Only one house in town had on its door the sign Welcome! And this very house he always passed by. It held a promise for him, something new and unknown. It was a house with a kind word on its door, a house that offered something generously.
Two evenings in succession, after he had washed up and had nothing more to do in the hotel, he walked across the street and stood for a moment in the yellow light of its pale lantern. Then he walked back.
He had been on the California Trail, he had experienced a great deal—yet he was afraid, he was a coward. He wanted something and it was within easy reach, and he dared not take it. The following evening, to bolster his courage, he drank a tall glass of Kentucky Straight: this would make him bolder. Then he crossed the street for the third evening.
Come Right In!
This evening the door stood ajar; another sign that a caller was welcome. He found himself in a large, dimly lit room; only a few small candles in wooden sconces high up on the wall spread a light that hardly reached the floor. A group of women huddled at a table in the far end of the room, with beer mugs and whiskey glasses in front of them. These were the dishes that he washed every day; often he got tired from standing on his feet for hours. He could barely see the women’s faces in the dim light, he couldn’t make out if they were beautiful or ugly. But he could see the color of their clothing, a pleasure to his eyes. And it didn’t smell of dank cellar in here; a sweet odor came to his nose, the odor of refined women.
He had stopped at the door.
“Hello there! Come on in!”
One of the women called out to him. Her voice sounded kind, and clear as a bell.
“Come on in!”
Women’s voices encouraged him, yet he stayed where he was. His whiskey courage was beginning to fail him, he had crossed the threshold of the house, but what ought he to do now? He felt deeply embarrassed, and the consciousness of his inexperience embarrassed him further.
One of the women rose from the table and came toward him. She was tall, almost as tall as he when she stood beside him. She had on a flowing robe which fluttered gently like a sail in a light wind. She walked softly, soundlessly. Her shoulders were bare, and he could see the furrow between her breasts. A pair of big black eyes were resting on him: he was among friends, he must join them, wouldn’t he come with her?
But he remained standing at the door as if his legs were paralyzed. The women at the table began to laugh, hard, rasping laughs, like a saw in dry wood.
With some effort he turned to leave. But the tall woman had got a steady grip on his arm and held him inside.
“Don’t be so bitterly shy!”
She turned to the others and said something he didn’t understand, and then they laughed even harder and more derisively.
He had almost decided to leave; these women made fun of him, laughed at him. But he must stay, he must show them he wasn’t afraid of women. And the one at his arm assured him that all she wanted with him was something very nice and that nothing in this house would hurt him. If he just followed her, they would undoubtedly get along and be good friends.
“Come along, my little sweet potato . . . !”
She had a purring, caressing voice that pleased his ear. It was like the soft down of a pillow. The voice had power over him. She put her arm across his back and guided him, silently. They crossed to the other end of the large room, where she pulled aside a hanging; behind it stood a low, broad bed. Then she pulled the hanging in place behind them; it fell down over his shoulders and back like a cape.
They were separated from the others in the house. Here behind the hanging he was alone with the woman and the bed.
Her robe was green; the cloth rustled against his own clothing. He had barely seen her face and as yet he had not said a word to her. She alone did the talking. She lit a candle, then she bent down and poked in the bed. She would make it soft and good for him, as soft a bed as he had ever felt before. He would be wonderfully pleased, she had never cheated a man of anything, each one had left her satisfied and well pleased.
And again she called him her little sweet potato.
She smelled sweet, terribly sweet. Her black eyes glittered in the flickering light, but her cheeks were gray-white, like rye flour. He turned away his eyes, he dared not look her in the face. He was tempted, but now that they were alone he was seized with fright.
He did not know how a man acted with a woman in bed.
