He smiled pleasantly. “Naturally, it is out of the question to talk to him about it now. You can see that for yourself, Madame, for he is in terrible pain … But in a week or ten days, we might be able to hope that the worst is over. That will be the time to give him the ultimatum.”
“But it isn’t possible for him to give up work…” Gloria murmured in a strained voice. “Itjust isn’t possible …” Ghedalia said nothing. “It would kill him,” Gloria concluded nervously.
“Madame,” he replied, smiling, “believe me when I say I have seen many cases like this. Some of the most powerful men in the world are amongst my clientele, if I may say so … I once took care of a famous banker (for whom, I might add, my colleagues had unanimously declared there was no hope at all… but that’s beside the point). That gentleman suffered from the very same illness as Monsieur Golder… And my verdict was exactly the same. His friends and family feared he wouldn’t last long… Well, this great financier is still alive. It’s been fifteen years! He became a passionate and highly knowledgeable collector of Renaissance silverware, and now owns a very great number of remarkable pieces, including a silver-gilt ewer believed to be the first creation of the great Cellini, a real masterpiece … I dare say that the contemplation of such beautiful, rare objects gives him pleasures he has never before experienced. You can be sure that, after the first few weeks of inevitable restlessness have passed, your husband will also discover his… how can I put it? … his hobby. Collecting enamels, gems, taking up more worldly pleasures, perhaps? Men are just big children …”
“You fool,” thought Gloria. She was suddenly filled with bitter amusement at the idea of David spending his time with rare books, a medal collection, or other women… Good Lord, the man was an imbecile! And just how did he think they would live? Buy food? Clothes? Did he think that money grew on trees?
She stood up. “Thank you very much, Doctor,” she said, nodding to him. “I’ll think about what you’ve said…”
“Of course, I’ll keep informed of my patient’s progress,” said Ghedalia, with a little smile, “and I think it would be better to let me be the one who explains everything to him later on. It takes a lot of tact, delicacy… We doctors, alas, are used to it. We heal the soul as well as the body.”
He kissed her hand and left. She was alone.
Silently she paced the long, empty landing. She knew only too well—had always known—that he had never put aside a penny for her. Everything had been spent, gone into some business venture or other… So what now? “Millions on paper, of course, but cash in hand, nothing, not a penny,” she hissed angrily between clenched teeth. “What are you worried about?” he had said. “I’m still here …” The fool! Surely, at sixty-eight, you should consider the possibility of death every day! Wasn’t his first obligation to make sure he had left his wife a sufficient and decent amount of money? They had nothing. Once he gave up doing business, there would be nothing left. Business… a river of money that would dry up … “There might be a million,” she thought, “maybe two, ifwe scraped the bottom of the barrel…” She shrugged her shoulders furiously. The way they lived, a million would last only six months. Six months … and to cap it all, she’d have to take care of him, a useless, bedridden man who was dying. “As if I need him to live another fifteen years!” she shouted out loud, hatred in her voice. “Really… for all the happiness he’s given me! No, no …” She detested him. He was mean, old, and ugly. All he really loved in this world was money, bloody money, and he wasn’t even capable of holding on to it! He had never loved her… If he showered her with jewels, it was to make her a living symbol of his own wealth, a showcase, and ever since Joyce had started growing up, all that had been transferred to her…Joyce? Oh, he loved her, all right… Because she was beautiful, young, happy. Pride! He had nothing but pride and vanity in his heart! As for her, if she so much as asked for a diamond, a new ring, he would make such a scene, shouting, “Leave me alone! I haven’t got any more money. Are you trying to kill me?” Other men worked as hard as he. They didn’t consider themselves stronger or more intelligent than everyone else in the world, and at least, when they were old, when they died, they left their wives well provided for! Some women were so lucky, while she … The truth was he had never cared about her, never loved her. If he had, he wouldn’t have had a moment’s peace knowing that she had nothing… nothing except the pitiful little bit of money she had managed to put aside by making great sacrifices… “But that’s my money, mine and mine alone! If he thinks that I’m going to support him with that! No thank you. I’ve had it with keeping men,” she murmured, thinking of Hoyos. “No, let him sort himself out…” After all, why should she tell him the truth, for heaven’s sake? She knew very well that, with his obsessive Jewish fear of death, he would give everything up in a flash. All he’d think about would be his precious health, his own life… The selfish coward. “Is it my fault that, after all these years, he hasn’t been able to make enough money to die in peace? And right now, just when his business affairs are in such a horrible mess, it would be madness… Later on… I know what’s happening now, I’ll keep an eye on things. That deal he was talking about starting: ‘something interesting,’ he called it. After he’s made the deal, that will be the time. It could even prove useful, to stop him from getting involved in some other mad project… There will be plenty of time…”
She hesitated, glanced at the door, walked over to a small writing desk in the corner.
