The Immigrants (54 page)

It was the first time Dan had ever been to her office in the Seldon Building, and he was taken aback by the style of the room. It was like no office he had ever seen, with its pale Aubusson rug and brightly covered chairs and couch. There were two Picassos on the walls and behind her desk an enormous Monet of water lilies.

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“Do you like it?” she asked him, seeing how he stared at it. “I bought it in France. It’s the only one of its kind in San Francisco.”

“It’s damn big.”

“Yes, it wants a lot of wall. That’s why I have it here. It’s a pity. It ought to be where more people could see it. I’m thinking of giving it to the museum.”

She had greeted him pleasantly if not warmly, and offered him her hand. She appeared to be amused by his reaction to the office.

“Clancy and Sommers are horrified by it,” she told him. “It’s just not their notion of what a banker’s office should be. But then neither am I their notion of what a banker should be. I had Gianinni in here, and he walked all around, looking at things, and then he said to me, ‘For you, it’s right.’ I think that was the highest compliment he ever paid a woman. Anyway, Dan, you seem to be bearing up. A little more gray hair—and you’ve gained weight, haven’t you?”

“Too much lousy beer.”

“You haven’t smashed up any more speakeasies?”

“I’m getting too old for that.”

“Yes, we’re both growing up, aren’t we? I was very sorry to hear about Mr. Cassala’s death. I know he was a good friend of yours.”

Dan nodded. “How are the kids?”

“They’ll be home for the holidays. You can see them, you know.”

“I know. Are they all right?”

“The last I heard, top shape.”

“That’s good.”

“I’ve reserved the dining room for us. There’ll be no interrup-tions. I think we have a good deal to talk about, and I think we’re both civilized enough at this point to manage it quite pleasantly.

Wouldn’t you agree?”

“That we’re both civilized? If you feel it gives us points, yes, I suppose so.”

The bank’s dining room, with its long mahogany ta ble where the

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entire board could dine, was old oak wainscoting and wine-colored velour drapes. “Isn’t it dreary?” Jean said. “It’s one place I don’t dare touch. If I did, old Sommers would have a heart attack. Isn’t it strange how we build a city on the edge of the continent and try to copy all the ancient fuddy-duddy habits of the British? We’re not respectable and we never were, and yet we spend so much time trying to prove that we are. I ordered a clear soup and lamb steak and some pie and ice cream for dessert. No fish.”

“You remembered that?”

“I remember everything, Dan.”

“I wish you didn’t.”

“Does that imply regret?”

“I have regrets. Who hasn’t?”

She gave him the head of the table, and she sat on his right, the long empty board stretching out in front of them. Beautiful spode plates rested on lace mats. The silver was heavy, ornate sterling.

The glass was Waterford. The white-jacketed waiter served with self-effacing skill, and the food was excellent.

“I rarely eat here,” Jean said. “The place oppresses me—particularly this enormous table.”

“Your father had one just like it.”

“Perhaps that’s why it oppresses me. You know, they tore down the house.”

“I noticed. Did it make you unhappy, Jean?”

“Yes and no. I’m not too fond of the past. On the other hand, they’re tearing down everything on Nob Hill. I thought of forming a committee to buy some of the old houses and preserve them. But I guess this is hardly the time to try to raise money.”

“There you have an undeniable truth.”

“Yes. Tell me something, Dan, if Mr. Cassala were alive and his bank had not failed, would he have given you the half-million?”

“Yes.”

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“No if, perhaps, maybe?”

“No. If I had asked him, he would have given it to me.”

“Without collateral?”

“My handshake.”

“That’s interesting. You could establish a relationship like that with another man, but not with a woman, could you, Dan?”

“And what does that mean?”

“I’m not sure. I just wonder sometimes how it all happened with us.”

“It happened, Jean. That’s all. It happened.”

“Do you hate me?”

Dan leaned back and smiled. “That is one hell of a question. No, I don’t hate you. I’m not polishing any thing—I’m just stating a fact.

You see, when you tele phoned me, I had no doubts about what this meant.”

“You’re sure?”

“Pretty damn sure.”

“That I’m going to call the loans?”