He stood rigidly, his limbs clumsy. His arms limp, he remained motionless at the bedside. With one quick, accustomed movement the woman turned down her robe, leaving herself exposed to the waist. And then she asked in her husky voice: wouldn’t he like to have a peek? Didn’t she have beautiful breasts? All men liked them. She wanted a dollar extra for the breasts; they ought to be worth it out here in the West. There were no breasts like hers in all of Nebraska, nay, not in all the West!
He looked at her breasts; they hung limp and flat and dangled so low they almost touched her stomach. They looked like an udder between the hind legs of a cow.
And he swallowed with an effort; he felt nauseated. What did he want with that woman? He wouldn’t want to mix himself with her . . . He was in a whorehouse and she was a whore. A whore’s body was filled with poison and her life lasted only four years. This one here—how much poison did she carry in her body? How long a time had she left to live . . . ? Why had he come in here? Had it been because he had no desire to live any longer . . . ? Suddenly he wanted to live . . .
His fear made cold perspiration break out on his body. But the woman sat down on the bed and pulled him down beside her. All right? An extra dollar for the breasts? The finest breasts in the West. White and pure like the rose and the lily. He could have the whole business for three dollars—if he gave the money to her now they would be ready in a jiffy. But why didn’t he talk? Why didn’t he say a single word?
Her hands found their way under his clothing. They were at home on a man’s body: with sure, experienced motions the hands opened his pants and felt toward his groin.
Now at last he spoke. He forgot himself and spoke Swedish to her: She must let him alone. He didn’t want anything of her. He had only come out of curiosity—he was staying at the hotel across the street. He would be glad to give her the three dollars. But he didn’t want to do anything with her. He wanted to leave at once . . .
But she of course did not understand him and her hands felt his body and took hold of his testicles. Now she was talking in a caressing, silver-clear voice that tinkled like a bell; she laughed heartily as one hand held on to the scrotum.
What a dear sweet potato! She would squeeze the honey out of it!
He heard himself talking in Swedish and corrected himself in stuttering English. But the lure of the unknown experience and his fear kept him paralyzed and he let her go on.
She burst out laughing again.
“What should I do with this kid?”
She tightened her hold on his testicles until it hurt him. The pain brought him back to himself and at once he recovered his ability to move, he pushed her aside and jumped up, pulling the hanging apart so violently that it fell to the floor. He ran through the room where the other whores were still sitting at the table, reached the door, and got out into the street. He heard the women laugh behind him.
Outside the whorehouse he tumbled over in a hole in the street, in spite of the lantern light, and hurt his right knee. Limping badly he reached the hotel door, moving as fast as his injured knee permitted. He felt his way through the dark cellar hall, found his room, and threw himself on his back on the bed, his limbs trembling. His knee ached and his groin hurt. The derisive laughter of the women had followed him across the street; they were poking fun at his innocence. Now they must be talking about him, the sweet potato who wanted to but didn’t dare. They were laughing at him, making fun of him: what to do with such a fool?
But the sweet potato had run away, they had not squeezed the honey from his pouch.
He l
ay on his bed, trembling. His testicles hurt from the woman’s grasp. Now he knew why the prices were so cheap over there. What they offered was false. Their gift was false. It was right that their wares cost two dollars only—with an extra dollar for the finest breasts in the West. They weren’t worth any more. He had had the experience now; the glory over there was only something he had imagined. Nothing to long for. He had been made a fool of in that house and it had served him right.
He had wondered how it was to mix with a woman. He had learned tonight. He didn’t want to know any more.
—6—
Robert stayed in the sand-pit ghost town for over two years.
Each day he felt that the pierced gravel walls might cave in and bury the town and its people. It seemed to him a miracle that they still stood. And he asked himself if he wasn’t staying in Grand City only to see its burial. Perhaps he secretly longed for the big cave-in to take place and end life for all of them.
Or a new tornado might come and carry off the remaining houses—hurl the Grand Hotel and the whorehouse far out on the endless prairie. To be buried as a crushed worm or wafted as a feather through the air seemed much the same to him.
