David Golder, the Ball, Snow in Autumn, the Courilof Affair

  Golder seemed to calm down. The man whispered something in his ear. They went back into the room together and sat down. Simon Alexeevitch began reading again: “On the annual production of oil estimated at approximately thirty thousand metric tons, the Soviet government will receive a commission of five per cent. For every ten thousand additional tons, a commission of zero point two five per cent will be added up to an annual yield of four hundred and thirty thousand tons, at which point the Soviet government will receive a commission of fifteen per cent. The Soviet treasury will also receive a fee equal to forty-five per cent of the petrol produced from the oilfields and a fee on gas, on a sliding scale from ten per cent to thirty-five per cent, depending on the gasoline it contains …”

  Golder was resting his hand on his cheek, eyes lowered, listening, without saying a word. Valleys thought he was sleeping: his face, with its deep furrows at the corners of his mouth and pinched nostrils, looked as pale and wan as a corpse.

  Valleys looked up at the typed pages of the contract that Simon Alexeevitch still had in his hands. “We’ll never get through all that in a day…” he thought dismally.

  Golder suddenly leaned towards him. “Open that window behind you,” he whispered, “quickly … I’m suffocating…”

  He made Valleys jump. “Open it,” ordered Golder again, almost without moving his lips.

  Quickly Valleys pushed open the window, then went back to Golder, expecting to find him collapsed in the chair.

  Meanwhile, Simon Alexeevitch was still reading: “The Tubingen Petroleum Company may mine all its crude and refined products without paying a fee and without obtaining special authorisation. In the same way, it may import, duty free, any machinery, tools, or primary materials necessary to its operations, along with provisions for its employees …”

  “Monsieur Golder,” Valleys whispered, “I’m going to stop him. You’re in no condition … you’re as a white as a ghost…”

  Golder angrily grabbed his wrist. “Be quiet! I can’t hearwhat they’re saying. Will you be quiet, for God’s sake!”

  “In exchange for these concessions, the company must make payments to the Soviet government, on a sliding scale from five per cent to fifteen per cent of the total yield from the oilfields, and from five per cent to forty per cent of the yield from the active oil wells…”

  Golder groaned imperceptibly and slumped on to the table. Simon Alexeevitch stopped reading.

  “I would like to point out to you that, as far as the active oil wells are concerned, the second subcommittee, whose report I have here, has estimated that…”

  Valleys felt Golder’s icy hand grab his own under the table and clutch it anxiously. Automatically, he squeezed Golder’s fingers with all his might. He vaguely remembered how he had once held the fractured, bleeding jaw of a dying Irish setter in the same way. Why did this old Jew so often remind him of a sick dog, close to death, who still bares his teeth, growls wildly, and gives one last, powerful bite?

  “Your remark regarding article twenty-seven…” said Golder. “We’ve hashed that over for three days now; we’re not going to start all over again, are we? Go on…”

  “The Tubingen Petroleum Company may construct any buildings, refineries, pipelines, and any other necessary structures. The agreed concessions will remain in force for a period of ninety-nine years…”

  Golder had pulled his hand away from Valleys’ and, with his head on the ink-stained oilcloth, tore open his shirt and began massaging his chest under the table, as if he were trying to expose his lungs to the fresh air. His trembling fingers clutched his heart with the wild, instinctive desperation of a sick animal who presses the injured part of his body to the ground. He was deathly pale. Valleys watched the sweat pour down his face, thick and heavy, like tears.

  But the voice of Simon Alexeevitch had become louder, more solemn. He quietly rose from his chair to conclude: “Article seventy-four. Final article. Once the term of this concession has expired, all the equipment and all the structures on the oilfields heretofore mentioned shall become the sole property of the Soviet government.”

  “It’s over,” sighed Valleys, in a kind of trance. Golder pulled himself up and gestured for someone to hand him a pen. The formality of signing the contract began. The ten men were all pale, silent, exhausted.

  Eventually, Golder stood up and walked towards the door. The members of the commission nodded reluctantly to him from their chairs. Only the Chinese representative was smiling. The others looked weary and furious. Golder gave a swift, mechanical nod in reply.

