to side on the fine linen and lace cushions, which were already crumpled and damp from his sweat. Then, suddenly, he fell asleep.

WHEN
GOLDER WOKE
up it was already after two o’clock, but the house seemed empty.

“Nothing’s changed,” he thought.

With a kind of grim humour, he imagined Gloria coming towards him up the path as he had seen her so many times before: teetering because the heels on her shoes were too high, her hand shading her ageing painted face, her make-up melting in the dazzling sunlight… “Hello, David,” she would say, “how’s business?” and then “How are you?” but only the first question required a reply. Later on, the brilliant Biarritz crowd would invade the house. Those faces… It made him sick to think of them. All the crooks, the pimps, the old whores on earth … And he was the one paying for that lot to eat, drink, and get sloshed all night. The bunch of greedy dogs… He shrugged his shoulders. What could he do about it? In the past, he had found it amusing, flattering even. “The Duke of… Count… Yesterday, the Maharajah was at my house…” Filth. The older and sicker he got, the more tiresome he found people and the racket they made, the more tiresome his family and even life.

He sighed, knocked on the window behind him to call the butler who was laying the table, and gestured to him to raise the blinds. The sun blazed down on the garden and the sea. Someone called out: “Hello, Golder!”

He recognised Fischl’s voice and slowly turned round without replying. Why did Gloria have to invite him of all people? Golder looked with a kind of hatred at Fischl, as if at a cruel caricature. Fat little Jew… He had a comical, vile, and slightly sinister air as he stood in the doorway with his red hair, ruddy complexion, and bright, knowing eyes behind thin gold spectacles. His stomach was fat, his legs short, skinny, and misshapen. He calmly held in his killer’s hands a porcelain bowl of fresh caviar against his chest.

“Golder, my friend, are you staying long?”

Fischl walked over and took a chair, placing the half-empty bowl on the ground.

“Are you asleep, Golder?”

“No,” Golder grumbled.

“How’s business?”

“Bad.”

“
I’m
doing very well,” said Fischl, folding his arms around his stomach with difficulty. “I’m very happy.”

“Oh, yes. That pearl fishing business in Monaco …” Golder sniggered. “I thought they’d thrown you in jail…”

Fischl gave a long, good-humoured laugh.

“Absolutely, I was taken to court… But, as you can see, it didn’t end up as badly as usual. Austria, Russia, France …” He counted off on his fingers. “I’ve been in prison in three countries. I hope that’s the end of it now, that they’ll leave me in peace … They can all go to hell, I don’t want to work any more. I’m old.”

He lit a cigarette. “What was the Stock Market like yesterday?”

“Bad.”

“Do you know what the Huanchaca shares were selling at?”

“One thousand three hundred and sixty-five,” Golder said, rubbing his hands together. “You really got screwed there, didn’t you?”

He wondered suddenly why he was so happy to see the man lose money. Fischl had never done anything to him. “It’s strange how I can’t bear him,” he thought.

But Fischljust shrugged his shoulders. “
Iddische Glick,
” he said in Yiddish.

“He must be rolling in it again, the pig,” thought Golder. (He knew how to recognise the inimitable, telling little tremor in a man’s voice that gives away his emotion even if his words appear indifferent.) “He doesn’t give a damn…”

“What are you doing here?” he grumbled.

“Your wife invited me… Hey, listen …”

He walked over to Golder, automatically lowering his voice. “There’s a business I know about that will interest you… Have you ever heard of the El Paso silver mines?”

“No, thank God,” Golder interjected.

“There are millions to be made there.”

“There are millions to be made everywhere, but you have to know how to make them.”

“You’re wrong to refuse to do business with me. We’re made for each other. You’re intelligent, but you lack daring, you’re not willing to take chances, you’re afraid of the law. Don’t you think?”

He laughed, pleased with himself.

“As for me, I’m not interested in run-of-the-mill stuff— buying, selling… But to get something going, to create something—a mine in Peru, for example—when you don’t even know where it is… Listen, I started something like that two years ago. When I bought the shares, they hadn’t even turned over a shovelful of earth. Then the American investors jumped in. Whether you believe me or not, I’m telling you that within two weeks the land was worth ten times what I’d paid. I sold my shares for a huge profit. When business works like that, it’s pure poetry.”

Golder shrugged his shoulders. “Not really.”

“Whatever you say. You’ll regret it. There’s nothing fishy about this one.”

He smoked for a while in silence. “Tell me …”

“What?”

He looked at Golder, narrowing his eyes. “Marcus…”

But the aged face remained blank; there was a mere twitch of a muscle in one corner of his mouth. “Marcus? He’s dead.”

“I know,” Fischl said quietly, “but why?” He lowered his voice even further. “What did you do to him, you old Cain?”

“What did
I do
to him?” Golder repeated. He looked away. “He wanted to cheat old man Golder,” he said abruptly, angrily, as his hollow ashen cheeks blushed suddenly, “and that’s dangerous…”

Fischl laughed. “You old Cain,” he repeated smugly, “but you’re right. As for me, well, I’m too nice.”

He stopped speaking; he’d heard something.

“Here comes your daughter, Golder.”

“
IS
DAD
HERE?
” shouted Joyce. Golder could hear her laughing. Instinctively he closed his eyes, as if to listen for longer. His daughter… What a lovely voice, what a radiant laugh she had. “Like gold,” he thought, feeling indescribable pleasure.

