Despite all she had been through, she still retained a kind of innocence. Though she had had a baby out of wedlock—with a Roman Catholic seminarian, yet—none of this seemed to have affected her spiritual purity. She’d loved Tim with her soul and felt no sense of sin.
I could see she was shocked by my confession, but she suspended judgment, merely commenting, “Hey, Danny. This doesn’t sound very kosher to me, but who am I to make judgments?”
Yet I also felt it was my duty to look after her emotional well-being.
I knew instinctively how much affection she could lavish on her son, but even in my screwed-up state I was aware that adults need the raw material of being loved to metabolize into love for children.
Avi Ben-Ami had always been a myth. Timothy, though real enough, would—I believed—gradually fade from memory like a figure on an aging tapestry.
I knew that her life was filled to the brim with anxiety about exams at the moment. But this would only be a short-lived anodyne for the enduring pain of loneliness. How could she sing nursery rhymes like “ ’Bye, Baby Bunting, Daddy’s Gone A-Hunting,” knowing all the while that as far as Eli was concerned there was no daddy?
Deborah argued that her life was full, but when I pressed her for the cast of characters back in Israel who supposedly filled it, she volunteered no personal information.
Still I was able to detect a clue.
One of the special topics she was offering for the entrance exam was modern Hebrew verse, about which I knew nothing, since my seminary reserved judgment on a poet’s worth until he had been dead at least a hundred years.
After a little subtle probing, I discovered that she’d taken courses with a guy called Zev, who, if he had not—as Ariel might have put it—lit her fire, at least had kindled something more than love of words. Of course, she was defensive.
“What makes you think he’s even interested in me?”
“Hey, come on, Deb. College instructors don’t go offering extra tutorials unless they’ve got an ulterior motive. Are you gonna call him when you’re back in Israel?”
She temporized, “Only if I do well on the test.”
Okay, I told myself. I only hope that Zev’s not married or some kind of Jewish monk.
Deborah took the entrance examinations on June 27 and 28, 1972. Twelve hours of written tests on Torah, Talmud, History, and Language, followed by an oral—which I knew she’d pass with flying colors.
Before she left to return to the kibbutz—and her son—Deborah had the awesome task of confronting our parents with the secret of her motherhood.
She waited till the eve of the first Sabbath Papa was home and once again comfortable in his seat at the head of the table. After dinner, with our sisters, their husbands, and children all in attendance—a kind of Greek chorus to react to the drama—she told her story.
They cried for Avi Ben-Ami, and my father pledged to say a month of Psalms in memory of his heroic son-in-law—a response which made Deborah even more ashamed. Everyone agreed it was a blessing that Avi still lived on in their son.
My mother did not hide her joy as she looked forward to the sound of a child’s laughter echoing in the house once more. And, perhaps most important, my noble sister would help to heal my ailing father’s broken spirit.
With my psychoanalytic bent—acquired from Beller—I concluded that my father viewed young Eli as a replacement for me, thereby consigning me not only to oblivion but to nonexistence.
But Deborah’s departure on Thursday, June 29, left me wholly unprepared to confront the person I had so conscientiously avoided during the frenzy of her preparations: myself. And at this of all times, the July Fourth holiday weekend. The Festival of Independence.
It was—to be poetic—at this sunset of what would be a dark night of the soul that I received the call that altered the course of my life.
41
Daniel
It was Ariel calling from the banks of the Caspian Sea in reddest Russia. The connection was terrible to begin with, but she did not help matters by whispering.
“Can’t you talk louder?”
“No,” she murmured, even more quietly. “They may be tapping our line.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“I don’t know. The KGB or one of Charlie’s competitors. The only secure phone is on the yacht, and he’s out there using it now.”
Egotistically, I hoped this furtive conversation might be some kind of declaration of eternal love. I was wrong.
“How much wheat have you bought?”
“I don’t know, I’m sort of averaging about a loaf a day.”
