Homeland

by John Jakes

  That afternoon Pork visited another establishment quietly recommended by the hall porter. It dispensed no medicinal waters, only beer and champagne served by pink-nippled country girls in transparent chemises. Pork found it marvelous for his health anyway.

  One of the few positive aspects of the tour was Juliette’s condition. The stay in Cleveland, the sea crossing, and the initial weeks on the Continent seemed to have achieved their purpose. Pork’s daughter was docile and quiet. She seldom spoke unless addressed, although now and then she did utter some sharp retort or criticism, always about something small and unimportant. There were occasional outbursts of crying, too. Pork found it paradoxical that these reassured his wife.

  “It’s typically female behavior, Mason. She is well and normal again.”

  In Frankfurt, Nell had bought Juliette a little dog, a Pomeranian, from a recommended kennel. His name was Rudy. He showed his high spirits by constantly running, jumping and yapping. Pork detested him. The dog didn’t like him either. The day Rudy arrived, he lifted his leg and peed on Pork’s best suit, right in the sitting room of their suite. Pork began carrying a rolled-up copy of Leslie’s; there were no further incidents. Julie seemed to enjoy having a pet. She even smiled occasionally when she picked Rudy up and petted him.

  The end of the first week at the spa was marred by a visit from Willis. She came by train from Paris, accompanied by a young man she’d met in New York. He was a tower of flesh, six feet six or seven, with shoulders that belonged on some heroic statue in a park. He laughed a lot, and drank two or three liters of Franconian wine at a sitting, without being the worse.

  His name was Boronsky. Willis said he was Russian, and a poet. Pork suspected he was a Jew, and a fortune hunter. Certainly he was too young for any woman who cared about her reputation. That of course excluded Willis. She and Boronsky were full of enthusiasm for a new edition of Salome by that fellow Wilde who sported a sunflower in his lapel, the one who went around preaching art for art’s sake. This particular book contained depraved illustrations by some Englishman named Beardsley.

  After supper one evening, Boronsky read several of his own poems. Pork found them incomprehensible as well as suggestive. He walked out in the middle of the fourth one.

  Willis spent two afternoons with her niece. She returned from the second outing irate. She said to Nell in private, “I saw the incisions. I made her push up her sleeves and show me. Sister or no sister, if you ever bleed that girl again, I’ll have the law on you.”

  “Dr. Woodrow recommended it. Besides, it was done weeks ago. We were only trying to make her well.”

  “Oh, splendid. Why didn’t you carve an idol and dance around it, too? Why didn’t you kidnap some children and cut their hearts out by moonlight?”

  “Willis!”

  “That hellhole in Cleveland sounds barbaric. I’d take Julie away from here tonight, but for the fact that she’s a decent, honorable, thoroughly misguided girl you and your husband have terrorized into believing nonsense. She thinks she owes you something merely because you’re parents. Because of an accidental meeting of Mason’s sperm and your—whatever it is you offer down there. Christ knows, it must be primitive.”

  Nell almost swooned. She rushed out and Willis packed and left on the seven o’clock local for Frankfurt, accompanied by her burly paramour.

  Pork heard a report of the outrageous conversation that night as they prepared for bed. “Maybe it’s a blessing she left,” Nell said. “Maybe we’ll never see her again.”

  “It would be wonderful,” Pork said, struggling into his nightshirt. “But nobody’s that lucky.”

  The following Wednesday Pork visited the Kurhaus. A string quartet was playing Haydn airs in one of the public salons. The chess rooms were busy. The Kurhaus was the spa’s international meeting place, but Pork was now interested in the reading rooms. He had lately discovered copies of several overseas papers, including the Chicago Tribune.

  Browsing a copy four weeks old, he came across a startling social item about Joe Crown. The brewer had closed his Michigan Avenue mansion and taken his wife and children to his estate in Carolina, intending to remain there for the foreseeable future.

  Smugly, Pork concluded that his swift action against Crown’s nephew was responsible for the retreat. Before leaving home, he’d also heard that Crown’s elder son, the radical, had run off. Pork was delighted to see the arrogant little man suffering. He only wished Joe Crown’s exile could be permanent.

