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

  “You’re wrong to refuse to do business with me. We’re made for each other. You’re intelligent, but you lack daring, you’re not willing to take chances, you’re afraid of the law. Don’t you think?”

  He laughed, pleased with himself.

  “As for me, I’m not interested in run-of-the-mill stuff— buying, selling… But to get something going, to create something—a mine in Peru, for example—when you don’t even know where it is… Listen, I started something like that two years ago. When I bought the shares, they hadn’t even turned over a shovelful of earth. Then the American investors jumped in. Whether you believe me or not, I’m telling you that within two weeks the land was worth ten times what I’d paid. I sold my shares for a huge profit. When business works like that, it’s pure poetry.”

  Golder shrugged his shoulders. “Not really.”

  “Whatever you say. You’ll regret it. There’s nothing fishy about this one.”

  He smoked for a while in silence. “Tell me …”

  “What?”

  He looked at Golder, narrowing his eyes. “Marcus…”

  But the aged face remained blank; there was a mere twitch of a muscle in one corner of his mouth. “Marcus? He’s dead.”

  “I know,” Fischl said quietly, “but why?” He lowered his voice even further. “What did you do to him, you old Cain?”

  “What did I do to him?” Golder repeated. He looked away. “He wanted to cheat old man Golder,” he said abruptly, angrily, as his hollow ashen cheeks blushed suddenly, “and that’s dangerous…”

  Fischl laughed. “You old Cain,” he repeated smugly, “but you’re right. As for me, well, I’m too nice.”

  He stopped speaking; he’d heard something.

  “Here comes your daughter, Golder.”

  “IS DAD HERE?” shouted Joyce. Golder could hear her laughing. Instinctively he closed his eyes, as if to listen for longer. His daughter… What a lovely voice, what a radiant laugh she had. “Like gold,” he thought, feeling indescribable pleasure.

  Nevertheless, he didn’t move, made not a single sign of going towards her, and when she appeared, leaping on to the terrace in that light, quick way she had that showed her knees beneath her short dress, all he did was to say ironically, “So you’re home? I didn’t expect you back so soon…”

  She jumped on him and kissed him, then fell back on to the chaise-longue and stretched herself out, crossing her arms beneath her neck and laughing as she looked at him through the long lashes of her half-closed eyes.

  Almost against his will, Golder slowly reached out his hand and placed it on her golden hair; it was moist, tangled from the sea. Though he seemed barely to be looking at her, his piercing eyes registered every change in her features, every line, every movement her face made. How she had grown … In just four months, she had become more beautiful, more of a woman. He was annoyed to see she was using more make-up. God knows she didn’t need to, at eighteen, with her lovely fair skin and her delicate, flowerlike lips, which she painted a deep blood-red. Such a shame. “Foolish girl,” he sighed, then added, “You’re growing up …”

  “And growing beautiful, I hope?” she exclaimed, sitting up abruptly then settling herself again with her legs tucked under her and her hands on her knees. She stared at him with her large, dark eyes; they sparkled with that haughty, arrogant look he so hated, the look of a woman who has been loved and desired her whole life. What was extraordinary was that, in spite ofthat look, in spite of make-up and the jewellery, she had retained the wild laughter of a little girl and the awkward, gauche, almost brutal gestures of extreme youth, with its light, intense grace. “It won’t last,” he thought.

  “Get down, Joyce, you’re annoying me…”

  She lightly stroked his hand. “I’m happy to see you, Dad…”

  “So you need money?”

  She saw that he was smiling and nodded. “Always… I don’t know where it goes. It seems to run through my fingers…” she spread her fingers out and laughed, “like water. It’s not my fault…”

  Two men were coming up from the garden. Hoyos and a very handsome boy of twenty with a thin, pale face; Golder didn’t recognise him.

  “That’s Prince Alexis of…” Joyce quickly whispered in his ear, “You have to call him Your Imperial Highness.”

  She jumped down, then leapt on to the balustrade and straddled it, calling out, “Alec, come here! Where were you? I waited for you all morning, I was furious … This is Dad, Alec …”

  The young man went up to Golder, greeted him with a kind of arrogant shyness, then went over to Joyce.