“Danny, this is no time for jokes,” she scolded, urgency in her voice. “Charlie’s been brokering for Brezhnev all summer, and the Department of Agriculture’s about to announce a huge sale of wheat to Russia.”
“Really?” I said, wondering what all this had to do with me.
“Why else do you think he’d take me to this godforsaken dump?” she replied. “I mean, how much borscht and vodka can you drink, anyway? Get into wheat futures as heavily as you can. And you know my little Utrillo?”
“You mean the snow scene?” I asked, my head now really spinning. “What about it?”
“It’s yours. I mean it. I want you to have it.”
“Be serious, Ariel. What could I possibly do besides hang it where it is now?”
She paused and then replied portentously, “Take it to the Fat Man.”
“What?” Things were getting surrealistic.
But Ariel explained: While poor people get into hock for necessities, rich people just as regularly get into hock for frivolities. Naturally, they do not hot-foot it up to Harlem in their minks.
Though he dwelt, in Ariel’s words, “on the shady side of discreet,” the Fat Man conducted a legitimate business from his inconspicuous brownstone in the Upper 80s. The exquisite paintings hanging on his walls gave testimony to the quality of the Park Avenue matrons for whom his loans had provided the wherewithal to maintain their lifestyles.
Despite my uneasiness about her generosity, Ariel at last persuaded me that this would make her as happy as it would me. As I furiously scribbled notes, she explained the slightly Byzantine method of approaching the mysterious broker.
Almost on cue, at the very moment she completed her instructions, there was a sudden silence. I did not know if Ariel had been cut off by the KGB or merely the telephone company.
The next morning, with much trepidation, I dialed the number of the gentleman called, by his customers at least, “Laurence de’Medici.” He answered on the first ring.
“Good morning.” His English-accented voice resonated like a Stradivarius.
“Good morning, sir. My name is Daniel—uh—Lurie.” For some irrational reason I transmuted my last name, perhaps out of fear of dishonoring my family. “I’m a friend of Ariel Greenough—”
“Ah, how is Ms. Greenough? It’s been a long time.”
“Fine, fine. Uh, could I possibly make an appointment to discuss a painting she’s just given me?”
“Certainly, Mr. Lurie,” he said affably. “Let me consult my diary.” A moment later he was back on the phone. “I have a one-thirty luncheon at Lutèce, but if you could possibly make it here by twelve?”
“That’s fine,” I answered hastily, gratified that I would not be subjected to the strain of anticipation. “I can be there in half an hour.”
“Splendid,” he replied, adding matter-of-factly, “Which is it to be this time—the Braque or the Utrillo?”
“The Utrillo,” I said, amazed that he knew so much.
“Lovely,” Mr. de’Medici commented. “It’s not a masterpiece, but for what it is, it’s quite a nice little picture.”
For once, the image matched the telephone voice precisely.
The Fat Man was, indeed, extremely portly, and his every mannerism seemed to be a studied replica of Sidney Greenstreet, as I had come to know the stout actor in those movies at the Thalia.
>
“Has Ms. Greenough explained my terms?” he asked, trying to pretend he was glancing casually at the painting rather than verifying its authenticity.
“Yes, I believe so.”
“And you’re aware that my rates are higher than those of other lending institutions? Not out of greed, of course, but—as you can see for yourself—I have nearly thirty million dollars’ worth of art on these walls and the insurance companies are absolutely Shylockian.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Lovely. Then I’ve got some splendid news. This petite toile has gone up considerably in the last few months.” He patted the frame of the Utrillo affectionately. “It’s just exceeded the one-hundred-thousand barrier.”
I had a retrospective frisson at the thought of having lived in blithe proximity to such expensive art.
“That means I can let you have thirty thousand dollars,” the Fat Man said.
“What?” I stammered.
“Thirty-five, then. I’m afraid I can’t go any higher.”
“Yes, of course,” I answered sympathetically. “Your insurance premiums.”
