She was all in white and silver. Not considering his admiration to be sufficiently enthusiastic, she made a face and nodded towards her strong, flawless neck and beautiful shoulders.
“I’m not sure it’s low-cut enough. What do you think?”
“Can I give you a kiss?” asked Golder.
She walked over to him, offered a delicately powdered cheek and the corner of her painted mouth.
“You wear too much make-up, Joy.”
“I have to,” she said nonchalantly. “My cheeks are totally white. I stay up too late, I smoke too much, I dance too much.”
“Naturally… Women are idiots,” grumbled Golder, “and as for you, well, you’re mad to boot…”
“I love to dance so much,” she murmured, half closing her eyes. Her beautiful lips were trembling.
She stood in front of him and stretched out her hands, but her large, sparkling eyes weren’t looking at him; she was looking at herself in the mirror behind him. He smiled in spite of himself.
“Joyce! You’re even vainer than before, my poor girl! Though, your mother did warn me …”
“She’s much vainer than I am,” she shouted crossly, “and she’s got no excuse! She’s old and ugly, not like me … I’m beautiful, aren’t I, Dad?”
Golder pinched her cheek and laughed.
“I should hope so! I wouldn’t like having an ugly daughter…” He stopped talking suddenly, went pale, and placed his hand over his heart; he panted, his eyes opening wide from a sudden sharp pain, then he sighed and let his arm drop … The pain had passed, but it had gone slowly, almost reluctantly. He pushed Joyce away, took out his handkerchief, carefully wiped his forehead and cold cheeks.
“Get me something to drink, Joyce.”
She called the chambermaid in the adjoining room who brought in a glass of water; he drank eagerly. Joyce had picked up a mirror and was humming while arranging her hair.
“Daddy, what did you buy me?”
He didn’t reply. She walked over to him and jumped on to his lap.
“Daddy, Daddy, look at me, come on, what’s wrong? Answer me! Don’t tease me…”
Automatically he took out his wallet and put a few thousand-franc notes into her hand.
“Is that all?”
“Yes. Isn’t it enough?” he murmured, forcing himself to laugh.
“No. I want a new car.”
“What? What’s wrong with the car you’ve got?”
“It’s boring, it’s too small… I want a Bugatti. I want to go to Madrid with…”
She stopped suddenly.
“With whom?”
“Friends…”
He shrugged. “Don’t talk nonsense.”
“It isn’t nonsense. I want a new car!”
“Well, you’ll have to do without it.”
“No, Daddy, Daddy darling… Get me a new car, get me one, say you will! I’ll be a good girl… Daphne Mannering has a beautiful car that Behring gave her.”
“Business is bad. Next year…”
“Why does everyone always say that to me! I couldn’t care less, just buy it!”
“Enough! You’re irritating me,” Golder finally cried impatiently.
She stopped talking, sprang off his lap, then thought for a moment and came back to lean against him.
“But, Daddy… if you had a lot of money, would you buy one for me?”
“Buy what?”
“The car.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Right away. But I don’t have any money. Stop pestering me.”
Joyce let out a little squeal of delight.
“I know what we’ll do! We’ll go to the casino tonight… I’ll see to it that you win. Hoyos always says I bring good luck. You can buy me the car tomorrow!”
Golder shook his head. “No. I’m coming home right after dinner. Don’t you realise that I spent the night on the train?”
“So what?”
“I don’t feel well today, Joy…”
“You? You’re never ill!”
“Oh! Is that what you think?”
“Dad,” she asked suddenly, “do you like Alec?”
“Alec?” Golder repeated. “Oh, that boy… He’s nice …”
“Would you like to see me become a princess?”
“That depends…”
“I would be called ‘Your Imperial Highness’!”
She went and stood beneath the bright chandelier, throwing back her fine golden hair.
“Take a good look at me, Dad. Do you think I’d make a good princess?”
“Yes,” murmured Golder with a rush of secret pride that made his heart beat faster, almost painfully. “Yes, a very good one, Joyce.”
“Would you pay a lot of money for that, Dad?”
