by B. TRAVEN
“And you know what, even if I had ever thought about an affair with you, which was never the case, it would definitely be too late now. If one day I were to get soft around you and some limited intimacy were to ensue—I’m not made of stone, you know—I assure you, it would not last very long. Less than three days.”
As she mentioned the remote possibility, he grew more brazen. He was not about to let this opportunity go by. It would probably never come again. Turning the glass in his hands, he looked at her sharply. He felt himself blushing slightly as he said: “So you would never allow me to love you?”
To buy time, she took a long slow sip of her curaçao. She did not want to scare him off because she still needed him for her purposes. She turned the glass around between her two index fingers, as if searching for the right words.
“You know, Mr. Beckford,” she finally said, lifting her glass, “you can do all kinds of chemical magic with this liqueur.”
“That may be true. However, I am not interested in this liquor at all at the moment. What I want to hear is your answer to my question.”
She put down her glass, nodded, and with a motherly smile said: “‘Never’ is a strong word in this case. You should not have used it. It’s hard to answer a question with that word in it. There’s no such thing as ‘never’ in life.”
“Don’t try to avoid the question,” said Beckford, getting impatient.
“Okay, then. Since you should only use the word ‘never’ in exceptional situations, I cannot say: never. It’s not the right answer in this case. I’m leaving you with a small, very small glimmer of hope. Maybe one day. Maybe. But never love.”
“If not love, then what might be a reason for an affair?”
“You might say for scientific purposes. I would not give myself entirely. I would only give a part of me, in order to discover new things, without sentimental side effects. I would do it without letting it turn into love, since that would be the most embarrassing situation. But a constant affair, or one that’s on and off—never. In this case, the word is the right one.”
“Maybe I have to wait for five years.”
“That may be,” she answered, “it’s very possible. Maybe ten years.”
He thought about getting up and kissing her hand now. However, he repressed his desire and only said: “Thank you for this answer.”
“You are welcome. It’s the only honest answer I can give without losing anything.”
He finished his whiskey in one gulp and slammed his glass onto the table between them, and as if she had offended him, he asked coldly: “How old is he?”
“Which ‘he’ do you mean?”
“Mr. Suthers. Who else?”
“Oh, Mr. Holved Suthers. My husband?”
“Yes, how old is he?”
“You mean, the age he gives when he gets a new passport issued?”
“Of course that is the age I mean. What else?”
“You can interpret young and old in all kinds of ways. I have known men and women in the industry of illusions—”
“Industry of illusions?”
“Film industry, I should say. I knew men and women there who looked so washed out, so tired and without any interest in life at age thirty-five, that they were useless to anyone, even to themselves. So what does the number of years really have to do with the age of a person?”
“Your husband still turns around to look at girls’ legs on the street.”
“That’s very possible. I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Nevertheless, I am sure he is much older than you are.”
“I wouldn’t know what to do with a man of your age or even one who was five years younger.”
“So, he is five years older than you?”
“No, he is only thirty years older than I am, so that you finally may know for sure. Maybe even a little older.”
“Only thirty years older? Only? Only thirty years older! Only thirty years.”
Beckford nodded several times, without realizing why he was nodding. But then he thought: I knew it. She wants to get rid of him. No wonder. Thirty years older. And she’s young, beautiful, and full of life. Full of vitality. Maybe I’ll get soft after all. Of course, if he were to find out, it would get rather uncomfortable. However, I am sure she has organized everything to such an extent that it will remain our secret.
“Would you like another whiskey?” she asked, interrupting his thoughts and pointing to his empty glass.
“Half a glass, please.”
He looked at his glass while she was pouring the whiskey and followed her hand with his eyes as she was putting the bottle back onto the cart.
“You married him because of his money, of course?” he asked unexpectedly.
“I wish you would finally guess something correctly in our conversations. But you’re totally wrong, as usual.”
“Well, if a young, beautiful woman like you marries a man who is thirty years older—”
“Then she must be marrying him because of his money, of course.” She finished his sentence. “Do you think a man is only attractive for his money? Money is not a safe bet. One stock market crash, or one unsuccessful business venture can turn a millionaire into a pauper in the span of twenty-four hours. And then what would I do if I had married that man for his money?”
“Well, then you get a divorce and marry one who is more successful in his enterprises.”
“Sleazy. Not my style. But just so you know how wrong you were and how much you underestimate me, let me tell you that my own assets are worth fifty times his.”
“Hard to believe. You worked in the film industry to earn your living.”
“Wrong again. I didn’t work to earn a living, but to do something that interested me. If it hadn’t forced me to live a continent apart from my husband, I would’ve probably never given up my job. I admit, since I left Hollywood, well-paid jobs are slowly evaporating. The film industry suffers from a deadly disease, called television. There’s almost no hope for recovery.”
“That’s all well and good, ma’am. However, there’s still something I don’t understand.”
“And that is?”
