The Hormone Factory: A Novel

by Saskia Goldschmidt

  Diane was one tough broad, accustomed to being the only female among men. Having apparently decided to become one of the guys, she had succeeded admirably. She could drink anyone under the table, told the dirtiest jokes, and laughed at them louder than anyone else. She wore her hair cropped short and was usually dressed in tight pants and a form-fitting turtleneck that showed off her curves to perfection. People who jump to superficial conclusions would call her butch—big mistake. She was blessed with a fiery sensuality and exercised it with unblushing abandon. Besides Rivka, she was probably the woman I was fondest of in all my life. I once blurted out that she was a female version of myself, since we both suffered from the kind of libido that’s so insistent it can’t stand delay; often we’d start tearing our clothes off and fall on each other half-dressed in the most unlikely places.

  “Me, a version of you?” she grinned, giving my balls a friendly squeeze. “What a sexist monkey you are, Motke. I’d say, instead, that you are a male version of me …” Pulling me by the hair, she pushed me back onto the bed for another round.

  She was a fanatic researcher; if she was on to something, she could spend day and night at the lab without eating, keeping herself going with short naps, which she took curled up on a blanket under a lab bench, only to return to work refreshed and ready for action. She was one of a group of biochemists who’d discovered a potent new compound that turned out to be effective in combating tuberculosis. That invention, and the speed with which we were able to rush the resulting drug to market, meant that by the end of the fifties the TB sanatoria began running out of patients and could be put to other uses.

  If Diane permitted herself a lunch break, she’d go to her favorite dining spot, Horn & Hardart, a dirt-cheap automat, where after choosing an item from one of the chrome self-serve compartments, she’d gobble down her Salisbury steak in the company of longshoremen and textile workers. At night she liked to hang out in one of the jazz clubs in the Village and listen to John Coltrane, Miles Davis, or Dizzy Gillespie, sipping whiskey at the bar while waiting for one of the little front-row tables to open up so she could watch the stars from up close and egg them on with encouraging wisecracks. Sometimes I’d find her at the Savoy Ballroom, a Harlem dive, working up a sweat boogying until deep into the night, one of the only white faces in a sea of black dancers. She’d be back in the lab early the next day with no visible ill effects from alcohol or lack of sleep, intent on her work once more. Diane Drabble was vivacious proof positive that a scientist didn’t have to be dull or insipid. And she was one of those rare women who indulge wholeheartedly in all forms of sexual pleasure; she wasn’t shy about initiating sex, and was indefatigable, unembarrassed, and quite uninterested in commitment or getting tied down. That was another thing we had in common.

  For several years we saw each other regularly, but only when I happened to be in New York for my work. She refused to make any arrangements ahead of time, and never wanted to know when I was going to be in the Big Apple.

  “Surprise me,” she said, “because if it gets routine, it’ll become a drag, and then, I’m warning you, we’re through.”

  So I would catch her unawares at her lab, or show up late at night in the Five Spot or one of the other clubs she liked to frequent, sneaking up on her from behind, grabbing her tits, squeezing her tight, and mouthing something lascivious in her ear. Our encounters usually ended up in her tousled bed on the top floor of a tenement building. She was stubborn in her refusal to come back with me to my posh hotel room, because she claimed that the swanky atmosphere would ruin her mood.

  “In a bogus setting like that, what’s authentic and true becomes vulgar and sleazy.” So went one of her pet peeves. “I love being a shameless tramp, but I don’t want to be looked down on by people who put on airs thinking they’re better than everyone else just because they’re rich. How you, Motke, with your magnificently depraved ways, can stand such a phony world is beyond me.”

  The truth was that I did come from that world, the one she loathed from the very bottom of her heart. Being with her allowed me to escape, however briefly, a life where status and outward appearances were the only things that counted, and to dip my toe in the liberated waters of her bohemian world—short detours into a life governed by a wholly different set of rules. A life where I was an outsider, where nothing was expected of me except to provide my Drabble with the sexual satisfaction she craved, and where I could indulge myself to my heart’s content. I would not admit it to anyone, but I couldn’t wait for the moment when I could throw myself on Diane Drabble, my wild gypsy temptress, again.

