David Golder, The Ball, Snow in Autumn & The Courilof Affair (2008) (10 page)

IT
WAS MIDNIGHT
when Gloria suddenly leaned towards her husband who was sitting opposite her.

“You’re as pale as a ghost, David, what’s wrong? Are you that tired? We’re going on to Cibourne, you know … It might be better if you went home.”

Joyce had heard her. “Dad, that’s an excellent idea,” she called out. “Come on, I’ll take you back. I’ll meet you at Cibourne later, all right, Mummy? Daphne, I’m taking your car,” she continued, turning towards the younger of the two Mannering women.

“Don’t smash it up,” Daphne warned in a voice made hoarse from opium and alcohol.

Golder motioned to the maitre d’: “The bill!”

He had said it automatically, but then remembered that, according to Gloria, someone else had invited them to the Miramar. Nevertheless, all the other men had quickly turned away; only Hoyos looked at him with a wry smile and said nothing. Golder shrugged his shoulders and paid.

“Let’s go, Joy.”

It was a beautiful night. They got into Daphne’s small convertible. Joyce started the engine and set off like the wind. The poplar trees that lined the road fell away and disappeared as if into an abyss.

“Joyce, you’re mad…” shouted Golder, who’d gone somewhat pale. “One night you’re going to kill yourself on these roads.”

She didn’t reply but slowed down a little.

As they approached the town, she looked at him with wide, wild eyes. “Were you afraid, Dad?”

“You’re going to kill yourself,” he repeated.

She shrugged. “So what? It’s a good way to die …”

She placed her lips against a scratch on her hand that was bleeding. “On a beautiful night… wearing a ball gown …” she said. “You just drive for a while … and then it’s over.”

“Be quiet!” he shouted, horrified.

She laughed. “Poor old Dad…” Then added, “Well, out you get, we’re here.”

Golder looked up. “What? But we’re at the casino! Oh, I see now…”

“We’ll leave right away if you want,” she said.

She sat motionless, looking at him and smiling. She knew very well that, once he saw the brightly lit windows of the casino, the silhouettes of the gamblers walking back and forth behind them, and the small, narrow balcony that overlooked the sea, he wouldn’t want to leave.

“All right then, but just for an hour…”

Ignoring the valets standing on the steps, Joyce let out a wild cry. “Oh, Dad, I do love you so! I just know you’re going to win, you’ll see!”

He laughed. “You won’t have a penny of it, no matter what, I’m warning you, my girl.”

They went into the casino; some of the young women who were wandering from table to table recognised Joyce and gave her a friendly smile.

“Oh, Dad,” she sighed, “when will
I
be allowed to play? I do so want to …”

But he had already stopped listening to her, and instead was looking at his cards with trembling hands. She had to call him several times. Finally he turned round sharply and shouted, “What is it? What do you want? Stop bothering me!”

“I’ll be over there,” she said, pointing to a window seat by the wall, “all right?”

“Fine, go wherever you want, just leave me be!”

Joyce laughed, lit a cigarette, and sat down on the hard little velvet bench, tucking her legs under her and toying with her pearls. From where she was, all she could see were the crowds of people surrounding the tables: the men were silent and trembling, the women all eagerly reaching out their necks in the same bizarre way in order to see the cards, the money… Strange men
paced up and down in front of Joyce; now and again, to amuse herself, she would lower her eyes and give one of them a long, mysterious look—feminine, passionate, and seductive—that would make him stop in his tracks, almost without realising it. She would then burst out laughing, look away, and continue waiting.

Once, when the crowd parted to let in some new players, she had a clear view of Golder. The sudden, strange ageing of his heavy, furrowed face, greenish beneath the harsh light, filled her with vague anxiety.

“He’s so pale … What’s wrong with him? Is he losing?” she wondered.

She raised herself up, eagerly straining to see, but the crowd had already closed in around the tables.

“Damn! Damn!” she said to herself, frowning nervously. “What if I went over to him? No, if you want someone to win, you bring them bad luck.”