  “Now he’ll collapse,” thought Valleys. “He’s at death’s door…”

  But he didn’t collapse. He walked down the stairs. It wasn’t until he was out in the street that he seemed to be gripped by a kind of dizziness. He stopped, pressed his face against a wall, and stood there silently, his whole body shaking.

  Valleys called a taxi and helped him into it. Every time they hit a bump in the road, Golder’s head swayed and fell forward on to his chest as if he were dead. Gradually, however, the fresh air seemed to revive him. He breathed deeply, putting his hand to his wallet, which lay over his heart.

  “Finally, it’s over… The pigs…”

  “When I think,” said Valleys, “that we’ve been here for four and a half months! When will we be going home, Monsieur Golder? This country is horrible!” he concluded with feeling.

  “Yes, it is. You’ll leave tomorrow.”

  “But what about you?”

  “Me… I’m going to Teisk.”

  “Oh, Monsieur Golder,” said Valleys, upset, “is that absolutely necessary?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  Valleys blushed. “Couldn’t I go with you? I really wouldn’t like to think you were alone in such a desolate place. You’re not well.”

  Golder said nothing, then gave a vague, embarrassed shrug. “You must leave as soon as possible, Valleys.”

  “But couldn’t you… get someone else to go with you? It’s not safe for you to travel alone in your condition …”

  “I’m used to it,” Golder muttered sarcastically.

  “ROOM SEVENTEEN, first on the left down the corridor,” shouted the porter from below. A moment later, the lights went out. Golder continued climbing the stairs, stumbling on steps that seemed, as in a dream, to go on for ever.

  His swollen arm was painful. He put down his suitcase, fumbled around in the dark for the banister, leaned over, called out. But no one replied. He swore in a quiet, breathless voice, climbed up two more steps then stopped, head back, bracing himself against the wall.

  The suitcase wasn’t really that heavy; all it had inside were his toiletries and a change of clothes. In certain Soviet backwaters there always came a time when you had to carry your own luggage—he’d realised that as soon as he’d left Moscow—but, even though his case was very light, he barely had the strength to lift it. He was exhausted.

  He had left Teisk the night before. The journey had tired him so much that he’d had to make the driver stop along the way. “Twenty-two hours in a car!” he groaned. “Oh, my poor old body!” He’d been in a broken-down old Ford, and the roads through the mountains were almost impassable. He felt every bump and jolt shoot right through his bones. Towards evening, the car’s horn had stopped working, so the driver had recruited a small boy from the village who climbed on to the running-board and, hanging on to the roof with one hand, kept two fingers of the other in his mouth and whistled continuously, from six o’clock until midnight. Even now, Golder could still hear him. He put his hands over his ears and frowned as if in pain. And the rattling the old Ford made, the noise of the windows that seemed about to shatter at every sharp corner… It was nearly one o’clock before they finally spotted some lights shimmering in the distance. It was the port, where Golder would go, the next day, to leave for Europe.

  In the past, it had been one of the most important trading centres for grain. He knew it well. He’d come here when he was twenty. It
was from this port that he had boarded a ship for the very first time.

  Now only a few Greek steamers and Soviet cargo ships were anchored in the harbour. The town looked so pathetic and abandoned that it was heart-breaking. And his dingy, grubby hotel, with bullet holes in the walls, was inexpressibly sinister. Golder regretted not having left from Moscow as they had suggested at Teisk. These boats hardly ever carried anyone except the schouroum-bouroum—traders from the Levant who travelled all over the world with their bales of rugs and second-hand fur coats. But one night goes quickly. He was eager to leave Russia. The following day he’d be in Constantinople.

  He had gone into his room. He let out a deep sigh, switched on the lights, and sat down in a corner on the first chair within reach; it was made of a hard, dark wood, and, with its severe straight back, it was extremely uncomfortable.