“If you were as well paid in Hollywood as you say, and it was such an interesting job, why did you marry a man who is so much older? It appears you didn’t do it in order to play a—let’s say—distinguished role in society?”
“Have you never heard of a little thing called love?”
“What kind of question is that? Of course. Many times.”
“I doubt that.”
“Of course I have,” Beckford protested forcefully.
“What do you know about love? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. When I figured out that I loved my future husband, I had no earthly idea whether he was rich or not. I knew that he ran several construction companies, but that didn’t mean he was really rich. I love him, and he loves me.”
“And you’re still not satisfied?”
“Who told you I wasn’t satisfied? I’m sure I didn’t say anything remotely like that.”
She shrugged and frowned as she looked at him searchingly. “Sometimes I think you can read minds. ‘Not satisfied’ is not the right expression. The truth is I am never satisfied, except in my married life. But something is missing for me to be totally happy. It’s as if there were an emptiness, a vacuum inside of me. As if I were not fulfilled, there’s a drive in me to—to—how shall I say this, to—”
She balled up her fists as if that might help her find the right words.
“—to—to—to—well, in short, sometimes I explode with creativity—I want to create something truly magnificent, something that is visible from far away, something that remains for the ages. A bridge that is twenty miles long, a pyramid that is two thousand yards high, a highway from New York to Seattle, Washington, straight without a single curve. Oh, I don’t really know what I want.”
“What you need is a baby,” Beckford countered dryly and brutally. He probably thought he could find out
what she was really missing in this way.
“A baby? That’s not much. Even though it seems like a lot. A baby. Every woman can have a baby. I need something more than a child to feel like a person.”
“Didn’t you just say a few seconds ago that your love fulfills you completely?”
“I did not say that; but it is true, where love is concerned.”
Why is she telling me all this? thought Beckford. Something is just not right with her. First, she lets me think that I am supposed to help her store her husband in a trash can. Then she tells me that she loves him to pieces. And finally, the bottom line is that she doesn’t know what she wants at all. Maybe she wants to be in theater and work in tragedies.
Beckford was thinking about mentioning this to her, when the Negro opened the door, ushering in Holved. After briefly glancing at Beckford, Holved walked over to his wife and kissed her lightly.
“How do you do, my love?” he greeted her.
“Fine, and you?” she said, laying her hand on his cheek.
Beckford had gotten up in the meantime. He had done so casually to indicate that Aslan’s husband did not intimidate him at all.
“My husband,” said Aslan, looking at Beckford and then at Holved. Then she looked back and forth between them again and presenting each to the other she said, “Clement Beckford.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Holved.
“Pleasure’s mine,” Beckford answered rather coolly on purpose.
They shook hands lightly.
Beckford sat back down and Holved pushed a chair close to the others.
“Holved, I invited Mr. Beckford for dinner.”
“Good, that’s very good. You already told me on the phone.”
Aslan filled a glass halfway with ice cubes, poured whiskey over them and filled the rest with soda.
“And you, Mr. Beckford? A new drink?”
“Yes, please.”
“You know, Holved, Mr. Beckford drinks his whiskey neat. He doesn’t even wash it down with a chaser.”
“That’s the only way to do it. As devout as I am, though, I prefer to socialize while holding baptized whiskey.”
He took his glass, tipped it first toward Aslan, then at Beckford, and drank deeply.
Aslan laughed: “Religious? You? Since when?”
“Since when? Since long before I knew you. But ever since you came into my life, I don’t have time to practice my religion.” Now he turned to Beckford: “And you, Mr. Beckford, how do you see this matter?”
“Me?” Beckford shrugged lightly. “Me? I lost all that in Korea between heaps of shredded, whimpering human beings lying in dirt, mud, and pools of blood.”
“I understand, I understand very well. I was also stuck in dirt and mud with half a body or even a quarter of a body from human beings, horses, or dogs in front of and beside me. I only picked up binoculars if absolutely necessary because looking through them, I only saw more bodies struggling to their death in barbed wire—” He interrupted himself and said in a different tone: “Let’s talk about something more pleasant. My wife shudders upon hearing these horrors.”
“Not in the least. I love horror stories.”
“To read, yes. To have to see them with your own eyes without being able to run away is a different thing. Reading! If it gets too horrific, you close the book and the story is over. Not so easy when you are stuck in the middle of it.”
Holved emptied his glass and turned his head to the door, which opened at that exact moment.
“Dinner is served, sir,” said the Negro from the door, and then he disappeared like a shadow swallowed up by the sun.
The meal was incredibly simple. It was so plain indeed that Beckford asked himself: Are millionaires too stingy to serve a real meal that fills your belly? Or can their little bellies not stand anything better? They don’t even have a glass of wine or beer at table, these rich scrooges. In any cafeteria, I would eat better and more for a dollar and a half than in this princely palace. What is wrong with these people?
“You know, Holved,” said Aslan, skewering a few of the measly morsels of meat, “Mr. Beckford is the young hopeful man I supposedly crushed with my car, according to the police.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“He is an engineer, you know. The president of a recently founded construction company.
