by Belva Plain
And he handed over a wallet-size photograph. Five children, with a Labrador retriever, stood on a lawn in front of a flowering rhododendron.
“You haven’t seen them in a while. Would you believe Timmy’s as tall as I am and only just past twelve? Tom’s on the way, too, built like a football player.” Donal, taking the photo back, held it up to his own view. “I would have liked more sons. Not that the girls are disappointing. Look at this one, Lucy. She’ll be the family beauty with that head of curls. I never could figure out where they came from.” The fond chuckle and soft gaze did not belong to the man Paul knew. “I tell my kids, all of them, but especially the boys, you can be whatever you want to be. You can do whatever you want to do. Life’s a contest from start to finish and don’t let anybody get ahead of you. You be the best.”
This now was the man Paul knew. And he thought, If I had sons, what would I tell them? He was quite sure it would not be that. Donal spoke with some satisfaction while replacing his wallet, after which he went on talking as though Paul and he were amiable friends. “I had some personal affairs over here, too, Hank’s company among them. Have you seen the figures lately?”
“Of course I’ve seen the figures.”
“Well. Going great guns, aren’t they?”
Paul nodded grimly.
“Business is really booming in Germany, let me tell you.” Donal glanced around, lowering his voice. “It’s amazing that I should run into you here like this, because I planned to see you as soon as I got home.”
Paul was immediately wary. “Yes? What about?”
“Of course you can guess it’s about Finn Weber, or I should say, Finn Weber’s parent company, HW Elektrische Gesellschaft. There’s a big merger in the making—one of the largest electrochemical combines in Germany—and naturally, a new stock offering goes with it. It’ll be a tremendous thing, a chance to make millions, literally millions, for anybody who can get in on the ground floor.” Donal hesitated. “There’s only one hitch. There’s a floor under possible bids. You have to have a solid unit of twenty-five thousand shares.”
There was a silence, but by no means an empty one. Paul’s mind, racing, had anticipated Donal’s request from almost the first word, and he was already making an effort to restrain his anger. Aware that Donal was trying to read his expression, he kept his eyes deliberately turned toward the middle distance, where the light glinted on a silver coffeepot.
“The problem is that I don’t own twenty-five thousand shares. Not that I couldn’t easily buy them, but the thing’s retroactive. You have to have owned them since last January first. You understand?”
Paul brought his eyes back to Donal. “I understand that it lets you out.”
“Well, not really. There’s a way of getting around it. We can combine Hank’s shares with mine in a single ownership, one unit. We can form a corporation solely to cover this investment—a holding corporation. As far as the people in Germany know, it already exists. They aren’t going to check back to New York for the date. What the hell, I’ve already told them about it, and they’re perfectly satisfied. All they need are a couple of papers.”
Paul’s silence lasted for a full minute, during which time, resting his gaze back again on the coffeepot, he enjoyed the other man’s discomfiture. At last he said, “Of course you know that I’m not going to do it.”
Donal sat upright. “Of course I know nothing of the sort.”
“I gave you my answer the last time you made a similar request, didn’t I?”
“Listen, Paul. Put on your banker’s hat and be reasonable. I can understand that maybe you were doubtful then, but by now you’ve seen the profits for yourself, and you should have confidence in my business acumen.”
“I have perfect confidence in your business acumen.”
“Well, then?”
Paul stared at him. “Can you really ask?”
“You mean you’re still singing Uncle Dan’s old song?”
Paul nodded. “I am. As loud as I can sing it.”
A flush mounted Donal’s cheeks. “You’re a banker, third generation. Don’t tell me you’ve gotten where you are by being so holy.”
“We’ve been honest.”
“I’m not asking you to do anything dishonest.”
“You’re asking me, asking Hank through me, to go into business with international criminals.”
Donal laughed, “Excuse me, but you sound like a Bible Belt preacher with that talk.”
