The Rich Are Different (90 page)

I listened and said ‘uh-huh’ at intervals. Later when he had finished unpacking we went downtown but since it was obvious he was in no mood to listen to the bank’s affairs I resigned myself to the inevitable and offered to take him out to lunch. ‘Why don’t I ask Jake to join us?’ I said inspired. ‘You can compare notes on Hamburg.’

‘Great idea!’ exclaimed Sam, and would have launched into another glowing travelogue if I hadn’t asked him about Emily and Steve.

‘Oh, Emily seemed real happy,’ said Sam, ‘and the new baby’s very cute. Emily was pleased to have a second girl because now with Steve’s two boys they have even numbers.’

I asked him more questions about Paris but he was vague. He had forgotten France as soon as he had crossed the German border.

Jake met us at Luchow’s on Fourteenth Street, and while he and Sam selected German delicacies I ordered an American steak and baked potato.

‘… and I can’t tell you guys how I feel,’ Sam was saying. He then proceeded to tell us in detail. ‘I was so ashamed of being German, you both know that. But once I was there – once I saw what was happening – the economic miracle – the new spirit of optimism – the thrilling spectacle of a nation surging back on to its feet after being ground into the dust—’

‘What’s new about that?’ I said. ‘That’s happening here now! You don’t have to go to Europe to see that.’

‘Ah, but we have Roosevelt,’ said Jake ironically, ‘and Germany has Hitler. There’s a difference.’

‘What does it matter who the leader is so long as he gets the country back on its feet?’ cried Sam. ‘The end justifies the means! God, when I think of all those years of suffering and shame—’

‘Well, I do agree,’ said Jake, ‘that the Allies have only themselves to blame if the Germans now follow anyone who promises to lead them out of the wilderness, but I must say I think a little rabid nationalism goes a very long way.’

‘I disagree,’ said Sam heatedly. ‘Nationalism – even chauvinism – is the key to German revival, and Hitler understands that.’

‘Oh my God, Sam,’ drawled Jake, very much the sophisticated New Yorker, ‘don’t tell me that cheap demagogue’s succeeded in taking you for a ride!’

‘Well, of course you’re just a Jew,’ said Sam. ‘You can’t possibly understand the fundamental necessity of German nationalism.’

I felt as if someone had walloped me between the shoulder-blades. Turning dumbly from one friend to the other I saw their friendship disintegrate before my eyes.

‘I’m sorry you should say that,’ Jake said at last. ‘I wouldn’t have thought the rising tide of anti-semitism in Germany could ever have touched you, Sam.’ And as he spoke I remembered those days long ago at Bar Harbor when he had reached out to give Sam a helping hand.

Sam remembered
too. He was scarlet, floundering in a mire of guilt and shame. ‘I’m not anti-semitic,’ he said, his voice a shade too loud. ‘You’re one of my best friends as you well know. I was simply pointing out that Jews are by their very situation always on the outside of any nationalist movement taking place in the countries they inhabit. If they were more assimilated anti-semitism couldn’t exist.’

‘The German Jews are far more assimilated than their French or English counterparts.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘For God’s sake!’ I burst out, very upset by this time. ‘Why the hell can’t you two stop talking as if you’re a couple of Europeans? We’re all good Americans here. Now I know why I’ve always disliked Europe. It turns perfectly normal decent people against one another – and all in the name of race, nationalism and creed!’

They were silent. I looked from Jake’s light hair and blue eyes to Sam’s dark square familiar face.

‘Racial prejudice is so goddamned ridiculous,’ I said violently as our food arrived.

The subject was changed quickly but the conversation became stilted and I knew irreversible damage had been done. At the end of the meal after Jake had excused himself casually, Sam put his head in his hands in despair and I told him to go home to rest. It was obvious he needed more time to sort himself out.

‘And don’t forget,’ I said strongly, to give him a sense of direction, ‘that you’re an American, Sam. You were raised here and you’ve spent all your adult life here. You owe Germany nothing.’

Without warning he turned on me. ‘But who
are
the Americans?’ he said. ‘Have you never asked yourself who you really are?’ And when I started to say I had no desire to identify myself with Europe he got up and walked out.

I returned to the office alone and was still struggling to forget the disastrous lunch when the telephone rang.

