Sins of the Fathers (62 page)

‘—but I said nothing. I left it all to Cornelius. I was weak and cowardly and self-absorbed with my own unhappiness, and I
let Cornelius use you to fill the lack in his own life—’

‘Well, why speak of that as though it’s some great tragedy? It’s all ended happily enough!’

‘It hasn’t ended. It’s still going on, forcing you to lead this abnormal life. Oh, don’t think I don’t realize what’s going
on! As soon as I read Tony’s letter—’

‘Oh, forget the letter, for Christ’s sake!’

‘But it made me realize just how you must feel towards Cornelius!’

‘I doubt that very much. Emily, my feelings for Cornelius are really very unimportant.’

‘You must forgive him, you must! Otherwise you’ll never be at peace with yourself, never be able to lead a normal life—’

‘Emily, I hate to say this, but you understand absolutely nothing here.’

There was a silence. Then she shrugged listlessly and turned her face to the wall. ‘If you can’t be honest with me, I guess
there’s no use talking to you.’

‘It’s the truth. The driving force in my life isn’t a hatred of your brother. The situation’s much more complex than your
simple reading of the facts would make it appear.’

‘I don’t understand.’

There was another silence.

‘Can’t you explain?’

The silence persisted.

‘Oh Scott!’ she said in despair. ‘How I wish you could talk to me! Is there no one you can talk to? I hate to think of you
so horribly cut off and alone.’

‘But I enjoy my solitude!’

‘That’s not solitude,’ she said. ‘That’s isolation. That’s a living death.’

‘Well, that’s your opinion, Emily, and I’m sure you’re entitled to it, but your opinion doesn’t happen to be mine. Now please
– why don’t we talk about something more cheerful …’

(5)

Emily died a week later of a pulmonary embolism and there was a big family funeral in Velletria. Cornelius wept. There was
no longer anyone alive now who was part of his remote past, and so it was as if a part of him too was being buried with Emily
that day in the midwestern suburb he had always detested.

‘Ashes to ashes,’ said the minister. ‘Dust to dust.’

Memories stirred, memories of a golden-haired, much-loved Emily transforming a desolate household long ago, happy memories,
memories of times long gone but not long forgotten when death was as remote as snow on midsummer’s day and all pain was obliterated
by peace.

The cold wind blew again. Scott’s eyes saw the sunshine of that cool day in early spring, but in my eyes it was dark and a
great clock was striking noon. In Scott’s world the minister was reading the Christian service, but although I heard those
words they meant nothing to me for I was beyond them in time, far, far back in the remotest corner of the blueprint inherited
from my father, and in my folk-memory of forgotten summers I knew a different moral code. Blood calls for blood, violence
for violence; Christianity is a mere veneer, civilization is only skin-deep, and beneath it all is the timeless chaotic ecstasy
of the dark.

Scott stood at the graveside, black-suited, head bowed, united with the other grieving mourners, but I was apart from Scott
now, I was escaping from my grief, I was drifting away from him into that other world, the world of my solitude, the world
of my dreams.

[6]

I used to dream that I was the knight in Bergman’s film
The Seventh Seal
. The knight played chess with the hooded figure of Death on a beautiful deserted shore, and before Death could complete his
inevitable victory the knight begged him for additional time in which to live.

I often felt that I too was begging Death for extra time. I was so afraid of dying before I could achieve my ambition – or
before I could ‘complete my quest’ as I used to say in my dreams once I had discarded the personality of Bergman’s knight
and become the legendary figure of Roland, the hero of the poem which I had attempted to explain to Cornelius. Sometimes,
even when I was awake, I would feel as if I were living out a myth, the myth of the medieval knight who devotes his life to
the pursuit and attainment of some great spiritual goal, and although I kept my mythical vision of myself and my consciousness
of my own reality in two separate mental compartments, I was aware of them meeting in my dreams and I thought that perhaps
one day they would meet and merge in my waking hours. Part of my fascination with Browning’s Roland could be attributed to
my growing conviction that one day I would have to face my own version of Roland’s Dark Tower and would, like Roland raising
the horn to his lips, be forced to make some grand gesture which would enable me to meet my destiny and complete my quest.

But these were
my
fantasies, and the world of my solitude, the world of my dreams, was a long way from the world of Scott Sullivan, the prosaic
meticulous banker who carefully remembered his sisters’ birthdays, patiently listened to Cornelius worrying over Vicky’s increasingly
checkered private life, and dutifully attended all the family reunions which took place on national holidays.

‘Hello, Scott, this is Alicia. Will you be joining us for Thanksgiving as usual this year?’

‘… joining us for Christmas …’

‘… Easter …’

‘… Fourth of July …’

The holidays marched by. The years trudged on. The crisis of 1960, when Vicky had left Sebastian, was receding further and
further into the past. 1961 dragged by. Then 1962. And in 1963—

‘Hi, Vicky! How are you doing?’

