David Golder, the Ball, Snow in Autumn, the Courilof Affair

by Irene Nemirovsky

  “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.

  BY THE TIME Golder had recovered, it was already the end of September, but the weather was better than in the middle of summer, without even the slightest breeze; the sky was bathed in a light as gold as honey.

  That day, instead of going back upstairs to rest after lunch as he usually did, Golder sat on the terrace and had his cards brought to him. Gloria wasn’t at home. A little later on, Hoyos appeared.

  Golder peered at him over his glasses without saying anything. Hoyos adjusted one of the recliners so that its back nearly touched the ground, stretched out on it as if it were a bed, and let his fingertips contentedly graze the cold marble floor.

  “It’s beautiful out here,” he murmured. “Not too hot. I detest the heat…”

  “Would you happen to know,” asked Golder, “where my daughter went for lunch?”

  “Joyce? To the Mannerings’, I suppose. Why?”

  “No reason. Just that she’s never here.”

  “It’s like that at her age. Say, why did you get her that new car? She’s like a woman possessed now…”

  Hoyos raised himself up on his elbow and surveyed the garden. “Look, there’s your Joy, over there!”

  He went over to the balustrade and called out, “Hey, Joy! What’s going on? Are you leaving? You’re a mad little thing, you know!”

  “What?” grumbled Golder.

  Hoyos was laughing uncontrollably.

  “She’s so funny…My word, she’s got her menagerie with her …Jill… Why not take your dolls with you too? No? But what about your little prince, eh? Aren’t you taking him, my little beauty? Look at her, Golder, she’s hilarious.”

  “What’s that?” exclaimed Joyce. “Is Dad there? I’ve been looking everywhere for him.”

  She ran up on to the terrace. She was wearing her travelling coat, a little hat pulled down nearly over her eyes, and carried her dog under one arm.

  “Where are you going?” asked Golder, standing up abruptly.

  “Guess!”

  “How do you expect me to know what’s going on in your silly little head?” cried Golder, annoyed. “And answer when I speak to you, will you?”

  Joy sat down, crossed her legs, looked at him defiantly and started laughing happily. “I’m going to Madrid.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, you didn’t know?” Hoyos interjected, “Yes, she’s decided to drive to Madrid… All by herself… That’s right, Joy, isn’t it? You’re going alone?” he murmured, smiling. “Of course, she’ll probably get into an accident on the way, she drives so fast, but that’s what she wants, there’s nothing anyone can do. So, you didn’t know?”

  Golder stamped his foot angrily.

  “Joyce! Are you out of your mind? What’s all this about?”

  “I told you ages ago that I’d be going to Madrid as soon as I had a new car … Why are you so surprised?”

  “I forbid you to go, do you
hear me?” Golder said slowly.

  “I hear you. And?”

  Golder made a sudden movement towards her, his hand raised. But Joyce continued laughing, her face just a little paler. “Dad! Now you want to slap me? Go ahead, I couldn’t care less. But you’ll pay dearly for it.”

  Golder lowered his arm, without touching her. “Go on then! he said, the words barely audible through his clenched teeth. “Go wherever the hell you like …”

  He sat down and went back to his cards.

  “Come on, Dad,” murmured Joyce, affectionately, “don’t be cross. I could have left without saying anything, you know. And besides, why should it upset you?”

  “You’re going to smash up your pretty little face, my Joy,” said Hoyos, stroking her hand. “You’ll see…”

  “That’s my business. Come on, Dad, let’s call a truce…”

  She slipped her hands around his neck and gave him a hug. “Dad…”

  “It’s not your place to suggest a truce. Leave me alone! The way you speak to your father!” he said, pushing her away.

  “Don’t you think it’s a little late to be teaching your pretty little girl manners?” Hoyos sniggered.

  Golder banged his fist down on to the cards.

  “Get the hell out of here!” he growled at Hoyos, “and as for you, Joyce, just go. Do you think I’m going to beg you?”