He then dispensed with the formalities as quickly as possible, bidding me peruse his standard contract, according to which he was lending me thirty-five thousand dollars for sixty days at the mind-boggling rate of sixteen percent. After I scribbled my (new) name in the appropriate place, the Fat Man opened a magnificent escritoire, withdrew what looked like rubber-banded, green paper bricks and began to pile up hundred-dollar bills.
“Cash?” I gasped.
“Yes,” he sighed with histrionic nostalgia. “In this barbarous plastic age one rarely gets to see it. But I’m hopelessly old-fashioned.”
Quickly placing the money in a slightly torn manila envelope, he gave it to me, and we shook hands.
“Thank you, sir,” I said politely.
“Á votre service, Monsieur.”
I thought it was a good omen that the only two words I knew in French were fortuitously appropriate at this moment.
“Bon appétit.”
On my way home, I stopped in a bookstore and searched the business section for material on commodities trading. To my chagrin, every text I scanned carried the same warning:
Although dabbling in futures seems seductive—since a few pennies can sometimes “leverage” a buy of many dollars—beginners can go bankrupt overnight.
Still, my philosophical mind deduced the unwritten corollary: If you can go bust in a day, the reverse must also be true.
I bought a couple of “How to” volumes as well as the Chicago Commodities Booklet, which contained the rules of the game. And I spent a lonely but productive weekend absorbing all I could about the trading of futures.
According to The New York Times, wheat for delivery in September had closed on Friday at $1.50 a bushel. Since you could buy a contract for five thousand bushels for only $375, if I merely used a bit of my “summer allowance” to top up the Utrillo money, I could start my career on July 5 with precisely one hundred contracts.
But there was a further problem, as my manuals cautioned:
Margin levels can change at any moment, which means that purchasers of futures may have to put up additional funds to maintain their holdings.
That, alas, was the chaff in the potential wheat caper. By rights, in order to buy on credit, I would have to prove my ability to sustain a fall in fortune. Since this would involve something closely resembling mendacity, I could not take my business to a large, reputable brokerage firm, but rather had to find one small and hungry enough to look me over with myopic eyes.
I studied the Yellow Pages and hit upon McIntyre & Alleyn, who did business from what was practically a cubbyhole in a large Wall Street building. A blond, conservatively dressed receptionist seemed almost amazed to hear that I wanted to become a client. She quickly took my name and disappeared behind a glass partition, reemerging with a guy about my age. He had obviously been clothed by Brooks Brothers since he wore the uniform: a no-pocket, pink button-down shirt, bow tie, and red suspenders.
He introduced himself as Pete McIntyre, grandson of the founder. Inviting me back to his desk, he inquired if I wanted refreshment. I gratefully declined coffee, tea, and Jack Daniel’s and got straight to the point.
When I explained the intention of my visit he remarked, “Very risky business, futures. Especially wheat—which is already played out. Wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole.”
“Well, Pete,” I persisted, “could you see yourself clear to touching it on my behalf?” At this point, I withdrew a banker’s check for thirty-seven thousand five hundred bucks and placed it on his desk.
His interest perked. Somewhere along the line, he had taken my particulars—address (thank you, Ariel, for living in such a good neighborhood), phone and social security numbers.
We then got to the sticky question of how I would cover any potential shortfall.
“What exactly is your net worth, Dan?”
“Well,”—I retreated into sophistry—“doesn’t that remind you of the Psalm—you know, ‘What is man that Thou are mindful of him?’ ”
“Uh, in a way.” He was slightly flummoxed but recovered himself enough to assert, “Actually, in this business we tend to be a bit more pragmatic, Dan. After all, you’ve just committed yourself to spending seven hundred and fifty thousand bucks—before commissions.”
“Well, the way I look at it,” I prevaricated, “that’s just a half dozen or so Utrillos.”
“Oh, are you a collector?” Pete inquired, temporarily sidetracked.
“Yes,” I said, and, letting my imagination run riot, added, “Naturally, I’ve loaned the biggest pieces to museums. But why don’t you put in that little purchase order and then we’ll grab some sandwiches and I’ll show you my collection.”