‘Hi, Scott! How are you?’

Empty words exchanged by two strangers distantly acquainted for decades. Looking at Vicky through Scott’s eyes I saw only
Cornelius Van Zale’s daughter, a restless discontented woman who had ruthlessly divorced the man who loved her and was now
idling her life away in the smart nightspots of Manhattan. Cornelius had given up reading all newspapers which carried a gossip
column and recently, to my profound relief, had decided he could no longer discuss his daughter with me.

‘How’s Daddy?’ she said. ‘I haven’t seen him lately.’

‘He’s just fine.’

After several months of upheaval Cornelius had moved to a triplex on the twentieth floor of a new apartment building on Fifth
Avenue. He had made the move partly out of pique, because Vicky had refused to live with him in the Van Zale mansion, and
partly because of a pragmatic recognition of the fact that it no longer made any economic sense to maintain a private Fifth
Avenue fiefdom; I also suspected that Alicia had wanted a change and Cornelius had been anxious to appease her after the trouble
created by Sebastian’s departure for Europe. The Van Zale mansion, now unoccupied except for the security guards, was being
administered by the Van Zale Fine Arts Foundation and was shortly to be opened to the public. It was rumoured that Mrs John
F. Kennedy was to preside over the opening.

‘I think Cornelius and Alicia have been enjoying fixing up the new apartment,’ I said to Vicky.

‘Yes, but they’re bound to make a mess of it – Daddy’s taste is so frightful. Have you seen that appalling new chess-set of
his in which
every pawn’s an astronaut? He specially commissioned it to commemorate the president’s speech about getting a man on the moon.’

‘I’ve not only seen the set – I’ve played chess with it! Well, if you’ll excuse me, Vicky …’

The party droned on, boring to a non-drinker, a waste of time and effort and money, but long after I had left I still remembered
Vicky laughing amidst a crowd of men as the host put yet another martini in her outstretched hand.

[1]

‘It amuses me how Kevin keeps running off to Washington to pay court to the Kennedys in their latter-day version of Camelot,’
said Jake Reischman, winding up the small-talk which always had to precede our business discussions. ‘In fact it amuses me
to think of the Kennedys acting like royalty. I remember in my young day when Joe Kennedy was making the fastest buck on Wall
Street – no, I ordered half a bottle of wine, not a full bottle, and bring another ginger ale for this gentleman here. What’s
the matter with this restaurant nowadays? Can’t you get an order right? And these clams are tough – take them away.’

It was a fetish of Jake’s to hold business lunches in the smart midtown restaurants where he had a wider scope for his tyranny
than in his own partners’ dining-room or in one of the clubs which were burdened with his membership. A fat balding middle-aged
man, he effortlessly succeeded in exuding an aura of icy discontent.

‘I see nothing strange in the Kennedys’ desire to inject a shot of culture into Washington, Jake. When the Celts get to power
they always turn to the arts. That’s why writers and artists have always had the highest status in a Celtic society.’

‘You mean I should be charitable and say what a welcome change the Kennedys are from the Anglo-Saxon philistines who have
previously occupied the White House. Very well, I’ll be charitable. But in my opinion there’s nothing behind that carefully
marketed Celtic image except a set of typical American preoccupations with wealth and power. And talking of the godalmighty
dollar—’

I prepared to settle down to business.

‘—I must tell you, Scott, that I’m seriously concerned yet again about the future relationship between our two houses. I’m
referring, as you must know, to the activities of your London office.’

Jake wore a suit as grey as the sky beyond the long windows of the restaurant, and his eyes looked grey too although this
was an illusion of the light; his eyes were normally a pale colour resembling wet stones of a bluish sheen. His short ugly
fingers were busy destroying a roll of bread as he spoke; his voice, butter-smooth with a steel edge, could make even a compliment
sound threatening.

‘It’s three years now since Neil packed Sebastian off to London, and what’s happened? Sebastian hacks his way into the top
spot – a manoeuvre stage-managed by Neil, I’ve no doubt, to keep Alicia happy – and then before I know where I am, Sebastian’s
doing his best to see my new London office has as many set-backs as possible! Well, you can tell your boss I’ve had just about
enough of Sebastian Foxworth poaching my clients. I’m very angry.’

‘I agree there was one unfortunate incident—’

‘Don’t give me that crap. There’s been a whole string of catastrophes. You tell Neil I want Sebastian recalled to New York
where he can be permanently muzzled. I know it’s useless expecting Neil to fire him. God, who would have thought Neil could
turn into such a henpecked husband!’

The
maître d
’ reappeared with half a bottle of wine and a glass of ginger ale while a waiter ran behind him with a fresh dish of clams.
Jake broke off his tirade long enough to sample the clams but was unable to fault them; the
maître d
’ closed his eyes with relief and withdrew.

