Treason if You Lose

by Peter Rimmer

  “Sonja,” she said quietly so no one else could hear, a professional who knew her job without having to be asked a question.

  Liking the girl just a little, Gerry took a sip of his wine, first raising his glass to Harry Brigandshaw in the hope of cementing the deal he hoped they would make before Harry left for Africa.

  Then he turned back to the girl he had hired for the evening, putting his hand on her knee just under the table, the girl moving his hand far down and back up again, over the silky smoothness of her flesh, making Gerry forget everything else in the room. Then he smiled; if there was one thing Gerry hated in life it was amateurs and this girl was not an amateur. ‘If a job’s to be done, do it properly,’ he told himself, the girl stopping his hand just before he reached her panties. ‘The rest, as it should do, would come later,’ he told himself removing his hand.

  Idly he wondered how old she was, a question, like all the other times, he never asked. She did her job. He did his by paying her. It was the law of life. The way it should be. The way he liked. Emotions, when it came to women, always got in his way.

  Then his eyes strayed back to Genevieve, one of the few women who had come into his life and got away. Maybe it was the challenge of one still to be had that kept him going. Kept him making his films. And, like old Jacob at the end of the table, kept him making the money that kept the world going round. The money, without which everything in the modern world, a world they were all forced to live in, would stop. Trade, he told himself, it was all about trading. Keeping the flow of money going from one to the other.

  “Is she all right, Harry?” he heard Jacob say as he brought his mind back to the guests at the table. Making the world go round.

  “They are all all right, Sir Jacob,” said Tinus, bringing Gerry out of his private thoughts.

  Then Gerry watched the three of them look at each other across the table, Gerry wondering who they were talking about, his mind racing, looking for an angle in his ongoing battle with Rosenzweig. What could young Tinus Oosthuizen know about that could interest Jacob Rosenzweig so intensely? Like remembering the young man’s name, a name that had confirmed after the meeting with Brigandshaw, there was something else to be found out about Jacob Rosenzweig; information in Gerry’s world was often as important to trade with as money. At least the young girl who had come with Genevieve was flirting with him. Probably wanted a part in a film. Again, he would find out her name. Unlike some people, Gerry was no good at remembering names until he needed them. He was in New York another few days. Gerry only liked young girls. Then the girl smiled at him, making up his mind; she was worth a small fling. Who knows, he said to himself, she might even be worth a part in a film.

  As evenings went in New York, it was a pleasant one. Generally, people were getting what they wanted including the woman at the end of the long table who, once again, had touched the diamond necklace decorating her throat. ‘Bugger must have spent a fortune,’ Gerry told himself, wondering why.

  For Harry Brigandshaw there was an element of déjà vu. The weekends at Hastings Court, surrounded by strangers with everyone in the same boat trying to have a good time, reminded Harry of the dinner party. What people wanted to say to each other was left unsaid in favour of trivial, polite conversation or a dissertation on poets that Harry suspected bored Max Pearl as much as everyone else.

  Jacob wanted to talk about Rebecca to Tinus, the last in the room to see his daughter and grandchildren. Gerry Hollingsworth wanted his money for the film. Robert wanted Freya who was back in California looking after their children. Genevieve would have preferred to be alone with Tinus by the look of her watching his nephew. And the young girl, hanging on every word spoken by Gerry Hollingsworth, would have more likely preferred to talk about getting herself a part in a movie.

  For Harry, the only way to talk to friends was around a campfire. With the lions roaring in the background. His back to a log. The Zambezi River at his feet. The crimson red of an African sunset reflected in the slowly moving surface of the river. The sparks from the big fire rising to the lower boughs of the riverine trees as the birds of Africa called out to each other, telling each other where they were roosting for the night for when the quickly fading light was too dim to see. To have around him men sparring with their words. So when they spoke what they said was worth the listening. Something of value to add to the mutual pleasure of watching the fire burn. The day’s travels in the bush tired all their bones. Each with an eye on their own spot on the ground where they would sleep round the same fire, taking turns to feed it to keep the predators from coming too close. Each doing in his turn what was necessary from individual habits formed from years of living in the bush. Tomorrow’s breakfast baking deep underneath the dead ashes of last night’s fire wrapped in river mud clay, the birds cooking just right for the dawn.

  He was a much simpler man than those sitting around him at the dining table other than Tinus. All the great display of wealth would never for Harry compare to the Zambezi River, the morning calls of Egyptian geese echoing stridently in the dawn. Only in Africa was he free to roam without the questions, the rules, the obligations. What had made men live cheek by jowl with each other in great cities was beyond Harry’s comprehension. Rebecca was the lucky one, living on Elephant Walk.

  “Jacob, do you ever take a holiday?” he asked during a lull in the conversation.

  “Where would you like us to go, Harry?”

  “Elephant Walk. My nephew and I are going out to the farm when we leave America. I have the mind to build a great dam across the Mazoe River to irrigate thousands of acres of oranges. Tinus has made a preliminary study. Why don’t you come with us? Fly to England and take the boat to Cape Town. Fly to Salisbury. Ralph will meet us at the station.”