“Is it expensive?” asked Golder, his rare, severe smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “I’d be amazed… These days, there are princes all over the place.”
“Yes, but I’m in love with this one… ” A profound, passionate expression swept across her face, making her grow pale.
“You know he has nothing, not a penny?”
“I know. But I’m rich.”
“We’ll see.”
“Oh!” Joyce said suddenly. “It’s just that I have to have everything on earth, otherwise I’d rather die! Everything! Everything!” she repeated with an imperious, feverish look in her eyes. “I don’t know how the others do it! Daphne sleeps with old Behring for his money, but I need love, youth, everything the world has to offer…”
He sighed. “Money…”
She interrupted him with a happy, impetuous gesture. “Money … Money too, of course, or rather beautiful dresses, jewellery! Everything. I mean it, poor Dad! I’m so madly in love with all of it. I so want to be happy, if only you knew! Otherwise, I really would rather die, I swear… But I’m not worried. I’ve always had everything I’ve ever wanted …”
Golder lowered his head, then, forcing himself to smile, whispered, “My poor Joyce, you’re mad… You’ve been in love with someone ever since you were twelve years old.”
“Yes, but this time…” she gave him a hard, stubborn look, “I really love him … Give him to me, Dad.”
“Like the car?” He smiled soberly. “Come on, let’s go. Put on your coat and let’s go downstairs …”
In the car, Hoyos and Gloria—covered in jewellery and as stiff and sparkling in the darkness as some heathen idol—were waiting for them.
IT WAS MIDNIGHT when Gloria suddenly leaned towards her husband who was sitting opposite her.
“You’re as pale as a ghost, David, what’s wrong? Are you that tired? We’re going on to Cibourne, you know … It might be better if you went home.”
Joyce had heard her. “Dad, that’s an excellent idea,” she called out. “Come on, I’ll take you back. I’ll meet you at Cibourne later, all right, Mummy? Daphne, I’m taking your car,” she continued, turning towards the younger of the two Mannering women.
“Don’t smash it up,” Daphne warned in a voice made hoarse from opium and alcohol.
Golder motioned to the maitre d’: “The bill!”
He had said it automatically, but then remembered that, according to Gloria, someone else had invited them to the Miramar. Nevertheless, all the other men had quickly turned away; only Hoyos looked at him with a wry smile and said nothing. Golder shrugged his shoulders and paid.
“Let’s go, Joy.”
It was a beautiful night. They got into Daphne’s small convertible. Joyce started the engine and set off like the wind. The poplar trees that lined the road fell away and disappeared as if into an abyss.
“Joyce, you’re mad…” shouted Golder, who’d gone somewhat pale. “One night you’re going to kill yourself on these roads.”
She didn’t reply but slowed down a little.
As they approached the town, she looked at him with wide, wild eyes. “Were you afraid, Dad?”
“You’re going to kill y
ourself,” he repeated.
She shrugged. “So what? It’s a good way to die …”
She placed her lips against a scratch on her hand that was bleeding. “On a beautiful night… wearing a ball gown …” she said. “You just drive for a while … and then it’s over.”
“Be quiet!” he shouted, horrified.
She laughed. “Poor old Dad…” Then added, “Well, out you get, we’re here.”
Golder looked up. “What? But we’re at the casino! Oh, I see now…”
“We’ll leave right away if you want,” she said.
She sat motionless, looking at him and smiling. She knew very well that, once he saw the brightly lit windows of the casino, the silhouettes of the gamblers walking back and forth behind them, and the small, narrow balcony that overlooked the sea, he wouldn’t want to leave.
“All right then, but just for an hour…”
Ignoring the valets standing on the steps, Joyce let out a wild cry. “Oh, Dad, I do love you so! I just know you’re going to win, you’ll see!”
He laughed. “You won’t have a penny of it, no matter what, I’m warning you, my girl.”
They went into the casino; some of the young women who were wandering from table to table recognised Joyce and gave her a friendly smile.