‘I concede Cornelius is always anxious to please Alicia, Jake, but I would hardly describe him as a—’

‘Oh, forget it, I don’t give a damn, I’m not interested in their marriage, the hell with it, we’re talking about that sonofabitch
Sebastian. The truth is that Neil wants Sebastian in London because he can’t stand him but doesn’t dare fire him for fear
of upsetting Alicia—’

‘Jake, it’s you not me who keeps dragging up the Van Zale marriage!’

‘—and
you
want Sebastian in London too because Sebastian’s absence gives you the chance to build up your power as Neil’s right-hand
man. You’re cherishing this grand illusion that if you can play your cards right Neil will hand you the bank on a silver platter,
but don’t kid yourself, Scott! He doesn’t have any intention of giving you the bank. The only reason why he’s kept you in
the firm this long is
to enable you to act as a counter-weight to Sebastian’s inevitably increasing power – so long as he can play the two of you
off against each other he’s free to carry on for as long as possible in order to hand the bank directly to his grandsons.
Those grandsons will get the bank in the end, believe me. Blood’s always thicker than water, and the blood running in your
veins, Scott, is all the wrong kind for a transfusion.’

The ginger ale was a pale gold and the tall glass reflected the shifting lights of the fountain playing in the middle of the
room. Silver knives gleamed upon the surgical white of the tablecloth.

‘What’s all this leading up to Jake? As far as I can make out you’re telling me I’m wasting my time keeping Sebastian at bay
in London because even though I may be the best man to take over eventually from Cornelius, Cornelius himself will somehow
be dumb enough not to pick the best man for the job.’

‘I’m telling you that you’d do better to wash your hands of both Sebastian and Cornelius and throw in your lot with me.’

‘I’m sorry, I think I misheard you. Did you say—’

‘Yes, I did. You’ve heard, of course, that I’m planning to incorporate? Well, I’ve decided that my last act of despotism is
going to be to screw all my incompetent partners who hope to crawl into the shoes I leave behind when I go upstairs to be
chairman of the board. I’m going to bring in a president from outside the firm, and I’m going to bring in the best man I can
get, Jewish or gentile. In other words I want someone who has all your father’s virtues and none of his vices. Name your price.
The job’s yours.’

‘Well, I … I’m flattered, of course—’

‘You can even have your name on the masthead. Reischman and Sullivan. How does that sound to you? Does that compensate you
for your father’s spectacular failure back in the thirties? Oh, don’t think I don’t have you figured out! I’ve been watching
you closely for a long time, and I’m one hundred per cent sure you’re just the man I want to be my successor.’

‘To screw your partners? Or to screw Cornelius? What are you really after, Jake? And while we’re on the subject, just what
did go wrong between you and Cornelius back in 1955? Was it something to do with Alicia?’

Jake raised a cynical eyebrow, looked at me as if he profoundly pitied anyone who could indulge in such fantasies and said
shortly: ‘If Neil’s never been stupid enough to tell you what went wrong, I’m certainly not going to be stupid enough to embark
on unnecessary explanations which are none of your business. Let’s return to the
subject under discussion. Well? What do you say? Will you consider the offer?’

‘Of course. It’s a very generous offer and I’m certainly interested. If I may take time to think it over—’

‘We’ll have lunch again when you come back from your vacation. Oh, and meanwhile do make it clear to Neil, please, that something
has to be done to curtail Sebastian’s activities in London. I may be wrong, but I think Neil’s still anxious enough about
the relationship between our two houses to treat the exhaustion of my patience with the respect it undoubtedly deserves …’

[2]

‘Jake’s cutting up rough, Cornelius, about the way Sebastian’s been smart-assing around in London.’

‘Frankly I’m not surprised. What the hell do you think Sebastian’s up to, Scott?’

‘Well, it may not be a personal vendetta against the House of Reischman, but it’s sure beginning to look like it.’

‘This is embarrassing to me. I don’t want a confrontation with Jake over this.’

‘Do you want me to go to London to investigate? I can cancel my vacation.’

‘Certainly not. You work very hard and you deserve a break. But I’ll get Sebastian over here, and when you return to the office
we’ll have a full inquiry to find out why he’s been playing brinkmanship with Reischman’s … Okay, now let me see; is there
anything else we should straighten out before you go on vacation?’

‘Well, that wraps up Reischman’s. But I’d like to talk to you for a moment about a potential client, a young man called Donald
Shine …’

[3]

‘Hi, Scott! Good to see you! You’re looking great! How are you doing?’

Donald Shine was twenty-two years old and had a heap of freshly washed dark hair, wide innocent brown eyes and a dubious taste
in clothes. He spoke in an exuberant voice garnished with a Brooklyn accent.

‘Hi, Don! Take a seat.’

