The Auerbach Will (37 page)

“Oh, dear, they got your name wrong,” Essie said, putting down the paper. “They call you John Jacob Auerbach all through the story. How silly.”

“No,” Jake said carefully. “That is the appellation I have chosen for myself. I've always missed having a middle name, and so, by taking John as a first name, Jacob will become my middle name.”

“What? Am I to start calling you John?”

“If you wish,” he said.

“
John
,” she said. “Is that because it's a
Christian
name? Is this part of your campaign to make people forget you're a Jew? Saint John the Divine?” Suddenly she laughed. “Or are you trying to confuse yourself with John Jacob Astor?”

“I hardly think any of this talk is appropriate,” he said. “When are you going to grow up and stop acting like a stupid schoolgirl?”

All at once she was very angry. She flung the newspaper to the floor and stood up to face him. “Hypocrite!” she said. “You hypocrite! For the last six years I've watched you turning into a hypocrite, and I'm disgusted with the sight I see! John Jacob Auerbach, you are a hypocrite and a fake!”

“Essie, please control yourself. The servants—”

“You—the great philanthropist, the great humanitarian. Don't you think I see through that? It's nothing but sham and show and courting the public and the newspapers. You don't care about the Negroes any more than you care about the Italians or the Jews, except that you'd like them to have enough money to be Eaton customers. Don't you think I saw through that from the beginning?”

“Essie, that is an out-and-out lie.”

“John Jacob Auerbach. All over this city, people must be laughing at you behind your back.”

“That's another lie.”

“Oh, they wouldn't dare let you know, of course. You're much too rich—much too powerful. They'll fuss over you, invite you to their parties, but they'll sneer at you the moment your back is turned. And what is it you want, I ask myself? Is it to prove to your mother and your uncles, who for years tried to convince you that you were a weakling—the runt of the litter, that's what they told me you were—that you're more powerful than any of them, the great John Jacob Auerbach, friend of Presidents? Is that it?”

“Essie, you're crazy.”

“For the last six years I've watched your ego grow, being fed in all directions by the toadies and the yes-men telling you how great you are. I've watched your ego grow and fatten, and it hasn't been a pretty sight. And while we're on the subject, Mr. John Jacob Auerbach, have you stood in front of a mirror lately or stepped on the bathroom scales? You must have put on at least forty pounds since the day I met you, and it's not a bit becoming. It makes you look even more pompous than you are—if that's possible.”

“I will not dignify these remarks with comment.”

“No, of course not, because nobody will ever tell you anything you don't want to hear—they wouldn't dare—except me. And what about me? You seem to have conveniently forgotten that I was the one who came up with the money you needed to buy into this business. Charles remembers it, but you've managed to forget. Where would you be if it hadn't been for me, I wonder? Still on Grand Boulevard. I think I'll call one of your famous press conferences, and tell them the whole story.”

“Essie, you wouldn't dare.”

“That's what you're afraid of, isn't it? That someone will find out the truth. About you. About Abe. About me.”

“Essie, I am going to endeavor to forget this hysterical outburst,” he said.

“Of course. Of course you'll forget it. Just as you've forgotten everything else that was our lives. Hypocrite.”

He slapped her hard across the face.

She stood there, staring at him, her eyes clear. “That didn't hurt,” she said. “Do it again.”

He turned away from her, muttering, “Crazy Russian … crazy Kike. That's what they told me I'd be getting. I should have listened to them.”

“Yes,” she said. “You should have listened to them. And so should I.”

Yet another gala in the festive round of parties to wish “Bon Voyage” to Mr. and Mrs. John Jacob Auerbach, who sail for Europe on the 14th, took place yesterday evening. This time, the venue of the occasion was the North Shore residence of Mr. and Mrs. Levi Leiter, where some 200 bedizened invitees gaily gathered to bid “Adieu” and “A bientôt” to the happy and popular pair.…

Accompanying the Auerbachs aboard the S.S.
Berengeria
will be Mrs. Auerbach's personal maid, Mr. Auerbach's valet, and Miss Stevens, a private secretary, who will form their retinue during the European sojourn.