Dear Doctor, Iam beside myself with worry and so have decided, after careful consideration, to have my dear patient taken to Paris as a matter of urgency. Please find enclosed, with my sincerest thanks …
She threw down the pen and quickly crossed the corridor to Golder’s bedroom. The nurse wasn’t there. Golder seemed to be asleep. His hands were trembling. She glanced in his direction, then looked around until she saw his clothes lying over a chair. Picking up his jacket, she reached into the pocket, pulled out his wallet, and opened it. Inside was a single thousand-franc note, folded in four; she hid it in her hand.
The nurse came in.
“He seems calmer,” she said, nodding towards the patient.
Embarrassed, Gloria bent down and touched her husband’s cheek with her painted lips. Golder let out a moan and weakly waved his hands about, as if trying to push away her cold pearls from his chest. Gloria stood up and sighed.
“It’s better if I go. He doesn’t know who I am.”
GHEDALIA RETURNED TO the house that same evening.
“I couldn’t let Monsieur Golder leave,” he said, “without making it clear that I can accept no responsibility for him. You see, Madame, the fact is that your husband is in no condition to be moved. Perhaps I didn’t explain myself well enough this morning.
“On the contrary,” murmured Gloria, “you frightened me in a way that was perhaps… excessive?”
She fell silent; they looked at each other for a moment without speaking. Ghedalia seemed to hesitate.
“Would you like me to examine the patient again, Madame? I’m having dinner at Blues Villa, Mrs. Mackay’s house … I don’t have to be there for another half hour. I would be only too happy, I promise you, to be able to make a less distressing diagnosis.”
“Thank you,” she replied grudgingly. She showed him into Golder’s room, then went back into the drawing room and stood behind the closed door, listening; he was talking to the nurse in hushed tones. She moved away from the door, a dark look in her eyes, then went and leaned against the window.
Fifteen minutes later, he came in, rubbing his little white hands together.
“Well?”
“Well, my dear lady, there has been such an improvement that I am now inclined to believe that we are dealing with an attack brought about purely by nerves … That is to say, not by a coronary lesion… It is difficult to be absolutely certain, given our patient’s state of exhaustion, but I can confirm that as far as the future is concerned, I can already say it is cl
early possible to be entirely more optimistic. It certainly won’t be necessary for Monsieur Golder to retire for many years to come …”
“Really?” said Gloria.
“Yes.”
He remained silent, then said casually, “Still, I must reiterate that in his current condition, he must not be moved. However, you will have to do what you think best. My conscience is now clear and relieved, I must say, of a great burden.”
“Oh, there’s no question of moving him now, Doctor…”
She held out her hand to him, smiling. “I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I do hope you will agree to forget a very understandable moment of doubt and continue to care for my poor dear husband?”
He pretended to hesitate, hedged for a moment, and finally promised he would.
From then on, every day for nearly two weeks, his red and white car stopped in front of Golder’s house. After that, Ghedalia suddenly disappeared. Golder’s first conscious act, a little while later, was to sign a cheque for twenty thousand francs to pay for the doctor’s services.