  47 …

  Rivka and Diane were the real women in my life. All the others were just extras, walk-ons who did give my life some color and pizzazz, but were otherwise interchangeable and expendable. Mizie? Ah well, you could call her my caretaker in old age, and in that sense she does mean more to me, I suppose, than some chick who just happened to cross my path.

  The women I truly loved were Diane and Rivka—well, the younger version, anyway, the feisty, happy-go-lucky girl who was such a good sport about following me out to the provincial boondocks. But that Rivka was gone for good; the disastrous events of 1938 and the long war years that followed had turned her into—I can’t put it any other way—a bitter old sourpuss.

  Rivka blamed the Dutch for delivering her family and friends to the henchmen, and she was only too happy never to have to return to our hick town. I left her and the kids well taken care of; she lacked for nothing financially. The only contact I had with my ex in those postwar years was over the phone, when there were important money matters to be decided. At first I did make an effort to see my girls whenever I was in London, but their mother was always coming up with reasons why it was inconvenient. My invitations to have my daughters come and spend their vacations with me were likewise rejected again and again, until one day Rivka told me point-blank that I should stop bothering them. It seemed my daughters wanted nothing to do with me, and from then on Rivka wouldn’t stand for them to be left alone with me.

  “But why not?” I’d asked her, astonished. “Why can’t my daughters be with me?” There was such a long silence that for an instant I thought the connection had been broken. Then it dawned on me what her silence meant to suggest.

  “Rosie was younger than Rachel is now …” she snapped. “I don’t think we need to go into it any further.” She hung up.

  Rivka had poisoned our daughters against me. I didn’t know what to do about it and just hoped that one day they would grow curious about their dad. As the years went by, I was sometimes asked to attend events where a parent’s presence is indispensable, such as graduations and, later, weddings. Then I would play the role of father to the girls whom I was forbidden to see otherwise; none of them ever made any attempt to get to know me better.

  Only Ezra, my youngest, was left to me, and the bond I was able to build with him made up for a lot. When he was eight years old, his uncaring mother sent him to an exclusive boarding school, as is the custom in England, freeing up her time so that she was able to obtain a degree; eventually she worked her way up to become the head of an international antipoverty organization. The life she thus made for herself went counter to anything that could possibly smack of her marriage to the worst capitalist on earth. Except for the generous alimony, naturally, which she continued to accept for the rest of her life with neither a squeak of protest nor a token of gratitude.

  Ezra spent most of his vacations with me. I took him along on business trips all over Europe, and he drank it all in with an avidity I loved to see—the fast life of airplanes and limousines, of having the red carpet rolled out for us everywhere we went. He loved staying in fancy hotels, where the staff indulged his every whim. His toddler tantrums had been redirected into buoyant energy and an almost irrepressible curiosity. He’d cruise the corridors of Farmacom, peppering everyone he met with questions, and loved to visit the lab animals in their pens. There he’d pet the monkeys, dogs, and rabbits
, explaining to each animal in detail what had been done to it to make it cringe, shaking and whimpering, in a corner of its cage, and then he’d insist on giving the researchers his observations, whether they wanted to hear them or not. Sometimes they’d let him peer through the microscopes or assist the technicians with simple experiments. He was adept at attracting attention and charmed people with his curiosity and his bluster, his quick mind and intelligent questions; he was a real joker too, which made him a hit everywhere he went.

  At night, his energy all used up, he would allow old Marieke to mollycoddle him. Before being sent up to bed, he liked to climb onto her lap as if she were his granny and snuggle his head against her chest, his restless hands playing with her lace collar as she read to him from books that were still kept in the dismantled children’s bedrooms, silent remnants of a forgotten life.

  I think I must have spoiled him rotten. I loved seeing his rapturous delight, the raucous cries of joy, the dancing around the room and exuberant hugs smothering me half to death that greeted every gift—every Erector Set he received, every bike, every watch, every ski vacation, and, later on, the cars and houses. The enthusiasm of that boy filled me with warmth; it was worth every penny.