There was so much, in the face of this man’s scorn, that Paul would say. What words he could explode before that insolent, amused face! Pictures exploded in his own vision: men huddled, scheming in locked back rooms, Ben shattered with twenty bullets in his chest. But he had sworn to Hank and to himself never to speak.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you by laughing,” Donal said, recovering himself. “It just struck me funny for a moment. Nobody would believe that a man would actually turn down millions of dollars. Actually, I don’t believe it myself.”
“I think you should,” Paul said.
“No. Wait. You’re fearful of war, aiding the enemy. Okay, I’ll go along with that. But this stuff that these people are working on is stuff that’ll be useful too in peace, in industry. I’m certainly no scientist, but I understand enough to know that Germany produces brains, some of the greatest scientists in the world—”
Paul interrupted, “I will not help Nazis in peace or in war,” he said. The words came out stiffly and primly. Why did this man always manage to tie his tongue this way?
The pink turned red on Donal’s cheeks. “Just like that, you’re throwing Hank’s profits. What kind of a trustee are you?”
“An honorable one, I hope. I shouldn’t want Hank to have that kind of money. It’s bad enough that he’s already getting some of it from Finn Weber.”
Donal shoved his chair back, as if to avoid even accidental contact with Paul’s knees. “Personally, I want money for my children. They’ll never have to fight their way up as I did.”
More pictures slid through Paul’s mind like takes on a film strip: a grandiose house, the rows of European cars in the garage, the lavish pastel gardens, lanterns in the trees and music on the lawn, a rope of diamonds around Meg’s innocent neck … “How much do you want, for God’s sake?”
“As much as I can get. There’s never too much. If you and your wife had a child, you’d know what I’m talking about. Or maybe you wouldn’t. There’s no getting through to you. I’ve done business with hundreds of men in my time, but I’ll be damned if I’ve ever—” He broke off.
Paul turned to see what Donal was staring at. There in the doorway stood Leah with her arms full of packages. She was scanning the room, looking for him.
“Oh, here you are. I called the room just now,” she said clearly, and then, seeing Donal, stopped short.
“Well, this is an unexpected pleasure!” Donal cried as he and Paul stood up. His voice was high and excited. “I had no idea you were both in Paris together.”
“We are not together. It was a last-minute decision of mine. Paul didn’t know I was to be here.” Leah’s cool tone contradicted her startled expression. “You’ll excuse me,” she said swiftly, “I’m going upstairs with these packages.”
The two men were still standing, and Donal remarked, “She’s not exactly a beauty, but she’s a dish, that Leah.”
Paul didn’t answer.
“I admire your taste.”
Paul said evenly, “Do you know what you’re talking about? Because I surely don’t.”
“Come on! I wasn’t born yesterday. She didn’t fool me, nor do you. What difference does it make? Why should I care?” Donal looked at his watch. “Well, I’m off to dinner. I’m at the Georges Cinq, in case you change your mind, and want to get in touch with me.”
“I shan’t change my mind, and I’m leaving for home tomorrow,” Paul answered.
“Oh. Enjoy the voyage, you and Leah together,” he flung out as he lef
t the room.
“You’re all upset because of that man,” Leah said later. “You really don’t think he’s going to pick up the phone and call Marian the minute he gets back, do you?”
“No, no. It’s the things he’s saying, he and that Frenchman.” From where he sat on the chaise longue, Paul could see the reflection of his dejected posture, and he straightened his shoulders. “I’d just been starting to revive, too, thanks to you.”
“There must be fortunes to be made if Donal’s here,” reflected Leah. “Wouldn’t you think he had enough? Between him and the rest, Bergman and Roselli and the lot, they must have split fifty million over the years before Repeal.”
“I don’t think it’s just money that he wants anymore. Prestige and power are more like it. I’ve a hunch he may try something big in politics.”
“For a man as polished as he can be, he can also be so crude … Meg almost left him once, did you know?”
“No. Why didn’t she?”
“Because of Alfie’s trouble. She used to come into the shop and talk to me, but not anymore.” Carefully, Leah outlined her lips with a brush, then filled in the outline. “It really would have shaken him up if she had moved out with the children. If I couldn’t see Hank, I don’t know what I’d do. Not to see your own child—it must be awful.”
