David Golder, The Ball, Snow in Autumn & The Courilof Affair (2008) (17 page)

“
BOTH
PARTIES AGREE
to conclude the agreement regarding concessions within thirty days of the signature of this contract…”

The ten men sitting around the table all looked at Golder.

“Yes, go on,” he murmured.

“In accordance with the following conditions …”

Golder fanned his face nervously with his hand in an attempt to dispel the cloud of smoke that threatened to choke him. The room was so thick with it that, from time to time, he could barely see the man opposite him who was reading: his pale, angular face and his black hole of a mouth became a mere patch of colour in the fog.

A strong odour of leather, sweat, and Russian tobacco hung in the air.

Since the night before, these ten men had not managed to agree on the final wording of the contract. And before that, their negotiations had lasted eighteen weeks.

He turned his wrist to check the time, but his watch had stopped. He glanced at the window. Through the dirty glass, he could see the sun rising over Moscow. It was a very beautiful August morning, yet already it held the icy, transparent purity of the first dawns of autumn.

“The Soviet government shall grant the Tubingen Petroleum Company a concession of up to fifty per cent of the oilfields located between the Teisk region and the area known as the Aroundgis, as described in the memorandum presented by the Tubingen Petroleum Company’s representative, dated 2 December 1925. Each oilfield included in this concession shall be rectangular in shape, no larger than one hundred acres, and shall not be adjoining…”

Golder interrupted.

“Would you please read that last item again for me?” he asked, his lips closing tightly.

“Each oilfield.

“So there it is,” thought Golder in frustration. “No mention of that before … They wait until the very last minute to sneak in their dirty little ambiguous clauses that don’t seem to mean anything precise, just to have an excuse to break the agreement later on, after we’ve advanced them the money for the initial expenses. I heard they did the same thing to Amrum…”

He remembered having read a copy of the Amrum contract, the one he’d found amongst Marcus’s papers. Work was supposed to begin on a certain date. They had unofficially promised Amrum’s representative that the date could be extended—then they claimed the contract had been broken. It had cost Amrum millions. “Bunch of pigs,” he muttered.

He banged his fist down on the table angrily.

“You will cross that out right now!”

“No,” someone shouted.

“Then I’m not signing.”

“Oh, but my dear David Issakitch …” one of the men cried.

His warm, lyrical Russian accent and his soothing, considerate Slavonic expressions jarred strangely with the severe, narrow eyes set in his yellow face, and their intent, cruel stare.

“What do you mean, my dear friend?” he said, stretching out his arms as if he wanted to hug Golder. “Goloubtchik…you know very well that this clause doesn’t mean anything significant. It is only there to appease the legitimate concerns of the proletariat who would not look favourably on having a part of Soviet territory pass into the hands of capitalists without some assurances…”

Golder brushed him away.

“Enough! What next! And what about Amrum, eh? In any case, I am not entitled to sign any clause that has not been read and approved by the company. Have I made myself clear, Simon Alexeevitch?”

Simon Alexeevitch closed his file. “Perfectly clear,” he said, in a different tone of voice. “We’ll wait then so the company has time to consider it and either accept or reject it.”

“So that’s it… ” thought Golder. “They want to drag it out some more … Perhaps Amrum …”

He flung his chair aside and stood up. “There will be no more delays, do you understand? No more delays! This contract will be signed right now or not at all! You’d better be careful! It’s yes or no, but right now! I refuse to spend even one extra hour in Moscow, let there be no misunderstandings! Come on, Valleys,” he said, turning towards the secretary of the Tubingen Company, who hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours and was looking at him in a kind of despair. Were they going to have to start all over again, my God, over something so insignificant? These endless negotiations, the shouting, Golder with his strangled, terrifying voice that at times seemed like nothing more than a kind of inarticulate babbling, like the sound of blood catching in your throat…

“How can he shout like that?” thought Valleys with an instinctive feeling of terror. “And the rest of them as well?”

