Shades of Fortune (15 page)

By 1915, however, Joseph Seligman—the patriarch of the Seligman family—had become much drawn to the ideas of Felix Adler, a German rabbi's son who advanced theories of a society based on ethics rather than religious piety, and Seligman was turning away from Judaism toward Adler's Ethical Culture Society. Thus it was that an excellently placed Seligman pew suddenly became available that year. And Adolph Myerson, applying for membership in Emanu-El, and pointing out that he was in a position to contribute handsomely to the temple's coffers, was not only accepted but was given occupancy of the Seligman pew. It was located directly behind the Guggenheim family pew.

The Guggenheims occupied a somewhat ambiguous position in New York's Jewish society at the time. They were a part of it, and yet not a part. For one thing, the Guggenheims were not properly German but had originally emigrated from German-speaking Switzerland. For another, they owed their fortune not to hard work and building a reputation as men of honor, as the others did, but rather to a lucky accident—not unlike the one that had befallen Leopold Myerson and his brother. Meyer Guggenheim had spent most of his life as an unsuccessful peddler of laundry soaps and stove polishes until one day in the 1880s when, in settlement of a bad debt he had been trying to collect, he was handed some shares in an abandoned mine in Leadville, Colorado. Journeying to Colorado to have a look at what he owned, he had discovered a mine shaft filled with water. But when he had the shaft pumped out, he found one of the richest veins of copper ore in the world. Out of this came the American Smelting and Refining Company, the Anaconda Copper Company, and a good deal more. By the early 1900s, the Guggenheims were among the richest families in America, their companies worth even more, some said, than the oil-refining companies controlled by John D. Rockefeller. New York's German-Jewish upper crust would have preferred to snub these upstarts, but the Guggenheims had become too rich to ignore—a situation in which Adolph Myerson would soon be pleased to find himself.

From his pew just behind the Guggenheims, at Sabbath services and on the High Holy Days, Adolph Myerson could not help but notice, and be attracted to, the pretty Fleurette Guggenheim, a dainty creature with wide blue eyes and golden ringlets. Adolph Myerson was able to make his presence known to Fleurette in little ways. Once, when Fleurette dropped her prayer book during the service, Adolph reached down to the floor beneath her seat and handed it back to her, for which her eyes fluttered a thank-you. On another occasion, when Fleurette appeared to have forgotten the words to a blessing, Adolph leaned across her shoulder and whispered the words in her ear.

But the only trouble was that little Fleurette was surrounded in her pew by a number of burly and protective brothers, by an even greater number of heavyset uncles, and by her formidable father, Morris Guggenheim, one of Meyer Guggenheim's many sons, and a man whom, when he was born, the press had dubbed “the world's richest baby.” These little attentions of Adolph's to Fleurette did not go unnoticed by the menfolk in her family, and after one of these, a council of war was called by the Guggenheim family at the family's summer mansion on the New Jersey shore. Fleurette's father stated the problem bluntly. “That nail polish man,” as he always referred to Adolph, “has been sniffing around Fleurette.”

The pros and cons of the situation were weighed carefully. On the one hand, there was no questioning the fact that the nail polish man was a successful entrepreneur who would be able to care for little Fleurette and provide for her in the manner to which she was accustomed. On the other hand, there was the marked difference in their ages. Adolph was by then forty-five, and Fleurette was only seventeen.

At the same time, there was a special problem in terms of Fleurette. Within the family, it had been decided that Fleurette was “simple.”

“Little Fleurette is a sweet child,” her third-grade teacher at the Brearley School had written home to her parents. “She has a gentle, giving nature, and we on the faculty are all very fond of her, but the fact is that she simply cannot do the work at our School. At the third-grade level, when she should be doing her multiplication tables, she still cannot do simple sums. Nor have her reading or writing skills improved at all, and she even has trouble reciting the alphabet. We are terribly sorry, but we do not feel that holding Fleurette back, and asking her to repeat another grade, will provide a solution to her learning problems. It is our advice that Fleurette be withdrawn from Brearley, and that you consider the possibility of further education through the use of private tutors in the home.…”

A later generation of therapists might have diagnosed Fleurette's problem as dyslexia. But, in those days, the word did not exist, and Fleurette was taken out of school and tutored at home in music and art appreciation, home management, and needlework.

