“Yes. Explain it to me, Nonie.”
“I’ll try. Now please try to follow me closely, Mother. It works like this. The dollar fluctuates from day to day, from minute to minute, against the Japanese yen, the Swiss franc, the German mark, even the Canadian dollar. There’s money to be made whichever way the dollar goes, up or down, it doesn’t matter. And my friend Roger is an expert—an ace, an absolute ace—on these trades. I mean, it’s as though he wrote the book on the subject, Mother.”
“You see? I was right. Foreign money.”
“Please listen, Mother. There’s nothing illegal about it. The biggest banks in the country do this sort of thing, and it’s so easy! Listen. He gave me a demonstration the other day, right in my apartment, of how it works. He telephoned Zurich, right from my apartment, and said he was interested in buying five million U.S. dollars. He was quoted the prevailing rate, which was seven million, six hundred and fifty-five Swiss francs. I know this, Mother, because I heard the quote. Roger had me listen to his calls on an extension. One minute later—one minute, Mother—the rate had crept up fifteen hundredths of a Swiss centime, and the moment that happened Roger made another call to a bank in Chicago, offering to sell five million dollars. If he had, his profit from the trade would have been twelve thousand, five hundred francs—or about eight thousand dollars. That’s eight thousand dollars a minute, Mother! Hypothetically, of course, because Roger was just demonstrating how it worked to me. But that’s what the profit would have been if an actual trade had been made. Think of it, Mother! Eight thousand dollars a minute, and Roger can make hundred of these trades a day. Isn’t it exciting? I knew you’d think so.”
Her mother says nothing. The little dog hops now from her mistress’s lap and settles on the floor beside her feet. “Where’s Itty-Bitty going now?” her mother asks. “Oh, there you are, sweetheart,” she says, nudging the animal with her toe.
“Our plan is to start small,” Nonie continues, “right in my apartment. Of course, we’d have to install lots of extra telephone lines, because this business involves being on the telephone, all over the world, all day long, and even into the night with some markets, handling many different calls at once. Eventually, of course, we’ll hire a staff and move into an office—probably in the Wall Street area, where the action is. But we’ll be making hundreds of thousands a day right from day one, Mother. And you’d be paid back in no time. If it’s to be a loan, we’ll pay you back with interest. Or, if you decide to buy stock in our company, you’ll get income from dividends. You can’t lose, Mother, either way!”
Once more, her mother says nothing. Then she says, “If this man is so smart, why isn’t he rich?”
“He needs seed money, Mother. It’s called seed money. He needs a sponsor, a patron. Every genius needs a patron.” She looks up at her mother’s art-crowded walls and has an inspiration, a small one, but an appropriate one. “Even Michelangelo couldn’t have painted the things he did if he hadn’t had a patron!”
“And so you’re to be his patron. Or rather, I am.”
“Just to get us started, Mother. And for such a little amount of money. Would you like me to bring him by and have him demonstrate to you how simply it all works?”
“Frankly, I didn’t like his looks, Nonie,” her mother says.
“You didn’t like his looks? But how can you tell what he looked like, Mother, when you can’t—”
“I can smell a man’s looks,” her mother says quickly.
“If you smelled anything about him, it was Mimi’s new cologne! I saw him splash some on his hands before he sat down to dinner.”
“I smelled him before he splashed the cologne on,” her mother says firmly. “He had an oily smell. He smelled like a greaser. That’s what your father would have called a man like that—a greaser.”
“But he’s not! He’s a graduate of the Harvard Business School.”
“Is he? I wonder. He didn’t talk like a Harvard man. Edwee’s a Harvard man, and Edwee doesn’t talk like that. I don’t even believe that Roger Williams is his real name. It sounds like a made-up name to me. Roger Williams sounds like the name of some hotel.”
“But it is his name.”
Once again, her mother says nothing, gazing emptily into space, and stroking Itty-Bitty’s back with the tip of her toe.
“This is my one big chance, Mother.”
Softly, her mother begins, “How many other big chances have I given you money for, Nonie? The dress shop, the restaurant, the—what was it?—oh, yes, the fashion magazine. All of them cost me money, these big chances of yours. I am not a bottomless pit.”
“Those were … bad luck, I admit. It was bad luck, bad advice, untrustworthy partners. But don’t you think I’ve learned something from my mistakes?”