“A construction company?” Holved was all ears. This was his territory. “What kind of construction projects do you take on?”
Beckford poked around on his plate. “My—our—eh—” He swallowed and helplessly looked at Aslan.
“His company mainly deals with construction of canals and such things,” Aslan helped the stammering Beckford.
“Construction of canals? That’s interesting, young man. Very interesting.” Holved kept his eyes on his plate. Apparently, his thoughts were elsewhere.
“Yes and Mr. Beckford has a tremendous plan.”
“Really? What kind of plan?” Holved broke off a piece of bread, lightly dipped it into the sauce, and put it into his mouth.
“He wants to build a large canal for ships to cross North America.”
Beckford’s last bite got stuck in his throat. He had to cough so terribly that he thought for a minute he would have to leave the table.
“Really?” said Holved in a tone of disinterest. Apparently, his brain had not comprehended. Suddenly, her words registered.
“What did you just say? A canal? Across North America?”
“Yes, all the way across North America. That is Mr. Beckford’s plan.”
“That’s crazy. I’m telling you that’s crazy. Your plan is absolutely crazy in every way, young man.”
Aslan calmly maneuvered a bite into her mouth and, chewing, she said without a trace of excitement: “I don’t think the idea is so crazy. Stranger things have happened.”
“But never one that was crazy as this,” interjected Holved.
“Mr. Beckford and I know exactly what we want. We have completed all the plans. All we need is the funding.”
“So, it’s your plan and not Mr. Beckford’s! Only you could come up with such a crazy plan. It’s a plan totally fit for Hollywood. In reality, you could never build such a canal.”
“And why not?” asked Aslan as innocently as a little girl who has just been told that her doll cannot grow up to become a young lady.
Beckford forgot to eat, drank a sip of water, and sheepishly busied himself with his napkin. Holved slowly put down his fork and knife. “Young man, have you considered even for a second what it would cost to build such a canal? Many billions, I can’t even begin to imagine how many billions of dollars. Oh, what am I saying? Many trillions of dollars.”
“Costs, Holved?” asked Aslan as innocently as before. “According to preliminary estimates, such a canal would cost our country less than the two World Wars, the Korean War, and the financial support of European, Asian, and African nations that are constantly close to bankruptcy due to inept governments.”
Holved stared at his wife as if he did not know how she had arrived at his table and what she wanted.
“It was money thrown out the window,” Aslan continued, “for wars we had no business participating in. Those wars got us nothing, not even a single withered stalk of straw. They left in their wake nothing but national and international confusion, as well as material and moral destruction and corruption wherever you look.”
“Indeed, there’s some truth to what you are saying. I’m surprised how cleverly you’re defending your plan.” Holved looked above Aslan’s head as if searching for a new thought. “It might be possible to consider it. Maybe there’s something to your and Mr. Beckford’s idea after all. It might be worth examining more closely.”
“Yes, and as I said,” Aslan further explained, “none of these wars, costly as they were in terms of human life and in terms of money, brought us anything other than hatred, lack of gratitude, distrust, envy, and jealousy. Our canal would not only make back its initial
cost, but eventually it would even bring in quite a considerable profit. Just so you know, I’m going to invest half of my assets in the company that I plan to found in the next few days to realize my idea.
She hesitated for a few seconds. Then she continued: “Holved, you are invited to participate.”
He drank his coffee, followed by a cognac, slowly and thoughtfully folded his napkin, put it down, and said: “Let’s talk this through in peace and quiet. How about right now, while you”—he turned to Beckford—“have time.”
“Mr. Beckford always has time, when it comes to the canal.”
“You know, darling, don’t you want to allow Mr. Beckford to say something, too, every now and then? You seem to know more about all this than he does.”
“Of course I know more about it. The whole idea is mine.”
Holved apparently knew his wife better than he thought, because he said: “I should have realized it from the beginning. But in the end, it doesn’t matter.”
A little later, the three were kneeling on the thick carpet covering the floor in the salon. They were looking at a map spread out in front of them.
“To think,” said Holved, while whisking a compass across the large map of North America, “to think that the distance between New York and San Francisco going through the Panama Canal is five thousand two hundred sixty-three nautical miles, and the distance between New York and San Francisco above land is two thousand five hundred seventy-one miles—” He stopped. “Now, wait a minute, what’s the difference between an international nautical mile and a mile on land? Let me look it up!”
“No need to look it up, Holved. I know it by heart. Converted into kilometers or rather meters, the length of an international nautical mile is one thousand eight hundred fifty-two meters, and the length of a mile on land is one thousand six hundred nine meters.”
“Now look at my wife! Where did you learn that?”
“If I want to build a canal, I have to know such details.”
“Details, ma’am?” interjected Beckford. “I haven’t even gotten to that in the curriculum at the Technical Institute yet. To learn that, I probably would’ve had to study two more years.”
In the meantime, Holved was writing some numbers on a piece of paper.