Nineteen

“What has happened to you is what happens to all women,” her mother said to her when she went down to Norfolk Street to see her the day before the sailing. “The loves goes. It doesn't last—the love part. It's just as well. The love part just gets in the way of seeing things as they really are. It's not to worry about. A good marriage doesn't need all that love—you'll see. I found it out a long time ago, and you'll find it out too before too long.”

“You wouldn't—divorce him, Mama?”

Minna shrugged. “Divorce? What's the point of that? What does that get you besides a lot of heartaches? You make a life. He gave you four fine children—two boys, two girls, that's perfect. He gives you everything you want. He's a big success, and you can have anything you want—a big house, big cars. How can you complain? He doesn't hit you. I read all about Jacob Auerbach in the newspapers. Even the
Tageblatt
writes about him. He's a big man, a
makher
. So don't talk divorce—that's
narishkeit
, foolishness. So what you do is, you make a life.”

“I'm so unhappy, Mama.”

“So—happy? Who's happy? Show me a woman in this life who's happy, and I'll show you a woman without a brain. You've got a brain, Esther, so use it to make a life for yourself. If you complain, all that will happen is he'll find himself another woman who doesn't complain. Forget the love part, and you'll find that once it's gone it's like a blessing. And you've got your new little son, Martin. You should be giving yourself to him.”

“Didn't you love Papa, Mama?”

“Love him? Ha. I hardly knew him. But oh, yes, I loved him for a while. He was never bad to me.”

“I mean—passionately?”

“Passion? Well, I gave him two children, if that's what you mean by passion.”

“With me—in the beginning—it felt like a kind of passion,” Essie said.

“Well, that's the first thing to go, even before the love part,” her mother said.

“I feel I've lost everything.”

“So sit around and feel sorry for yourself—what will that get you beside gray hairs? Have you heard anything I've just said to you, Esther? I've said you've got to make a life—for yourself. Get out. Get busy. Do something. Get to work. Then your troubles will blow over like a thunderstorm.”

“But I can't run a business, Mama. He'd never let me go to work like that.”

“Listen,” her mother said, “there are plenty of ways for a woman to get to work without running a candy store. Look—you're the high society lady now, not me. Don't turn to me and ask what sort of things a high society lady can do—all I know is what I read about them in the papers. Just look around you, find something for yourself to do, and start doing it. That's the way to make a life.”

Essie looked around her at the little shop, which seemed so much tinier and more crowded than she had remembered it, even though, she realized, it was just the same. “Mama, I wish you'd let us move you out to a nice house in the country—in Westchester, maybe, or Long Island.”

“No, no,” her mother said. “What would I do in the country? Listen to the birds? No, this is my place. I know the neighborhood is changing—the
shwartzes
have come. But they don't give me any trouble. They only make trouble with each other.”

Essie paused. “How is Papa?” she asked.

“The same. He never changes.”

“Please give him my love.”

Her mother nodded. “You see,” she said, “I made a life for myself—here. My life is here.”

It had to be admitted that Daisy Stevens was good company. It soon became clear that Jake Auerbach's reasons for the European tour were business ones—to establish markets and distribution points for Eaton & Cromwell products in postwar Europe. This meant that Essie and Daisy had most of their days to themselves, and many of their evenings as well, and they enjoyed each other's company from the beginning. Essie had never really had a close woman friend before, and she found the experience refreshing and stimulating. It cleared the air of her life in ways that she had never imagined. Daisy, who had had four years of high school French, was determined to practice the language, and was equally determined to pass on her knowledge to Essie, and one of their purchases in Paris had been an English-French dictionary and phrase book.

