Shades of Fortune (32 page)

Her mother had planned her wardrobe for this meeting with her grandfather as though it were for her first day at school.

“What did you say the young man's name was?” her grandfather said.

“Horowitz,” she said. “Michael Horowitz, Grandpa.”

“Horowitz,” he repeated. “There was a family named Horween in Chicago. I believe their name was originally Horowitz. They were decent people.”

“Michael doesn't believe in name-changing, Grandpa.”

“Well, there are two schools of thought about that, of course.”

They were sitting in her grandfather's big office on Fifth Avenue—the same office that Mimi uses now, though one would never recognize it.

In those days, Adolph Myerson's New York office seemed a dark, cavernous, almost forbidding place, with its heavy oak-paneled walls and ceiling, the thick Persian carpet on the floor, and the deep red-velvet window hangings that all but blocked out any sunlight from the street outside. All around the room, on various tables and stands, were the signed presidential portraits, from Harding onward—though Roosevelt and Truman were missing—and, front and center, a photograph of the current White House occupant, Dwight D. Eisenhower, signed breezily, “For Adolph—cheers from Ike.” All the photographs were in heavy silver frames, and in other frames were copies of the various medals, citations, awards, honors, and degrees that had been bestowed upon Adolph Myerson in the course of his long career.

Behind his big, leather-topped desk hung the portrait of Adolph Myerson himself, the man who had guided the Miray Corporation from its inauspicious beginnings on the Grand Concourse to its present world eminence. It was a portrait, naturally, of a more youthful man than the one she sat opposite now. The small moustache had been black when the portrait had been painted, and the pince-nez that he wore about his neck had not yet become a part of his habitual attire. But there was something odd about the portrait that struck her right away. He stood, full length, beside a fireplace, his right hand resting on the mantelpiece, but the painting seemed out of balance, off-center. Her grandfather's figure occupied the right-hand edge of the canvas, while the rest of the frame consisted of a depiction of the fireplace and empty wall. Later, she learned the reason for the painting's strange imbalance. Originally, it had been a portrait of the company's two cofounders, Adolph and Leopold, standing on either side of the fireplace. But when Leopold had left the company, or even somewhat before, Adolph had ordered his younger brother painted out of the picture and replaced with woodwork and an ornamental mantel clock.

Still, despite this oddity, her grandfather's office was a room designed to announce to the visitor that this was the office of a Very Important Person, who always dressed in dark, English-tailored suits. Behind his desk now, he removed his pince-nez and rubbed the bridge of his nose. It was a gesture, those in the family knew, that usually indicated displeasure. Though Adolph Myerson was then eighty-seven years old, he was still, Mimi had to admit, a commanding presence—even though he was not tall and had grown somewhat portly. His nose was long and thin, his steel-grey moustache and pointed beard were perfectly trimmed, and he sat ramrod-straight in his chair.

He replaced the pince-nez and, through their glittery lenses, fixed his deep-set, penetrating eyes on her. “Horowitz,” he said once more.

“Yes, Grandpa.”

“In real estate, you say.”

“Yes, a builder. He's just graduated from Columbia Business School.”

“Columbia. We've always been a Princeton and Harvard family, of course.”

“Princeton doesn't have a business school, Grandpa.”

He leaned forward in his chair. “
But Harvard does!
”

“Yes, Grandpa, that's true. Harvard does.” Whenever she was with him, he had a way of making her feel just like a little girl. But that, she supposed, was part of the secret of his business success: he made everyone around him feel insignificant.

“Who are his people? I don't know any Horowitzes in New York.”

“His family has a catering business in Kew Gardens,” she said. “It's very successful. They have over a hundred employees. They do—”

“Kew Gardens,” he said. “Where is that?”

“On Long Island, Grandpa.”

“Oh, yes. It's in Queens, actually, isn't it? A Jewish section of Queens. But out there they say they live on
Lon Gisland
.” He laughed, but his laugh was not one of amusement. “Jackson Heights used to be a nice neighborhood. Haven't been there in years, of course.”