  “And where did that little gigolo come from?” asked Golder as soon as he was out of earshot.

  “He’s good-looking, isn’t he?” Hoyos murmured nonchalantly.

  “Yes,” grumbled Golder, then repeated impatiently, “I asked you where he came from.”

  “He’s from a good family,” Hoyos said, looking at him and smiling. “He’s the son ofthat poor Pierre de Carelu who was assassinated in 1918. He’s the nephew of King Alexander, his sister’s son.”

  “He looks like a gigolo,” said Fischl.

  “He probably is. Did anyone say he wasn’t?”

  “Anyway, he’s with old Lady Rovenna.”

  “Just her? Such a nice young man? I’m surprised…”

  Hoyos sat down and stretched out his long legs, carefully placing his pince-nez, fine handkerchief, newspaper, and books on the wicker table. The way in which his long fingers delicately touched each object, as if he were caressing it, irritated Golder deeply, and had done for years… Hoyos slowly lit a cigarette. It was only then that Golder noticed how the skin on the hand holding the gold lighter was all creased—soft and wrinkled like a withered flower. It was strange to think that even Hoyos, that handsome cavalier, had grown old. He must be almost sixty. But he was still as good-looking as ever, suave and slim, with his small, proud head, his silvery hair, his strong body, flawless face, and large, hooked nose. His nostrils flared with passion and life.

  Fischl indicated Alec with a sullen shrug. “They say he prefers men. Is it true?”

  “Not for the moment, in any case,” murmured Hoyos. He stared at Joyce and Alec with a sardonic look on his face. “He’s so young, people don’t know what they like at that age … Say, Golder, you do realise that Joyce has got it into her head that she’s going to marry him, don’t you?”

  Golder didn’t reply. Hoyos gave a little snigger.

  “What did you say?” asked Golder sharply.

  “Nothing. I was just wondering… Would you let Joyce marry a boy like that who’s as poor as a church mouse?”

  Golder pursed his lips. “Why not?” he said finally.

  “Why not?” Hoyos repeated, shrugging his shoulders.

  “She’ll be rich,” Golder mused, “and anyway, she knows how to handle men. Just look at her…”

  They both fell silent. Joyce, straddling the balustrade, was talking to Alec; she spoke quickly and softly. Every now and then, she slid her hands through her short hair, pushing it back nervously. It looked as if she was in a bad mood.

  Hoyos got up and quietly walked towards them, winking. His dark, beautiful eyes were extraordinarily bright beneath his thick eyebrows, which were streaked with deep silver, like some rare fur. Joyce was whispering: “We could take the car if you like and go to Spain; I want to make love in Spain…”

  Laughing, she brought her lips up close to Alec’s mouth. “Would you like that? Well, would you?”

  “Andwhat about Lady Rovenna?” he objected, half-smiling.

  Joyce clenched her fists. “That old woman of yours. I hate her! No, you’ll go away with me, do you hear? You have no shame. Look…”

  She leaned forward and discreetly showed him a little bruise just above her eyelid. “Look at what you did…” She noticed Hoyos standing behind her. He gently stroked her hair. “Listen, chica,” he murmured: Mama, I want to die of love, She shouted and cried out loud. That’s
because this is your very first love, And the first is best, Madame.

  Joyce clasped her beautiful arms together, laughed, and said, “Isn’t love wonderful?”

  WHEN GLORIA GOT home, it was nearly three o’clock in the afternoon. They were all there: Lady Rovenna, in a pink dress; Daphne Mannering, one of Joyce’s friends, with her mother and the German gentleman who kept them; the Maharajah, his wife, his mistress, and his two daughters; Lady Rovenna’s son; and Maria-Pia, a tall, dark-haired dancer from Argentina who had sallow skin as rough and scented as an orange.

  The meal was served. It was drawn-out and magnificent. At five o’clock it finished, and more visitors arrived. Golder, Hoyos, Fischl, and a Japanese general started playing bridge.

  They played until evening. It was eight o’clock when Gloria sent her chambermaid to tell Golder that they were invited out to dinner at the Miramar.

