House of All Nations (67 page)

Bomba came home to Paris, preceded by long explanations, sneering telegrams about Thales, Anaximandre, and Leucippe, with dark but evasive insinuations as to the character, ability, and double-crossing capacities of ‘Hermes' (Pentous). Jules got these telegrams in the office and at home, and William, the twins, Alphendéry, Léon, and even Claire-Josèphe received others.; not to mention the Comtesse de Voigrand, who was handed the following by a mystified secretary,

GOLD COAST FIASCO: NEITHER SLAVE NOR FAKIR: CAN WE KNIT RELATIONS ON ECONOMIC BASIS.

DEVOTED,

THEODOR BOMBA

The Comtesse turned it in her hands, finally tore it up. ‘I remember: the poor man must have gone mad; he did look a little odd.'

Léon came down to Paris full of woe and exclamation marks. ‘But Jules, before Pentous so much as landed in America, Strindl's rang me up one morning from Mannheim and said, “What's this I hear about Bertillon arranging U.S.A. wheat on credit?” I was thunder-struck.'

‘Ah,' groaned Jules, ‘what can you expect: Pentous did his best. He put the scheme before Dan Waters on the boat but Waters didn't grasp the importance of the Russian technique, or the effect on the market: he only saw the smartaleck trick of going past me and you and selling direct, not realizing that this direct sale on credit would undermine the structure.'

Alphendéry looked at him with penetration: Jules glibly used Léon's vocabulary, a half-unconscious means of averting Léon's protests. ‘Yes,' said Jules, ‘our spectacular project would have revolutionized values.'

‘The fact is,' Léon said sadly, ‘Pentous didn't grasp the scheme fully enough to point out to Waters the dangers—I had a telegram from Bomba in Chicago. He recapitulated what he had said. My dear Jules! He put it upside-down. Instead of putting the situation as it is, he gave the Farm Board the impression that Bertillon's consortium would sell to two or three countries on credit; but the officials said, “What do we need you for? We can do that.” My dear Jules! Your Bomba simply invited the double-cross: he marked the place with a double-cross. It wasn't a question of finding a credit buyer. It was to get a dramatic catalyst for the world wheat market. He gave the Farm Board the impression that the poor countries wanted the wheat on credit. So what do they do? They invite the poor countries to buy on credit themselves. Why not? They agree to sell twenty-five million bushels on a few years' credit. Thus they made it look as if wheat is valueless. Russia, Canada, and the Argentine hear of it—they fall over each other to sell to the few cash traders left. My dear Jules! Oh, dear! A basic commodity going round the world on credit. Tropical storms of wheat! Krakatoa dust storms of wheat. It ruined the trade! Instead of saving the sick man it finished him. Normally such a sale of wheat would stiffen the market: this was the executioner's ax. My dear Jules!'

Léon was pathetic, he was mourning deeply: he scarcely protested. He saw his glittering tower of fortune in little fragments of powdered glass. His voice was mild and gentle, his heart was bruised. And no one attempted to console him, for everyone, for the first half-hour of that meeting between the two men, Jules and Léon, knew that thing that stops the blood, irreparable failure; the chance of a lifetime lost.

Léon, the builder, feebly tried to raise his drooping crest: in broken phrases he brought out of his memory the plan that had looked like the Million-Dollar Stroke, only a few weeks before. ‘A secret arrangement,' he mourned. ‘Three years' Russian notes. To sell ostensibly to Russia. We were to slip up, execute the contract option of further fifty millions on the way up … They threw away a twenty-five million bushel secret … We, also—to be the third consortium to sell the Russian wheat purchases to Germany for the goods that Russia wanted. Not, like now, straight to Germany on credit … What a mistake, Michel! What a mistake! Why the feller didn't understand a word of it; didn't you write it all down for him, Michel? How could he? How could he misunderstand, Michel? Explain it to me.' He shook his head. ‘Also to exchange these new Russian notes for older Russians—notes—how could he misunderstand?—other Russian notes already endorsed in the Reichsbank. Give the impression to the U.S.A. public that U.S.A. not accepting Russian paper … Them political self-seekers … Waters saw a chance to get kudos relieving wheat situation, giving wheat abroad to poor countries … He let it slip. The chance of a lifetime. I never had such a brilliant idea, Michel … Jules, didn't you
drill
him?'