  Ezra hardly ever mentioned his mother, whom he seldom saw, and when he did refer to her, it was with some bitterness. He never asked me about our failed marriage or about the time when we’d still lived together as a family, which he barely remembered.

  48 …

  One fine day—it was sometime in 1958—I flew to New York for a working visit to our U.S. subsidiary to discuss with the executive team several new developments, including the discovery of a new category of pharmaceuticals to alleviate psychological complaints. Levine had been the one to come up with the name “soul hormones” for our discoveries after observing time and again that these substances affected not only the patient’s physical condition, but the psychological as well. Our firm’s newest offshoot, therefore, would focus on the human soul; specifically, on a remedy that had originated in the Himalayan mountains, where for centuries the inhabitants had been using the roots of a certain shrub as an antidote for snakebites. It was found that this “snakeroot” not only lowered high blood pressure, but also had a salutary effect on patients with mental disorders. At roughly the same time, a new synthetic compound was developed that was capable of calming down frenzied mental patients, while at another lab, certain antihistamines were found to be effective against depression. Taken together, these developments demanded a quick response in what came to be called the psycho-pharmaceutical field. It was to pay off for us in a big way.

  I had checked into the Waldorf Astoria, that crown jewel of the Art Deco era and one of my favorite places to stay, not just on account of the luxurious accommodations, but also because of the draw of its famous Peacock Alley. I liked to think that this lovely space, this ebony-paneled, marble-pillared gem of refined elegance, was named after me (pauw means “peacock” in Dutch)—a piece of forgivable indulgence on my part. But what I really liked about that lobby was that, positioned at regular intervals among the palm trees lining the many seating nooks, there were ornamental display cases exhibiting the most up-to-date gadgets and inventions—the best new products on the domestic American market. There one could admire the cream of the crop, America’s splendid merchandise, exemplifying a nation that was fast becoming the world’s greatest commercial success story. To my mind, these exhibits perfectly embodied the successful merger of art and commerce.

  One of these coveted items, only recently launched but already on the verge of conquering the world, was a can of hair-spray. This aerosol product finally promised to give the ladies some guarantee that their beehive hairdos would stay firmly in place. Before this clever invention, women had had to make do with natural materials like gum resin or clay to tame their unruly hair into some kind of style. Here, for the first time, was an effective alternative. The pink cans, with their brightly contrasting caps, were lined up triumphantly inside the stylish cases. The cheerful slogan gushed, Go Gay Girls are discovered first! I decided right then and there to buy a few cans to take home with me, as gifts for some of my women friends. I dreamed of seeing our own pharmaceutical wares promoted in this illustrious hall someday, but the fact that we were a Dutch company precluded that possibility for now. In my imagination, however, I furnished one of the cases with that menstruation-regulating pill our lab was so feverishly working on. Or would the hotel rule such a product too controversial and ban it from the hallowed hall of fame?

  It was late afternoon; I had just arrived and was looking forward to surprising Diane. It had been a while since we’d seen each other, for I hadn’t been there in almost a year. I was savoring a whiskey in Peacock Alley as I lazily opened the letter the reception desk had handed me when I checked in.

  My dear Motke, it said in Diane’s recognizable scrawl. My heart leaped, as did my beast. But then I noticed the letter was dated some weeks back.

  By the time you read this I’ll be dead. I have breast cancer and it’s metastasized, so I’ve decided to take my fate into my own hands. A sorry decline and drawn-out suffering—you know that’s not me. I’ve been storing up a bunch of pills, and tonight I’m going to wash them down with a bottle of whiskey. I’ve bought the latest Coltrane, Stardust—the title suits my last voyage, don’t you think? I’ll let the sounds of the master carry me off, and I don’t expect it to be all that bad, dying. My only regret is that I can’t finish my work on the female hormone; it does appear to be capable of preventing pregnancy. But as you know, I’m not the only one working on it, and it’ll definitely be a go, with or without me. I have no doubt you’ll turn it into gold. It may even set off a revolution! I hope that it does. I hope it helps all those uptight prigs break out of their shells.

  I’m sorry there’s no time left for one last night with you. The pain is getting worse. I don’t want to be trapped by the doctors who’ll want to keep me alive at all costs; I’m getting out of here while I still can. So you’ll just have to go to the Five Spot without me. Please go there and have a drink on me.