They were now all huddled together at one end of the room, shouting wildly. Valleys could make out only certain words— “the interests of the proletariat,” ” the tyranny and exploitation of the capitalists”—which they hurled at each other in rapid fire as if they were punching each other in the face.

Golder, red with fury, was frantically hammering the table with his hand, sending papers flying in all directions. Every time he shouted, Valleys thought the old man’s heart would explode.

“Valleys! For God’s sake!”

Valleys shuddered and jumped to his feet.

Golder stormed past him, followed by the others who were screaming and waving their arms about. Valleys couldn’t understand a word of it. He followed Golder as if he were in some kind of nightmare. They were already going down the stairs when a member of the commission, the only one who hadn’t moved, got up and went over to Golder. He had a strange, almost Oriental face that was square and flat, and swarthy skin, like dried-out earth. He was a former convict. His nose was horribly scarred.

Golder seemed to calm down. The man whispered something in his ear. They went back into the room together and sat down. Simon Alexeevitch began reading again:
“On the annual production of oil estimated at approximately thirty thousand metric tons, the Soviet government will receive a commission of five per cent. For every ten thousand additional tons, a commission of zero point two five per cent will be added up to an annual yield of four hundred and thirty thousand tons, at which point the Soviet government will receive a commission of fifteen per cent. The Soviet treasury will also receive a fee equal to forty-five per cent of the petrol produced from the oilfields and a fee on gas, on a sliding scale from ten per cent to thirty-five per cent, depending on the gasoline it contains …”

Golder was resting his hand on his cheek, eyes lowered, listening, without saying a word. Valleys thought he was sleeping: his face, with its deep furrows at the corners of his mouth and pinched nostrils, looked as pale and wan as a corpse.

Valleys looked up at the typed pages of the contract that Simon Alexeevitch still had in his hands. “We’ll never get through all that in a day…” he thought dismally.

Golder suddenly leaned towards him. “Open that window behind you,” he whispered, “quickly … I’m suffocating…”

He made Valleys jump. “Open it,” ordered Golder again, almost without moving his lips.

Quickly Valleys pushed open the window, then went back to Golder, expecting to find him collapsed in the chair.

Meanwhile, Simon Alexeevitch was still reading: “The Tubingen Petroleum Company may mine all its crude and refined products without paying a fee and without obtaining special authorisation. In the same way, it may import, duty free, any machinery, tools, or primary materials necessary to its operations, along with provisions for its employees …”

“Monsieur Golder,” Valleys whispered, “I’m going to stop him. You’re in no condition … you’re as a white as a ghost…”

Golder angrily grabbed his wrist. “Be quiet! I can’t hearwhat they’re saying. Will you be quiet, for God’s sake!”

“In exchange for these concessions, the company must make payments to the Soviet government, on a sliding scale from five per cent to fifteen per cent of the total yield from the oilfields, and from five per cent to forty per cent of the yield from the active oil wells…”

Golder groaned imperceptibly and slumped on to the table. Simon Alexeevitch stopped reading.

“I would like to point out to you that, as far as the active oil wells are concerned, the second subcommittee, whose report I have here, has estimated that…”

Valleys felt Golder’s icy hand grab his own under the table and clutch it anxiously. Automatically, he squeezed Golder’s fingers with all his might. He vaguely remembered how he had once held the fractured, bleeding jaw of a dying Irish setter in the same way. Why did this old Jew so often remind him of a sick dog, close to death, who still bares his teeth, growls wildly, and gives one last, powerful bite?

“Your remark regarding article twenty-seven…” said Golder. “We’ve hashed that over for three days now; we’re not going to start all over again, are we? Go on…”

“The Tubingen Petroleum Company may construct any buildings, refineries, pipelines, and any other necessary structures. The agreed concessions will remain in force for a period of ninety-nine years…”

Golder had pulled his hand away from Valleys’ and, with his head on the ink-stained oilcloth, tore open his shirt and began massaging his chest under the table, as if he were trying to expose his lungs to the fresh air. His trembling fingers clutched his heart with the wild, instinctive desperation of a sick animal who presses the injured part of his body to the ground. He was deathly pale. Valleys watched the sweat pour down his face, thick and heavy, like tears.

