‘Yuh, and then clear out—that saves a lot of mess.’
‘Whatever you like. We’ll discuss it in the morning.’
‘Yes, you’re tired. O.K., Michel. I’m not tired. I guess I’ll have this figured out by the morning.’
‘If you put that energy into business, you could double your fortune, Jules, instead of behaving like a wrecker.’
Jules laughed gaily, ‘Oh, you’re a puritan still, Michel. I know what I want. I don’t want to join the great families.’ The accent was a sneer. ‘High society. High banking. Grand marriages. Tout-Paris … Up the raiders!’ He hung up.
Michel smiled to himself and went on pacing the apartment. ‘A gambler who knows when to quit, when to quit, a gambler who—break the bank! That’s it! Break the bank, break the bank—that’s where it came from—came from.’
He habitually repeated phrases to himself aloud while his thoughts raced on in the same strain, a way of weaving thought and word continually, his chief pleasure.
* * *
Scene Twenty-nine: Man Without Luck
Léon’s wife and daughter, beautiful, small, buxom, both unenterprising harem women, sat at tea with Méline and Léon. Everyone was in high spirits for Méline had been flattering the women and Léon was pleased with the display of wit, charm, and manners they gave. His wife, some years discontented and cranky after she had found out some of his infidelities, had now taken her parents’ advice and resigned herself to it with some show of cynicism, making Léon pay tribute in the shape of bracelets, furniture, new boudoir arrangements, and trips to spas whenever she wanted them. She had also quietly taken a lover herself and conducted the affair in a decorous manner. The result of this arrangement was that though everyone was miserable, the estate remained united and intact, the family was socially acceptable, Léon had no more scruples about his lady loves, the rabbi called regularly, and Hélène, sensible and charming girl, was on the brink of an engagement to young Rhys of Rotterdam, a youth already rich in his own name and whom the romantic young Henrietta Achitophelous had let slip through her fingers.
To reward himself for this bright turn in his affairs, Léon was taking Méline to Amsterdam to look over a property that had fallen in through the bankruptcy of the leading estate lawyer. In this house he proposed to establish Mrs. Margaret Weyman, who was now beginning divorce proceedings against her husband. He had worked it out with one of his lawyers: he ‘… even went into romance on a basis of yearly returns,’ he told Méline. He had a contract drawn up ready for Mrs. Weyman to sign. He and she were to share the cost of the property: for the time being as an evidence of good faith on his part, he was to advance Mrs. Weyman’s share of the money, at a rate of three and one-half per cent per annum. He gave the money for the furnishing up to two thousand guilders; she was to pay the remainder. The furnishing was to be done by Mrs. Weyman. Mrs. Weyman was to repay him out of rent received from the letting of one or two apartments in the building. The other two apartments were to be used as follows: one by Mrs. Weyman to live in, one by Léon and Méline, co-lessees, as a pied-à-terre. This arrangement saved Léon’s face and gave Méline a home in Amsterdam when he did business there. The two partners meditated warmly over this project while they pieced together small talk with Mme. and Mlle. Léon. Méline had hitherto had difficulty in eluding his wife’s friends, even in Amsterdam. Léon congratulated himself: up to this epoch he had had several thousand women, but never one with the ‘class’ of Margaret Weyman—brains, good looks, sex appeal, ardor, and responsive love.
‘Bertillon only sells short,’ Méline was saying. ‘I couldn’t place a share with him. Downstairs, that was another story. North Atlantis, Consolidated Tin, Bats, Imps, anything. Your old partner Raccamond is in a good spot there, believe me. Only I believe he’s second-rate. It’s a pity. If a real salesman were in a place like that—’ He laughed. ‘Alphendéry said he’d do business with me, however: he can throw me all their business if he wants to. They say he’s the power behind the throne. What do you think?’
‘Power behind the throne!’ Léon said irascibly. ‘Who knows? I don’t know, my boy. He’s a nice feller. Raccamond: no. When a man loses his luck,’ he continued sentimentally, ‘no use—good-by. Whatever he does is no good. Not only that, Méline, the boy has no constructive ability. Bricks without straw. All grab, for himself, for his boss, no joy in building. Grind, grasp, graft, but no imagination. I knew when he muffed the deals he did for me.’