  Juliette was in bed with her monthly distress when the unexpected meeting occurred.

  Dr. Stollknecht joined Pork for breakfast that morning. He piled into a gargantuan portion of eggs, wurst, and breads while Pork, rather miffed, picked at his health plate. Despite this, they had a pleasant and lengthy conversation about racial purity. Pork found the physician quite the most agreeable, sensible German he’d ever met.

  Pork said he viewed contamination of American blood by ex-slaves and immigrants as a potential disaster. Dr. Stollknecht agreed. Inferior blood could destroy a nation. He believed governments facing such a threat should intervene. Ruthlessly, if necessary.

  They shook hands and parted. Swinging his cane in the mild October sunshine, Pork went for a stroll in the spacious Kurpark. He sat on a stone bench beside the lake and watched two stately swans swim by, followed by two amusing cygnets. He was still sitting there when he got a start. A man was bearing down on him along the path; an American—and what’s more, a Chicagoan.

  “Mr. Vanderhoff? Good morning. William Vann Elstree.” The man removed his monocle and held out his hand. The amazed Pork shook it. An armband of black crepe was tied around Elstree’s left sleeve.

  “Yes, of course, I know who you are. Won’t you sit down? This is an honor. An unexpected pleasure.”

  Elstree took a seat. He drew off mauve gloves and laid them beside his stick. He fanned himself with his homburg. Pork’s tiny eyes darted sideways, to William Elstree’s jaw. Certainly the man was not handsome. But he radiated charm and, more important, the power only wealth conferred.

  “You and your family are taking the waters, I hear,” Elstree said.

  “That’s true. I guess Americans make their presence known pretty quickly.” Pork added another of his gratuitous ha-ha’s. Elstree responded with a smile and a nod. Pork said, “How do you happen to be here, may I ask?”

  “Oh, the same reason. The waters. But you and I meeting this way—that’s purely accidental.”

  Somehow Pork doubted the statement, though he couldn’t have said why. Elstree might have learned that the family was at the spa by reading the papers. The peregrinations of touring Americans, especially notables, were reported throughout Europe. Mrs. Astor was at Bruxelles for the week, Mrs. Vanderbilt would arrive in Florence on Saturday …

  “Mr. Vanderhoff.”

  “Sir?”

  “Since we’ve chanced to meet like this, allow me to raise a subject that’s been on my mind lately. I hope you won’t be offended.”

  “No, no, why should I?”

  “Oh, there’s a reason. Perhaps you’ll say I’m unseemly, given the relatively short time that has gone by since the death of my wife Marguerite. She passed away this summer, in Chicago. Heatstroke.”

  “I read about it. Tragic, tragic. My condolences.”

  “Thank you.” Elstree gazed at light cirrus clouds in the autumn sky. “I am still in mourning, and will be for some months.”

  “That’s fitting. Please continue.”

  The shoulders of Elstree’s finely tailored suit slumped a little. “Where to begin? Marguerite and I—well, do you mind very much if I’m candid?”

  “No, no,” Pork exclaimed, eager to please this man whom he secretly considered one of his betters. The Elstrees had been rich a lot longer than the Vanderhoffs.

  “Marguerite and I did not have the most loving of relationships in recent years. Personal differences.”

  “They happen. But you maintained the marriage—” />
  “Oh, of course. That’s only decent.”

  “I agree.”

  “Mr. Vanderhoff, you’re here with not only your wife but your attractive daughter.”

  Startled, he said, “That’s true.”

  “As you know, I have met her.”

  “The Auditorium, wasn’t it?”

  “Exactly.” Elstree smiled, charming and warm. “From the first, I admired her beauty, and what I perceived to be her intelligence. I’ll be frank, sir, and I hope you won’t condemn me. Before I embarked on this tour I spent some weeks in retreat at the family place on Long Island. Southampton. There I found an image coming to mind frequently. I experienced a not inconsiderable embarrassment and guilt over it. You see, when Marguerite died, I pledged myself to think of no one else for a suitable interval. A year or more.”