“Yes,” Paul said.
Leah stared at him. “You really do look done in! Oh, to hell with Donal and everybody else! Let’s go eat. And afterward, there’s a Charlie Chaplin playing, dubbed in French. It should be fun for our last night. What do you say? Okay?”
The westbound voyage was a rough one. The ship was battered; spray washed the decks and the foghorn sounded its bleak warning all the way across.
On the last night, they found a centerpiece of roses on their table and the steward informed them that for dessert a Grand Marnier soufflé had been ordered. It was a soufflé for ten, since apparently the donor had expected Mrs. Marcus to be seated at a large table.
“Oh, that’s all right,” Leah said, “we’ll eat what we can and you can do what you want with what’s left.” She opened the envelope and read the card aloud. “ ‘Welcome home. Fond regards from Bill.’ He’s such an awfully nice man.”
“Obviously.”
“He’s only a good friend, Paul. Really. And I need friends.”
“You can’t mean that,” Paul said, feeling a touch of resentment.
“I do mean it.” Leah put her fork down and leaned across the table, speaking intensely. “My son is about to leave me. He’ll undoubtedly be going to medical school. You know how he loved riding the ambulance with the first aid crew last summer. He’ll be making his own life, as he should, and I’m happy because I’ve done the best I could for him—with your help, Paul—and he’s a wonderful person, a better person than I am. So all right, I’m happy about that, but I’m already lonesome and I shall be more so. I need all the friends I can find. Sex I can always get—” Leah’s eyes were fixed on Paul’s. “But sex alone can leave you as lonesome as ever, and lonesomeness is—well, I can’t even try to describe it.”
“Don’t try.”
The moment broke apart with the uncorking of the wine. Paul tasted the offered glass and approved it. They drank to each other’s health, admired the soufflé, went dancing, slept together, and were careful not to approach any delicate subjects.
The next morning, though, while waiting in the lounge with passport in hand for the immigration officer, Paul considered a delicate subject. What was Leah expecting? It was clear that his marriage was drying up, with Marian in Florida for three months every winter. Yet it wasn’t completely dried up. After all, they had their home together and went as a couple wherever they were invited. So maybe Leah only hoped that he and she might continue this unexpected new relationship? If so, they would have to be very discreet indeed; the one thing he would not do was humiliate Marian. Still, discretion would not be all that difficult, he reasoned, and Leah was delightful.…
“Back to the real world,” she said, startling him out of his thoughts. “Just look! The ship’s practically got its nose on the street. You can almost hear the taxis honking. New York! It’s a crazy place, but I love it.”
A cold rain beat down on the pier. Leah was prepared with a smart British raincoat. Her Leica was slung over her shoulder and she carried a pigskin jewel case.
“You look like a transatlantic commuter,” he said with a smile.
“Not I, you’re the one. I hope you’re staying on this side awhile.”
“Awhile. I’m trying”—he lowered his voice— “I’m trying to raise more money to get the young out of Germany, to any place that’ll take them. If I’m successful, I may have to go back again soon. Would you go with me?” he asked directly.
“You know I would. Anywhere. Anytime, Paul.”
Thirteen
“We must keep out of European affairs,” Dan would declare positively, whenever he and Paul were together, “or we’ll find ourselves drawn into another of their bloody messes. I said so the last time and I’m saying it again now.”
“Even after the things Paul’s seen?” asked Hennie, who had heard with horror Paul’s account of the Ilse Hirschfeld affair.
“They’re unspeakably awful,” Dan replied. “But there are other ways of stopping them and war is worse.”
Of course, he was quite right about there being other ways. But no one was taking them.
It had seemed impossible for Paul during this past year or more to convey to people here at home what he had seen and what he knew. He felt impatient and exasperated with their resistance. Yet those who ought to have known better, those at the helm of governments, were just as obtuse. In England, Winston Churchill cried his warnings into the wind, France was still in disarray, while out of Italy there sounded the bombastic threats of a strutting, bloated second-rater. Here at home, one heard Father Coughlin’s ugly ranting, followed by the more moderate voice of Lindbergh, assuring the American people that Hitler didn’t want war and that he was invincible anyway.