“Yes.” He hesitated, studying her. “Jesus God, you are one damn beautiful woman!”

“Thank you.”

“Only—why here? You could have sent a registered letter, or that little shitheel of an errand boy, Clancy? Or did you need this moment, Jean? Was it just too juicy to pass up?”

“That’s beneath you, Dan. You’ve been a bastard, but never small. You never thought small or acted small, and you know damned well that I never did. I didn’t ask you here to parade some cheap revenge or to act out some romantic idiocy. I asked you here because I felt that I had to tell you this myself—face to face.”

“Without pleasure? Just doing your duty as the presi dent of the Seldon Bank.”

“We have no alternative.”

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“You could give us six months.”

“And then it’s a million dollars you don’t have.”

“All right, Jean. You call the loans. What then?”

“We liquidate what we have to and try to manage what’s left carefully and prudently.”

“Well, you’ve learned the lingo,” Dan agreed. “Care fully and prudently—as opposed to my lunatic opera tions.”

“No, no. I’d like to be open and above board with you. We’ve been having discussions with Grant Whittier. Your shipping line is worth twelve million. He’ll buy it.”

“With what?”

“He has a net worth of sixty million, Dan. He has a credit line at Crocker and at Wells Fargo. We would give him the rest. We recoup twelve million there and that puts us out of the danger area.”

“You know what you’re saying to me?”

“I know, Dan. I know you despise Grant Whittier. But his ships are still moving freight and his company shows a profit. Yours are tied up.”

“And the rest?”

“We’ll hang on to the airline and the store and the land. I agree with you about air travel, I always have. I don’t want to destroy you, Dan. I want to make it possi ble for you to live.”

“And how do you propose to do that?”

“I’m asking you to stay on, to manage the company. We’ll pay you well, forty thousand a year to start, and expenses of course. I can be objective about your quali ties, and with our board to keep a rein on you, we be lieve we can turn this around.”

“And what about Mark Levy?”

“Mark Levy is nothing. You know that. He’s a glori fied bookkeeper and he’s never been anything else. I’m not denigrating him.

I’m simply stating a fact that you know as well as I do—or better.”

“You’re something. Jean dear, you are something.”

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She knew the signs of anger. She had seen them often enough in the past, and she said quickly, “I don’t want this to degenerate into one of our quarrels, Dan. We’re having a business meeting, and I am doing my best to keep it on that level. I have tried with all my heart to be fair and not to offend you.”

“I guess you have,” he replied slowly. He drew a deep breath and nodded. “All right, Jean, I’ll do my best not to be angry, and I’ll accept this discussion on your terms. Mark Levy is my friend and my partner. We’ve been together for twenty years. What am I sup posed to tell him?”

“Isn’t that a question for you to decide, Dan? If you manage the company, you can employ him or not, just as you see fit.”

“At seventy-five dollars a week as a bookkeeper?”

“If you wish. Or at whatever wage you could justify.”

“To you?”

“To the board.”

“And if I should desire to piss,” he said quietly, “do I justify that to the board?”

She tightened her lips and sat in silence. The waiter returned and took away the dishes.

“I’m sorry I said that,” Dan told her. “I had no call to say that.

You’re doing the best you can.”

“Very well. Now can we continue this in a civilized manner?”

“Yes.”

“I made a proposal. You haven’t given me your an swer.”

“You know, Jean,” he said thoughtfully, “for weeks now I’ve been trying to figure out why I played this game. At first, it seems to me, I only wanted you, and I would have burned down the whole goddamn city to have you. Or maybe not. Then I wanted Nob Hill.

Or maybe not. Maybe I was empty inside, and I had to fill myself up with something. I never really worked out for myself what it means in this country to be Jewish or Italian or Irish or Chinese or Negro

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or Mexican, so there’s no way I can try to tell you. The only way I can explain it is to say that I did what I had to do because of the way I was. I didn’t give a damn about the money. I never cared about money. Right from the beginning, we paid the highest wages in the line, whatever the line was. We’re the one big company in this city that never had a strike on our hands. And it wasn’t the power ei ther.

Oh, I enjoyed the power, but that wasn’t it—”

She interrupted. “We’re off the subject, Dan.”

