The Hormone Factory: A Novel

by Saskia Goldschmidt

  7 …

  Women are the Achilles’ heel of anyone calling himself a man. We all get taken in by them, somehow, sometime. We may think it’s our brain that drives our body, like the diesel engine that drove the truck collecting the urine of pregnant mares, but in fact we are constantly at the mercy of our pecker, our dick, our cock. That self-willed organ dominated my mind and controlled the way I behaved—it got the better of my reason and simply took over. How I hated having those urges control my life! And yet how I loved it too! That’s why it is with a mixture of relief and profound grief that I now behold my member in its current state, a soft, droopy, flabby, unresponsive little appendage dangling under a quivering hunk of belly fat like a decomposing bit of offal, emitting a steady drip of smelly dribble all day long, because, see now, I’m not the only one to have lost control; the beast has too.

  I have never lacked for attention. Women are attracted to men who play it big; there’s nothing more seductive than a man upon whom fortune has smiled. Women used to swarm around me, attracted like bees to honey. No wonder my name is De Paauw, the peacock! Such a proud creature, that likes to show off to the little woman in all its resplendent, glimmering glory! My own plumage comes down to a set of regular features: a powerful nose, a bold chin, a fine head of black hair, expressive dark eyes, and a well-proportioned body. And just as the peacock’s splendid tail hides a trembling little tuches that can barely contain itself, so the beast, lurking deep within my bespoke suit, lifts its head, waiting for the moment when I’ll set it free. I’m a hunter, I can’t help it. Once I have caught my prey and devoured it from front to back and from top to bottom, it’s time to go out again and stalk a fresh quarry; that’s just the way it is.

  If it had been up to me I would never have gotten married—why restrict yourself to a single dish when there’s a whole world of delicacies to be sampled? Monogamy doesn’t really exist; monogamy is the most unnatural idea ever to have made it into law. As far as the man goes, anyway. After all, the male is programmed to catch and pursue, it’s our instinct, we’re driven to do it. It isn’t selfishness, it’s a fundamental necessity—the species must live on. And it’s the woman’s job to nurture. Why else would she carry the child to term, endure excruciating pains pushing it out, and then nurse it? And if she were just allowed to scamper off instead of staying home breast-feeding the little nipper, the world would be teeming with neglected brats in no time, wouldn’t it? There are of course some species, the emperor penguin for instance, where it’s the male who takes on the responsibility of caring for the egg and hatchling. But the pathetic flap of flab dangling down over papa penguin’s feet like an old crone’s potbelly says it all. No wonder it’s an endangered species on the way out. An evolutionary cock-up, and therefore doomed to extinction.

  A man does have responsibilities, of course. I’m not the type to saddle a woman with a kid and then say it’s her problem. You’ve got to take responsibility; if you get in a jam, you’ve got to pay up. Preferably for an abortion, although not every girl will agree to have one. Twice in my life I got into a fix where money wouldn’t make an unwanted pregnancy go away. Sixty years ago, at the time when we were discovering one magnificent hormone after another, I got Rosie in the family way. There were circumstances that prevented me from helping her properly. And then of course there was Rivka, whom I met at a party at Rafaël’s in the summer of 1923, when we had just forged our partnership.

  Rafaël lived in a historic five-story merchant’s house on one of Amsterdam’s canals. It had lofty ceilings, drafty rooms, and a narrow staircase. It was the first time I’d been invited to his home. A maid let me into the marble entrance hall. As she was hanging up my coat, I noticed a gigantic four-story dollhouse taking up the entire back wall. It was a splendid replica of a stately neoclassical interior, one that had presumably graced the parental home of either Rafaël or his wife somewhere in Silesia. Climbing the stairs, I saw little evidence of that grandeur in the house I was now in. I was shown into two large, connected rooms with overstuffed bookcases lining the walls. The floor and coffee tables were strewn with fashion magazines, philosophy journals, and medical periodicals in various languages. In one corner stood an easel displaying a painting of a child’s face. In the next room a pianoforte had pride of place, with a smattering of music stands and assorted violin and cello cases nearby. It looked like the rehearsal space for an entire chamber orchestra, but it turned out that the instruments belonged to Rafaël, his wife, and their children. The few spots on the walls not covered by bookcases were filled with pictures: a landscape by Van der Heyden, as well as an interesting mishmash of portraits, still lifes, and landscapes, quite skillfully done and probably the work of family members. Both in atmosphere and in decor it was unlike any other house I’d ever been in. I was used to luxury and the display of wealth as a token of personal success. In this house, all the glitz was confined to the dollhouse down in the entry hall. Upstairs, literature, science, and art reigned. Wealth was a means that enabled one to devote oneself to those important pursuits, and not an end in itself.