“Oh, Dad,” she sighed, “when will I be allowed to play? I do so want to …”
But he had already stopped listening to her, and instead was looking at his cards with trembling hands. She had to call him several times. Finally he turned round sharply and shouted, “What is it? What do you want? Stop bothering me!”
“I’ll be over there,” she said, pointing to a window seat by the wall, “all right?”
“Fine, go wherever you want, just leave me be!”
Joyce laughed, lit a cigarette, and sat down on the hard little velvet bench, tucking her legs under her and toying with her pearls. From where she was, all she could see were the crowds of people surrounding the tables: the men were silent and trembling, the women all eagerly reaching out their necks in the same bizarre way in order to see the cards, the money… Strange men paced up and down in front of Joyce; now and again, to amuse herself, she would lower her eyes and give one of them a long, mysterious look—feminine, passionate, and seductive—that would make him stop in his tracks, almost without realising it. She would then burst out laughing, look away, and continue waiting.
Once, when the crowd parted to let in some new players, she had a clear view of Golder. The sudden, strange ageing of his heavy, furrowed face, greenish beneath the harsh light, filled her with vague anxiety.
“He’s so pale … What’s wrong with him? Is he losing?” she wondered.
She raised herself up, eagerly straining to see, but the crowd had already closed in around the tables.
“Damn! Damn!” she said to herself, frowning nervously. “What if I went over to him? No, if you want someone to win, you bring them bad luck.”
She searched the room until her eyes alighted upon a young man she didn’t know who was walking past her with a beautiful, half-naked young woman. She gestured to them urgently. “Tell me, what’s happening over there? That old man, Golder, is he winning?”
“No, the other sly old fox is winning, Donovan,” replied the woman, naming a gambler who was famous in casinos all over the world. Joyce threw down her cigarette in rage.
“He has to win, he has to,” she murmured in despair. “I want my car! I want… I want to go to Spain with Alec! Just the two of us, free … I’ve never spent an entire night with him, sleeping in his arms… My darling Alec … Oh, he has to win! Please, God, let him win!”
The night passed. In spite of herself, Joyce let her head fall on to her arms. The smoke was burning her eyes.
She vaguely heard, as if from the depths of a dream, someone laugh as they pointed to her: “Look, there’s little Joyce, sleeping. Look how pretty she is … “
She smiled, stroked her pearls, then fell into a deep sleep. A little later, she half opened her eyes; the windows of the casino were becoming a paler shade of pink.
She lifted up her heavy head with difficulty and looked around. There were fewer people; Golder was still playing. “He’s winning now,” she heard someone say. “A while ago, he’d lost nearly a million…”
The sun was rising. Instinctively she turned her face towards the light, then went back to sleep. It was daytime when she felt someone shaking her; she woke up, held out her hands, then closed them over the crumpled banknotes that her father, standing over her, slid between her fingers. “Oh, Dad,” she murmured joyously, “so it’s true! You really did win?”
He didn’t move; the stubble that had grown during the night covered his cheeks like thick ash.
“No,” he said; he was having trouble articulating his words. “I lost more than a million, I think, then I won it back and fifty thousand francs more for you. That’s all. Let’s go.”
He turned around and walked with difficulty towards the door. She followed him, still barely awake, dragging her large white velvet coat along the floor, her hands overflowing with banknotes. Suddenly, she thought she saw Golder stop, stagger.
“I must be dreaming…” she murmured. “Has he been drinking?” And at that very moment, his large body collapsed in a strange and terrifying way: he raised both arms in the air, waved them about, then fell to the floor with a deep, dull moan that seemed to rise up as if from the living roots of a falling tree that has been struck right through its heart.
“COULD YOU MOVE away from the window, Madame?” whispered the nurse. “You’re in the doctor’s way.”
Gloria took a few steps back without removing her eyes from the bed. Golder’s heavy head was thrown back and motionless; it made a deep impression in the pillow. “He looks dead,” she thought, and shuddered.
He seemed completely unconscious. Although the doctor, leaning over his large, inert body, was feeling his pulse, listening to his heart, he didn’t move a muscle, didn’t even groan.