“Michael's very nice, Grandpa,” she said. “I know you'll like him.”

“He hasn't got you pregnant, has he?”

She gasped. “Of course not!”

“A caterer's son,” he said. “Your grandmother and I never use caterers. We've always had our own staff.”

“I know that, Grandpa.”

“And I certainly can't use any building contractors in this company. Chemists and druggists we use to test certain products, but we can't use any builders, I'm afraid, in case that's what he has in mind.”

At first, she didn't understand. Then she said, “But he doesn't want to work for Miray, Grandpa! He's got his own business. He's building—”

“Tell me something,” he interrupted. “Is he dark-complected? They often are, these Orientals.”

“No,” she said, suddenly alarmed at the way this conversation seemed to be heading. “He has brown eyes, light brown hair, and his skin is … well, no darker than yours or mine.”

“Can't have you giving me any darky great-grandchildren!” Once more there was the short, unamused laugh.

“Right now, he has a nice tan … from working out of doors a lot on his job in New Jersey.”

“New
Joisey,
” he said. “Tell me, Mireille, where did you meet this Mr. Moskowitz? Or is it Lupowitz?”

“Horowitz,” she said. “Actually, we met when we were skating in Central Park. I broke a skate lace. He replaced it for me, and we—and he asked to see me again. It was last winter,” she added a little lamely.

Once more he removed his pince-nez and rubbed the bridge of his nose a little harder than before. “Quite frankly, Mireille,” he said, “you disappoint me. This Jewish caterer's son from Kew Gardens named
Horowitz
. We've never associated with that element in New York. Horowitz.”

“What's wrong with the name Horowitz? Vladimir Horowitz, the great pianist!”

“I'm not musical,” he said. “I'm talking about the element these people represent. They're Russians. They've just come down out of the trees. You're a Myerson, Mireille.”

“Were the Myersons all that great—before you, that is?”

“Myerson is a very old and distinguished name,” he said. “Before immigrating to Germany, where my parents came from, and where the name became somewhat corrupted, we were prominent in the seventeenth and eighteenth century in France, where the name was Maraison, from the family motto, ‘Ma Raison,' which translates as ‘My Right.' It is a motto closely connected to the royal ‘Dieu et Mon Droit.' There was a castle called Ma Raison near Epernay, in the Champagne country, and there were Maraisons who were counts and countesses, members of the Court at Versailles. On my mother's side, the Rosenthal family—”

“But your family were from the Lower East Side, weren't they?”

There was a stony silence, and then he said, “I have had the family pedigree prepared. I will gladly show it to you if you're interested.” There was another silence and then, in a different voice, he said, “You're very pretty, Mireille.”

Startled, she blinked. He had never said anything like that to her before.

“You really are. A very pretty girl. You have a pretty little nose, and unusual grey eyes. You don't look Jewish at all. I see you're wearing Pink Poppy.”

“Pink Poppy?”

“On your nails. That's our Pink Poppy. It's very becoming. Now here's a new shade I want you to try.” He pulled open one of his desk drawers. “We're going to be introducing it for fall. We're going to call it Fire and Brandy. It's a bit more sophisticated, more for evening. And here's another shade you might like: Hot Geranium. Another winter shade.” He began removing the little bottles from his drawer and placing them on his desk. “But for a summer shade, try this: Saffron 'n' Spice. And the coordinated lipsticks, of course—a Miray innovation, as I'm sure you know. And here's a new eye shadow that would go well with your coloring. And this: brand-new, a night cream we're testing in selected markets.”

As the collection of little tubes and jars and bottles grew on his desktop, she realized that he was sampling her, the way he sampled the buyers from Bonwit's and Bloomingdale's. “Don't worry about how you're going to carry all these things home,” he said. “I have a shopping bag,” and from another drawer he produced one of the small and elegant signature shopping bags that the stores gave out: bright, shiny red with the name “Miray” in white, the long, ribbonlike serif of the letter
M
curling backward and trailing through the loop of the
y
.