After his experiences on the California Trail, Robert felt that death was the only sure thing in this world, the only thing that really happened, and the only thing that could change anything for him. And he believed himself separated from death only by a transparent film, thin and sensitive as the retina of the eye. He could see through it clearly, and he wondered constantly why it didn’t burst. He lived a life of pretense—the happenings of life did not concern him.
A winter passed, and a summer and a second winter, but the big cave-in-burial did not take place in Grand City. Nor was there another tornado. The houses were neither buried nor blown out on the prairie; they still stood, and the people in them remained, among them the two Swedes who ran the Grand Hotel.
Fredrik Mattsson lived his life in great earnest, in great hurry. He was involved in big business, bigger than before, whatever it happened to be now—his partner never asked. Robert was hotel owner and servant in one person and did the heaviest chores. Fred intended to hire necessary personnel—he had already decided how many people they needed—but unfortunately he never had the time to see to it. His days were entirely taken up by other, more urgent activities. And since his partner had brought in new capital, the hotel was to be enlarged and improved. In the beginning he discussed his plans with Robert.
One evening he asked, “Bob, can you hang paper?”
At first Robert did not understand what he meant.
Well, in the morning Fred would begin the great improvement: they would paper the hotel walls. Could Robert do this? Fred had come across a big pile of light-blue wallpaper rolls, very cheap. For several weeks Robert boiled glue, measured and cut and hung paper over the naked walls of the old potato cellar. The work amused him, because he could see results. He changed the color of the naked hotel walls from dark gray to light blue. He felt he was making the days brighter for the strangers who would stay in the rooms.
But the hanging of the light-blue paper—at fifty cents a roll—was the only improvement undertaken at the Grand Hotel.
—7—
It was during Robert’s third winter in the ghost town that his illness began. It started as a persistent fatigue which did not disappear with rest, a hollow, empty cough, and sometimes tearing pain in his stomach. He lost his appetite, couldn’t keep down the food he swallowed; he lost weight, grew wan. Already before this he had grown thinner, and the fat gold lice had long ago deserted his body; now not the smallest nits could find nourishment there. He stayed in bed for a while and felt a little better. For short periods he felt almost well. But the illness came back, and then his teeth began to fall out.
When he looked in a mirror he didn’t recognize himself.
Fred often would say to him: “Your face is pale as hell, Bob!”
Because his partner looked so yellow Fred wondered if Robert hadn’t perchance caught the yellow fever while he looked after Vallejos. Perhaps it had entered his body and not broken out until now? Robert didn’t think so, but then he knew nothing about disease. He had never had any ailment except his bad ear.
By spring he had recuperated enough to be up and about but he felt far from well; the oppressive fatigue remained in his body, and he was almost unable to do anything. He no longer could assist Fred in running the hotel. And he had grown tired of the ghost town and wanted to get away from it as soon as he felt strong enough.
He had told Fred that his older brother had taken up a claim in Minnesota, and now Robert hinted that perhaps it would be best for him to return to his brother.
Fred replied enthusiastically. Since Robert didn’t feel well he ought to be where he could get care and rest. He himself could not look after his friend and countryman in the manner he would wish. But Robert’s relatives would surely do so and help him regain his health and strength.
“Bob, you needn’t be a burden to your brother. I will of course return the money you put into my hotel! I’ll not only pay back the capital—I’ll pay interest as well, the highest interest in North America.”
Fredrik Mattsson from Asarum would, in every detail, keep the promise he had given his countryman. And Robert in turn assured him that he had always trusted his friend in their mutual business. He had never heard of one Swede cheating another in America.
“Of course not! I’ve increased our money! I know how to handle money in America, Bob. I know how to pay out the capital and still have it!”
From his vest pocket he fished up a five-cent coin and held it before Robert’s eyes.
“See this nickel? With this one single coin I paid for my food a whole winter in Chicago!”
“You couldn’t!” exclaimed Robert. “Unless you were a magician or something . . .”