On that day, they had sat the patient up on his pillows for the first time. Gloria, her arm behind his shoulders, helped him to lean forward while she held the open cheque-book in her other hand. She looked at him surreptitiously. He’d changed so much. Especially his nose … It had never been that shape before, she thought: enormous and hooked, like the nose of an old Jewish moneylender. And his flabby, trembling flesh smelled of fever and sweat. She picked up the pen that his weak hand had let fall on to the bed, splattering ink over the sheets.
“Do you feel better now, David?”
He didn’t reply. For nearly two weeks, all he had said was “I can’t breathe” or “I’m in pain,” mumbling in a strange, hoarse voice that only the nurse seemed to understand. He lay stretched out, eyes closed, his arms tight against his sides, as silent and still as a corpse. Nevertheless, when Ghedalia left, the nurse would lean over him to tuck in his sheets and whisper, “He was pleased…” and he would raise one quivering eyelid and fix her with a long, hard stare that contained a profound expression of pleading and distress. “He understands everything…” the nurse thought. And yet, even later on, when he was able to give orders, it was the same; he never asked her or anyone else what was wrong with him, how long it would last, when he could get out of bed. He seemed content with Gloria’s vague assurances: “You’ll be feeling better soon… You’re overworked… You should give up smoking, you know… Tobacco is bad for you, David… No more gambling… You’re not twenty any more…”
After Gloria left, he asked for some cards. He played patience for hours on end, a tray placed across his knees. His sight had deteriorated because of his illness; he wore his glasses all the time now, thick glasses with silver frames, so heavy that they were constantly slipping off on to the bed. He would fumble about looking for them, his trembling hands getting tangled in the folds of the sheets. When he had finished a game, he would shuffle the cards and start again.
That evening, the nurse had left the window and shutters open: it was very hot. It wasn’t until much later, when night was falling, that she tried to put a shawl across Golder’s shoulders; he pushed it away impatiently.
“There, there, you mustn’t get angry, Monsieur Golder, there’s a breeze coming in from the sea. You don’t want to get ill again.”
“Good Lord,” Golder growled, his voice weak and breathless, hesitating on every word, “when will everyone leave me the hell alone? When will I finally be able to get out of bed?”
“The doctor said at the end of the week, if the weather’s good.”
Golder frowned. “The doctor… Why doesn’t the doctor come to see me?”
“I think he’s been called to Madrid for a consultation.”
“Do … do you know him?”
She could see that anxious, eager look in his eyes. “Oh, yes, Monsieur Golder! Of course.”
“Is he really… a good doctor?”
“Very good.”
He leaned back against his cushions, lowered his eyes, then whispered, “I’ve been ill for a long time …”
“It’s all over now.”
“All over.”
He felt his chest, raised his head, stared at the nurse. “Why does it hurt here?” he suddenly asked, his lips quivering.
“There? Oh…”
She gently took his hand and put it back down on the sheet.
“You know very well, don’t you? You heard the doctor? It was an anxiety attack. Nothing serious.”
“Nothing serious?” He sighed, automatically sitting up to start playing cards again.
“So it’s not my … heart?”
He had spoken quietly and quickly, obviously very upset, and without looking at her.
“No, no,” she replied, “come on now…”
Ghedalia had given her strict instructions not to tell him the truth. Still, he’d have to be told sooner or later… But that wasn’t up to her. Poor man, he was so afraid of dying… She pointed to the cards.
“Look, you’ve made a mistake. You need the ace of clubs here, not the king. Let me see… put the nine there.”
“What day is it?” he asked, without listening to her.
“Tuesday.”
“Already? I should have been in London by now,” he said quietly.
“Oh, you’ll have to travel less now, Monsieur Golder…”
She saw him suddenly go completely white.