Nervously twisting her necklace in her hands, Gloria looked away. Was he going to die? “It’s his own fault,” she muttered angrily. “Why did he have to go and play cards? I bet you’re happy now, you fool,” she whispered, as if talking to him directly. “My God, think of all the money this is going to cost! Just let him get better…Just let it not go on for too long. I’ll go mad! What a terrible night I’ve had …”
She recalled how she had spent the whole night in this bedroom, waiting for Dr. Ghedalia, wondering at every moment whether Golder was going to die, right there, right in front of her eyes… It had been horrible.
“Poor David… His eyes…”
He was staring at her again, with that lost look. He was afraid of death. She shrugged her shoulders. All the same, people don’t dielike that… “This isjust what I needed!” she thought, secretly looking at herself in the mirror.
She made a sudden gesture of frustration and anger, then sat down, straight-backed and stiff, in an armchair.
Meanwhile, Ghedalia had pulled the sheet back up over Golder’s chest and stood up. He let out a vague moan.
“Well? What is it?” Gloria asked anxiously. “Is it serious? Will he be well again soon? Will he be ill for a long time? Tell me the truth, I’m begging you, I can take it… “
The doctor leaned back against his chair, slowly stroked his black beard, and smiled.
“My dear Madame,” he said in a melodious voice that flowed like milk, “I can see you’re very upset. However, there’s no reason to get in a state… Yes, I know, I know… His fainting like that frightened us, didn’t it? Worried us somewhat… But that’s only natural. After a week or ten days of rest, he’ll be fine. He’s just tired, overworked… Alas, we all grow a little older with each passing day, don’t we, Monsieur? Our arteries aren’t twenty years old any more. We can’t stay young forever…”
“You see,” Gloria exclaimed passionately, “I knew it all along. The least little thing and you think you�
�re about to die. Look at him! Well, say something, speak, for goodness sake!”
“No,” Ghedalia intervened, “no, he mustn’t say a word, on the contrary! Rest, rest, and more rest! We’ll give him a little injection to calm his nerves, and then, dear Madame, we shall leave him in peace.”
“But how do you feel?” Gloria repeated impatiently. “Do you feel better? David?”
He made a weak gesture with his hands, and moved his lips; she saw rather than heard him say, “I’m in pain …”
“Come along, Madame, let’s leave him alone,” Ghedalia said once again. “He cannot speak, but he can hear us very well, isn’t that so, Monsieur?” he added cheerfully, glancing furtively at the nurse.
He went out; Gloria joined him in the next room.
“It’s nothing, is it?” she started to say. “Oh, he’s so impressionable and nervous, it’s awful… If you only knew what a terrible night I had with him!”
The doctor solemnly raised his small, white, chubby hand. “I must stop you there, Madame,” he said in a completely different tone of voice. “My very first rule, which is un-wa-vering, is never to allow my patients to have the slightest idea of what is wrong with them, when their illness is serious … But, alas, to their families I owe the truth, and my second rule is never to hide the truth from my patient’s family … Never!” he repeated, emphatically.
“What are you saying? Is he going to die?”
The doctor gave a look that was both surprised and shrewd, as if to say, “I can see there’s no point in putting on kid gloves here.” He sat down, crossed his legs and, tilting his head slightly backwards, replied nonchalantly, “Not imminently, dear Madame…”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Angina pectoris.” He hammered home the Latin words with obvious pleasure. “In simple words, a heart attack.”
She said nothing. “He could live for a long time,” he added. “Five, ten, even fifteen years, with a careful diet and the appropriate medical attention. Naturally, he will have to stop working. Nothing must upset him or fatigue him. He needs a calm life— peace, routine, no extremes of emotion. Complete rest. At all times … Then, and only then, can I give you my assurances that he will survive, insofar as it is possible to give any assurances whatsoever, for this is an illness, alas, that is full of sudden surprises. We aren’t gods, after all… “
David Golder, the Ball, Snow in Autumn, the Courilof Affair Page 8