“Try this,” he continued, producing more samples from the endless collection in his drawer and dropping them into the red bag, “and this: a bee-pollen eye gel …” Then, in the same cajoling tone, he said, “Mireille, you're my only granddaughter. Naturally, I have a special place in my heart for you. Please consider carefully what you are proposing to do. Do you want to become a Mrs. Horowitz, a name that will associate you with that Jewish element? I suppose you've often wondered why your grandmother and I no longer go to services at Temple Emanu-El.”

She hadn't wondered, but she nodded.

“It's because that element has completely taken over there. If you let one in, others follow. They bring in their friends and all their relatives, the cousins, their aunts and uncles, their sons-in-law, and before you know it the place is overrun with them. The same thing has happened at the Harmonie Club, which is why I no longer am a member there—which I miss, because I used to enjoy the pool. The place is overrun. The only place that's left is Century, the only place that's been able to uphold the standard. But the Orientals are already pounding on our doors out there, trying to get in. There's some publisher named Kopf or Kupf or something, who's been put up. Your Mr. Horowitz could never become a member of Century, Mireille.”

“I'm sure Michael has no interest in joining Century, Grandpa.”

“Don't be too sure,” he said. “They all want to get into Century, these people. They regard it as a status symbol. They fail to realize that a club is a place where people of similar tastes and interests like to gather, nothing more than that.”

“Michael isn't a golfer, Grandpa.”

“Then look at it another way. Won't it look a little peculiar that Adolph Myerson's granddaughter's husband is
not
a member of Century? What will people say to that?”

She looked around the room helplessly, looking for some way to counter the illogic of her grandfather's logic.

“Is he interested in any sports, this Horowitz? Football or baseball?”

“Well, he's a Yankees fan.”

“Yes. These Orientals often are, though they don't play sports well.”

“A very
moderate
Yankees fan.”

“But the point is to find someone whose name will do your family proud, someone whose family and position are in keeping with our own position in New York society. As I say, you don't look Jewish. Why marry someone whose name and background will stigmatize you unnecessarily and associate you in people's minds with everything that is deplored about the Jewish race? Of course, if the man you marry has to be Jewish, there are plenty of nice—”

“You sound like an anti-Semite, Grandpa!”

“I? On the boards of the United Jewish Appeal and the World Jewish Congress, not to mention a dozen other Jewish philanthropic organizations across the United States? Surely you cannot be serious, Mireille. And I have no time for jokes.” Then he had spread his hands out flat on the leather desktop in front of him, in his best professional manner, and the expression on his face now was similar to the one he wore when he posed for the portrait that hung on the wall behind him: that of a weary but patient teacher who is forced to explain, all over again, a very simple problem to a particularly dull-witted pupil. “Let me tell you something about the Jews, Mireille,” he said, “something that you seem not to understand. Not all Jews are alike, just as not all Christians are alike. There are essentially two types. There are people like us who, through hard work and a reputation for integrity, have earned themselves prominent positions in the business community, and who have many Christian friends from the highest social and government echelons in the country—like my dear friends Ike and Mamie Eisenhower. We are welcomed in the finest Christian homes and are guests in the finest Christian clubs. We are assimilated Jews, in other words. We recognize that we are a small minority, living in an essentially Christian country, and we realize that we must abide by the majority rule. That is the American way. Then there is another type, which refuses to adapt. I call them Old World Jews. They haven't changed their ways since the Middle Ages. They abide by archaic dietary laws. They practice their religion in a language no one can understand. They live in ghettos—middle-class ghettos, to be sure, in places like Kew Gardens and Woodmere and Fort Lee and the Green Haven section of Mamaroneck. They're tight-knit, distrustful of outsiders, still actually afraid of Christians. They tend to be entrepreneurial types. You'll find many in the entertainment business—catering, for instance. In my business, I've had to deal with many of these types—Revson, for example. Because they don't trust me, I've learned that you can't trust them. They're the type who, as they say, will try to ‘jew you down' in a business deal. I don't personally find them attractive, but I've had to do business with this type so often that I know it well.”