Fred explained that it had nothing to do with tricks or miracles; it was pure business ability. That winter in Chicago he had had no cash except this coin. He had lived with a woman friend, free of charge, and he had eaten all his meals at a saloon on Clark Street where every customer who bought anything for at least five cents could eat a free meal. Each morning he had gone to this saloon and bought a five-cent cigar. Then he had eaten his breakfast. But he did not smoke his cigar—when he emerged onto the street he sold it to anyone he happened to meet for the same price he himself had paid. In that way he got back his five cents. At dinnertime he went back to the saloon, bought a fresh cigar, ate the dinner he was entitled to, and then went outside and sold his cigar for five cents. In that way he retrieved his nickel so he could buy a new cigar in the morning and have his breakfast, and so on.
He had lived in this way the whole winter through buying and selling two cigars a day and eating two solid meals. And when he left Chicago in the spring he still had his nickel, even though it had paid for his food for a whole winter.
Fred threw the coin into the air and caught it on the downfall.
“You see, I know how to handle capital! I pay out and still have it! I’ve done the same with your money, Bob. I know the tricks. Life is easy in America if you know the tricks.”
Up to the very last moment of Robert’s stay, the host of the Grand Hotel was helpful and generous to his friend and partner. He arranged for his trip home: an ox train would soon be due in Grand City on its way east to St. Louis, and from St. Louis Robert could take the paddle steamer as soon as the northern Mississippi was open. Robert remembered the route; it would be his third journey on the broad river.
“You must get yourself some decent clothes, Bob,” insisted Fred. “You must return as a gentleman!”
A few hundred dollars in silver were still left in Roberts black pouch—enough for his trip home, a suit of clothes, and a new rucksack. Now anyone could see he was returning from the goldfields, said Fred.
Thus one day in April 1855, the younger partner in the Grand Hotel, Grand City, was ready to leave the business and the tow
n. The ox train for St. Louis had arrived. The two friends stood at the counter in Fred’s Tavern, and the one who would stay behind solemnly opened a bottle of Kentucky Straight. With controlled emotion Fred said they must drink the painful Skol of farewell. For the last time they would use the beloved Swedish word of greeting to each other. From then on the word Skol would never more be heard in this room.
And now at their parting the moment had come for him to repay Robert’s loan as he had promised.
“My dear friend, after two years your capital has doubled. In this way you are getting 100 per cent interest. I owe you four thousand dollars!”
Fredrik Mattsson put two heavy bundles of bills on the counter in front of his friend; he had of course changed Robert’s gold into bills. This had to be done before money could circulate and grow, and he was repaying him in bills.
He looked at his countryman, as if to see his reaction.
“Have you ever seen or heard of wildcats out here?”
“Wildcats? Do you mean those wild animals . . . ?”
“No. I mean free money in America. What you see before you on the counter is four thousand dollars in wildcat money. You get your capital back in sound, free money.”
For the first time Robert saw wildcat money and he liked the name; to him it had something to do with freedom and liberty; the bills had probably been given that name because they in some way echoed the freedom of the wildcats in the forest.
“Here you are, Bob. One hundred per cent interest!”
Robert was overcome by the great generosity his friend displayed at their parting. Was it right for him to accept these big bundles of money, four thousand dollars? He felt like a miser, a usurper. No, he couldn’t accept all this money—he hadn’t earned it. And he said if he accepted it he would ever after feel he had skinned a countryman and friend.
“No, Fred, you’re too generous to me!”
But Fred forced him to take it, he himself pushed the bundles into the black leather pouch. He knew how Robert felt, but after all, it was only his own money that had doubled in two years by constant, careful handling. He paid back in wildcats—sound, free money that would double again if handled wisely. They were as good as gold in the right hands. Up in Minnesota, where there were few banks, these bills might be worth even more than out here, probably more than gold.
The Settlers Page 39