  “Dad! You always spoil everything for me! Everything I like doing! Everything that makes me happy!” shouted Joyce, with tears of exasperation welling up in her eyes. “Leave me alone! Just leave me alone! Do you think it’s been fun around here while you’ve been ill? I can’t take it any more. ‘Walk quietly, speak softly, don’t laugh’… There’s been nothing but sad old angry faces to look at. I want to get away from it all… “

  “Go on then. Who’s stopping you? So you’re going alone …”

  “Yes.”

  Golder spoke more quietly. “You don’t imagine for a moment that I believe you, do you? You’re taking that little gigolo. Slut. Do you think I’m blind? I know there’s nothing I can do about it. What can I do about it?” he repeated, his voice quivering. “Just don’t kid yourself that you’re pulling the wool over my eyes. The person who can pull the wool over old Golder’s eyes, my girl, hasn’t been born yet, you hear me?”

  Hoyos put his hands over his mouth and laughed quietly.

  “You are tiresome, the two of you,” he said. “Really, Golder, there’s absolutely no point making a fuss. You simply don’t understand women. The only thing to do is to give in. Come and give me a kiss, my lovely Joyce.”

  Joyce wasn’t listening; she was rubbing her head against Golder’s shoulder.

  “Dad, my darling Dad…”

  He pushed her away. “Get off, you’re suffocating me … And get going quickly, otherwise you’ll be leaving too late.”

  “Aren’t you going to kiss me?”

  “Kiss you? Of course…” He placed his lips against her cheek.

  Joy watched him. He was laying out his cards; it was as if his clumsy fingers were slipping on the wood of the table.

  “Dad…” she said, “you know I’ve run out of money?”

  He didn’t reply. “Come on, Dad,” she continued, “give me a bit of cash, please?”

  “Cash for what?” asked Golder in a dry tone of voice that Joyce had never heard before.

  She tried to hide her impatience, but she couldn’t help wringing her hands nervously as she replied, “For what? For my trip! What do you expect me to live on in Spain? My body?”

  Golder suppressed a grimace.

  “And you’ll be needing a lot of money, will you?” he asked while slowly counting out the thirteen cards for the first row of his game of patience.

  “Well, I don’t know exactly how much. Look, you’re being very tedious… It’ll be a lot, naturally, just like always. Ten, twelve, twenty thousand…”

  “Ah!”

  She slipped her hand into Golder’s jacket pocket and tried to take out his wallet.

  “Oh, stop winding me up, Dad. Just give me the money now, will you! Give it to me!”

  “No,” said Golder.

  “What?” cried Joyce. “What did you say?”

  “I said no.”

  He tilted his head back and looked at her for a long while, smiling. He hadn’t been able to say no this way for ages, with the clear, harsh tone of voice he’d used in the past. “No,” he murmured again. He seemed to savour the shape of the word in his mouth, as if it were a piece of fruit. He slowly clasped his hands under his chin and stroked his lips with his forefinger several times.

  “You seem surprised. You want to go. Go. But you’ve heard me, not a penny. Sort yourself out. Oh, you don’t know me as well as you think, Joyce.”

  “I hate you!” she shouted.

  He looked down and started quietly counting out his cards again. One, two, three, four… But when he came to the end of the row, he became confused and started repeating in a shaky voice, “One, two, three…” Then he stopped, as if he had no strength left, and sighed deeply.

  “Well, you don’t know me all that well, either,” said Joyce. “I told you I wanted to go and I’m going. I don’t need your bloody money!”

  She whistled for her dog and left. A moment later, they heard the sound of the car shooting past on the road. Golder hadn’t moved.