‘Did you see Aristide?’ queried Méline, disbelieving Léon. Léon avoided the question, and continued philosophically, ‘A man without luck. That boy’s bad luck. No good.’ He shook his great head and fleshy chin in his tight collar, loosening up, ‘A head as big as the Sorbonne, nothing in it: no nous.’ He lifted his finger. ‘He brought bad luck to me and to Claude Brothers. He went into the bank for three months without pay, Alphendéry told me.’ He shut his eyelids over the threatening globes, half opened them. ‘What’s got for nothing, isn’t worth having. No, sir: if I were Bertillon, I’d turn him out. I spoke to him myself yesterday. I said to him, “Aristide, you’re a fool, put a price on yourself. If you don’t mark yourself up, who will?” He’s sentimental, got principles. Says coming straight from the Claude Brothers failure, he couldn’t have got into Bertillon otherwise, they’re all so superstitious. He went round the stock-exchange houses of Paris—naturally, they turned him out, laughed in his face: he had to come humbly, hat in hand, groveling, where he used to be respected before. And the customers of Claude Brothers after him, “Where’s our money? You must know—we know what salary you got. Our dough went into your salary—” It wasn’t easy for him, so he got sentimental, figured he could get into Bertillon’s if he laid low. He was desperate—a customers’ man tarred with bankruptcies. Of course, I think, with Raccamond—something about him, the bully, the—h’m—don’t know—something queer. I told him; ‘What can you do if you don’t price yourself?’ Result is—either they give a man too much or too little. At first he got nothing: now he gets fifteen thousand francs every four weeks and commissions. They must be—hand-over-fist—coining money. What do you think? What does he make it out of? I figure bucketing. Alphendéry says no. Their man. I’ll get it out of him: but—figure it for yourself.
‘Well: I spoke to Aristide yesterday. “There’s destiny for me in the house,” says he. Napoleonic! Yesterday cheaper than dirt, he now wants to be king, emperor, a big banker. No sense of proportion—in everything. Méline, I sell myself dear and I buy others cheap, I know they’ve put up the price, they saw me coming. Every man has his price and will take sixty per cent off for cash. I take ’em on the time-payment system, deposit technique—that basis: sometimes give ’em a bonus to take themselves off—me too. Ho, ho, ho, ho.’ He threw back his head, laughed clearly, looked cunningly at his wife and daughter, laughed a little laugh. His wife and daughter looked deeply, irreparably bored.
He seized the young girl by the shoulder. ‘Hélène, come some day and see how Papa makes money? Eh? You’d be surprised, my girl, you’d be surprised, you’d be surprised. You don’t know me.’
The girl looked faintly interested and smiled: her mother politely sneered. Méline rushed in, ‘Oh, I assure you, they are all terrified of Léon on the grain exchange: no doubt of that. They’d love to throw him off, but no chance. He’s kosher: too good for them. You should really see,’ he wheedled the wife.
‘I have an instinct, Paul,’ said Léon, wagging his finger. ‘Aristide will come to a bad end, constructive ability but all—straw and no bricks. Eh, not bad, eh? I’m not bad, eh? I’ve got him, eh? Paul.’ He lowered his voice. ‘And a police record: something against him. He went white that day— You know the Claude Brothers affair was a bad business for him. Aristide knew about the swindling all right: tried to blackmail, then insisted on his cut. I know, I heard—A swindler with no sense of humor is lost. A two-timer must see himself as a monkey on a stick, a Punchinello, a fr
aud, an actor. An actor knows he’s an actor and knows when to act. A ham puffs and blows, no diminuendo. Aristide only sees himself as a very deep swindler. Ha, ha! And now a Napoleon with destiny: a bank with destiny. You know what destiny I think.’ He looked at the women and flushed, pulled himself into shape smartly. ‘Still, I got a schematism. Ho, ho. The Goy! Jews,’ he said in broken German to Méline, ‘have one talent, both the pushcart man and the prince in Israel. What is it? We laugh at ourselves. H’m. Not always. The Goyim believe in their destiny. That’s where we’re one step ahead: we hedge on destiny.’
Léon knew no Yiddish. Coming from the Balkans, he spoke various Eastern tongues and the Ladino of the Jews exiled from Spain. To speak familiarly to Méline (from the Baltic) he used German, which he hardly knew outside trade phrases. He half shut his eyes now.
‘A man without luck!’
The women had begun to whisper intimately to each other. ‘That Alphendéry,’ Léon continued, leaning doser to Méline, ‘seems a bright boy. I’ll give him a chance—’
‘You’re employing him?’
‘No, no—just a little job, see what he can do: no guarantees. If he’s good, I keep him hanging on. If he isn’t, I turn him back to Bertillon with Raccamond and the other—Schlemihls. I think he’s good, though. Good secretary.’
‘What do you want a secretary for? To write, “We confirm having shipped this day”? You’re getting flighty. Do you want to impress the grain trade?’
Léon was ruffled. ‘Maybe, maybe.’ He twinkled good-humoredly. ‘I don’t know myself yet.’ He lowered his voice. ‘For my private matters: smart boy, good negotiator. Like him.’
‘They say Alphendéry’s pretty well off, that he controls big private accounts in the Netherlands.’
Léon frowned. ‘Don’t think so. That’s what I have to find out. Instinct is—maybe. But I can smell dough.’