“The nail polish man doesn't know Fleurette that well yet,” her uncle Ben pointed out. “So he hasn't noticed anything. This may be just the man we're looking for.”

“She's too sweet and pretty to grow up a spinster,” her aunt Hattie said. “But who would ever want to marry her?”

“The nail polish man.”

“Opportunity knocks but once, Morris,” said Aunt Hattie.

“The nail polish man, then,” Fleurette's father agreed.

“And the sooner the better, Morris. Before he has a chance to … find out.”

And so it was that the Guggenheims proposed Fleurette's hand in marriage to Adolph Myerson, and not the other way around. At the time, Adolph was almost dizzy with happiness over his good fortune.

With Fleurette went a dowry of one million dollars.

Now, more than seventy years later, Fleurette Guggenheim Myerson sits in her apartment at the Carlyle with her second-born child, and only daughter, Naomi, on a quiet Monday afternoon. The apartment is not small, considering that it has but a single occupant. There is a thirty-foot living room, a fair-sized dining room, a “service” kitchen, a small library dominated by a giant remote-controlled television screen, and two bedrooms and baths, the second of which is called “the guest room,” though to anyone's knowledge it has never housed a guest. From its location on the twentieth floor, Granny Flo's apartment commands a view of Central Park, not unlike Mimi's view a few blocks to the north, and from Granny's bedroom windows there is even a view of the East River and, beyond it, of Queens and the rising and descending planes at La Guardia Airport—all views, of course, that Granny is no longer able to enjoy.

Still, though not small, the apartment seems that way because it is so crowded with furniture—pieces from the big house on Madison Avenue, as well as from two other houses in Maine and Palm Beach, that Granny has been unwilling to part with. Even a fully sighted person, one might think, would have difficulty picking her way between the nested stacks of little tables, the chairs and ottomans and benches and the floor lamps that are assembled here. But, Granny insists, she has memorized the narrow, twisting passageways that lead between the furniture from one room to the next and can navigate them even in total blindness by reaching out to touch the back of an armchair here, the fringe of a lampshade there. Adding to the sense of crowdedness in the apartment is her art collection, which covers every vacant space of wall from floor to ceiling in every room, two rather unremarkable Bentons having been given just as much prominence as the extraordinary Goya upon which Philippe de Montebello of the Metropolitan Museum gazed so long and thoughtfully the other day.

Granny is seated in one of the many armchairs now, with Nonie opposite her, and with her tiny black Yorkshire terrier, Itty-Bitty, nestled in her lap. Itty-Bitty's chin rests on her mistress's knee, and her buttony round, black eyes gaze intently, even suspiciously, at Nonie, while her mistress's eyes are blank, unfocused. Granny Flo is trying to explain once more to her daughter that Nonie's father did not resent her simply because she was a girl.

“Your papa loved you just as much as he loved the boys,” she says. “What you forget is that when you were growing up he was busy building his business. There wasn't as much time for fathering as he'd have liked.”

“Still, he shortchanged me in his will.”

“His will was to give the boys enough to carry on the business.”

“And I was left with virtually nothing. Nothing to build a life on at all.”

“I'm not a bottomless pit, Nonie,” her mother says again.

“Just five million, Mother. That's all it would take. Five million is
nothing
to you.”

“Five
million?
Nothing? You talk as if five million dollars was no more than the cost of a streetcar ride!”

“Surely one of your Guggenheim trusts. Each of your uncles left you—”

“A trust is a trust! I don't know what a trust is, Nonie, but I know that much. Mr. What's-his-name at the bank explained it all to me. I get the income from those trusts, but I don't get the whatchamacallit until after I die. Then it goes to you and Henry and Edwee and Mimi, in a trust. It's all invested in different things.”

“Henry's dead, Mother,” Nonie says.

Her mother hesitates. “He is?” she says. “When did Henry die? Why didn't anybody tell me?”

