She clenched her teeth in cold fury.
“Why are you going away so suddenly?”
“Business.”
“Well, I didn’t think you were going off to meet one of your mistresses!” she cried, crossly shrugging her shoulders. “Oh, do be careful, David. Don’t push me too far. Where are you going? Business is really bad, isn’t it?”
“Not that bad,” he murmured unconvincingly.
“David!”
She was shouting nervously, in spite of herself. She made a great effort to calm down. “I am your wife, it seems to me that I have the right to be concerned with matters that affect me as much as they do you.”
“Up until now,” Golder said slowly, “all you’ve said was, ‘I want money, sort it out.’ And I always have. And that’s how it will be until the day I die.”
“Yes, yes,” she interrupted impatiently, with a hint of menace in her voice, “I know, I know. Always the same old story. Your work, your work! Meanwhile, what would I be left with if you suddenly died! You’ve really got it sorted, haven’t you? So that the day you die, when all your creditors pounce on me, I’ll have nothing, not a penny!”
“If I die! If I die! I’m not dead yet! Am I? Well, am I?” he shouted, trembling all over. “Shut up, do you hear me? Just shut up!”
“Yes, that’s it,” she scoffed. “You’re like an ostrich with its head in the sand! You don’t want to see or understand anything. Well, that’s just too bad. You’ve had a heart attack, my dear. You could die at any moment. Why are you looking at me like that? Oh, you must be the biggest coward in the world. Call yourself a man? A man! Just look at this wimp. I think he’s going to faint. Oh, really, don’t look at me like that,” she said with a shrug. “You could live another twenty years, the doctor said so. It’s just, well, what can you do? You have to face such things. After all, we’re all mortal. Remember Nicolas Levy, Porjes, and all the others who juggled enormous fortunes, and when they died, what was left for their widows? An overdraft. Well, that’s not what I want to happen to me, do you understand? Make some arrangements. To start with, put this house in my name. If you were a good husband, you would have made sure I had a proper fortune of my own long ago! I have nothing at all!”
She gave a sudden scream. Golder had punched the tray and the lamp, knocking them to the ground. They shattered on the floor; the crash of glass broke the silence of the sleeping house.
“Brute! You brute! You beast!” Gloria exclaimed. “You haven’t changed, have you? You haven’t changed a bit. You’re still the little Jew who sold rags and scrap metal in New York, from a sack on your back. Do you remember? Do you?”
“And what about you? Do you remember Kishinev, and that little shop of your moneylender father’s in the Jewish quarter? You weren’t called Gloria then, were you? Well? Havke! Havke!”
He hurled the Yiddish name at her like an insult, shaking his fist. She grabbed him by the shoulders, burying his head in her chest, to drown out his shouting.
“Shut up, shut up, shut up! You brute! You bastard! There are servants in the house … the servants are listening! I will never forgive you! Shut up or I’ll kill you!”
She let him go, shuddering: his old teeth were savagely biting into her flesh beneath her pearls. Golder’s eyes were as fierce as a mad dog’s. “How dare you,” he shouted, “how dare you make demands! You have nothing? What about this? And that? And that?”
Furiously he grabbed at the heavy necklace, twisting it around his fingers. She dug her fingernails into his hands, but he held on. He was having difficulty breathing.
“That, my girl, that alone is worth a million! And what about your emeralds? Your necklaces? Your bracelets? Your rings? Everything you own, everything you wear, from head to toe … And you have the nerve to say that I haven’t provided you with a fortune? Just look at yourself, covered in jewels, weighed down with the money you extorted from me, stole from me! You, Havke! When I took you in, you were nothing but a penniless, miserable girl, remember? Remember? You were running through the snow, with holes in your shoes, your feet sticking out of your stockings, your hands red and swollen from the cold! Oh, my pretty, I remember! And I remember the boat we left on, and the immigrants’ deck… And now, you’re Gloria Golder! With gowns, jewels, houses, cars, all paid for by me, by me, paid for with my health, with my life! You’ve taken everything from me, stolen everything from me! Do you think I didn’t know that when this house was bought, you arranged to get a two-hundred-thousand-franc kickback, you and Hoyos? Pay, pay, pay … morning, noon, and night. All my life! Did you really think that I saw nothing, that I understood nothing, that I didn’t see you getting richer, fattening up your bank account at my expense, and Joyce’s? Stockpiling diamonds, stocks and bonds! You’ve been wealthier than me for years, do you hear me, do you?”