“Have you?”
“Oh, yes! I have! I’ve learned to be much tougher. I’ve learned to be … like Mimi, and look what she’s done! Oh, Mother, please—give me one last chance! Edwee’s been given the money to do what he wants. Even Henry was given a chance! Oh, Mother, I’m not getting any younger. Please give me one last chance to become somebody, the person I deserve to be!” In a sudden gesture that she knows would displease her mother if she could see her, Nonie flings herself to her knees on the floor in front of her mother’s chair and stretches her arms across her mother’s lap, which is still warm from Itty-Bitty. “Mother, do you see what I am doing? I am begging you. I am begging you for one last chance. I am begging you on bended knee!”
“Stand up, Nonie,” her mother says quietly. “That’s undignified. It’s unladylike. Are you sleeping with this man?”
“No!”
“Then stand up. Stop acting like a child.”
Rising, Nonie sobs, “It’s just that I want this … I want it … so much …”
“Why don’t you ask Edwee for the money? He’s rich. Or Mimi? She’s rich, too.”
“I couldn’t … humiliate myself like that. To ask Mimi for money. She’s my niece. And Edwee—I don’t trust Edwee. Edwee is a sneak.”
Her mother nods. “You’re right about that,” she says. “I hate to say that about my own son, but you’re right. Edwee is a sneak. Sneakiness has always been Edwee’s problem.”
“Then who else? Who else can I turn to?” She extracts a hanky from her Hermès bag and blows her nose noisily into it, aware that the sound is harsh and unpleasant.
Her mother’s eyes gaze vacantly into space. When she speaks now her normally fluty voice is hard and even. “How much have I given you over the years, Nonie, for your various enterprises? Thirty million? Would that be a good ballpark figure? Thirty million, over the years, and that’s not counting what it cost me to bail you out of three marriages. People used to say I was no good with figures, but when figures like that come out of my pocketbook, I keep track. Did it ever occur to you that is more than either Edwee or Henry inherited from your father in Miray stock? And yet you say you were shortchanged. That is why I am saying to you today that I am not a bottomless pit.”
Nonie, dabbing at her eyes, at first says nothing. Then she says, “If you can’t afford five million, Mother, then how much could you lend me? As you can see, I’m desperate.”
“Five thousand.”
“Five thousand! That’s an insult, Mother! I can’t do anything with five thousand dollars. I need—”
“And let me ask you another question. Where’s my jade elephant?”
Nonie gasps. “What are you talking about?”
“My jade elephant. Han Dynasty, first century.”
“I—I don’t know anything about a jade elephant!”
“It used to sit over there,” her mother points, “on that piecrust table. It was there the last time you came to see me, in July. After you left, it was gone. No one else was in this apartment. Have you taken to pinching things from me, Nonie, as well as from other people?”
“Why—why—what a perfectly dreadful thing to accuse me of, Mother! Your own daughter, your own daught
er who—”
“Are you sure you didn’t just drop it into your purse, Nonie, as you were walking out?”
“Of course not! Obviously, one of the hotel staff—”
“I’ve lived at this hotel for fifteen years, Nonie, and I know all the staff. Nothing has ever been missing before.”
“A waiter, or a—”
“My waiter is always Eric. They always send up Eric, because they know I like him. And Eric hadn’t even been in that day. I’d lunched out.”
“What a perfectly despicable, contemptible thing to accuse me of, Mother!”
“Let me just say one thing, Nonie. It’s one thing when you come to me asking me for money. But when you start pinching my things, it’s another.”
“I can’t believe I’m sitting here listening to this sort of thing! I—”
Her mother sighs. “Well,” she says, “if you decide to sell it, don’t take it to some Third Avenue pawnshop. Take it to John Marion at Sotheby’s. It should fetch quite a nice price. If John Marion has any questions about it, refer him to me. I’ll tell him I gave it to you.” Then she says, “What time is it?”
Hesitantly, dabbing at her nose, Nonie sniffles, “Four-thirty.”
“Then I’m going to have to send you on your way, Nonie. That Mr. Greenway is coming by at five to interview me. He says I’m a living link with the past. What do you think of that? A living link with the past!”
“You’re sending me on my way on a perfectly horrid note like that? Accusing me of stealing—”
“Edwee may be sneaky, but at least he’s never stolen anything from me.”