  Pork was stunned, already leaping ahead to what this rich gentleman might be suggesting.

  “Go on, sir. Say what’s on your mind.”

  “Thank you. It’s simple enough. When the proper amount of time has passed, I’d like your permission to call on your daughter.”

  Pork sat back. What an incredible stroke of luck. Elstree came from one of Chicago’s finest families. He was uniformly regarded as a kind and modest man, well mannered and well spoken. Furthermore, he was a Princeton graduate. Pork hardly dared think of what a catch he would be for Juliette.

  “Mr. Vanderhoff?” Elstree looked worried, possibly interpreting the silence as rejection.

  “Oh. Excuse me. I’m just taken aback.”

  “Not angry, I hope.”

  “No, no. It’s quite a surprise, that’s all. I’ll be candid with you in return. Your request is welcome. Very welcome. Juliette’s mother would be pleased if you called. I’d be honored. For some time now, we’ve been—ah—concerned about the caliber of our daughter’s male acquaintances. Hoping for something more—substantial for her future.”

  Elstree smiled warmly then. “I’m happy to hear you say it. I must remind you, though. I’m forty-four years old.”

  “No problem at all,” Pork exclaimed. “A sensible woman prizes maturity in a man.”

  “But it’s fair to ask whether your daughter would object to my interest.”

  “Certainly not. Furthermore, her mother and I have all the authority in such matters.”

  “As it should be,” Elstree murmured. Again he smiled.

  What a boon, Pork thought. What an amazing, marvelous, totally unexpected boon. Then panic seized him. Just as quickly as it had surfaced, this prize catch might swim away. He stabbed his hand inside his Prince Albert for a silver case.

  “We must get better acquainted. Would you care for a Havana cigar? May I call you Bill?”

  Elstree said Bill would be fine. He took a cigar. They chatted pleasantly for over an hour.

  Part Six

  Levee

  1895-1896

  Photography is a marvelous discovery, a science that has attracted the greatest intellects, an art that excites the most astute minds—and one that can be practiced by an imbecile … What cannot be taught is the feeling.

  1856

  French photographer GASPARD FÉLIX TOURNACHON

  (“Nadar”)

  I don’t know about your mayors, but God has forsaken this part of Chicago.

  1897

  Evangelist DWIGHT L. MOODY, in the First Ward

  57

  Paul

  “I’LL TEACH YOU,” WEX Rooney said that first night. “Give you a place to stay. I’ll share whatever scraps and snips come to the dinner table. But you’ll have to find work, I can’t offer a job with pay. I can barely scrape up money for myself.”

  “Done,” Paul said.

  “One thing more. I don’t care what you call yourself outside, but around here, it’ll be Dutch.”

  He lay on a straw pallet, under an old blanket of blue wool marked U.S. Army. He’d pulled the blanket up to his chin. The loft was damp and cold. Above, beyond the loft skylight, the full moon shone behind flying clouds the color of wood smoke. Earlier it had rained. Drops on the skylight sparkled like diamonds.

  Dutch. He hated the name. Never mind that there was an explanation for calling Germans Dutchmen: Dutch was easier to say than Deutsche. He’d chosen an American name, Paul, and he didn’t want someone pushing another on him, not even Mr. Wex Rooney. How could he stop Wex from calling him that?

  It occurred to him that maybe he shouldn’t try too hard, given Rooney’s generosity. He was starting out to create a new life for himself, he could stand to be Dutch for a while. Maybe Wex would grow tired of the name, or forget it.

  A new life, that was the most important thing, after all. He had a glorious opportunity here. A chance to master a new, modern trade for the new, modern century that was coming. He would apply himself to learning everything Wex Rooney could teach. He’d prove Cousin Joe’s bitter views of America were wrong; the predictions of the baker of Wuppertal, too. And when Julie came home from her grand tour, he would win her somehow—even over the objections of her mother and father.