‘A good disguise, perhaps,’ Méline laughed.
‘Yes, yes,’ Léon shouted with conviction. ‘A brilliant fellow, remarkable. Yes. I believe in Bertillon when I see that feller.’
* * *
‘
Scene Thirty: Mme. Achitophelous
I said to him’ (said Achitophelous from one pillow to the next), ‘this is not commission business, this is pillage. You will handle it with me and before you go to Belgrade you give me a letter. Now, Haidee, I can’t make up my mind; I have another idea: I could say to him, I am going to ask you to work on joint account and I want Leo and Korb to get one-quarter per cent.’
‘Oh,’ groaned Mme. Achitophelous, ‘I feel terrible; I am in agony, Dimitri. Will you stop chattering? It’s three o’clock in the morning and I haven’t slept a wink. I am in the most awful agony. I am sure there is something wrong. Please get up and get the clyster, Dimitri. Ever since that awful child ran away to Paris my digestion has gone to pieces.’
Achitophelous brought the clyster.
‘You ate too much halvah,’ said Dimitri, but with decent alacrity prepared to act the family doctor. ‘You are in such a state that you don’t notice how much you’re eating. You’re getting quite plump, Haidee; I mean, plumper than before.’
‘Acute indigestion is very dangerous,’ cried Haidee. ‘You’ve got the digestion of a horse. How would you know? Look, put the lamp on that table. Hurry.’
‘You know, sweetheart,’ said Dimitri, after a few minutes, ‘you have been rather cold to me lately.’
She laughed, ‘At least you can do one thing, Dimitri! Cold? Everyone but you knows I have a lover, you lummox.’
Dimitri stopped and wiped his head. He looked at her pitifully. ‘Haidee, this is rather a shock to me, you know. Who is the man, Haidee?’
‘Let me up,’ she said scornfully. ‘Everyone in Constantinople knows it, they even know it in Cairo and Athens. Everyone knows it but you, stupid. Munychion, Thargelion’s cousin. And now that you know, you had better think about my getting a divorce. I am going to marry him.’
Achitophelous sat down on the bed and looked at his Turkish slipper tops. When she came padding back to bed, rosy, round, and beautiful as Henrietta’s mother should be, he said, ‘It’s not like you to do this behind my back, Haidee, and make me a laughingstock. Is that nice?’
‘It’s better Munychion than some fat businessman, the sort you bring to dinner. You’d like me to sleep with them and get you a better percentage, wouldn’t you?’
‘You’re not dutiful, Haidee.’
She laughed, a long, silvery, independent laugh. ‘Ring the bell, Dimitri: I want Suzette. I forgot to write to Konstantin (that’s Munychion’s name, darling) to tell him to come at eleven and take me for a drive! It must go off first thing in the morning before I get up. I never telephone—it’s so coarse!’
‘Don’t go out with him publicly, Haidee.’
‘Naturally, I will. I have every right to. He’s my lover.’
‘No wonder your daughter thinks about nothing but sex.’
‘Press the bell again, darling. She must be snoring her head off, the lazy devil.’
Dimitri pressed it and hung his head. ‘What sort of a home have I?’ She laughed, got up very sprightly. ‘You’ve a five months’ home here and a seven months’ home in Paris. I threw in four children for a bonus. How many has she got? You’ve only spent ten thousand pounds on your Paris girl. She’s economical! You’ve spent one hundred and forty thousand pounds on this home in the last twenty years, for running expenses. I’ve still done better because my marriage settlement is intact. Suzette! Bring me some tea and some writing paper: I want you to take round a note to Mr. Konstantin’s house as soon as it is light.’
The maid, a pretty young Greek girl, laughed, ‘Yes, Madame. And Monsieur, some tea?’
‘Yes, bring him the cup with the pink roses that Mr. Konstantin likes so much!’
‘Yes, Madame.’
‘I was going to divorce you, Haidee,’ said Dimitri severely, ‘but now I find this out, I will do no such thing. Have you running round the Mediterranean with Munychion a few weeks after the divorce and everyone pointing at me: the fat old businessman. No! You’ve gone too far. Now you’ll get no divorce. And I’ll cut off your allowance. You’ll have to pay for yourself.’
She had a self-satisfied chuckle. ‘Then Papa will sue you for the twelve hundred pounds you stole from him when you were in his office. We shall see with whom I will be riding and who will be handing me clysters, you mildewed meat pie! I tapped all your telephone calls the last two years. Ha! That surprises you!’
Dimitri had gone red and then pale. ‘You did that?’
‘Yes.’
He suddenly began to laugh, ‘Ah, ah, ah—that’s a joke, that’s funny. Ah, ah, ah!’
‘What’s so funny,’ she said sharply, ‘it is funny, old coal sack, the way you run out with fifteen waitresses in one month.’
