Little White Lies (6 page)

‘What do you mean?’

Uncle Paul sighed. He rested his elbows on his desk, steepling his fingers together. ‘I don’t suppose anyone’s ever told you, have they?’

‘Told me what?’

‘That your father’s not . . . not quite who you think he is.’ Lionel stared at him. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘I expect you’ve always thought of him as simply one of us. A Harburg. Oma Rebecca’s son. Well, he’s not. He’s a Harburg. Yes, he’s Samuel’s child, but not Rebecca’s. No. Your grandfather had a – a
liaison
, shall we call it? – early on in his marriage and your father is the result. The woman died not long after he was born. Rebecca took the baby in immediately. Brought him up as her own. Many women wouldn’t, you know, but she did. But, there was always a slight lack of
warmth
, shall we say? Your father suffered terribly. Still does, I imagine. And then there was the question of . . . well, the woman wasn’t Jewish.’

Lionel stared at him. ‘Are you saying my father’s not Jewish?’

‘Well,
technically
speaking, no. He’s not. But that doesn’t matter. He’s a Harburg, that’s all there is to it. That’s all that matters.’ He frowned at Lionel. ‘But none of this has any bearing on
you
, my boy. You’re Jewish, as Jewish as the rest of us. And you’re your mother’s son, make no mistake. There’s almost nothing of your father in you. Well, a little around the eyes, perhaps. But you’re Sara’s boy. Which is why you’re here. You watch; you listen; you act. Just like your mother.’ He sighed. ‘The most capable woman I’ve ever met. I must confess to . . . to a certain
admiration
for Sara, not that she’d ever accept it.’ He stopped abruptly. ‘I digress. Forgive me. My point is that your father’s had quite a lot to deal with. His position within the family has always been difficult. There’s been a lot of . . . insecurity. Yes, insecurity. He is an insecure man, Lionel, not a
failure
. It’s important you understand the difference. Do you?’ Uncle Paul looked up from his position at the desk. A sternness had crept into his voice that hadn’t been there before, as though he’d staked out certain big, immutable facts and was now daring Lionel to make sense of them and accept them.

Lionel was silent. He thought of his father. A quiet man, with a weakness for the softer, sweeter things in life – sweets, puddings, rich tortes and sticky buns that the girls in the kitchen used to make especially for him. He was mild-mannered, not at all given to the outbursts of sentiment and fierce debate that characterised every other member of the household, the girls included. He spent most of his time in his library or, if the weather was fine, in the gardens beyond the lawn. When he was younger, Lionel sometimes wandered over to help him with whatever gardening task was at hand – pruning, planting, weeding and cutting. He spoke little, hummed a lot under his breath. That was all. Very occasionally, out of some strange, hidden provocation that none around him could see, a mood would come upon him that took him out of himself, turned him momentarily into someone else. He would shout and shake his fist at the world, some darkness having descended upon him. They heard the incomprehensible shouts and steered clear. Oddly enough, it was only their mother, Sara, who could calm him at such times. She would sit quietly with him until he had shouted himself out and the storm of whatever it was that had overtaken him had worn itself thin. When all was quiet again, he would suddenly pick up whatever task he’d been engaged in and continue, as if nothing had happened. His mother would sit there for a few minutes longer and then with a look upon her face that Lionel had never been able to fathom, she would simply get to her feet and leave.

He got to his feet slowly. He felt suddenly overwhelmed. His view of the world, which had until that point remained refreshingly simple, was becoming more complicated by the second. The family that he’d always thought of as solid and immutable was crumbling. They were scattered now: some of them stubbornly waiting it out in Germany; his mother and sisters here in London, under his care. There were uncles here and there, new business associates in America and Palestine. New opportunities were presenting themselves and with them, of course, came new risks.

It was then, in that moment, that he saw very clearly what it was his uncle was asking of him. The question wasn’t whether or not he accepted Uncle Paul’s version of the facts as he’d told them to him. The question was deeper, altogether more urgent. Was he ready?
That
was the question. Was he ready to be the thread that would pull and hold the fragmented pieces of his family’s past together?

EMBETH ELEANORA HAUSMANN
Cornell University, Ithaca, New York

‘You are just so
lucky
, Em.’ Betty Schroeder rolled over onto her stomach and cupped her chin in her hands, watching Embeth pack.