His cries were tearing at his chest; he grabbed his throat, overcome by a fit of coughing, a horrible cough that wracked his body like a gale. For a moment, Gloria thought he was going to die. But he still had enough strength left to hiss at her, a hiss that emerged with excruciating pain from the depths of his wracked chest.
“The house … you’re not getting the house! Do you understand! Never.
Then he fell to the floor and lay on his back, silent and motionless, eyes closed. He had forgotten she was there. All he could hear was the sound of his breathing, the cough that shook him and wouldn’t stop, gathering in his throat like a huge wave, and his heart, his old, sick heart, pounding against his chest with deep, dull blows.
The attack lasted for a long time. Then, little by little, it subsided. The cough grew weaker and fainter. He turned to look at Gloria.
“Be happy with what you have,” he whispered with effort, his voice breathless and exhausted, “because I swear to you that you will get nothing more from me ever again, nothing…”
She interrupted him, in spite of herself. “Don’t try to speak. It’s painful just listening to you.”
“Leave me alone,” he complained, pushing away the hand she had stretched out to him; he couldn’t bear the feel of her cold rings, her cold hands on his body.
“Look. I want you to understand once and for all. As long as I live, everything will be fine. You are my wife, I’ve given you everything I could. But after I die, you won’t get anything. Do you understand? Nothing, my dear, except everything you’ve already managed to amass… and even that’s too much. I’ve arranged things so that Joyce will get it all. And as for you? Not a penny. Not a cent. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Do you hear? Do you understand what I’m saying?”
He could clearly see Gloria’s cheeks turn white beneath her melting rouge.
“What are you saying?” she asked in a muffled voice. “Are you mad, David?”
He wiped away the sweat that was running down his face and looked darkly at Gloria.
“I want, I mean for Joyce to be free, rich … As for you…” He angrily clenched his teeth. “Not you, do you hear me, not you.”
“But why?” she asked naively, without thinking.
“Why?” repeated Golder slowly. “Ah, so you really want me to tell you why? Very well then. Because I think I’ve already done enough for you. I’ve made you quite wealthy enough, you and your lovers…”
“What?”
“That surprises you? I bet you understand better now, eh? Yes, your lovers… all of them. That little Porjes, Lewis Wichmann, all the others… and Hoyos… especially Hoyos. Him! For twenty years I’ve watched him parading rings, clothing, even other women, paid for with my money. Well, enough is enough, understand?”
When she didn’t reply, he repeated, “Understand? Oh, if you could only see your face. You’re not even trying to pretend!”
“Why should I?” said Gloria in a kind of hiss that barely passed through her clenched lips. “Why should I? I’ve never been unfaithful to you. You can only be unfaithful to a husband… to a man who actually sleeps with you … who satisfies you. As for you! You’ve been a
sick old man for years… a wreck. Maybe you don’t realise, or haven’t been counting, but it’s nearly eighteen years since you came near me. And before that?”
She burst out laughing. “And before that, David? Have you forgotten…”
Blood rushed to Golder’s ageing face, turning it almost purple, filling his eyes with tears. That laugh … He hadn’t heard it in years. Those nights when he’d tried to stifle it with his lips, in vain …
“That was your fault,” he whispered, as he had in the past. “You never loved me.”
She laughed even harder. “Loved? You? David Golder? But could anyone love you? Do you want to leave your money to Joyce because you think she loves you, is that it? But she just loves your money, her as well, you fool! She’s gone off, hasn’t she, your Joyce? She’s left you, old, sick, and alone! But while you were close to death, she was out dancing, do you remember? I at least had the decency to stay with you. As for her, she’ll be dancing on your grave, you fool! Oh, yes, she loves you so much …”
“I don’t give a damn.”
He was trying to shout, but his tormented voice stuck strangled and hoarse in his throat. “I don’t give a damn. You don’t have to tell me, I already know, I know. Make money for everyone else, and then die, that’s why I was put on this filthy earth. Joyce is a little slut like you, I know that only too well, but she can’t hurt me, not her. She’s a part of me, she’s my daughter, she’s all I have in the world.”