  Golder hesitated, but he felt better; he went up to his room, changed, then, once he was ready, went in to see Gloria. She was standing in front of an enormous, three-panelled mirror finishing getting dressed; the chambermaid, kneeling in front of her, was having difficulty fitting her shoes. Slowly Gloria turned towards him; her ageing face was so covered in make-up it looked like an enamelled plate.

  “David, I’ve hardly seen you for five minutes today,” she murmured reproachfully. “Those cards… How do I look? I won’t kiss you—my make-up’s all done …” She stretched out her hand to him; it was petite and beautiful, weighed down by enormous diamonds. Then she carefully smoothed down her short red hair.

  Her full cheeks looked as if they had been inflated from inside, and were faintly lined with broken veins; her exquisite blue eyes were pale and severe.

  “I’ve lost weight, haven’t I?” she said. She smiled, and he could see the gold fillings shining in the teeth at the back of her mouth.

  “Well, David, haven’t I?” she repeated.

  She twirled around slowly, so he could see her better, proudly arching her body. It had remained very beautiful: her shoulders, arms, and high, firm breasts were extraordinarily striking, despite her age, and had retained the hard brilliance of marble. But her neck was lined, and her face sagged. This, together with her dark-pink rouge, which became purplish beneath the lights, gave her an air of decrepitude that was both sinister and comical.

  “Can you see, David, how much slimmer I am? I lost five kilos in a month, didn’t I, Jenny? I have a new masseur now. A black man, of course… They’re the best. All the women here are mad about him. He made that fat old Alphand simply melt away. Do you remember her? She’s become as svelte as a young girl. He’s quite expensive though …”

  She stopped talking: her lipstick had smudged at the corner of her mouth. Slowly she dabbed it away and patiently redrew on to her ageing, shapeless lips the pure, clean arch that the years had wiped away.

  “You have to admit that I hardly look like an old woman,” she said, with a little satisfied laugh. But he was gazing at her without actually seeing her. The chambermaid brought in a jewellery box. Gloria opened it and pulled out a tangle of bracelets that had lain jumbled together in the box like bits of thread snarled at the bottom of a sewing basket.

  “Stop fiddling with that, David …” she continued, irritated. He was absent-mindedly toying with a magnificent shawl that was spread out on the settee, an enormous piece of gold and purple silk embroidered with scarlet birds and large flowers.

  “David…”

  “What?” said Golder grumpily.

  “How’s business?”

  Her gaze suddenly changed as a piercing look flashed like lightning between her long eyelashes, heavy with mascara.

  Golder shrugged his shoulders.

  “So-so,” he said finally.

  “What do you mean ‘so-so’? You mean, not good? David, I’m talking to you!”

  “Not too bad,” he said, half-heartedly.

  “Darling, I need some money.”

  “Again?”

  Gloria angrily tore off a bracelet that wasn’t closing properly and threw it towards the table. It fell on the floor and she kicked it away. “What do you mean ‘Again’?” she shouted. “You simply cannot imagine how much you annoy me when you say things like that. Come on, tell me. What do you mean? Don’t you realise how expensive everything is? Your precious Joyce, for starters! Oh, money burns a hole in that girl’s pocket… And do you know what she says to me when I dare to make the slightest criticism? ‘Dad will pay.’ And she’s right—you’ve always got money for her! I’m the only one who doesn’t matter. Do you think I can live on thin air, well, do you? What’s gone wrong this time, is it Golmar?”

  “Golmar! That went wrong long ago … If we were counting on Golmar…”

  “But you do have something lucrative in the works?”

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, you really are tedious,” Golder shouted. “This obsession you have with interrogating me about business! You never stop! You don’t understand a thing about business and you know it, You women can all go to hell! What exactly are you worried about? I’m still here, aren’t I?” He made an effort to calm down: “You have a new necklace, I see. Let’s have a look.”

  She took the pearls and warmed them in her hands for a moment, as if they were wine.

  “They’re fabulous, aren’t they? I know you’re going to criticise me for spending too much money, but these days jewellery is the best investment. And it was a bargain. Guess how much they were? Eight hundred thousand, darling. That’s nothing, right? Just look at the emerald on the clasp, that alone is worth a fortune, isn’t it? Look at the colour, the size! And as for the pearls… OK, some of them are uneven, but what about those three at the front! You can get such amazing bargains. The sluts around here will sell anything for cash. If only you would give me more money …”

  Golder bit his tongue.