Donald Shine sat down, still smiling, still exuding exuberance, still convinced he would be a multi-millionaire well before
he was thirty.

‘I’ve had a word with Mr Van Zale and he’s willing to see you, but I should warn you that he’s one of the old school and a
little suspicious of modern technology. His attitude to your scheme to lease computers is likely to be either: “There’s no
market for it,” or: “Let’s leave it all to IBM.” Keep your spiel short and reasonable, and whatever you do don’t get too excited
and make some overly enthusiastic scene. Mr Van Zale just wants the facts, not a sales-pitch or a one-man show.’

‘I get it. I behave like a WASP stuffed shirt, not like a Yiddishe momma. Okay, no problem.’

‘It’s just possible you might feel more comfortable with a less conservative house—’

‘Look, Scott, like I told you, I’ve set my heart on seeing Mr Van Zale because I figure that since he made it big by the time
he was twenty-two he won’t dismiss me on account of how I’m only just through college. Besides, I don’t want to waste time.
If I’ve got to deal with investment bankers, I want to deal with the best – forget the second-rate moneymen! Forget everything
second-rate! Time’s ticking by, for God’s sake, and I want to get this scheme off the ground before my hair turns white, I
don’t want to wait years and years for success, I want it NOW!’

‘Uh-huh. Okay, I appreciate the rush but could you just pause long enough now to let me give you a word of advice on your
appearance? Before you see Mr Van Zale, get a haircut and a dark suit – oh, and a tie too, if you don’t have one – and hide
those sandals in a closet and wear plain black socks with conventional black shoes. And make sure your shirt’s white – got
it? W-H-I-T-E. If you want to join forces with the Eastern Seaboard establishment you’ve got to look as if you’ve never heard
of the line “The old order changeth, giving way to new.”’

‘Well, that’s no problem, I never have. Who said that? Ed Murrow? Hey, Scott, it was a lucky day for me when I bulldozed my
way past your secretary into your office! I wish now I could just do business with you instead of having to go bullshitting
around with an old square like Van Zale! How about you yourself giving me the couple of million I need to get my scheme off
its ass?’

‘Tempting though that suggestion is, Don, I’m afraid it’s a temptation I’ll have to resist. I don’t want Mr Van Zale turning
round on me later and saying: “Just who the hell is this wunderkind Donald Shine and why did I never get the chance to meet
him?” I’d rather play safe
and exhibit you right away. I need hardly tell you how different you are from our usual type of client.’

‘Brother, it’s the age of youth! Investment bankers nowadays are backing people like me in the record business, in the garment
business, in advertising, in—’

‘Second-rank investment banking houses are, of course, entitled to take dubious risks. Front-rank houses like Van Zale’s are
usually too busy. Three o’clock tomorrow, Don, and remember the white shirt.’

[4]

‘Have you gone out of your mind?’ said Cornelius in a rage. ‘Or do you think I’ve gone out of mine? Do you seriously think
I’d take on a long-haired kid like that who comes to an interview in a suit which looked as if it had been snitched from a
Lower East Side street market, and who talks a lot of junk about how there’s a market for leasing computers when everyone
knows computer technology is changing so rapidly that the only hope you have of keeping up to date is to get the latest model
from IBM? I concede the kid might make a good salesman – a used car salesman on a fifth-rate lot in Brooklyn – but as for
suggesting we should underwrite his fantasy of becoming a tycoon—’

‘Just a minute, Cornelius. This kid is brash, I agree. He comes from a background which you have trouble even imagining, let
alone relating to, and his clothes have to be seen to be believed. But this a bright boy, Cornelius. I know he only went to
a local college, but he does have a college education and he’s made the most of it. He knows the subject of computers inside
out – he probably knows just as much as anyone at IBM – and I think he’s hit on an idea whose time has come. Let’s take the
chance and back him.’

‘We don’t need that kind of client, Scott. I know we all have to compete for clients nowadays, but there are still some clients
who aren’t worth competing for.’

‘You’re making a mistake. What’s your problem? Is it his youth? You weren’t always fifty-five yourself, remember! Besides,
times are changing—’

‘Yes, and not for the better! I’m sorry, Scott, but I’m not financing any kid who looks like a no-good beatnik and talks like
a Jewish joke, and that’s my last word on the subject …’

[5]

‘Jake, would you be interested in an unusual client whom I think has great potential but whom Cornelius has just refused to
deal with?’

‘I could be. Tell me about him.’

‘He’s a twenty-two-year-old, college-educated computer expert, and his name is Donald Shine …’

[6]

‘… so what did you think of him, Jake?’

‘Donald Shine? I thought he was an appalling young man. Of course I took him on.’ Jake sighed and looked out of the window
of his office. ‘He’ll make money. Whatever he does, he’ll make money. He’ll have to be closely watched, but then so do some
of my older, more conventional clients.’

‘You were smart not to be prejudiced against him.’