by Milan Fust
"You don't say."
"Well, almost everything," she corrected herself with an impish wink. "Actually, he had been meaning to see you. There's some unfinished business he wanted to discuss with you."
"Business?"
Mrs. Cobbet didn't quite know what it was, but he did arrange for us to meet at his place. I thanked her for her courtesy.
"It's just that you happened to show up here first," she added, though by now she was blushing; even her neck reddened.
And all of this did square with what I was feeling, though it's hard to put it into words. I had the impression there are unfathomable mysteries here, the kind you always come up against when trying to penetrate the human heart. For what was one to make of her constant whispering, her saying that the walls were thin, that there was an echo in the flat? Or her warning me I shouldn't call her on the telephone (for she told me that, too, at the club already, adding she didn't find it pleasant to be receiving calls at home).
Why not? But I'd never ask such a thing. It's never a good idea to know everything; I've already talked about that. Or to find out what lies deep in people's hearts.
Let's just take one thing at a time. She gets ready to give me the twelve kisses she owes me but also calls Kodor over. Strange. And I thought: What lives these people are leading. He may even have her telephone tapped and keep her flat under surveillance. . . . That sly old fox could boast all he liked about women being unimportant to him, even these trivial signs prove that they were indeed important. But what I really couldn't get over was the fact that this cunning man, the most cunning I had ever met, could be so easily deceived. Where did that leave me?
For if that's how things stood, vigilance got you nowhere, no amount of vigilance did any good. And what followed proved my hunch right. For the minute she managed to shake off Kodor, she flared up like a firebrand.
"Quick," she whispered, "let's just get away from here." And she was already turning off the lights, in a fever of excitement.
"Away, away from here," she kept repeating. "We'll go to the movies . . . Yes, that's where we'll go, that's perfect. We'll just sneak off and no one will be the wiser for it." She knew of a wonderful movie, she said, which was playing in a small, suburban cinema, she'd love to see it with me.
"Yes, with you," she repeated, her eyes flashing, "only with you." And in the taxi she said: "I can't be wasting the little time I have."
Once inside the theatre, ensconsed in a secluded box, she was ready to start kissing. The film they were showing was unbearably drippy, full of love scenes, which I cannot abide. She, however, was enjoying it tremendously. (A clever woman like her, how could she go for that stuff?). "Ah, aren't they sweet?" she whispered, all aquiver—"aren't they, though?" And she snuggled up to me. And even bit me at one point.
"Oh, come on, love me a little," she implored with inexplicable ardor which, by then, had an edge of resentment. "Or at least say you love me. Can't you just say it?"
"You are a dear." I said.
"Say you love me."
"You are lovely." I said. How do you like that? I could not bring myself to saying that blasted word just then. Could she have sensed that? Possibly. (It pains me to think about it now.) And later could she have forgotten about it, or simply ignored it? Perhaps. Fact is, shortly after this little exchange, she got up and said she'd had enough, we should leave at once. And we did, right in the middle of the show.
Once out on the street, she told me I didn't have to walk her, she still had some business to attend to. (She reminded me of those restless chippies from my youth, fluttery little things, who ran hither and yon, unable to slake their thirst.)
"How would you like to drop in on Kodor?" she suddenly asked.
This was so unexpected, I didn't know what to say. What she meant was that I should go in her place, that way Kodor wouldn't have to stay alone. Would I do her this favor. Because, frankly speaking, she didn't much feel like going herself.
"You'd be relieving me, sort of," she added with a dubious smile. What she really meant was for me to keep Kodor busy while she ran around as she pleased.
I said: "Fine, I'll do it," though I thought the request rather peculiar. Nevertheless, not only did I promise to go, I even tried to put her mind at ease. She did look rather harried and anxious at this point.
"Hadn't we better call him first?" I suggested. "I'll do it right now. It would be a bit odd if I simply barged in at this hour. I hadn't earlier and now I suddenly do." She listened but not very intently.
