House of All Nations (57 page)

‘Too much to remember,' said Jules curtly. ‘You've got to handle politicians, like live wires, with newspapers.'

‘But bait them, keep them swarming round, don't land them into your basket, or you'll find they're sting rays.' The great horselaugh followed which made everything he said seem the gabblings of a born natural.

Bertillon cut this line off abruptly, with his teeth. He was darker than usual. ‘Does the Lord do all his share business through your firm, Ganz and Genug, Davigdor?'

‘Not all—just a few dribbles. Don't know where he does most of his stuff. He doesn't trust me, you know. “Imbecile,” he calls me. He rings up. “Idiot,” he says.'

‘Well, Davigdor, couldn't you shuttle us a bit of it?'

‘If we could get Zinovraud's business,' said Alphendéry, ‘a hundred Carrières couldn't hurt us: it would be worth our while and we'd pay you a first-rate salary, Davigdor. Do you want the money?'

Schicklgrüber opened his eyes. ‘Really? It's not so very much, you know. I don't know where he does his business. Not with us. I have no influence with him. He does what he likes. No influence. No, course I got no dough. I could use money. But could I hand you the business? I don't know. He has no confidence in me.'

Jules compressed his mouth satirically. ‘Go on, Davigdor, cut out the come-on!'

‘No, no, really,' protested Schicklgrüber. ‘I have to beg and pray him to give me a few hundred shares to keep me with Ganz and Genug. They wanted to fire me the other day.'

Jules let a loud laugh blurt.

Schicklgrüber shambled out to get his shave; his blond-red hair had been sticking out of his graceless chin all the morning. He renewed the appointment to lunch with Alphendéry at one. When he had gone Alphendéry said, ‘Shave? No, blonde. He's probably picked up six since he got up this morning.'

‘If he ever went to bed.'

William marveled for the tenth time, ‘How does he do it? He's the ugliest man in Europe.'

Pettishly, Jules cried, ‘Go and wash the sleep out of your eyes: you're crazy if you think women like collar ads. Anyone can see Davigdor can make good. I say, this is more important. What do you think Lord Zinovraud pays him?'

‘Very little,' said Michel. ‘Look how seedy he looks. That proves Schicklgrüber is honest. Another man would rob the Lord left and right. That's how he keeps his job.'

Jules smiled quaintly. ‘He must make a pile in commissions. I hear Ganz and Genug have no other client: they don't seem to do any business.'

Lazily, William, ‘Say, what other clients would
you
want?'

Jules was working away at the problem of Davigdor, like a hundred other men in Europe, ‘Do you think Davigdor is as stupid as he makes out? You can't tell me he's been with the Lord since fifteen years and got nothing out of it. It isn't human.'

Alphendéry opined, ‘All rich men, especially in their old age, begin to long for someone who will hang round them, amuse them, apologize for them, be valet-and-son in one, new doormat and old dog. He'll probably provide for Davigdor in his will. But he's mean and crabby … I think it highly likely that Davigdor doesn't get anything out of it beyond his commissions on the stock-exchange business.'

William clattered rudely, ‘He's the Lord's stalking-horse for women. He's his come-on man. He can't run all those girls himself. That's the secret.'

‘The Lord's seventy-eight if he's a day. Why he goes round in a Bath chair.'

‘You're crazy now: I saw Zinovraud in the paper this week. He believes in Hitler and he looks gilt-edged.'

Bertillon stirred again. ‘He would put us on our feet, if he's Zinovraud's procurer. And this Carrière business. Zinovraud could crush Carrière if the brewery deal is a fraud.'

‘A pander is always nearest to a rich man's heart,' said Alphendéry.

‘His what?' William's lazy tones.

Jules waved his hand. ‘What should we offer him, Alphendéry? Have you any idea?'

Alphendéry said promptly, ‘Offer him two hundred thousand francs a year plus commissions, the fourth fifty thousand to be a permanent advance on commissions annually. That salary is for the Lord's Continental business and any tips Davigdor can give us.'

William said, ‘That's a lot of money.'

‘If it gets to be known—and it would be known tomorrow—that we're operating for the Lord, money will flow into our pockets by itself. We can laugh at Carrière, the Comtesse de Voigrand, ex-kings, and functioning dictators.'