But the voice of Simon Alexeevitch had become louder, more solemn. He quietly rose from his chair to conclude: “Article seventy-four. Final article. Once the term of this concession has expired, all the equipment and all the structures on the oilfields heretofore mentioned shall become the sole property of the Soviet government.”

“It’s over,” sighed Valleys, in a kind of trance. Golder pulled himself up and gestured for someone to hand him a pen. The formality of signing the contract began. The ten men were all pale, silent, exhausted.

Eventually, Golder stood up and walked towards the door.
The members of the commission nodded reluctantly to him from their chairs. Only the Chinese representative was smiling. The others looked weary and furious. Golder gave a swift, mechanical nod in reply.

“Now he’ll collapse,” thought Valleys. “He’s at death’s door…”

But he didn’t collapse. He walked down the stairs. It wasn’t until he was out in the street that he seemed to be gripped by a kind of dizziness. He stopped, pressed his face against a wall, and stood there silently, his whole body shaking.

Valleys called a taxi and helped him into it. Every time they hit a bump in the road, Golder’s head swayed and fell forward on to his chest as if he were dead. Gradually, however, the fresh air seemed to revive him. He breathed deeply, putting his hand to his wallet, which lay over his heart.

“Finally, it’s over… The pigs…”

“When I think,” said Valleys, “that we’ve been here for four and a half months! When will we be going home, Monsieur Golder? This country is horrible!” he concluded with feeling.

“Yes, it is. You’ll leave tomorrow.”

“But what about you?”

“Me… I’m going to Teisk.”

“Oh, Monsieur Golder,” said Valleys, upset, “is that absolutely necessary?”

“Yes. Why?”

Valleys blushed. “Couldn’t I go with you? I really wouldn’t like to think you were alone in such a desolate place. You’re not well.”

Golder said nothing, then gave a vague, embarrassed shrug. “You must leave as soon as possible, Valleys.”

“But couldn’t you… get someone else to go with you? It’s not safe for you to travel alone in your condition …”

“I’m used to it,” Golder muttered sarcastically.

“
ROOM
SEVENTEEN,
first on the left down the corridor,” shouted the porter from below. A moment later, the lights went out. Golder continued climbing the stairs, stumbling on steps that seemed, as in a dream, to go on for ever.

His swollen arm was painful. He put down his suitcase, fumbled around in the dark for the banister, leaned over, called out. But no one replied. He swore in a quiet, breathless voice, climbed up two more steps then stopped, head back, bracing himself against the wall.

The suitcase wasn’t really that heavy; all it had inside were his toiletries and a change of clothes. In certain Soviet backwaters there always came a time when you had to carry your own luggage—he’d realised that as soon as he’d left Moscow—but, even though his case was very light, he barely had the strength to lift it. He was exhausted.

He had left Teisk the night before. The journey had tired him so much that he’d had to make the driver stop along the way. “Twenty-two hours in a car!” he groaned. “Oh, my poor old body!” He’d been in a broken-down old Ford, and the roads through the mountains were almost impassable. He felt every bump and jolt shoot right through his bones. Towards evening, the car’s horn had stopped working, so the driver had recruited a small boy from the village who climbed on to the running-board and, hanging on to the roof with one hand, kept two fingers of the other in his mouth and whistled continuously, from six o’clock until midnight. Even now, Golder could still hear him. He put his hands over his ears and frowned as if in pain. And the rattling the old Ford made, the noise of the windows that seemed about to shatter at every sharp corner… It was nearly one o’clock before they finally spotted some lights shimmering in the distance. It was the port, where Golder would go, the next day, to leave for Europe.

In the past, it had been one of the most important trading centres for grain. He knew it well. He’d come here when he was twenty. It was from this port that he had boarded a ship for the very first time.