  He regretted losing the family with whom he’d felt so comfortable, but he had to start over. If America had robbed him of a family, he must remember it had also given him Julie.

  In the morning he asked Wex Rooney for a tack and permission to affix something to the wall of the loft. Near his pallet on the floor, where he could see it as soon as he awoke or before he fell asleep, he tacked the stereopticon view of New York Harbor, with the Lady Liberty still beckoning to him.

  Rooney’s Temple of Photography was in Chicago’s First Ward. The ward had been enlarged in 1890, Rooney said, and now ran west from Lake Michigan to the South Branch of the Chicago River, and south from the river to Twenty-ninth Street; Thirty-first Street at the extreme southwest corner.

  The huge ward held most of the city’s corporate offices, finest hotels, big department stores. The Crowns lived in the First Ward. So did the Vanderhoffs. So did dangerous thieves and killers, depraved prostitutes and pimps, and some of the crookedest politicians in America.

  South of Van Buren Street, the First Ward sheltered Chicago’s worst vice districts, including Little Cheyenne, where Rooney’s temple was located, and the Levee, a section even more notorious. As a destination for thrill seekers, the Levee had boomed after Mayor Harrison came out strongly for catering to every desire of visitors to the 1893 Exposition. Even though “Our Carter” had been assassinated in untimely fashion, his open city stayed open, and thrived.

  Paul went to the Levee, and elsewhere, in search of work. He trudged the streets in snow and sleet, frigid sunshine, keening winds that numbed the face and raked the skin raw. He answered classified advertisements. Climbed dark stairs to shabby offices where dull-sounding jobs were already filled.

  “It’s the depression, we haven’t recovered yet,” Wex said. “Then too, winter’s a slow time. Did you notice all the streetside cribs on the Levee? Had their shutters closed, didn’t they? Come spring, those shutters’ll be open. Gents will be strolling and driving by on balmy evenings, eyeing the stock. When good weather comes, and more whores are working, other jobs open up. Don’t be discouraged.”

  Wex Rooney’s prices were low because most of his customers were poor. Newlyweds who couldn’t afford anyone better for a wedding portrait; parents who wanted cheap photographs of their children to send to relatives in the old country. Wex was not good with small children; he brought out the worst in them somehow. They balked at obeying his instructions. They stained his prop seats with fingers sticky from candy. During one grim session, a brat suddenly threw up all over the settee, the floor, and Wex’s trousers. It was soon clear to Paul that Wex’s considerable talents didn’t provide a decent living even after years of experience. He was always scrambling for the rent money; always pressing his second-floor sublet tenant for a little in advance; always embarrassed by certain commercial jobs in the shop.

  One such job was the printing of large photographs of
attractive young women, for posting outside concert saloons in the vice districts.

  “There’s more saloon than concert to those dives,” Wex reluctantly explained when Paul asked about the pictures. “You occasionally find a besotted professor pounding the ivories, but you’ll always find a slew of females dignified by the title waitress. What they’re waiting for are suckers to buy drinks that’re mostly colored water. The girls—‘girl’ being a term for any waitress under eighty-five—work on commission. Some of them have faces fit to stop clocks, as the saying goes. So the owners lure customers off the street with more fetching visages. Like these. In this batch, two of the ladies are actresses in respectable touring troupes. Three are deceased, I’ve been using their pictures for years. The others I don’t know about; photographers trade them for favors, equipment, that sort of thing.”

  “You mean these women aren’t employed by the saloon displaying their pictures?”

  “Unfortunately, that’s what I mean.”

  “Mr. Rooney—with respect—you told me that photographs shouldn’t lie.”

  “These pictures don’t lie, it’s the owners doing the lying! I’m the fellow in the middle. The fellow who doesn’t like to starve. Now be off, I’ve got to deliver the prints to Hannegan’s before six.”

  Wex and Paul didn’t starve, but the food Wex brought home was poor in quality and meager in quantity. Soup bones barely fit for a dog. Turnips; bundles of tough, stringy greens. Their bread came from stores where poor people lined up to buy stale loaves baked days earlier.