Nevertheless, he didn’t move, made not a single sign of going towards her, and when she appeared, leaping on to the terrace in that light, quick way she had that showed her knees beneath her short dress, all he did was to say ironically, “So you’re home? I didn’t expect you back so soon…”

She jumped on him and kissed him, then fell back on to the chaise-longue and stretched herself out, crossing her arms beneath her neck and laughing as she looked at him through the long lashes of her half-closed eyes.

Almost against his will, Golder slowly reached out his hand and placed it on her golden hair; it was moist, tangled from the sea. Though he seemed barely to be looking at her, his piercing eyes registered every change in her features, every line, every movement her face made. How she had grown … In just four months, she had become more beautiful, more of a woman. He was annoyed to see she was using more make-up. God knows she didn’t need to, at eighteen, with her lovely fair skin and her delicate, flowerlike lips, which she painted a deep blood-red. Such a shame. “Foolish girl,” he sighed, then added, “You’re growing up …”

“And growing beautiful, I hope?” she exclaimed, sitting up abruptly then settling herself again with her legs tucked under her and her hands on her knees. She stared at him with her large, dark eyes; they sparkled with that haughty, arrogant look he so hated, the look of a woman who has been loved and desired her whole life. What was extraordinary was that, in spite ofthat look, in spite of make-up and the jewellery, she had retained the wild
laughter of a little girl and the awkward, gauche, almost brutal gestures of extreme youth, with its light, intense grace. “It won’t last,” he thought.

“Get down, Joyce, you’re annoying me…”

She lightly stroked his hand. “I’m happy to see you, Dad…”

“So you need money?”

She saw that he was smiling and nodded. “Always… I don’t know where it goes. It seems to run through my fingers…” she spread her fingers out and laughed, “like water. It’s not my fault…”

Two men were coming up from the garden. Hoyos and a very handsome boy of twenty with a thin, pale face; Golder didn’t recognise him.

“That’s Prince Alexis of…” Joyce quickly whispered in his ear, “You have to call him Your Imperial Highness.”

She jumped down, then leapt on to the balustrade and straddled it, calling out, “Alec, come here! Where were you? I waited for you all morning, I was furious … This is Dad, Alec …”

The young man went up to Golder, greeted him with a kind of arrogant shyness, then went over to Joyce.

“And where did that little gigolo come from?” asked Golder as soon as he was out of earshot.

“He’s good-looking, isn’t he?” Hoyos murmured nonchalantly.

“Yes,” grumbled Golder, then repeated impatiently, “I asked you where he came from.”

“He’s from a good family,” Hoyos said, looking at him and smiling. “He’s the son ofthat poor Pierre de Carelu who was assassinated in 1918. He’s the nephew of King Alexander, his sister’s son.”

“He looks like a gigolo,” said Fischl.

“He probably is. Did anyone say he wasn’t?”

“Anyway, he’s with old Lady Rovenna.”

“Just her? Such a nice young man? I’m surprised…”

Hoyos sat down and stretched out his long legs, carefully placing his pince-nez, fine handkerchief, newspaper, and books on the wicker table. The way in which his long fingers delicately touched each object, as if he were caressing it, irritated Golder
deeply, and had done for years… Hoyos slowly lit a cigarette. It was only then that Golder noticed how the skin on the hand holding the gold lighter was all creased—soft and wrinkled like a withered flower. It was strange to think that even Hoyos, that handsome cavalier, had grown old. He must be almost sixty. But he was still as good-looking as ever, suave and slim, with his small, proud head, his silvery hair, his strong body, flawless face, and large, hooked nose. His nostrils flared with passion and life.

Fischl indicated Alec with a sullen shrug. “They say he prefers men. Is it true?”

“Not for the moment, in any case,” murmured Hoyos. He stared at Joyce and Alec with a sardonic look on his face. “He’s so young, people don’t know what they like at that age … Say, Golder, you do realise that Joyce has got it into her head that she’s going to marry him, don’t you?”

Golder didn’t reply. Hoyos gave a little snigger.

“What did you say?” asked Golder sharply.

“Nothing. I was just wondering… Would you let Joyce marry a boy like that who’s as poor as a church mouse?”

Golder pursed his lips. “Why not?” he said finally.

“Why not?” Hoyos repeated, shrugging his shoulders.

“She’ll be rich,” Golder mused, “and anyway, she knows how to handle men. Just look at her…”

They both fell silent. Joyce, straddling the balustrade, was talking to Alec; she spoke quickly and softly. Every now and then, she slid her hands through her short hair, pushing it back nervously. It looked as if she was in a bad mood.

Hoyos got up and quietly walked towards them, winking. His dark, beautiful eyes were extraordinarily bright beneath his thick eyebrows, which were streaked with deep silver, like some rare fur. Joyce was whispering: “We could take the car if you like and go to Spain; I want to make love in Spain…”

Laughing, she brought her lips up close to Alec’s mouth. “Would you like that? Well, would you?”

“Andwhat about Lady Rovenna?” he objected, half-smiling.

Joyce clenched her fists. “That old woman of yours. I hate her! No, you’ll go away with me, do you hear? You have no shame. Look…”

She leaned forward and discreetly showed him a little bruise just above her eyelid. “Look at what you did…” She noticed Hoyos standing behind her. He gently stroked her hair. “Listen,
chica,
” he murmured:
Mama, I want to die of love, She shouted and cried out loud. That’s because this is your very first love, And the first is best, Madame.

Joyce clasped her beautiful arms together, laughed, and said, “Isn’t love wonderful?”