Suddenly Nonie leans forward, close to her mother’s face, and says, “And speaking of darling Edwee, I don’t suppose you’ve heard what darling Edwee is planning to do with you.”
Her mother’s eyes snap immediately into focus. “What?”
“He’s planning to ship you off to a nursing home. In Massachusetts. He’s going to have you legally probated. He’s going to have you declared incompetent. He’s collecting witnesses to say that you’re senile and incapable of handling your own affairs. You’ll live in a tiny cell. You’ll have to give up your apartment and all your things. You’ll have to give up Itty-Bitty.”
Her mother’s hand flies to her throat. Then she reaches quickly down and scoops up her little dog and clutches it protectively against her bosom. “What?” she cries. “He can’t do that, can he? He can’t take Itty-Bitty away from me!”
“Who knows what he can do? He’s the oldest surviving son, and he’s working on it already. He’s got the nursing home all picked out; your room’s reserved.”
“You wouldn’t let him do this to me, Nonie!”
“What can I do? He’s the oldest surviving son, and he’s got all these lawyers at Dewey, Ballantine working on it. He can afford to hire forty lawyers at Dewey, Ballantine to have you put away. I can’t afford that sort of thing to fight him.”
“Mimi won’t let him! Mimi’s the boss of the company now, isn’t she? She wouldn’t let him do this sort of thing to me, would she?”
“Mimi!” Nonie cries. “Don’t you know that Mimi hates you, Mother? Hates you—because of the way you treat her mother. Like the other night, at her dinner party.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The other night. At Mimi’s dinner party. The way you lashed out at Alice.”
Her mother blinks. “I’ve been to no dinner parties at Mimi’s,” she says. “I haven’t set foot in Mimi’s house for at least two years!”
“Now, Mother. This was last Thursday night. Surely you remember. That was when you met my friend Roger Williams, remember? That was when you suddenly lashed out at poor Alice. I wish you could have seen the expression on Mimi’s face when you said what you said. It was an expression of … sheer horror, Mother. No, I don’t think Mimi feels very charitable toward you—particularly right now. Mimi’s not going to do anything to help you, Mother.”
“Well, if she hates me so, why did she ask me to dinner?”
“She probably thought you’d behave yourself. So you do remember the dinner.”
Her mother says nothing, still clutching her little dog. “Well, perhaps,” she says at last. “Perhaps I do remember. But Alice—Alice’s trouble is ingratitude. Alice has never learned the art of being grateful. Gratitude is an art she’s just never learned, that’s all. If you only knew what your father and I did, what we went through, to try to help Alice, and help Henry. Not even Mimi knows. And never so much as a word of thanks! I’ve never understood how a person could be so ungrateful!”
“Still, Alice is Mimi’s mother. And the things you said to her were not nice. Did you ever call Mimi to apologize? I’m sure not.”
“Oh, Nonie!” her mother cries suddenly. “You’ve got to help me! Will you help me, Nonie?”
Nonie dabs the last tears from her eyes with her handkerchief and replaces the handkerchief in her clutch bag. Suddenly the expression on her face is one of regained self-confidence. Gently, she reaches out and touches her mother’s knee. “What I’m suggesting,” she says almost tenderly, “is that I could try to help you, and you could try to help me. We could help each other, Mother.”
The little dog in her mother’s arms reaches down and, with its rough pink tongue, begins licking the gold bracelets that tumble from the sleeve of Nonie’s black silk suit.
The delivery men from F.A.O. Schwartz could barely maneuver the huge shipping carton through the front door of Mimi’s parents’ apartment on East 97th Street, and their job was even more ticklish since the carton was affixed with big red FRAGILE stickers. At last they had the box wedged into the narrow entrance hall, and, their job completed, they presented Mimi’s mother with the receipt form to sign.
It was Mimi’s tenth birthday, and inside the big box was a card that read, “Happy Birthday, dear Mireille, from your adoring Grandmama and Grandpapa.” Then came the chore of removing the contents of the box from many layers of white tissue paper.