‘A multimillionaire as canny as Zinovraud doesn't trust his business to his decoy,' objected William. ‘I don't believe he has Zinovraud in his pocket at all: that's his selling talk.'

Jules insulted his bachelor brother. ‘Say, what do you know about it? Get a girl for a rich man and you're on his pay roll for life. And he'll trust you where he wouldn't trust his own mother.'

At lunch Alphendéry made Schicklgrüber the proposition and Schicklgrüber turned it down.

‘But Davigdor, do you get that much from Ganz and Genug? Surely not.'

‘Oh, sometimes no, sometimes yes—it depends on the market, you know. Sometimes the Lord gets big news and then he plunges heavily. I can never tell. I make pots, sometimes, but I'm such a fool about women, I spend it all. Then I send Louise, my girl, you know, to posh schools and then I send my old wife a lot. I'm having a good time; why shouldn't she? I never have a bean. But I don't want to give the Lord the idea I'm hawking his account about. You know. He might get sick of me and throw me out. After all, what string have I got him on? I'm not worth anything to him. When he wants to, he can enroll me in the unemployed. Nobody in the City of London or anywhere else would offer me ten francs then. That's the reason you boys want me. Everyone knows I'm the Lord's mongrel pup that he found pissing on his doormat one night. Don't I look like it? Haw, haw!'

His golden horselaugh, engaging, idiotic, rang out among the palms and mirrors of Philippe's. Alphendéry laughed. Other diners stopped for a moment and smiled, rare thing in Paris. He said lower, ‘I had a wonderful girl before lunch. By jings, Paris has wonderful women. Vienna, too. Berlin, too. I don't know how I manage to stay in London. I'm like a cat on hot bricks. I tell the Lord he's crazy but he cares only for money. That's his only weakness. He's a wonderful man,' he went on earnestly shaking his curly head over the plate, ‘he's a genius.' A legato note of awe went trailing through his throat, ‘He's a genius, Michel! He's a wonderful man.'

‘He's not very wonderful to you, Davigdor. It isn't right. He ought to take care of you. He's got nobody to leave it to. He's got dozens of millions in sterling lying by. You're a fool, Davigdor. Doesn't he even offer you a small annuity?' The multiple millions of Zinovraud filled even Alphendéry with desire.

Davigdor shrugged his shoulders, threw out his clumsy hands, laughed, wobbled his head, ‘I know. But' (very low, with great simplicity), ‘what I'm telling you now must never be told, Michel: the Lord is very good to me. He treats me like a son—bastard son, haw, haw! The other day he called me over to his couch where he was lying. He says to me suddenly, like that, “Jew, how much money have you in the bank?” “Oh, about ten pounds, Lord, that's all. I spend it all.” “Absurd,” he said, “why don't you tell me to make you a transfer?” “I don't want it, Lord. I'd only spend it on cuties. This way I have to work to get them for nothing.” He laughed: “If you won't accept money, don't worry: I'll remember you. I'll see you don't want.” “Thanks very much, Lord Zinovraud”—nothing more, he doesn't like it. Then he suddenly barks, “Why the devil did you report to me those Modderfonteins? Buy some industrials and don't report them to me unless I ask. Worrying me with trifles!” “Which industrials, Lord?” “The ones you fancy.”'

‘Like that, put on, you know, to hide his generosity.'

For an instant, something cracked: he turned a merry, enlivened eye towards the glass beside which he sat and through the slit of that eye, wicked Pan winked at the world. Alphendéry, his eyes trained on the piece of meat he was eating, and involved in his own calculations, saw nothing. Schicklgrüber had once more the same goodhearted, ugly, stupid expression as before. Was it an effect of the mirror, or of light falling high between the houses of the Rue Daunou? Schicklgrüber took a sip of water. He always refused alcoholic drinks. ‘It goes to my head and there's nothing to stop it running round and round. I begin to gossip. I have no control over myself.'

‘That's a very good salary we're offering you, Davigdor: how can you afford to turn it down, even so? Even if you get that amount from Ganz and Genug, why not double it?'

‘I'd rather not have money; I spend it all. It's better for me to be poor; I keep within bounds. Lord Zinovraud knows that; he doesn't give me much. I implore him not to.'

‘He's just mean to you, in other words. You're excusing him.'