  He was so exhausted that, the instant he closed his eyes, he lost consciousness and thought he’d fallen asleep. But it had been only a minute. He opened his eyes again and looked absent-mindedly around the room. The faint light that shone from the small electric bulb hanging from the ceiling was flickering as if it would go out at any moment, like a candle in the wind. It lit up some faded paintings: cupids, whose thighs were once rosy, the colour of fresh blood, but were now covered with a thick layer of dust. The high-ceilinged room was vast, with dark furniture covered in red velvet and a table in the middle on which stood an old oil lamp, whose glass shade was so full of dead flies it looked as if it had been coated in a thick layer of black jam.

  There were bullet holes in the walls, of course. On one side in particular, the partition wall was riddled with enormous holes; cracks radiated from them like rays of the sun; the plaster was flaking off and crumbling like sand. Golder put his fist into one of the holes, then slowly rubbed his hands together and stood up. It was after three o’clock in the morning.

  He took a few steps, then sat back down again to take off his shoes. As he leant forward, he suddenly froze, his arm outstretched. What was the point of getting undressed? He wouldn’t be able to sleep. There was no water. He turned one of the taps on the sink. Nothing. It was stifling hot. Not a breath of air. The dust and sweat made his clothes stick to his skin. Whenever he moved, the damp material felt like ice against his shoulders. It sent a little shiver through his body, like a fever.

  “Good Lord,” he thought, “when will I ever get out of this place?”

  He felt as if the night would never end. Three more hours to go. The boat was due to leave at dawn. But it would be delayed, naturally… Once at sea, he’d feel better. There’d be a bit of wind, a little fresh air. And then Constantinople. The Mediterranean. Paris. Paris? He felt a vague satisfaction at the thought of all those bastards at the Stock Exchange. He couldjust hear them: “Have you heard about Golder? … Well, who’d have believed it? … He really looked like he was finished…” Filthy bastards. What would the Teisk shares be worth now? He tried to work it out, but it was too difficult. Since Valleys had left, he’d had no news from Europe. All in good time … He let out a deep sigh. It was strange, he couldn’t imagine what his life would be like when the journey was over. All in good time …Joy … He frowned slightly. Joy … Every now and then she would remember her old dad’s existence, but only when she or her husband had lost money gambling, of course. Then she would come to see him, take some more money, and disappear again for months on end… He had expressly instructed Seton that she was not allowed to touch her capital. “Otherwise, from the day she gets married to the day I die…” He stopped himself. He had no illusions. “I’ve done everything I can,” he said out loud, sadly.

  He had taken off his shoes. He went and stretched out on the bed. But for some time now, he had been unable to lie down for long. He couldn’t breathe. Sometimes he would fall asleep, but then he would immediately start suffocating and wake up to the distant sound of crying—strange, pitiful cries that came as if from some dream, and which seemed to him terrifying, incomprehensible, and threatening. He didn’t realise that it was he who was crying out; the childlike sobs were his own.

  Now, once more, as soon as he had lain down, he began to suffocate. With great difficulty, he pulled himself from the bed, dragged a chair over to the window, and opened it. Below was the port, dark water… Day was breaking.

  Suddenly, he fell asleep.

  AT FIVE O’CLOCK, the first blasts of the port sirens woke Golder.

  He had difficulty picking up his shoes, and there was still no water when he tried the tap on the sink. He rang for the porter and waited a long time, but nobody came. Eventually, he found a little Eau de Cologne in a bottle in his suitcase and rubbed it on his hands and face. Then he got his things together and went downstairs.

  Only once he was downstairs did he manage to get a cup of tea. He paid, then left.

  Through habit, he started looking around for a taxi. But the town seemed deserted. A cloud of sand, carried inland by the sea breeze, obscured all the buildings. It lay so thick on the streets that there were deep footprints where people had walked past, as if through snow. Golder motioned to a young boy who was silently running barefoot along the middle of the street.

  “Can you carry my suitcase to the port? Aren’t there any taxis?”

  The child seemed not to understand. But he took hold of the suitcase and walked on ahead.

  The houses were all closed, their windows boarded up. There were banks, official buildings, but empty, deserted. On the walls, the outline of the Imperial Eagle remained etched into the stone, like a wound… Instinctively, Golder walked more quickly.