"Oh you think so?" she asked, but I could tell her mind was elsewhere. "Yes, yes, of course, ring him up, by all means." And still pensive, she added, "Thank you so much . . . Well, good-bye, then."
And she smiled at me one more time. It was as though she suddenly remembered that evening at the Brighton: chin-chin and all that, when she raised her glass to me . . . that perfectly lovely evening. At any rate, her eyes lit up one more time, and she began walking toward the lights of the city, clearly in a hurry. I looked after her for a while, and wondered.
"That's what I am, a heartless, wicked man." Kodor roared, raising himself in his four-poster bed (he really was lying in bed). "Yes, I forged your name on the subscription form, I signed you up for a stock purchase. Because I figured here was my friend Jacob who didn't have a penny to his name, the poor devil, no job, no income..." He lit into me, just like that, as soon as I stepped into the room.
And he went on, calling me a pauper, a loser, a down-and-outer, cutting me down to size, in short, the way excessively benevolent people generally do.
"And that's why I did it," he continued. "That's why I cut you in on this lovely oil deal. Because you're hard up; because you don't know where your next meal is coming from."
I had to catch my breath; I went cold, just about.
What does this man want from me? This was my first thought. My life had taught me, you see, that with men like him you pay attention not to what they say, not even what they are trying to say, but to what they want—from you. They always want something.
It's also true that the possibilities of the deal made my head swim.
Because—let's face it—this was my ultimate dream. How many times I had thought despondently: Why doesn't he let me in on one of his deals? He could do it with ease. I went as far as making pointed remarks, dropping hints. But they never worked. Never. He didn't pick up on them, didn't even pay attention. He left me to my devices.
Nobody should think me greedy; I am not. I've worked enough in my life, while these sharks barely lifted a finger. But that I, too, should finally end up on easy street. . . Who would have thought it possible? And just now it should happen, now, after my little date with his lover.
Never you mind, I told myself; such is life.
Anyhow, that's why Kodor wanted to see me that day. And before long he had a shiny black filing case brought in, which contained proof of what he'd been talking about, namely that I, Captain Jacob Störr, was now a shareholder in an oil conglomerate—I was actually in on a dazzling speculation, part owner of a holding company, a consortium, and who knows what else. I held the signed and sealed certificate in my hand, though I still couldn't believe it.
How did I end up so lucky? Why did he do this, what were his motives? Had the world really changed?
But then it all became clear. It was as if the room were suddenly flooded with sunlight. You see, he began to talk to me like a father, confiding in me his most private thoughts, telling me why he needed my participation in this thing. Which was exactly what I was interested in, what a down-to-earth sea captain needed to hear. And here he was talking about it himself.
Yes, this was quite a different tune. Something I could believe, something I was used to. This was what my life revolved around, not noble sentiments. Quid pro quo, that's what it was all about.
He reminded me (as if I needed reminders) that he wasn't the kind of person who would do something for nothing.
"I am a crooked business
man," he explained. "I want to bleed you white, suck you dry—I am not at all a kind-hearted man.
"I want to make a profit," he went on, roaring by now, "on everything and everybody ... on your blood, if need be; don't count on our friendship."
I nodded happily.
"If there is no profit in it for me, I am not interested; not interested in the least. You had better remember that."
He was letting me in on a little secret, he said. He intended to take those other partners for a ride, and for that very reason he needed somebody . . .
(Here came the decisive moment, the moment signaling my total capitulation. For if he wanted to cheat those poor saps, then this thing must be serious.) I could almost feel the four thousand pounds in my pocket. For that would have been my slice of the pie; that modest windfall was what we were really talking about.
He didn't want to cheat a lot, only a little. Or rather, he was thinking of a big swindle, he just let me in on the little one.
But let me get to the point. What he owned up to was this:
There were two deals here "cooking in the same pet," as he so elegantly put it. Only they—the gentlemen from the Brighton— didn't know this. The first was up front; I was going to make my bundle on the second. "After those suckers lose their pants," he explained quite openly, "your money will start rolling in."