  Hoyos shrugged his shoulders. “She’ll manage, old boy…”

  Since Golder didn’t reply, Hoyos half closed his delicate, sleepy eyes and murmured with a smile, “You know nothing about women, old boy… You should have slapped her. It might have shocked her into staying. You never know with little creatures like that…”

  Golder had taken his wallet out of his pocket; he turned it over and over in his hands. It was an old black leather wallet, worn out, like most of his personal belongings; the satin lining was torn, one of the gold corners was missing and an elastic band stopped the banknotes from falling out. Suddenly, Golder clenched his teeth and started banging it angrily against the table. Cards flew off in all directions. He continued pounding the wooden table, which resounded with each thump. Finally, he stopped, put the wallet back into his pocket, got up and walked past Hoyos, deliberately pushing into him with the full weight of his body.

  “Now, there’s a slap for you… ” he said.

  EVERY MORNING, GOLDER went down into the garden and walked along the tree-lined path for an hour. He moved slowly, in the shade of the great cedars, methodically counting his steps; at the fiftieth step, he would stop, lean against a tree-trunk, sniff through his pinched nostrils, and take a deep, painful breath, straining his trembling lips towards the sea breeze. Then he would start walking again, taking up the count where he left off and absent-mindedly pushing away the gravel with his cane. Wearing an old greatcoat, a woollen scarf around his neck, and a worn-out black hat, he looked strangely like some Jewish second-hand clothes merchant from a village in the Ukraine. As he walked, he would sometimes raise one shoulder, in a weary, mechanical movement, as if he were hoisting a heavy bundle of clothing or scrap iron on to his back.

  On that day, he had gone out for a second time around three o’clock: it was a beautiful day. Sitting on a bench with a view of the sea, he loosened his scarf, unbuttoned the top of his coat, and cautiously breathed in. His heart was beating regularly, but there was still a continuous asthmatic wheezing as the air went in and out of his chest; the sound was sharp and faintly plaintive.

  The bench was bathed in sunlight, and the garden basked in a yellowish glow, as transparent as fine oil.

  The old man closed his eyes, let out a sigh that was a mixture of sadness and contentment, then stretched out his perpetually frozen hands and rubbed them gently against his knees. He liked the heat. No doubt, in Paris or London, the weather was awful… He was expecting a visit from the director of Golmar; he’d called the day before to say he would be coming… That meant, time was up; he would have to leave. God only knew where he would n
eed to drag himself… It was a shame he had to go … It was such a beautiful day.

  He heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel path and turned around to see Loewe coming towards him. A short, pale man, with a grey, shy, weary face, he was weighed down by an enormous briefcase, crammed full of papers.

  For a long time, Loewe had been a simple employee of Golmar. Even though he had now been its director for five years, one look from Golder was still enough to make him tremble. He hurried over, hunching his shoulders, laughing nervously. Golder couldn’t help thinking of what Marcus used to say: “You think you’re a great businessman, my friend, but you’re nothing but a speculator. You don’t know how to find or choose the right people. You’ll be alone for as long as you live, surrounded by beggars or fools.”

  “So, tell me why you’ve come,” he asked, interrupting Loewe’s long, embroiled inquiry after his health.

  Loewe stopped short, sat down on the edge of the bench, sighed, and opened his briefcase.

  “I’m afraid… Let me explain… You’ll have to listen carefully … But perhaps it will be too tiring for you? Do you prefer to wait? The news I have …”

  “Is bad,” interrupted Golder, annoyed. “Naturally. Stop making speeches, for the love of God. Say what you have to say, and clearly, if that’s possible for you.”

  “Yes, Sir,” replied Loewe quickly.

  He was having difficulty balancing the enormous briefcase on his knees; he held it against his chest with both hands and started pulling out bundles of letters and papers that he let fall haphazardly on to the bench.

  “I can’t find the letter… ” he murmured in desperation. “Oh, yes! Here it is… Shall I read it to you?”

  “Give it to me …” Golder snatched the letter from him.

  He was silent as he read it, but Loewe, who was watching his every move, noticed that his lips quivered slightly.

  “You see,” he said quietly, as if he were apologising.

  He handed Golder some other papers.

  “All the problems started at the same time, as usual…The New York Stock Exchange, the day before yesterday, was the final blow, so to speak. But it only aggravated things… You were expecting it, weren’t you?”