‘Ah, ah, ah,’ he cried, with tears in his eyes, ‘and I was tapping you, Haidee: for the past eighteen months I was tapping your telephone, too. That was why I was so surprised about Munychion.’
She sat bolt upright. ‘I knew very well you were tapping me: I found the receiver in your collar case. I just fooled you, darling: I just faked all those calls. All the time I wrote to Konstantin!’
‘It is funny just the same, ah, ah, ah!’
‘Yes, it really is funny: ah, ah.’
When Suzette came back she found them both in the merriest mood and she put the rose cup down in front of Dimitri laughing too, ‘Ee-ee-ee.’
‘And then you slept with Suzette on the fifteenth of May last,’ laughed Haidee.
‘Oh, yes, it is too funny,’ said Dimitri and pinched Suzette on the arm.
‘Suzette,’ said the lady, ‘run along, now, my girl. Get your sleep. You must run off to Munychion first thing in the morning.’
Dimitri stopped laughing. ‘No,
now that’s going too far.’
Haidee kicked her ruby velvet slippers and wound the edge of the silk bed sheet in her fingers. She looked gravely at Dimitri. ‘Old man, you don’t know how far I’m going. I have sent a book of poems to the publisher’s, and they are coming out in two days: they have Konstantin’s name on the title page. You will be forced then. I knew you, you coward. I have given Konstantin jewels too: he gets nothing, the poor, sweet darling, from that boat company he runs.’
‘You should see,’ said Dimitri sitting up, ‘what I gave Mme. Eloth: five diamond bracelets, all in one night.’
‘Oh, indeed! It’s too much, you miserable fellow! Five! You gave me a pearl brooch for my birthday! Go to the devil with your disgusting Eloth. I’ll kill you. I won’t stand that. Oh, you misery.’ She rushed to him, took him by surprise, laid him out and so kicked, pinched, cuffed, and scratched him that he began weeping and saying weakly, ‘Don’t, Haidee, don’t, darling dear, don’t. You’re hurting me, Haidee.’
In the morning Haidee rode out with Konstantin Munychion dressed beautifully and modestly in black, with diamonds and ebony ornaments. Konstantin’s emerald bracelet flashed in the sunlight. Haidee’s dignified carriage and sweet, melancholy smiles made everyone feel she was only doing the right thing. A woman has to protect herself in this life.
* * *
Scene Thirty-one: Poor Pasteur
Letter from Mme. Mimi Eloth to Dimitri Achitophelous, in Constantinople, June, 1931
Hôtel Baur-au-Lac, Zurich
Darling,
Thanks for you letter from the 17th and I think already thanked you for you letter to Paris. I am very sorry you still have troubels with you daughter and you are so lonely with no one to love you: but for one thing I wouldn’t take the responsibility to force you daughter to wedding with a nice boy yet if she is unwilling. As for you newphew: do not worry about him: he wants nothing but money. Do you not realize, darling, that all these people only troubel you so much because you give them a handout? You are the richest of you family: that is a curse. They do not respect you more for it, darling. I see these peopel with the eye of you good friend, like a man. Do not take you wife so soon to that doctor about indigestion: perhaps it is not a cure. If it was, the world would know about it. Indigestion is not an uncommon troubel, after all. But still, who can tell? If you read the great Pasteur’s life you feel what scientists have to go through before they gat acknowledge. I know this now myself through bitter sorrow—I mean what peopel have to go through to get knowledge of the world. I have written different letters to you about the bonds which are mine and about the annuity of which I have usufruct. My lawyer tells me that different letters he had addressed to you concerning all this have not been answered: I do not know if you got these darling, or if someone else got them. If it is not interesting to you any more, I can do no more. All other things with me develop not favorable. But what can I do? It is not my mistake and yet my mistake. I should have stayed in my homeland and settel. What is there to do for me now but to commit suicide? I could go to the Midi and live in poverty in a littel hovel for £20 monthly and my expenses for dresses, etc., down to ten thousand francs yearly, for whom have I to dress for? or I can take out life insurance for 100,000 guilder in your name and my poor mother’s name and after three years is up suicide. I go to the hairdresser, make up, laugh but underneath I am a mummy. I am certainly home at our home in Paris the 10th July to present you with a birthday cake and wish and fifty-one candles. I am the only one you say who ever geb you a birthday cake. I am terribly down and depressed: my tears really don’t stop a minute and I feel a big fool in life. Please make enquiries about the life insurance and the limit for suicide as I begged you above I think it is three years. Saturday I leave for Rome, then to Zurich again, then for Berlin to see my friends. But though I travel and travel, I know I have fail in life. You have shown me this. Why is this? And I thought you promised me so much! How fate makes us a great fool, all of us.
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