‘Your sister is calling from Paris, Mr Van Zale.’

I felt winded again, as if I had suffered a second blow between the shoulder-blades. Opening the top drawer of my desk I extracted my medication but did not unscrew the cap. ‘Put her through.’

The line clicked. French and American operators called to one another stridently above the atmospheric interference. Finally Emily said in a thin high voice: ‘Cornelius?’

‘Emily – yes, I’m here. What’s happened?’

‘It’s Steve.’

I felt the first twinge of emotion, the beginning of a slow burning rage.

‘He’s left me, Cornelius. He’s left me. I don’t know what to do. Should I come home? Should I go after him? Should I wait in case he comes back? I don’t know what to do, Cornelius. Please tell me what I ought to do.’

‘Where is
he?’ I said, although I already knew. I tried to open my medication bottle but the cap was stuck. I could hardly see because I was in such a rage.

‘He’s gone to London,’ said Emily, and across the three thousand miles which separated us I heard the sad muffled sound of her weeping. ‘He’s gone to Dinah Slade.’

[2]

I told her to come home. Steve had suggested it in his farewell note and I saw no reason why she should remain in Paris when it was obvious he had no intention of returning to her. I couched this advice in the gentlest possible language and talked to her until she herself said she felt better. Then after promising to call her the following day I said goodbye.

Numerous emotions chased chaotically through my mind. The anger in all its different shades was easy to recognize, but it took time before I could identify my shame. I had never liked Steve Sullivan; I had always known he would make my sister a bad husband, yet for my own selfish motives I had set her on a course headed inevitably for disaster. It was useless to tell myself that I couldn’t have prevented the marriage. I could easily have done so. If I had made enough noise Steve would have been sufficiently embarrassed to back away. It was useless too to tell myself it was hardly my fault that Steve had chosen to marry Emily. It was. He had thought of her merely as an angel, beautiful, perfect but sexless, and in order to view her realistically he had needed my information that she was capable of passion.

My sister was suffering, and I was just as responsible as Steve with his fool’s passion for Dinah Slade. I could no longer decide whether my contempt for him was greater than my hatred. To have an affair with Miss Slade when he had thought she was no more than a good-time party-girl was bad enough, but it was a mistake many other men might have made and Steve had redeemed the error by cutting himself loose from her. But to have an affair with Miss Slade when he knew she had enough ambition to castrate him had to border on certifiable insanity.

Yet I did not believe Steve was insane. The hackles rose on the back of my neck. I always knew when I was in danger, and suddenly I saw the pattern of the recent past, my emergence from the shadows of scandal, my unflagging hard work at the bank, my enhanced prestige among my partners, and I knew that it was a pattern Steve could no longer tolerate. He had decided to pursue his European base of power again, and with the knowledge that we no longer had to work harmoniously in New York, Emily had become redundant. He no longer needed someone who would pour oil on troubled waters. He needed someone who would help him beat me to pulp, and so he had turned back inevitably to my natural enemy, Miss Slade.

One could take the romantic point of view and argue that he was in the grip of a grand passion for Miss Slade, but I could not believe that Steve,
who was a hard-headed down-to-earth man, could lapse into a starry-eyed fever of passion over the equally hard-headed and down-to-earth Miss Slade. I thought it more probable that they regarded each other as tough able exciting allies who as a bonus could enjoy a satisfying sexual relationship.

Meanwhile my sister, wronged and crushed, had been abandoned in Paris and there was nothing I could do but tell her to come home. I could not call Steve and shout abuse at him; I did not know his address. I could not cable him in care of the London office and order him home; as joint senior partner he could legitimately tell me I was getting too big for my boots. I could not go whining to my partners that Steve had treated my sister abominably; they would be sympathetic, but they would consider it none of their business for it was an unwritten rule, as I had discovered myself during my affair with Alicia, that a discussion of unpleasant personal affairs had no place at One Willow Street. Nor could I demand that my partners fire Steve; he was much too valuable to the firm, and if he now chose to build up Van Zale’s in Europe and leave Lewis as sole senior partner in New York, no one except me was going to argue with him.

