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

  The thick darkness flowed into his throat with soft, insistent pressure, as if earth were being pushed into his mouth, as it was into his… the dead man’s… Marcus… And when he thought finally of Marcus, when he finally allowed himself to be taken over by the image, the memory of death, the cemetery, the yellow clay soaked with rain, the long roots clinging like serpents deep inside the grave, he suddenly felt such a tremendous need, such a desperate desire for light, to see familiar, ordinary things around him … his clothing swaying from the hook on the door… the newspapers on the little table … the bottle of mineral water… that he forgot about everything else. Angrily he stretched out his arm, and an excruciating pain, as sharp as a knife, like a bullet, deep and violent, shot through his chest, seemed to embed itself within his heart.

  He had time to think “I’m dying,” to feel he was being pushed, thrown over the edge of a precipice into a hole, a crater, as narrow and suffocating as a tomb. He could hear himself calling out, but his voice sounded as if it were coming from very far away, as if it were someone else’s voice, separated from him by deep, murky water that swept over him and was dragging him down, lower and lower, into the wide, gaping hole. The pain was unbearable. Soon he fainted, which eased the pain a little, transforming it into a feeling of heaviness, suffocation, an exhausting and vain battle. Once again, he could hear someone calling in the distance, panting, shouting, struggling. He felt as if someone were holding his head under water and that it went on for centuries.

  Finally, he came to.

  The sharp pains had stopped. But his entire body felt wracked, as if all his bones had been broken, crushed beneath heavy wheels. And he was afraid to move, afraid to lift a single finger, afraid to call out. The slightest sound, the slightest movement would make it start all over again, he was sure of it… and this time, it would mean death. Death.

  In the silence, he could hear his heart beating, hard and hollow; it seemed to tear at the muscles in his chest.

  “I’m afraid,” he thought desperately, “I’m afraid…”

  Death. No, it wasn’t possible, no! Couldn’t anyone tell, sense that he was here, alone like a dog, abandoned, dying? “If I could only ring the bell, call someone. No, I just have to wait, wait… The night will soon pass.” It had to be very late already, very late … He peered anxiously into the darkness that surrounded him; it was as thick and deep as before, without a glimmer of light, without even that vague halo that illuminates everything just before dawn. Nothing. Was it ten o’clock, eleven o’clock? To think that his watch was right there, the light was there, that he only had to reach out, stretch out his arm to press the alarm. It was worth the risk! But no, no … He was afraid to make a sound, afraid to breathe. If it happened again, if he felt his heart failing… and that horrible pain… No! The next time, he would surely die. “But what’s happening, for God’s sake? What is it? My heart. Yes.” But he’d never had heart trouble. He’d never even been ill… A bit of asthma, perhaps… Especially recently. But at his age, everyone had something wrong. A bit of discomfort. It was nothing. Watch your diet, get some rest. But this! Oh, what difference if it was his heart or something else? They were only words, words that mean one thing: death, death, death. Who was it who’d said, “It will happen to all of us one day”? Oh, yes. All of us. And him. Those old Jews with their vicious faces who rubbed their hands together, sniggering… It would be worse for them! The dogs, the bastards! And the others… His wife … His daughter… Yes, even her, he was no fool. He was nothing more than a money machine … Good for nothing else …Just pay, pay, and then, drop down dead…

  Good Lord, wouldn’t this damned train ever stop? It had been hours, they’d been travelling for hours without a break! “Don’t people sometimes make a mistake at stations and open the door of a compartment that’s already occupied? My God, if only that would happen now!” He imagined hearing a sound in the corridor, the door banging open, people’s faces… He would be taken away… It didn’t matter where—to a hospital, a hotel… Anywhere, as long as they had a stretcher…

  The sound of footsteps, human voices, some light, an open window …

  But no, nothing… Nothing at all. The train was going faster. Long, piercing whistles filled the air, then faded away… There was the sound ofwheels pounding the tracks in the darkness… a bridge… For a moment he thought that the train was slowing down. He listened hard, gasping for breath. Yes, they were going slower… slower… they’d stopped… A shrill whistle sounded, hung for a moment over the open countryside, and the train started moving again.