  Rafaël welcomed me and introduced me to his wife, a short, stocky, severe-looking matron, her layers of fat squeezed into an old-fashioned black gown whose seams appeared ready to give at any moment. Her multiple chins billowed over the little black collar secured with an ivory brooch. Her gray hair was gathered in a tight bun by a comb whose teeth seemed to stick right into her scalp. I bowed.

  “Motke, this is my wife, Sari, my dear Dauphine. That is what we call her, on account of her majestic, commanding bearing. Please tell her you’re crazy about music, that you love to listen to piano sonatas on a daily basis, or she’ll have nothing to do with you.”

  “He exaggerates,” Sari said with a laugh, the stern expression on her face softening somewhat, “as he always does. It is fortunate, is it not, that I can contribute to this household something other than pancreatic enigmas? If it were up to my husband, our life would be nothing but hormones right now.” She said it with some disdain. “Music,” she went on, leaning closer to underline the importance of her assertion, “more than anything else in the world, expresses feelings in their most intense manifestation. Our ability to make music is what sets us apart from the animals. Without music we would live in an emotional wasteland. Can you imagine life without it?”

  I had no choice but to shake my head no. I had had no musical education to speak of and was quite ignorant on the subject. Fortunately, she wasn’t expecting a reply and went on with her harangue: “Music expresses our desires, our attachment to things over which we have no control. As Gustav Mahler once put it, ‘Music contains the pain and sorrow of life.’ Mankind needs music, the way my husband needs his microscope.” She fixed me with a piercing stare, as if she wanted to make sure that I agreed with her.

  “See, that’s just what I mean,” Rafaël chuckled, “you haven’t been here two minutes and already you’ve had to listen to one of the Dauphine’s lectures. Sari, give the poor man something to drink, and then I can introduce him to our other guests.”

  To my surprise, it wasn’t only the professor’s contemporaries who were in attendance that night. Besides his own children, I was introduced to a number of other young people, whom I assumed to be students and laboratory colleagues. Rafaël had a wide circle of friends, comprising officials and politicians, musicians, artists, and scientists. He was also, apparently, an approachable, beloved mentor to his students and younger colleagues.

  The professor introduced me to Sam Salomons, one of the top chemists he had hired to work at Farmacom. A contemporary of the professor’s, he had a similar bearing—a stern-faced, Prussian dinosaur. They had known each other since their student years in Germany. After a short exchange of pleasantries, Rafaël continued steering me around to meet the rest of the guests.

  We wound up at the circle of young people that included Rivka. She had an open face with twinkling, big brown eyes and a mouth that was prone to laugh; long, dark, curly
hair; splendid tits stowed inside a black lace blouse with a rather impressive décolleté; and sturdy hips that belonged to a deliciously voluptuous body. With a wave of the hand Rafaël introduced me to the entire crew. Rivka, staring at me in surprise, exclaimed, “Rafaël, you didn’t tell me your business partner was so young! I thought he’d be your age!”

  To make a long story short, at the end of the evening, after a piano recital by the Dauphine—apparently an inescapable ingredient of any get-together at the Levines’—I offered to run Rivka home. It had been quite a night for me; I’d felt rather intimidated in the company of people who dropped the names of philosophers, writers, and scientists the way we might talk about different breeds of livestock. Rivka was clearly in her element there. I’d managed to snag a seat next to hers during the recital, and my whispered crack about the imposing dimension of the Dauphine’s backside as she lowered herself onto the diminutive piano stool sent the girl into an uncontrollable fit of the giggles. It had been enough to overcome any initial misgivings, and she unhesitatingly accepted my invitation to take her home.

  Frank, my chauffeur, was waiting in the car outside. I had been planning to drive home after the party, but meeting Rivka had made me change my mind.