She searched the room until her eyes alighted upon a young man she didn’t know who was walking past her with a beautiful, half-naked young woman. She gestured to them urgently. “Tell me, what’s happening over there? That old man, Golder, is he winning?”

“No, the other sly old fox is winning, Donovan,” replied the woman, naming a gambler who was famous in casinos all over the world. Joyce threw down her cigarette in rage.

“He has to win, he has to,” she murmured in despair. “I want my car! I want… I want to go to Spain with Alec! Just the two of us, free … I’ve never spent an entire night with him, sleeping in his arms… My darling Alec … Oh, he has to win! Please, God, let him win!”

The night passed. In spite of herself, Joyce let her head fall on to her arms. The smoke was burning her eyes.

She vaguely heard, as if from the depths of a dream, someone laugh as they pointed to her: “Look, there’s little Joyce, sleeping. Look how pretty she is … “

She smiled, stroked her pearls, then fell into a deep sleep. A little later, she half opened her eyes; the windows of the casino were becoming a paler shade of pink.

She lifted up her heavy head with difficulty and looked around. There were fewer people; Golder was still playing. “He’s winning now,” she heard someone say. “A while ago, he’d lost nearly a million…”

The sun was rising. Instinctively she turned her face towards the light, then went back to sleep. It was daytime when she felt someone shaking her; she woke up, held out her hands, then closed them over the crumpled banknotes that her father, standing over her, slid between her fingers. “Oh, Dad,” she murmured joyously, “so it’s true! You really did win?”

He didn’t move; the stubble that had grown during the night covered his cheeks like thick ash.

“No,” he said; he was having trouble articulating his words. “I lost more than a million, I think, then I won it back and fifty thousand francs more for you. That’s all. Let’s go.”

He turned around and walked with difficulty towards the door. She followed him, still barely awake, dragging her large white velvet coat along the floor, her hands overflowing with banknotes. Suddenly, she thought she saw Golder stop, stagger.

“I must be dreaming…” she murmured. “Has he been drinking?” And at that very moment, his large body collapsed in a strange and terrifying way: he raised both arms in the air, waved them about, then fell to the floor with a deep, dull moan that seemed to rise up as if from the living roots of a falling tree that has been struck right through its heart.

“
COULD
YOU MOVE
away from the window, Madame?” whispered the nurse. “You’re in the doctor’s way.”

Gloria took a few steps back without removing her eyes from the bed. Golder’s heavy head was thrown back and motionless; it made a deep impression in the pillow. “He looks dead,” she thought, and shuddered.

He seemed completely unconscious. Although the doctor, leaning over his large, inert body, was feeling his pulse, listening to his heart, he didn’t move a muscle, didn’t even groan.

Nervously twisting her necklace in her hands, Gloria looked away. Was he going to die? “It’s his own fault,” she muttered angrily. “Why did he have to go and play cards? I bet you’re happy now, you fool,” she whispered, as if talking to him directly. “My God, think of all the money this is going to cost! Just let him get better…Just let it not go on for too long. I’ll go mad! What a terrible night I’ve had …”

She recalled how she had spent the whole night in this bedroom, waiting for Dr. Ghedalia, wondering at every moment whether Golder was going to die, right there, right in front of her eyes… It had been horrible.

“Poor David… His eyes…”

He was staring at her again, with that lost look. He was afraid of death. She shrugged her shoulders. All the same, people don’t dielike that… “This isjust what I needed!” she thought, secretly looking at herself in the mirror.

She made a sudden gesture of frustration and anger, then sat down, straight-backed and stiff, in an armchair.

Meanwhile, Ghedalia had pulled the sheet back up over Golder’s chest and stood up. He let out a vague moan.

“Well? What is it?” Gloria asked anxiously. “Is it serious? Will he be well again soon? Will he be ill for a long time? Tell me the truth, I’m begging you, I can take it… “

The doctor leaned back against his chair, slowly stroked his black beard, and smiled.