  He vaguely recognised certain old, dark alley-ways, the houses made of rickety wood. But it was so silent… Suddenly, he stopped.

  They weren’t far from the port. The air had the strong smell of mud and salt. A small, dark shoemaker’s shop, with its iron boot swinging in front of the window, creaking… On the corner opposite, his old lodging house, a place frequented by sailors and prostitutes… The shoemaker was one of his father’s cousins who had settled in the town; Golder used to go and have a meal with him from time to time. He remembered the place well… He made an effort to try to recall what his cousin looked like. But all he could remember was the sound of his bitter, plaintive voice, probably because it was just like Soifer’s: “Stay here, my boy… Do you think you’re going to find gold on the streets somewhere else? Ha! Life is hard wherever you go.”

  Without thinking, Golder started to turn the door handle, then let his hand drop back down to his side. It had been forty-eight years! He shrugged his shoulders, kept walking.

  “I wonder what would have happened if I’d stayed?” He laughed bitterly. “Who knows? Imagine Gloria doing the housework and frying potato pancakes in goose fat on Friday night. Life … ” he whispered softly. How odd it was that, after so many years, he should be brought back to this desolate place …

  The port. He recognised it as clearly as if he had left the day before. The little customs building, half in ruins. Beached boats buried in the black sand, which was littered with bits of coal and rubbish; watermelon rind and dead animals bobbing in the deep, muddy green water, just as in the past.

  He climbed on board a small Greek steamship that used to do the crossing between Batoum and Constantinople before the war. It must have been a passenger boat, for it seemed to have certain amenities. There was a sitting room, a piano. But since the Revolution, it had carried only merchandise—and strange merchandise at that. It was dirty and run-down.

  “Thank goodness the crossing won’t take long…” thought Golder.

  On the bridge, a few schouroum-bouroum in their red skullcaps were sitting on the floor, playing cards. They looked up when Golder walked by. One of them waved a pink glass necklace that was hanging from his arm and smiled: “Buy something, good sir… ” Golder shook his head and gently pushed them aside with his cane. How many times, during his first crossing—a crossing the memory of which clung to him with a strange, tenacious persist
ence—had he played cards with men just like these, at night, in some corner of the boat… That was so long ago … They moved back to let him pass. He went down into his cabin and looked with a sigh at the sea through the porthole. The boat was moving. He sat down on his berth, a plank of wood covered with a thin, prickly straw mattress. If the weather held, he would sleep on the bridge. But the wind was blowing fiercely and the boat was being tossed about. Golder looked at the sea with a kind of hatred. He was so weary of this endlessly changing world— the landscape rushing past train and car windows, these waves that roared like animals, the trails of smoke in the stormy autumn sky. Ifonly the horizon could be still until he died … “I’mtired,” he murmured. With that instinctive, nervous gesture of people with a heart condition, he pressed both hands against his chest. He massaged it gently as if it were a child or a dying animal—to encourage the worn-out, stubborn machine that beat so feebly in his old body.

  Suddenly, after a particularly strong roll of the ship, he seemed to feel his heart falter, then start beating faster, too fast… At the same time, he was struck by an excruciating pain in his left shoulder. He went pale, sat with his head hanging forward, looking terrified, and waited for a long time. The sound of his breathing seemed to fill the cabin, drowning out the noise of the wind and the sea.

  Little by little, the pain eased off, then stopped completely. “It was nothing,” he said out loud, forcing himself to smile. “It’s over.”

  He was having difficulty breathing. “Over…” he sighed more quietly.

  He tried to stand. Outside, the sky and the sea had grown gradually darker. The cabin was as black as if it were the middle of the night. The only light came from the porthole, a strange green murky glow that was not really light at all. Golder fumbled about for his coat, put it on, then went out. He stretched out his hands in front of him, like a blind man. Each time the sea struck the boat, it shuddered, reeled, and plunged, as if it were about to disappear, dragged down into the water. He grasped the bottom of the little ladder that led to the bridge, and hauled himself up.