“Years ago, Mother. Anyway—”

Thoughtfully, her mother scratches Itty-Bitty's topknot, which is secured with a tiny yellow grosgrain bow, and the little dog closes its eyes and squirms with obvious pleasure, nestling itself deeper into its mistress's lap. Which Itty-Bitty is this one? Nonie tries to remember. It is at least number three, if not number four. There have been many Itty-Bittys over the years.

“Anyway, couldn't you borrow against one of those trusts, Mother? Enough to give me just a short-term loan? Because I could pay you back in just a few months' time—maybe even less.”

“But I don't understand what you want it
for
, Nonie,” her mother says. “I know your young man said it had something to do with foreigners, and I told him that President Hoover was against the foreigners. He seemed quite impressed at how well I know the Hoovers.”

Nonie sighs. “Mother, Hoover has been dead longer than Henry has,” she says. “And this has nothing to do with foreigners. It's called spot currency exchange. And if you'll just try to listen to me, Mother, I'll try to explain to you again how it works.”

“Yes. Explain it to me, Nonie.”

“I'll try. Now please try to follow me closely, Mother. It works like this. The dollar fluctuates from day to day, from minute to minute, against the Japanese yen, the Swiss franc, the German mark, even the Canadian dollar. There's money to be made whichever way the dollar goes, up or down, it doesn't matter. And my friend Roger is an expert—an ace, an absolute ace—on these trades. I mean, it's as though he wrote the book on the subject, Mother.”

“You see? I was right. Foreign money.”

“Please listen, Mother. There's nothing illegal about it. The biggest banks in the country do this sort of thing, and it's so easy! Listen. He gave me a demonstration the other day, right in my apartment, of how it works. He telephoned Zurich, right from my apartment, and said he was interested in buying five million U.S. dollars. He was quoted the prevailing rate, which was seven million, six hundred and fifty-five Swiss francs. I know this, Mother, because I heard the quote. Roger had me listen to his calls on an extension. One minute later—one minute, Mother—the rate had crept up fifteen hundredths of a Swiss centime, and the moment that happened Roger made another call to a bank in Chicago, offering to
sell
five million dollars. If he had, his profit from the trade would have been twelve thousand, five hundred francs—or about eight thousand dollars. That's eight thousand dollars a
minute
, Mother! Hypothetically, of course, because Roger was just demonstrating how it worked to me. But that's what the profit
would
have been if an actual trade had been made. Think of it, Mother! Eight thousand dollars a minute, and Roger can make hundred of these trades a day. Isn't it exciting? I knew you'd think so.”

Her mother says nothing. The little dog hops now from her mistress's lap and settles on the floor beside her feet. “Where's Itty-Bitty going now?” her mother asks. “Oh, there you are, sweetheart,” she says, nudging the animal with her toe.

“Our plan is to start small,” Nonie continues, “right in my apartment. Of course, we'd have to install lots of extra telephone lines, because this business involves being on the telephone, all over the world, all day long, and even into the night with some markets, handling many different calls at once. Eventually, of course, we'll hire a staff and move into an office—probably in the Wall Street area, where the action is. But we'll be making hundreds of thousands a day right from
day one
, Mother. And you'd be paid back in no time. If it's to be a loan, we'll pay you back with interest. Or, if you decide to buy stock in our company, you'll get income from dividends. You can't lose, Mother, either way!”

Once more, her mother says nothing. Then she says, “If this man is so smart, why isn't he rich?”

“He needs seed money, Mother. It's called seed money. He needs a sponsor, a patron. Every genius needs a patron.” She looks up at her mother's art-crowded walls and has an inspiration, a small one, but an appropriate one. “Even Michelangelo couldn't have painted the things he did if he hadn't had a patron!”

“And so you're to be his patron. Or rather, I am.”

“Just to get us started, Mother. And for such a little amount of money. Would you like me to bring him by and have him demonstrate to you how simply it all works?”

“Frankly, I didn't like his looks, Nonie,” her mother says.

“You didn't like his
looks?
But how can you tell what he
looked
like, Mother, when you can't—”