  “There was one young girl,” she continued, “whose lover lost a fortune gambling; he was just a boy. She was going crazy; she wanted to sell me her fur coat, a magnificent chinchilla. When I tried to bargain with her she came here sobbing. I still said no. I was counting on her getting even more desperate so I’d have it for a better price, but I regret it now. Her lover killed himself. So of course she’ll keep the coat. Oh, David! If you could just see what a beautiful necklace that mad old Lady Rovenna has bought herself! It’s gorgeous. All diamonds… No one’s wearing pearls this season, you know. I heard she paid five million. Can you believe it? I’ve had one of my old diamond necklaces reset. I’ll have to buy five or six large diamonds to lengthen it. Needs must when you don’t have the money. But God, Lady Rovenna has such amazing jewellery! And she’s so old and ugly. She must be at least sixty-five!”

  “You’re a lot richer than I am now, aren’t you, Gloria?” said Golder.

  Gloria clenched her teeth with a little click, like a crocodile’s jaws snapping shut on its prey.

  “I detest jokes like that, and you know it!”

  “Gloria,” said Golder, hesitating a little, “you know, don’t you, about Marcus?”

  “No,” said Gloria, vaguely; she had put some perfume on her finger and was dabbing it behind her ears and under the pearls. “No, what about Marcus?”

  “Ah, so you don’t know…” Golder sighed. “Well, he’s dead. They’ve had the funeral.”

  Gloria stood still, her perfume bottle poised in mid-air in front of her.

  “Oh!” she murmured in a softer tone of voice. She sounded pained, almost frightened. “How? How is it possible? He wasn’t old… What did he die of?”

  “He killed himself. He was bankrupt.”

  “What a coward!” exclaimed Gloria vehemently. “Don’t you think that’s cowardly? What about his wife? How delightful for her! Did you see her?”

  “Yes,” said Golder with a sarcastic laugh. “She was wearing a necklace with pearls as big as walnuts.”

  “And what would you have her do,” Gloria asked bitterl
y, “give everything to him like a little fool, so he could lose it all again on the Stock Market or somewhere else, so he could kill himself two years later without leaving her a penny? Men are so selfish! That’s what you would have wanted, isn’t it?”

  “7 don’t want anything,” growled Golder. “I don’t give a damn. Only, when I think how we work ourselves to death for you…” He stopped speaking, a strange look of hatred on his face.

  Gloria shrugged.

  “But my dear, men like you and Marcus don’t work for their wives, do they? You work for yourselves… Yes, you do,” she insisted. “In the end, business is a drug, just like morphine is. If you couldn’t work, darling, you’d be as miserable as sin …”

  Golder laughed nervously.

  “Ah!” he said. “You’ve got it all worked out, my dear.”

  JOYCE’S CHAMBERMAID OPENED the door quietly.

  “Mademoiselle sent me,” she said to Gloria, who was looking at her with cold displeasure. “Mademoiselle is ready and would like Monsieur to come and see her gown.”

  Golder immediately stood up.

  “That girl is so annoying,” Gloria hissed, sounding hostile and irritated, “and you spoil her, you do, just like an old man in love. You are a fool.”

  But Golder was already on his way out.

  She furtively shrugged her shoulders. “At least hurry her up, for heaven’s sake! I wait in the car while she admires herself in the mirror. She’s a real handful, I’m telling you … Have you seen how she behaves around men? You can warn her that if she’s not ready in ten minutes, I’m going without her. And I mean it.”

  Golder said nothing and went out. On the landing, he stopped to breathe in Joyce’s perfume with a smile; it was so intense and persistent that it filled the upstairs rooms with the scent of roses.

  Joyce recognised the heavy footsteps that made the parquet floor creak. “Is that you, Dad?” she called out. “Come in.”

  She was standing in front of the large mirror in her brightly lit room, teasing Jill, her little golden Pekinese dog, with her foot. She smiled, tilting her pretty head to one side. “Do you like my dress, Dad?” she asked.