  He shuddered. He had lost all hope. His mind was blank. He wasn’t even suffering any more. There was nothing now but fear: “I’m afraid, I’m afraid, I’m afraid,” and his racing, thundering heart.

  Suddenly he thought he could make out something shining, faintly, through the thick blackness. It was opposite him. He strained to see. Barely a glimmer of light. Greyish, pale … But nevertheless something bright, distinct, in the darkness. He waited. It expanded, became clearer, spread, like a pool of water. It was the glass of the window, the window. It was dawn. The darkness was fading, becoming less dense, more fluid. He felt as if an enormous weight was lifting from his chest. He was breathing. This lighter air glided, flowed into his lungs. With infinite care, he moved his head. Cool air swept across his damp brow. Now he could make out shapes around him, outlines. His hat, for example, which had fallen on the floor… The water bottle… Maybe he could reach the glass, drink a bit? He stretched out his hand. He felt no pain, nothing. With beating heart, he moved his wrist. Still nothing. His hand felt its way to the table, held the glass. It had water in it, thank God; he never would have been able to lift the bottle. He raised his head slightly, put the glass to his lips, and drank. How wonderful it was … The flow of cool water across his lips, moistening his dry, swollen tongue, his throat. With the same care, he put the glass down, moved back a bit, waited. His chest still hurt. But less, a lot less, as each moment passed. It was more like a kind of neuralgia in his bones. Maybe it wasn’t so serious after all…

  Perhaps he could open the blind. All he had to do was press a button. Trembling, he stretched out his hand again. The blind suddenly sprang up. It was day. The air was white, cloudy and thick as milk. Slowly, with measured, methodical movements, he picked up his handkerchief, wiped his cheeks and lips. Then he put his face against the window. The cold of the glass felt wonderful as it ran through his whole body. He looked out at the hills where the grass was gradually recovering its greenness, at the trees… Far away in the distance he could see lights glowing faintly in the dawn fog. A railway station. Should he call someone? It would be easy. But how strange that it should have gone away like that… Though it did prove that it wasn’t anything serious, at least not as serious as he had feared. An anxiety attack perhaps? Still, he couldn’t ignore it, he’d have to see a doctor. But it didn’t have to be his heart. Asthma, maybe? No, he wouldn’t call anyone. He looked at his watch. Five o’clock. Come on now, just wait a bit. No need to get all worked up like this. It was his nerves. Braun had been right, the little crook… Cautiously, he probed the spot beneath his breast as if it were an open wound. Nothing. His heart-beat, however, was strange, irregular. So what, it would pass. He was tired. If he could just sleep for a while, that would surely fix things. Just to be oblivious … No more thinking. No more remembering. He was absolutely exhausted. He closed his eyes.

  He was already half asleep when, suddenly, he sat up. “That’s it,” he said out loud. “I see it now… It’s Marcus. But why? Why?” At that moment he felt he could see within himself with extraordinary lucidity. Was it… a kind of remorse? “No, it’s not my fault.” Then he added more quietly, more angrily: “I have nothing to regret.”

  He fell asleep.

  GOLDER SPOTTED THE chauffeur standing at the door of a new car; he suddenly remembered that his wife had sold the Hispano.

  “It’s a Rolls now, of course,” he grumbled as he shot
a look of hostility at the dazzling white car. “I wonder what she’ll have to have next.”

  The chauffeur stepped forward to take his overcoat from him, but Golder stayed where he was, peering through the car’s open window, trying to see if anyone was inside. Hadn’t Joyce come? He took a few hesitant steps forward to take a final hopeful but humble look at the dark corner where he imagined he would see his daughter with her light dress, her golden hair. But the car was empty. He got in slowly, then shouted, “Get going, for God’s sake. What are you waiting for?”

  The car sped off. Golder sighed.

  His daughter… Every time he came back from a trip, he looked for her in the crowd, in spite of himself. She was never there, and yet he continued to expect her with the same humiliating, tenacious, and vain sense of hope.