  “Have you ever been for a drive along the Amstel River at night?” I asked her as I followed her down the stairs.

  “No,” said Rivka, “I’ve never ridden in one of those things in my life. Do you really own an automobile?”

  The sight of my Lancia made her giggle, and she insisted on shaking Frank’s hand—a ridiculous thing to do, of course—then danced around the car three times before enthusiastically diving into the backseat. When Frank started the engine she got so excited that she grabbed my hand in a tight grip. But unlike the other girls I had lured into my car before her, she didn’t put on a frightened little-girl act. She seemed to revel in the speed at which Frank negotiated the bumpy cobblestones and couldn’t wait for him to really step on it once we were out of the city center. We zipped along the banks of the snaking river under a nearly full moon, the water showing barely a ripple in the crisp spring night.

  It was the most romantic backdrop you could ever imagine; Rivka’s childish enthusiasm, however, thwarted my efforts to create a correspondingly intimate mood inside the car. I found her extremely desirable and sexy, but she kept sliding open the little window between our compartment and the driver’s cab to pepper Frank with questions about the engine, the RPMs, how often he had to fill up with gas or add oil. She could have been out on a date with Frank, for fuck’s sake! But Frank knew me well; he was a loyal employee. And so, once we were well out of the city, he stopped the car at a discreet distance from a sheltered thicket along the river, announced that the engine had to cool off, and offered to spread a blanket for us at the river’s edge on the other side of the bushes. I finally found myself alone with her, seated side by side on a blanket. I put an arm around her. She glanced at me brightly, then sighed, “This is so nice, two firsts in one evening! I’ve never been in an automobile before, and I’ve never sat on the banks of the Amstel at night. This is the life!”

  It made her sound so innocent. A young thing full of dreams, without any concept of the struggle it is just to keep your head above water. A blithe little flapper who’d never yet been forced to take off her rose-colored glasses.

  I smiled at her, brushing a stray curl off her face. “You’re so darn gorgeous,” I fawned, “that even the loveliest, most romantic setting doesn’t hold a candle to your beauty.” I started caressing her face, her neck, and then slowly drew closer, gazing deep into those lovely eyes, in which I read a mixture of excitement and surprise.

  We kissed a few times—cautiously at first, just sampling, tasting; then my tongue sought hers. Pressing myself up against her, I gently pushed her down onto the blanket. With her hand resting lightly on my back, I slowly tugged her blouse out of her skirt, stroked her soft, flat stomach, then calmly moved my hand upward, slipping beneath the satin of her bra to find her breast, until my fingers encountered a well-defined nipple, which I began playfully wiggling back and forth. Her boob was firm, perky, just the way I like them. I was already incredibly horny, but I wasn’t sure if she was as turned on as I was yet. Letting go of that heavenly tit, I pulled up her lace blouse and, tweaking her breast out of its cup, took it in my mouth, while my hand worked its way down to hike up her skirt and maneuver her underpants down. As my fingers entered her she began running her hands through my hair. I felt her stiffen. Letting go of her nipple, I moved my mouth lower down to kiss her navel. Digging my way through the roadblock of bunched-up clothing, I finally reached her bush, and started working her pussy with my tongue. Arousing the woman to the verge of orgasm, that was the way to break through the last bit of resistance. She was moaning softly now, her breath coming faster. She tasted of apples. Her soft, warm flesh was driving me crazy—that dish of delight my tongue was now lapping at frenziedly. Her suppressed cries were coming faster and faster. I unbuttoned my pants, pushing them down past my hips, and my beast, finally released from its cage, sprang up wildly. I started inching my way back up, continuing to stimulate her manually, until the beast found its way in. She opened her eyes and said softly, “I’m still a virgin, please be careful.”

  I kept myself quiet for a moment, kissed her, and said, “I’ll be very gentle, all right?”

  Running her tongue over her lips, she nodded; she was as hot as boiling water in a distillation flask, and it wasn’t long before I was able to really get going. We both came at the same time. I stayed inside her for a few seconds, gazed at her, and smiled.

  “Three firsts in one night, that’s a record,” she said.