“Let’s save it for some evening,” Pete responded enthusiastically. “Then I could bring my wife along. Meanwhile, I’ll have Gladys take care of the buy—and lunch is on me.”
A week later the price of wheat had gone up three cents a bushel, giving me the leverage to acquire thirty more contracts. Pete took the order over the phone without question. I declined lunch.
Wheat continued to rise and on July 19 was worth $1.57 a bushel, enabling me to buy sixty more contracts. Pete again invited me to lunch. I declined.
And my investment rose.
On the night of August 2, 1972, when I was holding two hundred and fifty contracts, wheat was nudging $1.60 a bushel, and I was pondering whether I should cash in my chips. I received another breathless phone call from Ariel.
“Sell every picture—sell the wallpaper, even—but buy as much wheat as you can!”
“More?” I asked in disbelief.
“Yeah, I can hardly believe it either. But Leonid and Charlie are downing vodka in the next room, so I guess we’re gonna see something spectacular.”
I left her collection intact, but true to her prediction, the following day wheat shot up by a full seven cents. Pete McIntyre hysterically tried to take a little profit. I now stood to lose thousands for every penny drop in price. But I was adamant. I even increased my position.
Twenty-four hours later, the amber waves of grain had risen yet another five cents. My net worth was no longer fictive. I was really worth more than a quarter of a million bucks.
“Sell, Danny, sell!” McIntyre shouted as if cheering his beloved Notre Dame football team.
“No, Pete,” I said coolly, totally intoxicated with a sense of infallibility. “Now I can leverage another two hundred and fifty contracts.…”
“No, Danny, no!”
“Yes, Pete, yes!”
And so it went for another two weeks, with rumors of a possible Chinese buy fueling the price still further. At last, on August 23, I calmly told Pete to sell my entire position, which now consisted of thirteen hundred contracts. By now, he was so bedazzled he was almost disappointed.
After deducting their commission, McIntyre & Alleyn transferred
$1,095,625 to my bank account.
So there I was, a genuine millionaire. But with whom could I share this triumph? Even if we were on speaking terms, had I called my father, he probably would have quoted the Hebrew proverb, “Who is rich? He who is content with his lot.”
I did fire off a telegram to Deborah, euphorically but enigmatically informing her that I had arranged a full scholarship for her rabbinical studies.
But that was it. I had no other way to celebrate.
I sat up alone, reading, of all things, Ecclesiastes.
The next morning I took the subway to the Bronx, found a shtibel, a kind of Hasidic mini-synagogue, and was honored, as is the custom for strangers, with a call to the Torah. It was the only way I knew how to thank God.
As the Reader was blessing me I said an inward prayer to the Almighty, offering a deal I hoped He would not refuse: Deduct Deborah’s tuition and my family’s doctor bills, throw in a college scholarship for Eli, and please, God, take the rest and give me back my father’s love.
Several days later, Ariel called again. This time the connection was crystal clear. I could tell she was smashed to the gills.
“Too much vodka?” I joked.
Before I could unleash my cannonade of gratitude, she interrupted. “Danny, I’m in Vegas. I’m calling to say good-bye. I’m really sorry.…”
I anticipated the rest of her announcement. “Then he’s going to marry you? Hey, I’m really glad.”
“No,” she slurred. “I guess you don’t know what today is.”
I allowed that I knew the date, but not its significance.
“It’s my birthday,” she said mournfully. “My goddamn thirtieth birthday.”
“So what?” I retorted, “You’re Ariel, the ‘brave spirit’—”
“No, Danny,” she cut me off. “Thirty is a kind of statute of limitations for Charlie.”
“You mean he dumped you?”
“Well, sort of. But he was totally honest up-front. And besides, he hasn’t exactly left me destitute.”
“Hell,” I assured her. “That wouldn’t matter. You can bet I’ll take care of you. In fact, I’ll—”