‘Lucky? Why d’you say that?’ Embeth held up a pale-blue cashmere sweater in her hands. Was it worth taking back with her to Venezuela? No, probably not.

Betty held out her pink-tipped hands in front of her, inspecting her nails. ‘Well,
you
don’t have to find a husband or get a job. At least not right now.’ She rolled over onto her back again, sighing deeply. Unlike Embeth, whose wealthy parents had gladly footed the bill for Embeth’s education, Betty was an SG, a scholarship girl. She was bright and ambitious and everything, but her scholarship hadn’t
quite
covered the cost of four years at Cornell University. There was now a considerable amount of debt, which had to be paid back somehow. Betty was pretty and wholesome in the way of many girls from places like Buffalo, New York and Marshalltown, Iowa, and her mother was desperate for her to make a good match – the sooner the
better
, too. What was the point of such an expensive education if it didn’t mean meeting a different calibre of man? A
better
calibre? Betty had no answer.

‘Neither do you,’ Embeth said calmly. ‘The husband bit, I mean.’

Betty sat upright and smoothed down her skirt. Her dress, a stiff, layered confection of pink cotton with splashy, over-sized roses and a nipped-in, belted waist, was creased. ‘You try telling my mom that,’ she said wryly. ‘Oh, Em, I wish I was going with you!’

Embeth shook her head. ‘No you don’t. Believe me, you don’t.’

‘I do, really I do. It all sounds so . . . so glamorous. Your life
is
glamorous, Em. All those parties, the beach, the hot nights . . . it sounds divine, it really does,’ she said passionately, earnestly.

Embeth smiled, a wave of affection for her best friend washing over her. Betty really was the most earnest person she’d ever met. They’d been friends since their freshman year. It was almost impossible to believe it was all over. ‘Well, what things
sound
like and what they’re
really
like aren’t always the same,’ she said firmly, closing her trunk. She heaved it off the bed and onto the floor. In the corner of the room, three further trunks stood, bursting at the seams. Four years’ worth of clothing that she would probably never wear again and books she would never touch again had been stuffed into those trunks, soon to be dispatched to Caracas. Every fall, for the past four years, she and her mother had spent a wholly enjoyable week in New York, shopping for the upcoming winter. They’d bought the soft wool and luxurious cashmere outfits that her mother remembered from her own childhood in Switzerland. But there was no need for cashmere in Caracas. ‘And anyhow, I’ll be under just as much pressure as you, just you wait and see,’ Embeth added.

‘No you won’t. I’ve met your parents, don’t you remember? Your mom is just the most glamorous person I’ve ever seen. I wish she were
my
mother.’

‘Don’t say that,’ Embeth said quickly. ‘Don’t ever say that.’

‘Why not? It’s true. And as for your father . . . oh,
my
! He’s just so . . . so suave! So sophisticated!’ She rolled over yet again, kicking her legs up into the air. ‘They’re both just so goddamn
fabulous
! Everything about your life is fabulous, Embeth,
everything
!’

Embeth shook her head, smiling. She knew better than to argue with Betty. If it suited Betty to think Embeth was jetting back to South America to a life of cocktail parties and hot, steamy, tropical nights, well, so be it.
She
knew the reality was very different. Of course she’d have her fair share of parties to attend, and there’d be soirees and trips to the opera and the ballet and so on, but underneath it all, she’d be under just as much pressure to marry as Betty – more, if anything. The pool of eligible young Jewish men in Caracas was tiny. She already knew most of them and the thought of marrying any one of the weak-chinned Ababarnel, Guzmán, Braunstein or Kaufmann sons was enough to make her weep. After all, she’d been the one to beg her parents to do things differently. She’d wanted them to send her to America. She wanted a college degree. To her surprise, they’d readily agreed. Her mother in particular had been supportive of her only daughter’s wishes. ‘If Mimí wants to study, she should. I see absolutely no reason
not
to send her.’ She ought to have spotted the difference. Finding no reason
not
to send her wasn’t quite the same thing as wanting to send her. But she was sent abroad to one of the best schools, no expense spared, just as she wanted. In her four years at Cornell, her parents made sure she lacked for nothing.