It was the biggest and most beautiful dollhouse she had ever seen, and it was nearly as tall as she was. It was white with green shutters, in a Palladian style, and its front opened outward on hinges to reveal the rooms within. On the first floor was an entrance hall with a curving, carpeted staircase. On one side of this was the parlor, completely furnished with tiny sofas, chairs, tables, and lamps, all very formal. Across the hall was the dining room, with table, chairs, a pair of Victorian sideboards, a crystal chandelier, even dishes, silverware, and candlesticks to set the table with. Pictures the size of postage stamps hung from the walls. Next to this was the kitchen, with a miniature old-fashioned cookstove, an icebox that opened to reveal tiny bottles of milk, a little china loaf of bread, a cake with pink icing, a trussed chicken ready to pop into the oven. Tiny pots and pans and cooking utensils hung from hooks along the walls, and cabinets opened up to display more dishes, cups, saucers, and a larder filled with canned goods. A cookpot no bigger than a thimble stood on the kitchen stove, and on the kitchen table rested the smallest possible rolling pin beside a bowl of rising dough. Upstairs, there were three formal bedrooms, a bathroom with an old-fashioned tub and bowl, and a child’s nursery filled with dolls, stuffed animals, and a rocking horse, all fashioned to scale. On the third floor, under the gabled and dormered roof, were the prim and Spartan servants’ rooms with their little iron beds and plain wooden chests of drawers.
The dollhouse was too large to fit into Mimi’s bedroom, and so it had to be set up in a corner of the dining room. Mimi can remember sitting on the dining-room floor, introducing her two favorite dolls, Matilda and Miss Emily, to their new house, while her mother screamed at her father in the kitchen next door.
“How much do you suppose that thing cost?” her mother cried. “From Schwartz’s? Two thousand? Three thousand? Why don’t they give her something she can use? Why don’t they give us money? What did they give her last year? An ermine jacket with a matching muff and hat! Ermine! I don’t e
ven own a decent winter wool coat! Why don’t they send us money? Why don’t they help us pay for her education so that we’re not always applying for scholarships? Why is there never any money, Henry? What’s wrong with them? What’s wrong with you?”
“Do you want a divorce, Alice?” she heard her father ask.
At that point, she heard the word divorce so often that it had lost its power to terrify her. She tried not to listen to their shouting and to concentrate instead on Matilda and Miss Emily, who were seated now at their new dining table, preparing for an evening meal.
“Will you serve the soup, Matilda?” Miss Emily said.
“Certainly, Miss Emily.” The dolls were always very formal and polite with one another.
“Is that it, Alice? Do you want a divorce? Because if that’s what you want, you can have it!”
“Divorce!” her mother sobbed. “Then where will I be? What will become of me? What will become of the child?”
Mimi remembers thinking that, whenever her parents quarreled, she was always just “the child.” When they were like this, she had no name at all.
“This soup is delicious, Matilda!” Miss Emily said.
“Thank you, Miss Emily. It is made from larks’ tongues and quails’ eggs, of tiny golden apples from sunny Spain, of spices grown in the Fairy Islands, of herbs cultivated in far Cathay, of honey and hibiscus blossom and raspberry flowers, and salted with Mother’s tears.…”
“You see, Mr. Greenway,” Granny Flo is saying, “the thing that distinguished my husband from his brother, Leo, was that my husband came up with the idea of giving his colors names. I mean, he named his colors. He was the first one to do that. Before that, if a nail polish was pink, it was called pink. If it was red, it said ‘red’ on the label, and if it was clear, it said ‘clear.’ But Adolph was clever. I think I told you that his first color was from a paint that was supposed to be the color of a fire engine. So what did Adolph decide to call it? He called it ‘Three Alarm.’ Wasn’t that clever? Three Alarm caught on right away. Women liked it, and they liked the name. All those others who came later, Revlon, Arden, Rubinstein, and the rest, with their fancy names for colors—they just copied Adolph. He was the first, with Three Alarm.” Granny Flo spreads her fingers. “I remember the first time he painted my nails with Three Alarm; I thought it was so pretty. Adolph used to say that I had pretty hands, and he loved to have me wear his polishes. He liked me to wear the kind of little lace gloves that have the fingers cut out, so that I could display my fingers—and his polishes, of course! You may notice that I no longer wear nail polish. That’s not out of disloyalty to my husband. It’s because I can no longer see my fingernails, and my pretty hands, so what’s the point?”
Shades of Fortune Page 12