‘Oh, no, no, don't say that.' Schicklgrüber was really shocked, ‘The Lord—well, I'll tell you something, but you mustn't ever tell it to anyone else.'

‘Of course not, Davigdor.'

‘Oh, I can trust you, Michel.
Ai, yai, yai
, once I got into such a mess by talking too much. I'm always doing it. Seas of troubles. The Lord would throw me out if he knew I talked about his goodness. He doesn't like it. He has a wonderful nature. One day he says to me, “I'm not too generous to you, Judas.” (Oh, he calls me “Judas,” too—it's a sort of pet name, instead of “Jew.” It's his idea of humor.)'

‘I said, “I don't ask for anything more, Lord: you're decent to me. I live. I'm not rich but I drink, I whore. I haven't too much and so I keep respectable.” He says to me angrily, “No, you have no one to provide for you; if I go, no one will bother his head two minutes about you. You've got to be provided for.”'

‘“All right, Lord,” I said quietly, “whatever you like.” You see, I don't insist … I don't ask him, “What do you mean?” Nothing. And the funny thing is, he said no more for a few days; and he put the idea into my mind, I was just beginning to think, “The old dog is mean to me.” A few days later he throws some papers rudely onto the table in front of me and says, “Can you read? What's that? I found it among my papers. Some silly fool stuck it there.” So I read and find out it's a factory site he's got. I say to him, “But, Lord, it's a factory site you've bought. It's only dated three weeks back.” “That's it,” he says, “I'm going to build a factory. See to it for me.” He talks like that, rough, quick. I say, “Lord, you must tell me what you want to make. Is it knitted goods, is it guns, is it chocolates?” “Novelties,” he says, sharp, as if I knew it all along. “You know I wanted to make novelties. See to it for me. Toys. Modern, new toys.” “All right, Lord.”'

‘And I go off and find out what it would cost. I tell him, he gives me the money, and when I ask him if he wants it this way or that, he says, “You see to it, you do it the way you want it: you know as much about it as me.” So I build the factory and get in machinery and get supplies and employ labor, and I say to him, “Lord, the factory's all ready and the men and girls are waiting for you to say the word.” He says, “What factory, fool?” “The novelties factory, Lord.” “I don't want to make novelties any more. Shut it up.” So I shut it up and there it stays. Then one day, about six months later, he says to me, “I've got a wonderful name for your novelties, Judas.” “What is it, Lord?” “Black Legion!” “Black Legion … no good. Not English.” “Never mind. Go and see if anyone has it and if they have, buy it.” So I go and look and presently I find some poor little outfit upcountry actually has the name “Black Legion” for shirts. I say to the Lord, “What will I pay for it?” “What you must. You know what I want.” So I say, “Lord, you'll have to give me a few days off: I'll have to go and mosey around.” “All right. Don't stay too long. Don't cut up.”'

‘I go to this place and I find two or three little Jewish fellers in one little room trying to make shirts. They're waiting for orders. So I think, “How can I get the name away from them without putting the price up?” I think and think. My topknot isn't fast, you know. Then I get an idea. I get nicely dressed with a black hat with a broad brim, like a
Chedar
Jew not long from Poland and I go into them and I say, “Boys, it ain't nice for Jewish fellers to be calling goods ‘Black Legion,'” a name that refers to that louse Mussolini, to fascists. The fascists are bad to little businessmen like you and then there's this Hitler in Germany saying he'll wipe out the Jews.” They say, “Yid, what can we do? We have to make a living, don't we?” “It seems to me, Yids,” I say, “that you aren't making much of a living: it's the name that's the curse. Jewish fellers will never make money with a thin-luck name like that.” “Business is business,” they say to me. “Naturally we don't like that name so much, we don't like making black shirts neither, but what can we do—there is the wife, there is the children, there is Becky and Shorra to find a husband. Not nice, it isn't, but it's business. There you are.” “Listen, Yids,” I say, “would you sell the name? I think maybe I could get up a subscription amongst religious Jews to take it out of circulation. You've got to think of the wives, the children, Becky, Shorra, good. So we'll buy it out of circulation, perhaps. How much do you want for it?” I see them looking at each other, I see them thinking, “He's got something up his sleeve.” Naturally, they don't believe me any more than I expect them to believe me. So I say, “All right, boys, think it over. I'll come back after lunch.”'