  8 …

  Eight weeks later Rivka walked into my office unannounced. I hadn’t seen or spoken to her since our dalliance on the banks of the Amstel, although I had written her a little note telling her that I thought back on our romantic car ride with considerable pleasure. Actually, I’d decided I wouldn’t mind getting together again sometime. I had a notion we might very well hit it off in the future. But I was up to my ears at work, what with the construction of the new lab on the top floor of the meatpacking plant, and the intense negotiations Levine and I were conducting with the Canadians to secure the European licenses. Levine and his team were already very close to developing a standardized form of insulin that could be mass-produced, and there was no time to lose. Competitors in France and Germany were snapping at our heels, and it was vital for us to win this first battle. I was just dictating a telegram to Agnes when Rivka burst into my office without knocking.

  “I have to speak to you—alone,” she said, looking at Agnes, who can be relied on to follow my orders, but not those of a strange woman barging in unannounced. Agnes, not budging, looked away, waiting to see what came next.

  “Rivka!” I said affably, hiding my perplexity over her unexpected arrival. Until you know what you’re in for, never show your hand. “This is such a surprise,” I went on by way of welcome, signaling Agnes to leave us. My loyal assistant stood up, but not without giving me a surly pout to express her displeasure at this interruption of our work session.

  As soon as Agnes had shut the door, Rivka marched up to me and, before I could take her in my arms and kiss her, said in a whisper—she, at least, wasn’t sure that Agnes would honor her boss’s request for privacy—“We have a problem. I’m pregnant.” She looked at me wide-eyed.

  I tried to hide the shock her announcement gave me. “Yet another first; that makes four, right?” I smiled, my mind racing, trying to think what to do. Rivka did not respond. I put an arm around her, steered her to the sofa, and, kissing her, helped her out of her charming summer jacket. “Relax,” I reassured her. “Don’t worry, we’ll find a solution. Would you like something to drink?”

  I rang for Agnes and asked her to bring us tea and cookies, and also not to put through any calls. Then I pushed the button on my desk that turned on the red lightbulb outside my door, to
make sure no one would come in, and sat down next to Rivka on the sofa.

  “What exactly do you mean by ‘a solution’?” asked Rivka as we sat there balancing our fine China teacups after I’d helped her to two lumps of sugar. She turned down the cookie.

  “Darling,” I said, “pregnancy isn’t the end of the world, you know. There are perfectly good ways to get rid of an unwanted fetus. And it isn’t dangerous; at least, it doesn’t have to be,” I said when I saw her open her mouth to say something. “Do you think I’d expose you to anything dangerous? Of course I wouldn’t! But I have connections, I can arrange for it to be completely safe. It’ll cost quite a bit, but you’re worth it to me.”

  She stared at me, aghast.

  “You aren’t Orthodox or anything, are you?” I asked, thinking it would be the ultimate irony if, of all the broads in permissive, promiscuous Amsterdam, I had knocked up the one girl who objected to abortion on religious grounds, while out here in the puritanical sticks I’d been sneaking around with wenches of all faiths and persuasions.

  “Motke, my parents know. My father is furious. He works in Levine’s lab and he says he’ll ruin Farmacom if we don’t get married.”

  She began to cry. That’s when the panic set in; it wasn’t her tears but the news of her father and his threat that made my blood run cold.

  “What’s your father’s name?” I asked, staring at the weeping puddle of misery. I lifted her chin with my finger and she looked up at me through teary eyes.

  “Sam Salomons.”

  That’s when I knew I was really in trouble.

  9 …

  Salomons was an old schoolmate of Rafaël’s, a chemistry professor, and, like Rafaël, a German Jew. I had met him at the soirée in the Levines’ canal house, when he had just accepted a position at Farmacom. Levine had told me that he recruited Salomons because the man had untold influential connections in the scientific world. Soon enough, once we had won the licensing battle, we were going to need the help of his German contacts to launch our insulin products on the European market. I just couldn’t risk getting in trouble with this important, highly respected man, who, I suspected, would cling to his old-fashioned moral principles. A disgruntled Salomons could scuttle our entire operation. Besides, I didn’t know how I could face Levine if Salomons made trouble for Farmacom as a result of my randy behavior. I still considered Levine my mentor back then; I looked up to him a great deal. I might have arrived at a different decision some years later, when our relationship had cooled somewhat, but on the day Rivka came barging into my office, I didn’t want to rouse his ire and cared deeply about what he would think about my philandering.