"Sounds good," I said.
"Of course it sounds good, why shouldn't it, by God? Or should dullards make as much money as us clever ones?"
He was being quite playful, you see.
"What's important here, my friend, are the side transactions, the unofficial sales, and I am already in control of those. If you want to know everything, I got rid of the stuff already, the oil I mean, sold it to a friend of mine, it was that simple. . . . Why shouldn't I help out an old chum who also happens to be in trouble? It's no skin off my back, my profit is guaranteed. So he gives me some sort of promissory note, so what? He is even better off piling up his debt, he is about to file for bankruptcy anyway, the poor devil."
"What are you talking about?" I asked, utterly dumbfounded. But wait, there was more:
"Then what I did was buy back the oil. From him, from my friend; the company's oil, for myself. And why not? I could now get it for a song. My friend was hard up, he needed cash. So he bought it expensively for a note and sold it dirt cheap for cash. And that's all there was to it. Anyway, what did a bankrupt man need all that oil for? It's too fine a commodity for him . . .
"And that's the long and short of it," Kodor declared. "Except of course I am not going to let those lunkheads know. Let them believe, those distinguished nincompoops from the Brighton, that I already sold the oil—they're such idiots, they'll believe anything. Do you see now what I am getting at?"
"I guess so," I answered.
"That's because you are smart. In short: they'll get the promissory note and I'll get the lovely shipments of oil."
But how exactly should we work this thing? he went on. For him to figure in this transaction would not look good, that's fairly clear. Somebody might think it's all a fraud. And that's where I come in, because for this he needs a fine gentleman, a trusted insider (he stressed this word rather sardonically, I thought). Did I gather his meaning?
"Yes, yes," I replied.
"You've got brains, chum," Kodor said. True, he had a slight difference of opinion with the company just now, but he'll take care of that. "I'll lean on them a little harder," he said sarcastically. "There is one brazen chap among them who would like to upset my little apple cart."
"Upset it?"
"Yeah, ruin the whole deal."
"Ruin it? How?"
"He is a troublemaker, I tell you."
"But how can he ruin it?" I again asked and probably turned white as I did. Needless to say, a lot depended on whether or not the certificate I now held in my hand was worth anything.
"Who is the bastard?" I demanded. And from then on that's what Kodor called him, too. "Yes, a little bastard, a real pain in the ass, who got wind of something and is now raising all sorts of questions about our agreement."
"About the agreement?"
"Yeah, he is suing us already. But I am suing him back."
"Why, this can be none other than that rascally little doctor," I exclaimed. "The one with the squint."
"How did you know?" Kodor asked.
There was a moment of silence.
"What sharp eyes he has," he then said to no one in particular. "But really, how did you figure it out?"
"Oh well," I laughed, though my conflicting emotions just about knocked me over. After all, it's no mere trifle when a cunning man like he is willing to compliment you, and in matters of business, too. ... So I notice things, eh? I have eyes too, it seems ... I almost burst into song, I tell you.
"So what does the cheeky bastard want?" I again said, treating the man already like dirt. "I was there when the agreement was concluded; nobody then said anything about collateral."
For that's what he was suing for; the cheeky bastard was demanding collateral from Kodor. He did some snooping around and found out that the firm Kodor had sold the oil to in return for those notes was in deep trouble. It may have been in good shape at one time, he said, but no longer. For this very reason Kodor promised to give them a note at the time of the sale, that evening, in fact, when we met for supper at the Brighton. Indeed, their participation in the venture hinged on this.
What is more, he demanded a kickback from the sale price for himself, and not a modest one either—considerably more than what I was supposed to get. Now there was real insolence for you.