  “Are you looking for money to build the dam?”

  “No, Jacob. As I said on the phone, I wish to give you some of my money to invest in America.”

  Only when Harry had finished talking did he realise everyone else had stopped too.

  “Bring Vida, Jacob. Give her a holiday. Maybe Africa will be to your liking.”

  “Oh, I’ll like it all right. But what would Rebecca say? Never go where you’re not wanted, Harry.”

  “It was her idea to Tinus,” Harry lied.

  “Who is Rebecca?” asked Vida into the silence.

  “My estranged daughter,” said Jacob. “Ralph is my son-in-law.”

  “I can look after Abercrombie Place while you travel,” she smiled.

  “Anyway, the invitation stands,” said Harry trying to recoil from what was becoming an awkward situation. “If war breaks out the journey may be impossible. Why I am going so soon. Like here in New York, I want to have my affairs in order in Africa before the world goes mad again.”

  “Vida, shall we all take coffee in the lounge?” said Jacob Rosenzweig getting to his feet, his crumpled napkin left next to his half-finished bowl of apple crumble.

  When Jacob reached the lounge ahead of the rest of them he dabbed his eyes and recovered his self-control, the invitation, coming out of the blue, having caught him unawares. What was so far away was suddenly very close. The girl called Amy brought in the coffee but the evening was over. Like a sand castle on the beach at Brighton Jacob had watched as a child when the sea came in, all his hard work was collapsing in front of his eyes. The others were making their excuses to go their respective ways. No one liked being made to feel uncomfortable.

  Harry Brigandshaw was the first to leave, the one with nothing to lose, avoiding Gerry Hollingsworth on his way out with his nephew, Genevieve and her friend close behind. Robert St Clair, was the next to go. Max Pearl, drunk, closely followed. Hollingsworth was all for sitting around for a nightcap by the look of him, the girl he had brought not caring one way or the other. There was only one way to get rid of Hollingsworth in a hurry.

  “Gerry, you’ve got your money for Holy Knight,” said Jacob, tired of all the innuendo.

  “Wonderful, Jacob. We’d
better be off. Lovely evening. Everyone thoroughly enjoyed themselves. I’ll come across with the papers tomorrow.”

  “You do that.”

  “Here’s my card,” he said to the girl leaving behind Genevieve. “Give me a call.”

  “Thank you, Mr Hollingsworth.”

  “Call me Gerry.”

  Genevieve, half out the door, came back and took her friend by the hand.

  “Goodnight, Mr Hollingsworth,” said Genevieve pointedly.

  Then they were alone, Jacob and Vida, the diamond necklace no longer quite as important.

  “We’re not going to Africa, are we?”

  “No, Vida.”

  “She’ll always be your daughter. That can never change. Like your love for each other. Thank you for the diamonds. It’s late. Let us go to bed so I can rub your shoulders.”

  “I can’t change anything.”

  “None of us can, Jacob.”

  “The food was perfect. She and the children are safe in Africa. You are lucky to be out of Germany. The situation there is only getting worse… Tell me, what else can a man do?” he said after a long pause.

  In the taxi on the way back to the hotel where they were staying on the same floor as Genevieve they were quiet. Harry had paid for another taxi to take the young girl home, Harry not wishing to face another unfortunate moment. The girl had still been clutching the business card given to her by Gerry Hollingsworth.

  “Do you think he means it, Genevieve?” the young girl had asked as her taxi arrived.

  “Oh, he means it. It’s just what he means is different to what you think is going to happen.”

  “Does it matter if I get a part in a film?”

  “Probably not.”

  The girl had been smiling as she climbed into the back of her taxi while Harry was busy giving the driver money and the girl’s address.

  “Why did you bring her tonight, Genevieve? You know I don’t play around.”

  “To help balance the table places a little, Uncle Harry. To give the girl a chance.”

  “Will she get one?”

  “Depends on Mr Hollingsworth. There are hundreds looking for fame and fortune. Do you think it matters?”

  “Probably not. If it doesn't bother her afterwards. None of us are saints even though we like to think so.”

  They were almost back at the Independence Hotel before Harry spoke.

  “Like trying to help Bergit von Lieberman, I just think I’ve done more harm than good.”

  “She didn’t ask me to invite her father to the farm,” said Tinus.

  “I know, I lied. He won’t come. Some family rifts are so deep they can never be crossed. I was a fool. Should have kept my mouth shut. Well, Tinus, are we going to invest some of my money in making a film of Holy Knight?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Neither do I. My bet is tomorrow, when I see Jacob, he won’t mention Rebecca… Do you think that girl is just after his money?”

  No one in the car answered the question.

  For some reason, Genevieve was brought to mind of William Smythe when the taxi stopped outside her hotel. Then she remembered: the Independence was the same hotel she and William had had their one-night stand. Thinking she was no better than the rest of them, she said goodnight downstairs and went up alone in the lift to go to her room. There she felt empty. As if her world had nothing in it worthwhile. That being a star of film was hollow with nothing inside. Tinus had not even tried to take their friendship where she wanted it to go.