And it boggled the mind when opposite voices from the liberal left reached the same conclusions. The intellectual young were all taking the Oxford Pledge: “This House will not die for King or Country—” in any war, for any reason, ever.
To Hank, who had proudly taken the pledge, Paul said, “Don’t suppose I’m one who wants to see another war. I saw enough of its wreckage.”
“You don’t act as if you had,” Hank had accused him. “You act as if you think it’s inevitable.”
“The way things are going, I’m sorry to say I do think it’s inevitable. And I think your Oxford Pledge and all the rest of the pacifist talk are giving encouragement to the enemy.”
“What we need is a Gandhi. Passive resistance,” Hank declared. “Let all the young men fill the jails to overflowing. Just sit down and refuse to budge.”
“Gandhi,” Paul persisted, “is not opposing himself to Hitler. Whatever you may think of the British Raj, it isn’t fascist Germany.” And he had added, “Even Einstein, a lifelong pacifist, has changed his mind because of what’s happening.”
“Let Einstein fight, then!”
Paul was tired of arguments. They got nowhere. Sometimes he caught Hank looking at him as if he were trying to fathom an offensive stranger. We are growing apart, Paul thought, and was touched with sadness. The boy who had once revered his every opinion had grown into a man, stuffed with a sense of his own dignity.
But it was, after all, only natural.…
In the outer office a cessation of typewriter clack announced the day’s end. He reached for the telephone to call home. Marian had been asleep when he left that morning, so he had not asked whether they were to have dinner together. Sometimes on Tuesdays she went to visit a widowed cousin in Rye. She had made a life, a feminine existence, in which women visited each other, dressed for one another’s approbation and kept fine houses for the same reason. The older women were often widowed; some of the younger
might as well be, he thought now, while the phone rang at the other end, and wondered how many couples lived as they did in a sibling amity, bestowing dry kisses on each other’s cheeks as they came and went their independent ways.
“Hello?” said Marian in her pleasant voice.
“I’m at the office. How was your day?”
“Wonderful. We raised two thousand dollars at the rummage sale. I’m exhausted, but it was worth it.”
“I thought this was to be your evening at Cousin Nelly’s.”
“I can’t because of the sale. I hope you won’t be annoyed if I skip dinner. Somebody’s got to box the unsold stuff and I’ve said I’d go back to help.”
“Fine. I’ve a deskful of work myself. I’ll eat downtown.”
“You needn’t do that. I told Emma to grill a steak and make the potato pudding that you always love.”
She still hovered, she still fussed over her wifely duties. And he said gently, “Tell Emma not to bother. That way I won’t have to rush home. Will you be late?”
“It may be close to midnight.”
“That’s too late to be out alone. You’ll have trouble finding a cab. I’ll come for you.”
“No need. Rena Marshall’s car is dropping us all home, don’t worry.”
“Fine. See you later, then.”
He hung up. Her image moved in his mind’s eye: she’d have a cup of tea and a biscuit, then tidy her hair, powder her cheeks to cover the freckles, which she detested and which he had once, long ago—so long ago—found rather girlishly appealing, take fresh white gloves from the drawer, and hasten out on her mission. A good woman. But I’m a good man, too, he thought. Foolish to put on modest airs in the privacy of one’s own head. So, yes, we are two good people and yes, together we add up to nothing. Or very little.
It was just after five o’clock when he came out into the damp spring air. The sky, still light, was streaked low in the west with a tender pink that shaded into lavender, then rose abruptly overhead into a darkening blue-green. An extraordinary sky! He stood a moment, oblivious to the going-home bustle on the street, to marvel at the colors. One wanted to hold them, to keep them as they were. Great painters could do that. Turner with his vaporous sunsets, or El Greco with his violent storm-split clouds. But I am only a banker, he thought, and laughed at himself.