  “She hasn’t seen me in four months,” he thought. He felt deeply hurt; he didn’t deserve this, and yet his daughter so often aroused this very feeling within him. He felt it grasp his heart, as sharp and agonising as physical pain. “Children…They’re all the same … and they’re the reason we live. It’s for them that we keep working. Not like my own father, no … At thirteen, get the hell out, fend for yourself… That’s what they all deserve.”

  He took off his hat, slowly wiped his hand across his forehead to remove the dust and sweat, then stared out the window. But there were too many people, too much shouting, sun, wind. The short Rue Mazagran was so crowded that the car couldn’t move; a young boy stuck his face against the car window as it passed by. Golder moved back into the corner and pulled up the collar of his coat. Joyce … Where was she? Who was she with?

  “I’m going to give her what for,” he thought bitterly. “This time, I’m going to tell her off about it. ‘Whenever you need money, it’s “Dearest Dad, Daddy, Darling,” but not the slightest sign of affection, of…’” He stopped himself with a weary gesture of his hand. He knew very well that he wouldn’t say a thing… What was the point? And after all, she was still at the age when girls were silly and insensitive. A little smile played at the corners of his mouth, then quickly disappeared. She was only eighteen.

  They had crossed Biarritz, passed the Hotel du Palais. He gazed coldly at the sea; it was choppy, despite the fine weather, with enormous waves. The dazzling green hurt his eyes; he shaded them with his hand and turned away. It was only fifteen minutes later, when they were on the road past the golf course, that he finally leaned forward and looked at his house in the distance. He came here only between trips, to spend a week or so, as if he were a stranger, but every year he loved it more and more. “I’m making myself old. Before it wasn’t a problem… hotels, sleeping compartments… But now it’s all so tiring… It’s a beautiful house…”

  He had bought the property in 1916 for one million five hundred thousand. Now it was worth fifteen million. The house was made of stone, as white and heavy as marble. A beautiful, imposing house … When he saw its outline against the sky, with its balconies, its gardens—still slightly bare, for the sea winds prevented the young trees from growing quickly, but striking and magnificent nevertheless—a look of tenderness and pride spread across Golder’s face. “A very good investment,” he sighed deeply.

  “Drive faster, Albert, faster,” he shouted impatiently.

  Down below, he had a clear view of the rose-covered arches, the tamarind trees, the rows of cedars leading down to the sea.

  “The palm trees have grown…”

  The car stopped in front of the steps, but only the servants came out to greet him. He recognisedJoyce’s little chambermaid who was smiling at him.

  “Is there no one at home?” he asked.

  “No, Monsieur, Mademoiselle will be coming home for lunch.”

  He didn’t ask where she was. What was the point?

  “Bring me the post,” he said sharply.

  He took the packet of letters and telegrams and began to read them as he climbed the stairs. On the landing, he hesitated for a moment between two identical doors. The servant, who had followed him with the suitcase, pointed to one of the bedrooms.

  “Madame told me to put Monsieur in this room. His own room is being used.”

  “Fine,” he said, indifferent.

  Once in the room, he sat down on a chair, with the weary, blank look of a man who has just arrived at a hotel in some unfamiliar city.

  “Is Monsieur going to have a rest?”

  Golder shuddered and stood up with great effort.

  “No, it’s not worth it.”

  “If I go to bed,” he was thinking, “I’ll never get up again.”

  Nevertheless, when he’d washed and shaved, he felt better; there was just a slight, persistent trembling in his fingers. He looked at them. They were as white and swollen as a corpse.

  “Are there many people staying?” he asked with difficulty.

  “Monsieur Fischl, His Imperial Highness, and Count Hoyos…”

  Golder silently bit his lip.

  “Which Highness have they invented now? These damned women…And Fischl,” he thought, annoyed, “why Fischl, in the name of… and Hoyos…”

  But Hoyos was inevitable.

  He went slowly downstairs and headed for the terrace. A large purple awning was stretched across it at the hottest time of the day. Golder stretched out on a chaise-longue and closed his eyes. But the sun penetrated the canvas and flooded the terrace with a strange red light. Golder fidgeted nervously.