“My dear Madame,” he said in a melodious voice that flowed like milk, “I can see you’re very upset. However, there’s no reason to get in a state… Yes, I know, I know… His fainting like that frightened us, didn’t it? Worried us somewhat… But that’s only natural. After a week or ten days of rest, he’ll be fine. He’s just tired, overworked… Alas, we all grow a little older with each passing day, don’t we, Monsieur? Our arteries aren’t twenty years old any more. We can’t stay young forever…”

“You see,” Gloria exclaimed passionately, “I knew it all along. The least little thing and you think you’re about to die. Look at him! Well, say something, speak, for goodness sake!”

“No,” Ghedalia intervened, “no, he mustn’t say a word, on the contrary! Rest, rest, and more rest! We’ll give him a little injection to calm his nerves, and then, dear Madame, we shall leave him in peace.”

“But how do you feel?” Gloria repeated impatiently. “Do you feel better? David?”

He made a weak gesture with his hands, and moved his lips; she saw rather than heard him say, “I’m in pain …”

“Come along, Madame, let’s leave him alone,” Ghedalia said once again. “He cannot speak, but he can hear us very well, isn’t that so, Monsieur?” he added cheerfully, glancing furtively at the nurse.

He went out; Gloria joined him in the next room.

“It’s nothing, is it?” she started to say. “Oh, he’s so impressionable and nervous, it’s awful… If you only knew what a terrible night I had with him!”

The doctor solemnly raised his small, white, chubby hand. “I must stop you there, Madame,” he said in a completely different tone of voice. “My very first rule, which is un-wa-vering, is never to allow my patients to have the slightest idea of what is wrong with them, when their illness is serious … But, alas, to their families I owe the truth, and my second rule is never to hide the truth from my patient’s family … Never!” he repeated, emphatically.

“What are you saying? Is he going to die?”

The doctor gave a look that was both surprised and shrewd, as if to say, “I can see there’s no point in putting on kid gloves here.” He sat down, crossed his legs and, tilting his head slightly backwards, replied nonchalantly, “Not imminently, dear Madame…”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Angina pectoris.” He hammered home the Latin words with obvious pleasure. “In simple words, a heart attack.”

She said nothing. “He could live for a long time,” he added. “Five, ten, even fifteen years, with a careful diet and the appropriate medical attention. Naturally, he will have to stop working. Nothing must upset him or fatigue him. He needs a calm life— peace, routine, no extremes of emotion. Complete rest. At all times … Then, and only then, can I give you my assurances that he will survive, insofar as it is possible to give any assurances whatsoever, for this is an illness, alas, that is full of sudden surprises. We aren’t gods, after all… “

He smiled pleasantly. “Naturally, it is out of the question to talk to him about it now. You can see that for yourself, Madame, for he is in terrible pain … But in a week or ten days, we might be able to hope that the worst is over. That will be the time to give him the ultimatum.”

“But it isn’t possible for him to give up work…” Gloria murmured in a strained voice. “Itjust isn’t possible …” Ghedalia said nothing. “It would kill him,” Gloria concluded nervously.

“Madame,” he replied, smiling, “believe me when I say I have seen many cases like this. Some of the most powerful men in the world are amongst my clientele, if I may say so … I once took care of a famous banker (for whom, I might add, my colleagues had unanimously declared there was no hope at all… but that’s beside the point). That gentleman suffered from the very same illness as Monsieur Golder… And my verdict was exactly the same. His friends and family feared he wouldn’t last long… Well, this great financier is still alive. It’s been fifteen years! He became a passionate and highly knowledgeable collector of Renaissance silverware, and now owns a very great number of remarkable pieces, including a silver-gilt ewer believed to be the first creation of the great Cellini, a real masterpiece … I dare
say that the contemplation of such beautiful, rare objects gives him pleasures he has never before experienced. You can be sure that, after the first few weeks of inevitable restlessness have passed, your husband will also discover his… how can I put it? … his hobby. Collecting enamels, gems, taking up more worldly pleasures, perhaps? Men are just big children …”

“You fool,” thought Gloria. She was suddenly filled with bitter amusement at the idea of David spending his time with rare books, a medal collection, or other women… Good Lord, the man was an imbecile! And just how did he think they would live? Buy food? Clothes? Did he think that money grew on trees?