“Not really,” he said. “Not really, Jean—because this is the way I have to answer. Anyway, it’s time we had a good talk. We haven’t had one in years.”

She sighed. “Go on.”

“The answer to my question, Jean, was the game it self. It was a kid’s game. Either you get a chance to be a kid when you are a kid, or you don’t grow up. I was never a kid. My heart bled for my father. God, how I loved him and hated him! He had a rupture. I never told you that. When I was eight years old, I was out in the boat, helping him, my damned hands bloody from the net. Don’t let anyone ever tell you that commercial fishing is a sport or a joy.

And he’d never take the money and have that goddamn rupture fixed. Every penny had to be saved for a boat of his own, so that his son could amount to something, and my mother be damned. Crap!

Why didn’t he let me go to school if he wanted me to amount to something? Oh, Christ, I don’t want to pile this onto you. I’m only trying to explain.

“After he died, I said to myself, ‘The hell with his way! It’s a game, and you play the game to win, not to sweat your guts out.’ That’s the whole answer. The fun was in the game. I was a kid, I remained a kid.

You were part of the game and Nob Hill was part of the game, and the people I played against were the high and mighty, the Whittiers and the Clancys and the Sommers and the Seldons and the Brockers and the Callans. I played in their court and by their rules, a wop kid

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from the wharf and a little Jew who was his partner. O.K. The game’s over. Somewhere along the road, I grew up. Maybe not entirely, but sort of. Jean, I swear to God that I appre ciate what you tried to do today, but I don’t want to manage any goddamn company. You’d just do yourself and this beautiful bank of yours—you’d do them in.

I’m a lousy manager. I survived this far because I had Mark Levy and a Chinese by the name of Feng Wo running things and holding them together. No, I don’t want it, but thank you.”

“And that’s your last word?” she asked evenly.

“I think so.”

“I won’t contest the divorce. You know that.”

“I know. Thanks.”

“I’ll set up a meeting with Thorndyke. Is Sam Gold berg still your lawyer?”

“Yes, but I don’t want any meeting with the law yers.”

“Dan, we have to. You know that. There’s commu nity property in this state.”

“If you mean the house on Russian Hill or anything of yours, I don’t want it. I don’t want the house or any thing that’s in it. Just have Thorndyke draw up a release and I’ll sign it.”

“Why? Do you have so much money that you can afford to throw it away?”

“I have enough.”

“Where? You have eight hundred dollars in your per sonal account at this bank.”

“I told you I have enough, Jean.”

“You can’t do things this way. We have two children. There are problems to be worked out.”

“Only if I make the problems, Jean.”

“What about visitation rights?”

“If the kids should ever want to see me, I don’t think you’d stand in my way. Would you?”

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“No, I wouldn’t.”

“Then let it go at that, Jean.” He rose. “It was a good lunch—as you promised. Thank you.” Then she rose and walked with him to the door. There, he paused, looked at her for a long moment, and then bent and kissed her on the lips.

“Not for me, Danny,” she said gently, “but you are a hell of a guy.”

“Sometimes. Only don’t count on it.”

“I don’t, Danny. Anymore.”

Barbara Lavette came down from Boston to Princeton for the football weekend of the Yale-Princeton game. Her brother, Tom, who was a freshman at Princeton, had reserved a room for her at the Princeton Inn and arranged a weekend date with an upperclassman named Robert Toad, who was a member of Ivy, possibly the most prestigious of the eating clubs. Tom had already set his cap for Ivy, and none of this hurt his cause. Din ner that evening at the club had already been arranged, the foursome to consist of Toad, Barbara, Tom, and his own date, Peggy Dutton, a friend of Barbara’s and a first-year student at Wellesley. The arrangements had been drawn-out and complex, and at one point had al most fallen through; however, in the end it had all worked out. The two girls would chaperone each other and share a room, and since the Duttons were distantly related to the Asquiths—Tom’s grandmother had been an Asquith from Boston—Peggy’s family was finally satisfied.

Tom had assured Robert Toad that his sister was a stunning girl and that the upperclassman would not by any means be buying a pig-in-a-poke, but even Tom was amazed by the sight of his sister after not seeing her for three months.