  “That colour…” he murmured, “it must be one of Gloria’s idiotic ideas. What does it remind me of? Something terrifying. Oh, yes… How had she put it, that old witch? ‘His mouth was full of foam and blood.’ ” He shuddered. Sighing, he turned his painful head from side to side on the fine linen and lace cushions, which were already crumpled and damp from his sweat. Then, suddenly, he fell asleep.

  WHEN GOLDER WOKE up it was already after two o’clock, but the house seemed empty.

  “Nothing’s changed,” he thought.

  With a kind of grim humour, he imagined Gloria coming towards him up the path as he had seen her so many times before: teetering because the heels on her shoes were too high, her hand shading her ageing painted face, her make-up melting in the dazzling sunlight… “Hello, David,” she would say, “how’s business?” and then “How are you?” but only the first question required a reply. Later on, the brilliant Biarritz crowd would invade the house. Those faces… It made him sick to think of them. All the crooks, the pimps, the old whores on earth … And he was the one paying for that lot to eat, drink, and get sloshed all night. The bunch of greedy dogs… He shrugged his shoulders. What could he do about it? In the past, he had found it amusing, flattering even. “The Duke of… Count… Yesterday, the Maharajah was at my house…” Filth. The older and sicker he got, the more tiresome he found people and the racket they made, the more tiresome his family and even life.

  He sighed, knocked on the window behind him to call the butler who was laying the table, and gestured to him to raise the blinds. The sun blazed down on the garden and the sea. Someone called out: “Hello, Golder!”

  He recognised Fischl’s voice and slowly turned round without replying. Why did Gloria have to invite him of all people? Golder looked with a kind of hatred at Fischl, as if at a cruel caricature. Fat little Jew… He had a comical, vile, and slightly sinister air as he stood in the doorway with his red hair, ruddy complexion, and bright, knowing eyes behind thin gold spectacles. His stomach was fat, his legs short, skinny, and misshapen. He calmly held in his killer’s hands a porcelain bowl of fresh caviar against his chest.

  “Golder, my friend, are you staying long?”

  Fischl walked over and took a chair, placing the half-empty bowl on the ground.

  “Are you asleep, Golder?”

  “No,” Golder grumbled.

  “How’s business?”

  “Bad.”

  “I’m doing very well,” said Fischl, folding his arms around his stomach with difficulty. “I’m very happy.”
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  “Oh, yes. That pearl fishing business in Monaco …” Golder sniggered. “I thought they’d thrown you in jail…”

  Fischl gave a long, good-humoured laugh.

  “Absolutely, I was taken to court… But, as you can see, it didn’t end up as badly as usual. Austria, Russia, France …” He counted off on his fingers. “I’ve been in prison in three countries. I hope that’s the end of it now, that they’ll leave me in peace … They can all go to hell, I don’t want to work any more. I’m old.”

  He lit a cigarette. “What was the Stock Market like yesterday?”

  “Bad.”

  “Do you know what the Huanchaca shares were selling at?”

  “One thousand three hundred and sixty-five,” Golder said, rubbing his hands together. “You really got screwed there, didn’t you?”

  He wondered suddenly why he was so happy to see the man lose money. Fischl had never done anything to him. “It’s strange how I can’t bear him,” he thought.

  But Fischljust shrugged his shoulders. “Iddische Glick,” he said in Yiddish.

  “He must be rolling in it again, the pig,” thought Golder. (He knew how to recognise the inimitable, telling little tremor in a man’s voice that gives away his emotion even if his words appear indifferent.) “He doesn’t give a damn…”

  “What are you doing here?” he grumbled.

  “Your wife invited me… Hey, listen …”

  He walked over to Golder, automatically lowering his voice. “There’s a business I know about that will interest you… Have you ever heard of the El Paso silver mines?”

  “No, thank God,” Golder interjected.

  “There are millions to be made there.”

  “There are millions to be made everywhere, but you have to know how to make them.”