Léon, as low as Alphendéry had ever seen him, went to lunch, quietly howling, his tail between his legs. ‘Michel, listen to the truth: my heart is broken. Bomba saw a chance to get an advertisement for himself and Bertillon. You know? He wrote and asked Bertillon to open a branch of Bertillon Frères in New York. Himself a bank manager: that was what he saw in it all. I tell you, my boy, that boy is no good … Pentous saw a chance to have a royal progress and the only thing in Bertillon's head was his original mug one-dimension plan … If the scheme had gone through, the market would have gone up and everything improved—at least for six months a year.'

But by now, Bomba had alertly guessed that the larger part of the scheme and, perhaps, of the money was Léon's. At the same time he believed that the written scheme was Alphendéry's and he had depended on Jules to pull him through at the crucial moment.

His conceit, even now, prevented him from seeing the real enormity of their act, the colossal hoax he had foisted on everyone. In a few days, besides, in America, land of great deeds as well as great hoaxes, the publicity had died down and he had privacy in which to meditate his excuses. As soon as he reached home, he telegraphed Léon who, as we said, rushed to Paris to see him. Léon could draw nothing from him and came to Alphendéry in despair. ‘The man is a charlatan; he's a prewar wow; he's never advanced, since he began shocking the café philosophers in 1908.'

Alphendéry now said, ‘I told you to go yourself, Henri. It's your own fault. Why didn't you?'

Léon, most troubled, rushed out something about, ‘Murdered Barnett Baff, poultry merchant—they come up to me, they say—
You remember Barnett Baff
? I was making a lot money—I hogged the business. No one did as well as me. I had the lion's share. My name too. They don't say, “Léon's making a fortune”: they say, “We'll see that son of a gun don't get away with it.” One day a feller comes up to me coolly on the floor of the Produce Exchange and says to me, “I see you're making a lot of money, Léon! Yes! Well, good day, Léon,” he says, and he walks off smiling coldly. Then he turns, about six-seven paces off, and says over his shoulder, “Ever hear of Barnett Baff, Léon?” I packed that night and I came to Europe.'

Alphendéry shuddered slightly but said pertinently, ‘But now they're not gunning for you. Your business is all here in Europe.'

Léon looked anxious, studied Alphendéry with knit brows, then suddenly became extremely rosy and confiding. ‘You know—I've never been chaste! Not exactly—chaste. I can't help it! I usually avoid married women: just a policy. But in America—and in America husbands shoot, too.'

‘And this husband is still after you after fifteen years? I don't believe it. Even if he took a memory course.'

Léon was silent. He had not heard the last and Alphendéry saw the sorry expression on his face. ‘Always wrong,' said Léon and went on communing with himself. He recollected that Alphendéry had heard this defeatist remark and looked up engagingly. ‘You know, Michel, you've always got to learn. Now take—the first thing I learned was the time factor of speculation. Now—information always comes too early. People don't believe.' He laughed with minor husky gaiety. ‘For instance, they never believe the crop is ruined till it is ruined. No good buying six months before when
you
surmise—They don't believe and so they don't buy (or sell) and you're too early. You can be too smart in life, Michel. I had no margin to wait—when I was a little feller: so I always got fried, always cleaned out.
They
had a big turnover. Dreyfus, I mean: I was with—I figured: Dreyfus has a big overhead. They took me in you know. I don't know how it was: in a few months they gave me the letters to file. I couldn't help looking. You know, my eyes just ran over the letters when I was filing. I see “
Drought all over the Middle West sure
.” I was working at seventeen and six as a filing clerk for Louis Dreyfus. I was always behind in my month's pay because I went in with the boys for fifty to one hundred tons wheat: I had the
finest information
from the private letters. I put them away every day: I couldn't help looking. And, he, he! oh, he, he! knowing I had the finest information I began to doubt the firm's stability. I figured, you see. Knowing I never made money on the Dreyfus information, I thought: Jesus Christ, they must have lost a thousand times as much as me. I was frightened for my seventeen and six. How could they keep on paying me? That was my first lesson, Michel; I learn all the time. This is another. You see, don't you, Michel? You see: they could revolve! If they sold twenty thousand bushels and were wrong, they could sell another twenty thousand and the difference of prices would compensate them, or reduce loss. Say, sixpence a quarter. They could carry it or revolve it, so the grain don't go out of condition; replace it by fresh wheat. Or, they were important capitalists; I was a peanut, no, mustard seed (that's pretty small, eh, smaller than that) capitalist. He, he! Or—concentrated capital always wins. Oh, boy! To think I laid awake nights wondering if Dreyfus would go broke. Say, I figured, Dreyfus had a big overhead and I had no overhead, so they must go broke. Oh, boy! Then, with information. Because I had no capital I learned my first lesson. Don't sell right away. Don't sell when you have the information; sell when people believe it will be bad; and when they are convinced, it will be bad, bad, black, black: sell! So, I learn again: bad luck. All right, I should have known.'