  “By the time I’m thirty I’ll be as hard as nails like that girl with her claws in old Jacob.”

  It was a long time into the night before Genevieve began to fall asleep. After all, Cousin George had missed nothing however much he had wanted to go to the dinner party.

  “He’s going back to Rhodesia and that damn farm,” she had said to the empty room before dropping off. “So will Uncle Harry, if he gets the chance. Life just goes on round and round, no one seeming to get anywhere.”

  She had heard Sir Jacob Rosenzweig confirm the money to Gerry Hollingsworth for Holy Knight. Her last thought before falling asleep was about Gerry Hollingsworth. At least someone had got what he wanted. Racking her brain, she could not now remember the name of the girl she had brought to the party. Maybe the girl too had got what she wanted. Genevieve hoped so.

  She woke once briefly before the dawn, thinking of Tinus in panic. In her nightmare his aircraft had been going down in flames into the sea. When she went back to sleep she was straight back into her nightmare, tossing and turning, soaking the sheets with her sweat.

  In the morning she found the bed in a mess and her head was aching. She had missed breakfast, looking at her watch. Uncle Harry and Tinus would have gone about their business in New York. Turning over, Genevieve went back to sleep and slept until lunchtime. The phone ringing brought her awake.

  “We’ve got the money.”

  “I know. Heard him last night.”

  “But today he signed. Come and have lunch, Genevieve.”

  “Why not? I’ve got nothing else to do.”

  “I’ll be right over. Don’t go away.”

  Thinking that life could be a lot worse, Genevieve resigned herself to her fate.

  3

  The meeting at the Rosenzweig Bank with Jacob was not what Harry expected. Rebecca was not mentioned, as if the subject had never come up, as if his daughter living on Harry’s farm in Rhodesia was none of their business. Behind an office desk, Sir Jacob Rosenzweig was a lot more formal. Two other men were in the meeting. They owned a factory on the outskirts of Chicago that made and filled tin cans, the same cans that had been used to send food to the troops fighting the Germans in the trenches during the last war. The machinery in the factory required replacement to treble the output of the factory.

  After the war, Harry and Tinus were quickly told, the factory had been allowed to run down as the demand for canned food dropped when the armies of Europe went home to lick their wounds and eat fresh food forever after, disdaining anything that came out of a tin. The two men wanted a large amount of money. Harry was asked if he would help.

  “What security?” asked Tinus, taking hold of the discussion.

  “When that war of yours starts all over again, buddy, Tender Meat will be awash with money. You can charge an army what you like, the same way we did last time.”

  “Can you now?” said Harry, the sarcasm lost on the two men from Chicago.

  “You can bet your bottom dollar.”

  “So how does my uncle fit in?”

  “You give us the money and get a big fat interest for doing nothing. Two per cent over the bank rate. How does that sound, junior?”

  “And if war doesn’t break out?”

  “Buddy, that just isn’t going to happen the way you lot in Europe are sparring with each other.”

  “So we take the risk and you take the profit?”

  “Buddy, we do the work. That’s just how it works. This is America. You English want to make money, you got to listen to Uncle Sam.”

  “What has the American government got to do with this ‘deal’, as you put it in America? And I am not English. A colonial, like yourself.”

  “We kicked out the British back when. No offence, Jacob. We’re Americans.”

  “I would require five years’ accounts. Full balance sheets. Full profit and loss accounts. Audited, of course.”

  “What the hell for? You’re just lending us money. Isn’t that right, Jacob?”

  “If you require my uncle’s money to restart your moribund factory we would require forty per cent of your equity and two seats on your board.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “To make sure we get back our money. To share with you the reward, sixty per cent of something is better for you than one hundred per cent of nothing if these figures presented by the bank are correct. If you wish my uncle to join your gamble on the outbreak of war in Europe, we wish to share the pro
fit. Interest at two per cent over the bank rate and our purchase of forty per cent of the net worth of Tender Meat which on these figures is worth nothing. Your machinery is out of date. You don’t own the building of the factory or the land. You barely at present make a profit. Our gamble is whether you know how to restart what was once a successful factory using your past experience. Without our money, gentlemen, it is my opinion you will go bankrupt within the next two years.”

  “You’ve got to be joking, junior.”

  “I never joke with other people’s money.”

  “We don’t have five years’ audited figures.”

  “Then you don’t have a deal. My uncle has another appointment down town in twenty minutes. We have to hurry, Uncle Harry. I’m sure Sir Jacob will fill our friends in with the rest of the requirements if they wish to borrow our money. Good day, sir. Good day, gentlemen. I did so enjoy the dinner party, Sir Jacob.”

  “Very much so,” said Harry lamely as Tinus got up to leave the office, the only man standing.

  “We’ll be in touch,” Tinus added.

  Outside down in the street looking for a taxi Tinus was grinning.

  “We don’t have another appointment, Tinus,” said Harry. “That was the only one scheduled today.”

  “War profiteers. Making money out of dead soldiers. We can throw the whole bloody thing out on the balance sheets. Those two I wouldn’t trust further than I could throw them. Tender Meat indeed. By the time you get anything into a tin can it has to be tender.”