“Why?” he whispered in a broken voice. “Why? What are you saying, for God’s sake? You must be mad! Have I been forbidden to travel… to leave here?”
“Not at all,” she reassured him quickly. “Where did you get such an idea? I didn’t say anything of the sort. It’s just that you have to take care for a while. That’s all.”
She leaned over and wiped his face; great, heavy drops of sweat were running down his cheeks, like tears.
“She’s lying,” thought Golder. “I can hear it in her voice. What’s wrong with me? My God, what’s wrong with me? And why aren’t they telling me the truth? I’m not a woman, for God’s sake…”
Weakly, he pushed her aside and turned away. “Close the window, I’m cold.”
“Would you like to get some sleep?” she asked, as she walked quietly across the room.
“Yes. Leave me in peace.”
SHORTLY AFTER ELEVEN o’clock, the nurse was woken by Golder’s voice in the next room. She rushed in and found him sitting on the bed, red-faced and waving his arms about.
“Write … I want to write …”
“He’s got a high fever,” she thought. She tried to get him back into bed, reasoning with him as if he were a child. “No, no, not now, it’s too late. Tomorrow, Monsieur Golder, tomorrow… You have to get some sleep now.”
Golder cursed her and repeated his order, trying to speak in a more lucid, calmer tone of voice.
She finally ended up bringing him his pen and a sheet of writing paper. But he could manage to scribble only a few letters. His hand was so heavy and painful, he could barely move it. He groaned and murmured, “You write…”
“To whom?”
“To Doctor Weber. You’ll find his address in the Paris telephone directory, over there. ‘Please come at once. Urgent.’ Then my name and address. Understand?”
“Yes, Monsieur Golder.”
He seemed appeased, asked for something to drink, then dropped back on to his pillows. “Open the windows and shutters,” he said, “I can’t breathe…”
“Do you want me to stay with you?”
“No. There’s no point. I’ll call if… The telegram, tomorrow, as soon as the post office opens, at seven o’clock…”
“Yes, yes. Don’t worry. Get some sleep.”
He dragged himself over on his side; he was wheezing and it was agony to breathe; the pain wouldn’t go away. He lay still, looking sadly out the window. The big white curtains were billowing in the breeze like balloons. For a long time, he just listened to the tid
e … One, two, three … The sound of the waves crashing against the rocks of the lighthouse in the distance; then the light, rhythmical lapping of the water as it flowed between the pebbles. Silence … The house seemed empty.
“What is it?” he thought again. “What’s wrong with me? Is it my heart? My heart? They’re lying. I know they are. You have to be able to face things…”
He paused, nervously wringing his hands. He was trembling. He didn’t have the courage to say the word, or even think it clearly: death … He looked at the dark sky filling the window with a kind of horror. “I can’t. No, not yet, no … There’s still work to do. I can’t… Adenoi,” he whispered in despair, suddenly remembering the forgotten name of the Lord. “You know very well that I can’t… But why aren’t they telling me the truth? Why?”
It was so strange. While he was ill, he’d believed everything they’d wanted him to. Ghedalia… And Gloria. Still, he was getting better, that much was true. He was allowed to get up, go outside … But he didn’t trust that Ghedalia. He could barely remember what he looked like. And as for his name … It was the name of a charlatan. Gloria couldn’t do anything right. Why hadn’t it occurred to her to call for Weber, the most highly esteemed doctor in France? When she’d had that attack of indigestion, she’d called him immediately, of course. Whereas for him … Golder … Anything would do for him, wouldn’t it? He pictured Weber’s face, his penetrating, weary eyes that seemed able to see straight into your heart. “I’ll just say to him,” he murmured, “that I have to know, I have my work, that’s all there is to it. He’ll understand.”
And yet… What was the point, for God’s sake? Why know in advance? It would happen in a flash, like when he’d fainted there in the casino. But forever, then, forever… My God …
David Golder, The Ball, Snow in Autumn & The Courilof Affair (2008) Page 9