  I don’t know if I was ever in love with you, but I do want to thank you for the fun we had together, and for being the one man who never felt the need to own me.

  Be well, and don’t ever let yourself be tied down!

  Love, Diane

  Slowly I unglued my eyes from the sheet of paper with the tightly packed script and became aware once more of the women tottering in their high heels, the swaggering men, the painted walls and the intricate carpet. It was as if I were suddenly seeing the splendor around me through a scrim of gray. An infinite feeling of grief washed over me. Diane had been the light of my life, although I had never had the courage to admit it to her, knowing I’d be roundly mocked if she ever got wind of it. Her refusal to be tied down was far more deeply held than my own vaunted independence. Her aversion to any kind of commitment sometimes made me wonder what deeply ingrained fear might be at the bottom of it. But we never spoke about it. I certainly never asked. I’d had no idea that she was ill. Diane had always been evasive about anything personal, and seemed determined to live only in the here and now.

  Although it was business that drew me to New York, the nights spent in the company of my wild Drabble had always given my stays a special luster. Now, for the first time, I felt like a fish out of water in my prized Peacock Alley. I was overcome with almost sickening revulsion as I gazed at the well-to-do, the spoiled princesses and trust-fund babies strutting around this hushed sanctuary of sham glitz and feigned glamour. I was disgusted by the fine airs of the extravagantly dressed, hustling beau monde, pretending to be engrossed in one another but painfully aware of being in a place where they came to see and be seen. They all seemed to be trying to present themselves in the most flattering light, scanning the room like animals on the prowl, intent on not letting any famous quarry get away. A white-gloved waiter standing next to my yellow leather chair leaned across the table to pick u
p the empty whiskey tumbler and, depositing it on the elegant silver tray, asked in a hushed voice if he could bring me anything else. I shook my head and got to my feet; I couldn’t wait to get out of there. Peacock Alley suddenly felt like enemy territory to me, an insult to Diane Drabble’s memory.

  I took a taxi down to the Village, intending to stroll around the neighborhood my Drabble had been so fond of. I couldn’t make myself head straight to the Five Spot; the thought of Diane’s absence there was unbearable. I drifted aimlessly through the winding streets, dodging the pipe-chewing men in shabby secondhand jackets and girls in boyish haircuts and tight black turtlenecks hanging out on street corners or packed into one of the crowded bars from which escaped the occasional plaintive blare of a trumpet or saxophone. I felt out of place in my suit and tie; the royal merchant had no business being there without his wild bohemian chick at his side, the girl who’d been his ticket for entry into this world.

  I ended up in a sleazy dive, bleak and dreary, where a young, badly dressed female bartender was kept busy supplying a lonely drunk at one end of the bar with shots of rum. I hoisted myself up onto a rickety barstool, as far away as possible from the wino, and got the skinny, drab-looking barmaid to pour me a double whiskey. She stared at me, and I could tell from her expression that I was an unusual apparition in a place like this. Behind her was a drinks cabinet filled with a mishmash of bottles with faded labels carelessly arranged on chipped, peeling shelves, backed by a filthy, greasy mirror that wasn’t inclined to reflect anything. The girl held her arms crossed in front of her chest, her dark eyes fixed gloomily on the floor. The minutes ticked by as we lolled there, three lost souls, each in our own separate world. Every once in a while the silence was broken by some unintelligible outburst from the drunkard, upon which a snarled “Shut up, Toby!” from the girl would send him back into his blurry alcoholic haze, like a dog kicked back into its kennel. Now and again, at a sign from the intoxicated Toby or from me, the girl would refill our glasses, until finally the barfly hauled himself laboriously off his stool and, with much writhing and squirming, pulled a wad of dollars out of his back pocket and slapped it down onto the counter before making his exit, staggering and muttering to himself. In the doorway he turned and yelled at the top of his voice, for the first time quite distinctly, “Beware, beware, the Ides of March!” He shook his fist in the air like some ancient prophet in a B-movie before hobbling out into the night, lunging at the walls for support.