I maintained that he was entitled to nothing; every word he uttered was sheer impudence. Why did I maintain that? May my stern judges forgive me but sudden rapture is a strange thing. And money does make you blind, especially if you don't yet have it. I kept saying that although I didn't pay too much attention at that time (why should I have? the deal didn't interest me all that much, I was too busy entertaining the ladies, those refined and charming ladies), but it was plain to see that the thing was settled, just about wrapped up. That whole evening seemed like an occasion to celebrate. Those gentlemen said as much, each and every one of them agreed that everything was perfectly all right. I deliberately emphasized this last point, and told Kodor I was willing to repeat it in court if he so wished.
In other words I offered my services, without his asking for it. Which was odd; I was surprised he didn't laugh in my face.
"Eh, what do you know?" he said. "You know nothing." But he very quickly changed his mind. "If it comes to that, you may testify," he assented.
By then, however, I came to my senses, at long last, and almost burst out laughing.
I just about saw myself running into a wall, blindly, like a cow.
So that's what he wanted me for. The buying and selling had nothing to do with it. And here I was giving him pointers, telling this scoundrel what he ought to do, explaining to him how he should conduct his business . . .
It was quite a spectacle, I must say, and quite a follow-up. I was left with a jumble of painful, burning impressions, above all with the memory of Mrs. Cobbet's beautiful body, and with the thought: How did I end up there, at that woman's doorstep?
Ah, the human animal . . . what an ungrateful creature. Her flat, her letters, her inviting Kodor up just then, and all the other odd happenstance that evening began spinning around in my head . . . until at one point everything stopped.
Is that the kind of woman she was? I thought rather sadly. I could still see her scurrying off after the movies, stepping very lively indeed. Because even then she was so busy. She still had pressing business to attend to.
Oh yes; if somebody had jumped on me from a fourth-floor window, I wouldn't have been more surprised. For that was the key to the puzzle, the solution to the great mystery, the explanation for all that passionate devotion—Kodor kept a little angel especially for his business associates, and what a shapely little angel, at t
hat.
For who can say no with her around? Wasn't it she who sent me here, who asked me to entertain his friend? And didn't she have a similar mission at the Brighton? Wasn't she there to create the right mood, to win over wavering hearts for Kodor's schemes?
But then I had a good laugh over it all. Maybe it's better this way, I thought to myself. I can rest assured that I wasn't such a heartthrob after all.
Still, at moments like these, you do feel kind of dumped on. As if submerged in a tub of water, I couldn't bring myself to budge. For it didn't really make me feel good to know that Mrs. Cobbet was that kind of a woman—an ordinary procuress. (In some ports they call them soft grandmothers—aha, I even remembered that.)
But how can I back out of this shabby affair?
For one thing I must show I am above it all.
I first asked: "Couldn't these people lose their shirt?"
Kodor had fine antennae; he perked up immediately.
"Lose their what?" he asked jauntily. And proceeded to toy around with the phrase, as was his wont, testing the waters as it were. "Why shouldn't it be possible for them to lose their shirt? What an original question. Couldn't it also happen to me? Who'd spare me from a similar fate? If you bite into something hard, you've got to expect to crack your teeth. If you like big profits, you must be prepared to lose a lot. It goes with the territory."
I was still trying to make light of the matter.
"Look here, pal, don't take me for such a fool. Can't this thing lead to a nice case of perjury in the end?"
"Perjury?" he asked pensively.
"Why, sure. I mean, it's not as if I am able to prove anything. I didn't really pay any attention to you people, you know that yourself. I was busy entertaining the ladies. And eating. I can't be at all sure anything was settled that evening."
"You are right, you can't," Kodor said. "Then again, it depends . . . But you are right: you can't be sure," he repeated, rather absently. Then, in a manner that was quite exquisite, he moved his lips, ever so gently.
"But is it so terrible if something is not definite?" he suddenly asked. But like a real con artist: quickly, secretively. "No need to put too fine a point on it," he added amid inimitable smiles. But as I say, it was a brief nothing, a flicker. As if he—no, not even he but the wind—had momentarily lifted the veil off some deep dark secret.