She stood up. “Thank you very much, Doctor,” she said, nodding to him. “I’ll think about what you’ve said…”

“Of course, I’ll keep informed of my patient’s progress,” said Ghedalia, with a little smile, “and I think it would be better to let me be the one who explains everything to him later on. It takes a lot of tact, delicacy… We doctors, alas, are used to it. We heal the soul as well as the body.”

He kissed her hand and left. She was alone.

Silently she paced the long, empty landing. She knew only too well—had always known—that he had never put aside a penny for her. Everything had been spent, gone into some business venture or other… So what now? “Millions on paper, of course, but cash in hand, nothing, not a penny,” she hissed angrily between clenched teeth. “What are you worried about?” he had said. “I’m still here …” The fool! Surely, at sixty-eight, you should consider the possibility of death every day! Wasn’t his first obligation to make sure he had left his wife a sufficient and decent amount of money? They had nothing. Once he gave up doing business, there would be nothing left. Business… a river of money that would dry up … “There might be a million,” she thought, “maybe two, ifwe scraped the bottom of the barrel…” She shrugged her shoulders furiously. The way they lived, a million would last only six months. Six months … and to cap it all, she’d have to take care of him, a useless, bedridden man who was dying. “As if I need him to live another fifteen years!” she shouted out loud, hatred in her voice.
“Really… for all the happiness he’s given me! No, no …” She detested him. He was mean, old, and ugly. All he really loved in this world was money, bloody money, and he wasn’t even capable of holding on to it! He had never loved her… If he showered her with jewels, it was to make her a living symbol of his own wealth, a showcase, and ever since Joyce had started growing up, all that had been transferred to her…Joyce? Oh, he loved
her,
all right… Because she was beautiful, young, happy. Pride! He had nothing but pride and vanity in his heart! As for her, if she so much as asked for a diamond, a new ring, he would make such a scene, shouting, “Leave me alone! I haven’t got any more money. Are you trying to kill me?” Other men worked as hard as he.
They
didn’t consider themselves stronger or more intelligent than everyone else in the world, and at least, when they were old, when they died, they left their wives well provided for! Some women were so lucky, while she … The truth was he had never cared about her, never loved her. If he had, he wouldn’t have had a moment’s peace knowing that she had nothing… nothing except the pitiful little bit of money she had managed to put aside by making great sacrifices… “But that’s my money, mine and mine alone! If he thinks that I’m going to support him with that! No thank you. I’ve had it with keeping men,” she murmured, thinking of Hoyos. “No, let him sort himself out…” After all, why should she tell him the truth, for heaven’s sake? She knew very well that, with his obsessive Jewish fear of death, he would give everything up in a flash. All he’d think about would be his precious health, his own life… The selfish coward. “Is it my fault that, after all these years, he hasn’t been able to make enough money to die in peace? And right now, just when his business affairs are in such a horrible mess, it would be madness… Later on… I know what’s happening now, I’ll keep an eye on things. That deal he was talking about starting: ‘something interesting,’ he called it. After he’s made the deal, that will be the time. It could even prove useful, to stop him from getting involved in some other mad project… There will be plenty of time…”

She hesitated, glanced at the door, walked over to a small writing desk in the corner.

She threw down the pen and quickly crossed the corridor to Golder’s bedroom. The nurse wasn’t there. Golder seemed to be asleep. His hands were trembling. She glanced in his direction, then looked around until she saw his clothes lying over a chair. Picking up his jacket, she reached into the pocket, pulled out his wallet, and opened it. Inside was a single thousand-franc note, folded in four; she hid it in her hand.

The nurse came in.

“He seems calmer,” she said, nodding towards the patient.

Embarrassed, Gloria bent down and touched her husband’s cheek with her painted lips. Golder let out a moan and weakly waved his hands about, as if trying to push away her cold pearls from his chest. Gloria stood up and sighed.

“It’s better if I go. He doesn’t know who I am.”