Also, though Daisy had never been outside the continental United States before, she knew a good deal about Paris. During her Hollywood days, it seemed, she had picked up stray bits of information about the city, and had made mental notes of all of them. She was also clever at extracting interesting tips from hotel clerks, doormen, and taxi drivers. She had heard, for example, of a young French peasant woman named Gabrielle Chanel who had come to Paris and was revolutionizing fashion. She insisted that she and Essie visit Chanel's atelier on the rue Cambon, where they both bought a number of outfits designed to be worn with ropes of pears and golden chains. She had heard of a group of young artists who were exhibiting on the Left Bank and who called themselves, variously, Post-Impressionists and Expressionists. Their names were Matisse, Braque, Derain, Léger, and a young Spaniard named Pablo Picasso, and their work, too, was considered daring and controversial.

“But do you think—for Chicago?” Essie asked her.

“Definitely,” said Daisy. “Chicago won't understand any of it, of course. But if you start hanging these painters on your walls, you'll be the talk of the town. And they're so cheap. I'd buy as many as you can afford.”

And so, as they toured the exhibitions, Essie bought—not indiscriminately, as Daisy would have preferred her to do, but selectively. “I want to get my ‘eye in' first,” Essie kept reminding her. They toured galleries and museums, went to the opera and the ballet, and in between sat in restaurants or in cafés over glasses of wine and sparkling water, practicing their French.

Not all their pursuits in Paris were strictly cultural.

One afternoon Daisy tapped on the door of Essie's suite at the Ritz, where the Auerbach party was staying. “Today,” Daisy said in a whisper when Essie let her in, “we are going to have an adventure.”

“What is it?”

“You'll see. But we must go in heavy disguise. Here,” she said, “I've bought us both sunglasses. Tie your hair up in a scarf, and put on your plainest, simplest dress. We mustn't be recognized. We mustn't look like rich Americans—just ordinary tourists. And don't bring much money.”

Then, armed with a street map of the city, Daisy led them a few blocks away to the rue Ste. Anne, and to a little alleyway where a doorway led to a flight of stairs. “This is the place,” Daisy whispered, and checked her watch, “and we're right on time.”

At the top of the stairway, there was an attendant who collected a few francs from each of them, opened a curtain, and ushered them into a very dark room where he showed them to two hard chairs. When her eyes became accustomed to the dark, Essie realized that she was in a smallish auditorium with a curtained stage in front, and that all around them sat other people, most of whom seemed to be men.

“What's going on?” Essie whispered.

“Ssh. Wait and see.”

And after a little time, the curtain parted and the proscenium lights went up. The stage was bare. Then, from either side of the stage, a figure appeared. The first was a naked woman, and the second was a naked young man in a state of violent erection.

Essie gasped and seized Daisy's arm.

“Ssh!” Daisy giggled. “I told you it was an adventure.”

The two figures approached each other, met at the center of the stage, and proceeded to dance about while the young man fondled the woman's breasts and the woman caressed the young man's erect member. Then, while he held her hips and arched her body backward, he penetrated her.

For perhaps the first twenty minutes of the performance, the couple onstage demonstrated a bewildering array of sexual poses, positions and pleasures, while the audience watched in rapt silence, and while Essie tried not to look about her to see the faces of the others in the room. Somewhere behind her there was the sound of a man's heavy breathing. Then other members of the cast—male and female, all similarly unclad—began appearing, one by one, and then what did Essie's astonished eyes behold but men who were doing things with other men, women making love to other women, until the entire stage was filled with perhaps two dozen people, writhing in groupings and combinations, leaping from partner to partner in a violent orgy of sexual congress. Then, as if by a common signal—the performance had obviously had some sort of rehearsal—came the finale. While the women lay spent and squirming on the floor of the stage, the young men rose, faced the audience, and masturbated to climax.

The lights went out and, seizing each other's hands, the two women rushed blindly to the door and down the stairs to the street, where they leaned against the building, flushed and gasping, and suddenly giggling like two schoolgirls who had just shared a cigarette behind a fence in a vacant lot.

“Don't you ever … ever …” Essie said, when she was finally able to speak, “tell Jake Auerbach that I went to a place like that.”