“Your daughter!”
Gloria fell back on to the bed, shaking with the shrill laughter of a madwoman.
“Your daughter! Are you sure about that? You don’t know, do you, you who know so many things? Well, she’s not yours, do you understand? Your daughter is not yours at all. She’s Hoyos’s daughter, you fool! Haven’t you ever noticed how much she looks like him, how much she loves him? She guessed a long time ago, I’ll bet on it. Haven’t you ever noticed how we laugh when you kiss your Joyce, your precious daughter…”
She stopped short. He wasn’t moving, wasn’t speaking. She leaned over him. He hid his face in his hands.
“David… It isn’t true…” she whispered automatically. “Listen…”
But he wasn’t listening. He was crushing his face into his hands in shame. He didn’t hear her stand up, didn’t hear her pause for a moment at the door, didn’t see how she was looking at him.
Finally, she went out.
SOME TIME LATER , he got up and dragged himself into the adjoining bathroom. He needed something to drink. He spent a while trying to find the jug of purified water that was left for him at night, but eventually gave up. Instead, he turned on the taps of the bathtub and wet his hands and mouth. He found it difficult to pull himself upright again; his legs were shaking like an old horse who has collapsed, half-dead, and can’t get up, despite being urged on by the whip.
The cool night air blew in through the open window. Mechanically, he walked towards it and looked out. But he might as well have been blind: he saw nothing. He felt cold and went back into his room.
He stepped on some broken glass, let out a muffled curse, looked indifferently at the blood flowing from his bare feet, and got back into bed. He was shivering. He pulled the covers tightly around his body, over his head, pressing his forehead into the pillow. He was exhausted. “I’m going to fall asleep … to forget. I’ll think about it tomorrow… tomorrow …” Why tomorrow? There was nothing he could do about it. Nothing. Hoyos… that filthy pimp … and Joyce … “It’s true that she looks like him!” he cried out, despair in his voice. But almost immediately, he fell silent, his fists clenched. “She loves him so much,” Gloria had said. “Haven’t you noticed? She guessed a long time ago…” She knew, she was laughing at him, she was affectionate towards him only when she wanted money. “Little slut, little … I didn’t deserve this,” he murmured painfully, his lips dry.
He had loved her so much, been so proud of her. None of them had given a damn about him, none of them. A child of his own… What a fool he was! He had really believed he could possess something precious on this earth … To work all his life just to end up empty-handed, alone, and vulnerable, that was his fate. A child! Even at forty he’d been as old and cold as a corpse! It was Gloria’s fault, she’d always hated him, mocked him, pushed him away… Her laugh… Because he was ugly, heavy, clumsy … And at the beginning, when they were poor, her fear, her terror at having a child… “David, be careful. David, listen, if you get me pregnant, I’ll kill myself…” Wonderful nights of love they’d been! And then … He remembered now, he remembered it all quite clearly… He counted. It was in 1907. Nineteen years ago. She was in Europe, he was in America. A few months earlier, for the first time, he had earned some money, a lot of money in a construction deal. Then he had nothing again. Gloria was wandering about alone, somewhere in Italy. Now and again, she’d send short telegrams: “NEED MONEY.” He always managed to get some for her. How? Ah, a Jewish husband always has to find a way…
A company was formed by some American financiers to construct a railway line in the West. A terrible region, vast empty spaces, swamps… Eighteen months later, all the money was gone. Everyone got out, one after the other, and he’d stepped in to take control of the business. He’d raised more capital, gone out there, stuck it out… Whenever he got his big, heavy hands on some deal, he didn’t let go easily, no …
He’d lived alongside the workmen in a wooden hut made of rotting boards. It was the rainy season. Water dripped through the badly constructed roof and down the walls; when night fell, enormous mosquitoes from the swamp whined in the air. Every day, men died, burning with fever. They were buried at night so as not to interrupt the work. The coffins would sit waiting all day long under wet, shiny tarpaulins that rattled in the wind and rain.