Lewis in particular would be thrilled to have the whole of Paul’s office to himself again. I was going to have to do something about Lewis. He really had become very tiresome …

My secretary rapped on the door and looked in. ‘Mr Van Zale, you haven’t forgotten your doctor’s appointment, have you?’

I had. I was tempted to cancel it but I was afraid that might upset Alicia. ‘I’ll leave right away,’ I said, and five minutes later I was travelling uptown to the specialist’s office.

[3]

We had been trying for well over a year to have children. Alicia had gone to her gynaecologist after the first four months but he had merely told her that many couples took longer to conceive a baby, and it was not until she returned to him eight months later that he had taken her case seriously. She had undergone various tests, and when she had emerged with a clean bill of health I had volunteered to undergo an examination myself. I knew it would make her feel better if I made some demonstration of my willingness to solve the problem, but personally I suspected the difficulty lay in her mounting anxiety. I had once read that conception is unlikely if a woman is too tense, and I had already decided that if there was still no prospect of a baby in December I would take her on another of our Caribbean cruises.

I did not consult old Dr Wilkins. I knew he thought I was a hopeless hypochondriac and I felt uncomfortable about asking him for an examination when I had never felt healthier in my life. Instead I called Alicia’s gynaecologist, and it was he who recommended Dr Glassman to me.

My Cadillac arrived at his Park Avenue office. When I was shown inside I found myself in a waiting-room with flowers by the window and magazines
arranged on an antique table, but although I picked up a copy of
Time
I could not read it. I was still thinking too hard about Emily.

‘Would you come this way, please, Mr Van Zale?’

I followed the receptionist obediently into the room where Dr Glassman was waiting. He was much younger than I had anticipated. He had some light brown hair, thinning on top, dark eyes and a freckled nose. His wholesome straightforward air appealed to me.

‘Mr Van Zale? Please sit down.’ We shook hands and I tried to forget Emily by taking note of my surroundings. The room was large with a high ceiling. Venetian blinds were slanted against the sunlight which fell in broken patterns on the gold carpet. There were rows of dark books on shelves, a potted plant entwined in a wrought-iron stand and some tranquil water-colours dotted around the walls. Recognizing a picture of the Eiffel Tower I started to think of Emily again.

‘… Mr Van Zale?’ concluded Dr Glassman.

I recalled my thoughts with an effort. ‘Pardon me, what did you say?’

‘I was asking you for a general statement of the problem.’

‘Oh yes. Of course. Well, my wife and I have been married for some time and …’ My voice recounted the facts effortlessly. I was trying to imagine how Emily could cope with Steve’s sons as well as her own two infant daughters. Perhaps Steve had taken the boys with him. I had forgotten to ask.

‘How old is your daughter now?’ asked Dr Glassman, jotting down notes.

‘She was born on Christmas Eve, 1930, so she’s going to be three in December.’

‘That’s a nice age!’ He smiled at me as he took a fresh sheet of paper and began to ask questions about Alicia.

‘… so when the doctor said there was nothing wrong with her I offered to make sure there was nothing wrong with me,’ I concluded, trying unsuccessfully to read his handwriting.

‘Sure, much the smartest thing to do.’

He was kind. Afterwards I always remembered how kind he was. I was glad I had gone to him and not to old Wilkins.

‘All right, Mr Van Zale, I think I have a general picture of the background. Now I’d like to ask you a few routine medical questions just to eliminate certain possibilities.’ He took yet another fresh sheet of paper. He picked up his pen again. Then glancing at me with his kind concerned dark eyes he asked: ‘Have you ever had mumps?’

[4]

I was outside in the street. The sky was a steaming hazy blue and the dust from the Park Avenue traffic swirled in the thick stifling air. My chauffeur was holding the car door wide, my bodyguards were beside me, my chief aide was waiting patiently in the front seat. I stared at them, at the trappings
of my wealth and privilege and power, and was struck dumb by their irrelevance. It took me a full ten seconds to tell them to go home, and when they looked at me without understanding I had no words to explain. How could I tell them that I was no longer different? My conception of myself had changed. ‘Have you never asked yourself who you really are?’ Sam had said to me, and now when I asked myself that same question I knew at once who I was. I was one of millions of Americans suffering in the Great Depression; I was destitute, with my most cherished dreams destroyed.