Now, on her return, she would be expected to make good on their investment. It wasn’t about the money. The Hausmanns ‘had more money than God’, as she’d once overheard someone say. It was about something more elusive, less graspable. They wanted her to make a good
match
, the right sort of man from the right sort of family. Betty had
no
idea just how claustrophobic it could be. Venezuela had been good to those Jews who’d come in the 1920s and 30s as professionals. These immigrants were not
shtetl
Jews, fleeing pogroms and living timid lives in their new, adopted homes. No, the Jewish immigrants who arrived in Caracas were prosperous, influential people. They settled into palatial homes in Altamira and the like, and the Hausmanns were no exception. Within a generation, the Hausmanns produced two Nobel prize-winning scientists, scores of doctors, two judges, a novelist and three government ministers, including her uncle, Jorge Hausmann,
el ministro
. The Minister. Everyone knew Jorge Hausmann. One summer when Embeth was in high school, there’d been talk of a match between Embeth and Julio, Uncle Jorge’s middle son. Fortunately, her mother had seen the look of horror on Embeth’s face when the subject was first broached and she swiftly put an end to the hopeful speculations.

At the thought of her mother, Embeth’s stomach gave a little lurch. Hard as it was to
imagine
, in just under a week’s time she’d be back there in Caracas, back amongst her family, sitting under the soft, warm glow of the chandelier that hung above the dining table. The maids, Sophia and Mercedes, who’d been with the family as long as Embeth could remember, would bring in the many dishes. Her mother, Miriám, would serve herself first, then indicate Embeth’s turn, watching her carefully to make sure she didn’t overeat. Miriám needn’t worry. The puppy fat Embeth had had at thirteen had long since been shed. Now, at twenty-two, she was every bit as slender as Miriám. She would never say it out loud, least of all to Betty, but when she’d first met Betty’s mother at the end of their freshman year, she’d offered up a silent prayer of thanks. She couldn’t
imagine
having a mother like Betty’s. Enormous, with triple chins that quivered every time she spoke, a cigarette hanging permanently from fleshy, over-ripe lips and those
feet
. . . like pink sausages stuffed into scuffed, pointed shoes. She’d stared at her, unable to recognise in her the fresh-faced Betty she’d come to know and love. There was almost nothing of Betty in Sally, or vice-versa. How could
that
be? Miriám was everything Embeth wanted to be. And more. What, she wondered to herself, must it be like to have a mother like
that
?

She hauled the last suitcase onto the bed. One more to go. What would her mother be doing right now? It was almost five o’clock in the afternoon in New York, four p.m. in Caracas. It was a Tuesday. She would just be returning from tennis. Her mother’s life was a never-ending stream of social engagements, charity functions and exercise. She played tennis, rode horses and practised daily the tortuous calisthenics that kept her slender and firmly toned. But mostly she did nothing. Embeth had never seen her mother read anything other than a magazine or a novel. Very occasionally, she picked up a newspaper, which she generally put aside with an expression of dismay. She’d never worked in her life. Work was for men, or for women of a much lower class. And work was certainly not for her daughter, Embeth. In fact, the whole conversation about sending her to America had been couched in terms of
improving her chances
, but not of the professional kind.

‘Here . . . what d’you think?’ Betty said suddenly, jumping to her feet and interrupting Embeth’s rather dismal train of thought. Embeth looked up from the suitcase. Betty was standing in front of the mirror, admiring herself. She’d pinned her hair up with one hand. ‘Too Grace Kelly?’

‘A little,’ Embeth agreed, smiling. ‘But that’s not such a bad thing.’

‘Reckon I could get me a prince too?’

‘Well,
you’d
probably stand a better chance than me,’ Embeth giggled. She quickly hopped over the bed and came to stand behind her. For a moment the mirror held the two of them: Betty, cool, serene-looking and blonde and Embeth, dark and fiery. With raven-black hair, almond-shaped eyes, high cheekbones, she was darker than either of her brothers.
Un toque de alquitrán
.
A touch of the tar brush, a shadow behind the ears
. There were many sayings in Spanish to explain why some within a family might have a duskier complexion than others. Miriám paled when she heard them and forbade Embeth from going in the sun. By the time Embeth was in her teens, she couldn’t recall the last time she’d had a tan. Now, in her early twenties, her skin was pale and soft with only the faintest hint of colour rising in her cheeks when she was embarrassed or upset. ‘Why don’t you wear it loose?’ she suggested, looking at Betty. ‘It suits you best.’