And it was in that place that Gloria had arrived one fine day, with her fur coat, her painted nails, her high heels that stuck in the mud…
He remembered how she went into his room, how she forced open the small, filthy window. Outside the frogs were croaking. It was an autumn evening; the sky reflected in the swamps was deep red, almost brown… It was a pretty sight! A miserable little village… the smell of moss on wood, of mud, of damp … “You’re mad,” he kept saying, “What are you doing here? You’ll catch a fever… As if I need a woman to worry about…”
“I was bored, I wanted to see you. We’re man and wife yet we live like strangers, at opposite ends of the world.”
Later on, he asked, “Where will you sleep?” There was only one narrow, hard camp bed. He remembered how she had replied softly, “With you, David…” God knows he hadn’t wanted anything to do with her that night. He was numb with exhaustion, work, lack of sleep, fever… He breathed in her perfume with a kind of fear; he’d almost forgotten. “You’re mad,” he kept saying, “you’re mad…” as she pressed her burning body against his and whispered angrily through her clenched teeth, “Don’t you feel anything? You’re still a man, aren’t you? Aren’t you ashamed?” Had he really suspected nothing? He could no longer really remember. Sometimes, you close your eyes and turn away: you don’t want to see. What’s the point? When there’s nothing you can do anyway? And afterwards, you forget… That night, she had pushed him aside, with that weary gesture of an animal who’s had its fill. She’d fallen asleep where she lay, her arms crossed over her chest, her breathing heavy, as if she were having a nightmare. He had got up, started working, as he did every night. The kerosene lamp burned and went black, it was raining outside, the frogs were croaking beneath the windows.
A few days later she left. That same year, Joyce was born. Of course …
“Joy…Joy …” He said her name over and over again, with a kind of hoarse, dry sob, like the cry of an animal in pain. He had really loved her, his Joy, his daughter, his little girl… He had given her everything, and she couldn’t care less about him. She had snuggled against him in the same way a slut caresses and kisses the sad old man who’s in love with her. She kn
ew very well that he wasn’t her father. Money. Money was the only thing that mattered to her. Otherwise, why would she have gone away like that? And when he kissed her, she would turn away from him, saying, “Oh, Dad! You’ll ruin my make-up.” She was ashamed of him. He was heavy and clumsy, unsophisticated… A feeling of wild humiliation stabbed at his heart. One full, hot tear dropped from his swollen eyes on to his cheek. He wiped it away with a trembling hand. Cry over her? He, David Golder? Over that little slut? “She’s gone off… she’s left you, old, sick and alone…” But at least she hadn’t taken any of his money this time. He remembered with sharp, savage pleasure how she’d left without a penny. And Hoyos… how he’d said, “You should have slapped her.” What was the point? Refusing her money had been the best revenge. They had forgotten that the money belonged to him, and that if he wanted, they would all die of hunger, all of them… He said “all of them,” but he was really thinking only of Joyce. She’d get nothing more from him, not so much as, he harshly snapped his fingers, a penny. Ah, they had forgotten who he was. A sad, ill man, close to death, but still David Golder! In London, Paris, New York, when someone said the name David Golder, it evoked an old, hardened Jew, who all his life had been hated and feared, who had crushed anyone who wanted to do him harm. “The snakes…” he muttered, “the snakes. Oh, I’ll teach them a lesson, before I die … since that’s what she said: that I’m going to die…” His trembling hands were clutching the sheets; he looked at his heavy fingers, shaking with fever, with a sort of hopeless sadness. “What have they done to me?” He closed his eyes, wincing in hatred. “Gloria.” Her pearls had been as icy and slippery as a mass of slithering serpents… And as for the other one … that little whore… “And what are they without me? Nothing, trash. I’ve worked, I’ve killed,” he said suddenly, out loud, in a strange voice; he stopped. “Yes, I killed Simon Marcus,” he said, slowly wringing his hands, “I know I did … Come on, you know very well, you did,” he muttered darkly to himself, “and now … So they think I’m going to carry on working like a dog until I drop dead, well if that’s what they think, they’ve got another think coming!” He let out a sharp, bizarre little laugh that sounded as if he were being strangled. “That mad old hag… and as for the other one, the…” He swore in Yiddish, cursing her in a low voice. “No, my pretty one, it’s over, I’m telling you, all over…”
David Golder, The Ball, Snow in Autumn & The Courilof Affair (2008) Page 12