Now only a few Greek steamers and Soviet cargo ships were anchored in the harbour. The town looked so pathetic and abandoned that it was heart-breaking. And his dingy, grubby hotel, with bullet holes in the walls, was inexpressibly sinister. Golder regretted not having left from Moscow as they had suggested at Teisk. These boats hardly ever carried anyone except the
schouroum-bouroum
—traders from the Levant who travelled all over the world with their bales of rugs and second-hand fur coats. But one night goes quickly. He was eager to leave Russia. The following day he’d be in Constantinople.

He had gone into his room. He let out a deep sigh, switched on the lights, and sat down in a corner on the first chair within reach; it was made of a hard, dark wood, and, with its severe straight back, it was extremely uncomfortable.

He was so exhausted that, the instant he closed his eyes, he lost consciousness and thought he’d fallen asleep. But it had been only a minute. He opened his eyes again and looked absent-mindedly around the room. The faint light that shone from the small electric bulb hanging from the ceiling was flickering as if it would go out at any moment, like a candle in the wind. It lit up some faded paintings: cupids, whose thighs were once rosy, the colour of fresh blood, but were now covered with a thick layer of dust. The high-ceilinged room was vast, with dark furniture covered in red velvet and a table in the middle on which stood an old oil lamp, whose glass shade was so full of dead flies it looked as if it had been coated in a thick layer of black jam.

There were bullet holes in the walls, of course. On one side in particular, the partition wall was riddled with enormous holes; cracks radiated from them like rays of the sun; the plaster was flaking off and crumbling like sand. Golder put his fist into one of the holes, then slowly rubbed his hands together and stood up. It was after three o’clock in the morning.

He took a few steps, then sat back down again to take off his
shoes. As he leant forward, he suddenly froze, his arm outstretched. What was the point of getting undressed? He wouldn’t be able to sleep. There was no water. He turned one of the taps on the sink. Nothing. It was stifling hot. Not a breath of air. The dust and sweat made his clothes stick to his skin. Whenever he moved, the damp material felt like ice against his shoulders. It sent a little shiver through his body, like a fever.

“Good Lord,” he thought, “when will I ever get out of this place?”

He felt as if the night would never end. Three more hours to go. The boat was due to leave at dawn. But it would be delayed, naturally… Once at sea, he’d feel better. There’d be a bit of wind, a little fresh air. And then Constantinople. The Mediterranean. Paris. Paris? He felt a vague satisfaction at the thought of all those bastards at the Stock Exchange. He couldjust hear them: “Have you heard about Golder? … Well, who’d have believed it? … He really looked like he was finished…” Filthy bastards. What would the Teisk shares be worth now? He tried to work it out, but it was too difficult. Since Valleys had left, he’d had no news from Europe. All in good time … He let out a deep sigh. It was strange, he couldn’t imagine what his life would be like when the journey was over. All in good time …Joy … He frowned slightly. Joy … Every now and then she would remember her old dad’s existence, but only when she or her husband had lost money gambling, of course. Then she would come to see him, take some more money, and disappear again for months on end… He had expressly instructed Seton that she was not allowed to touch her capital. “Otherwise, from the day she gets married to the day I die…” He stopped himself. He had no illusions. “I’ve done everything I can,” he said out loud, sadly.

He had taken off his shoes. He went and stretched out on the bed. But for some time now, he had been unable to lie down for long. He couldn’t breathe. Sometimes he would fall asleep, but then he would immediately start suffocating and wake up to the distant sound of crying—strange, pitiful cries that came as if from some dream, and which seemed to him terrifying, incomprehensible, and threatening. He didn’t realise that it was he who was crying out; the childlike sobs were his own.

Now, once more, as soon as he had lain down, he began to suffocate. With great difficulty, he pulled himself from the bed, dragged a chair over to the window, and opened it. Below was the port, dark water… Day was breaking.

Suddenly, he fell asleep.