Alphendéry listened with the most flattering attention. He was delighted that Léon was getting back his spirits. ‘I should have gone,' said Léon suddenly, getting back his healthy bluff, and pretending he had mentioned nothing about the murdered poultry merchant. ‘You're right, Michel, my boy: I should have gone. Yes.' He began to meditate unhealthily: ‘Michel, tell me, tell me: how did
he
make his money?' His voice was very low. ‘Michel, how, how,
how
! I've asked myself a hundred times? How did he make his money?'

‘Bomba has no money.'

‘Not Bomba! Him!'

‘Jules?'

‘Am I standing on my head or my heels? I feel as if I'm asleep and dreaming an insane dream and I know it's insane though I'm asleep. How did he make his money? It isn't true, Michel. He couldn't misunderstand the scheme. It's so clear. A two-year-old baby—Michel, you wrote it down for him? You're sure you wrote it down right?'

‘You saw it.'

‘Yes, I saw it … I should have gone. I'm to blame. No one else … Millions, Michel! No one would have lost. Everyone—we would have made—The golden opportunity.' He sat shaking his head. He came back to his astonished mortification again and again.

Presently Alphendéry said sharply and with bitterness, ‘Why are you so astonished, Henri? Have you ever known a businessman, yourself included, who wasn't mad with conceit, superstition, disorder, and egotism? Who didn't think himself a combination of Machiavelli, Napoleon, Rockefeller, a vulture, and an imperial eagle? Would you have asked any questions of how Jules or Bomba did it, if they'd put it over? What surprises you is that Jules is a sort of madman, to you; he isn't as keen at your schemes as he is on his own.
You could have picked up any clerk in our office downstairs, Adam Constant, the poet (whom Jules employs, by the way) and done a thousand times better than Jules, with his Stevie and Theodor: you say. But would you have picked better people? Look at the people you pick for your own deals! Little Kratz, who denounced you to all the authorities in the world, a sneak and a fantast; Achitophelous, who spent his time between dumping daybooks in the Seine and trying to seduce your mistress and faking telephone accounts; Aristide Raccamond, a fat louse, who looked giddy and sucked, and squeaked and sucked, and ran round in circles and sucked, and who, when you tried to crush him, still sucked. Is it such a beautiful circle of friends you have yourself, to call upon, to use? What people are in our game, Léon? Thieves and streetwalkers: you and me, too. Who is there to pick on but leeches, double-crossers, and vain fools like Bomba. You won't go to America—on account of Barnett Baff. Jules won't go to America on account of—do I know why? You all make me tired, Henri. I can't listen to your lamentations. You all sell, not grain and stocks, but flesh, human hope, blood, and desire, children and the future of the human race. And then you're all alike, you and Jules and Achitophelous and William and Daniel Cambo, the Comtesse de Voigrand and Madame de Sluys-forêt, you all come round me and expect me to get out a black-rimmed handkerchief and weep because you didn't make a million francs through a stroke of the pen.'

Léon looked miserable, hung his head, said very low, ‘You're right, Michel: we're no good to the human race. Michel, if I didn't think I was going to do something brilliant, I wouldn't take any interest in life. I've got to do something, Michel. Now, Michel, I don't want you to look on me as a parasite. I'm not like that. In New York, when I was a young man, I was always the quickest—dearest buyer, cheapest seller, made a fortune, only on commissions; I never went past the brokers, even when I could, and they all came to me. They made my market. I went wrong! I thought there was a big market; but no, it was only that they all came to me. After a few weeks I find I'm doing all the business and I'm losing money. What's wrong? I find out. I'm making the market myself. Quick in, quick out, never holding the bag and yet never making a profit. How come? I find out. Another lesson. You see, I learn, Michel. I like to be progressive. I like to construct. Destructive—doesn't appeal to me. I don't want to go down and leave nothing, Michel. Now Jules,' he became sad, ‘he's not like me.' Alphendéry brought up short, swallowed his wine, and said nothing. ‘Jules,' said Léon, with immense regret, ‘Jules is unable to realize a first-class business scheme through remaining in a fantasy world. I started without a cent, without a cent.'