During my visits home I saw little of my mother since she spent all day in the kitchen cooking me my favourite dishes. Usually
I would go walking on Mount Desert. If I happened to meet anyone I knew I would at once invite him to join me for a beer so
that no one could complain to my mother that I was too grand for my old friends, but otherwise I made no attempt to be sociable.
I was willing enough to listen to an old acquaintance complaining to me about his wife, his mortgage payments and how hard
it was for him to get by on a salary of three thousand a year, but unfortunately there was little I could say about my own
life without arousing my companion’s incredulity, envy and resentment.
My mother and I watched television together in the evenings. Television was a blessing because it demanded both visual and
aural attention. In the old days we had felt obliged to make some comment whenever our glances met during a radio programme,
but now we could watch the screen secure in the knowledge that no comment was needed until the programme had finished. My
mother was proud of her television, which I changed for her every year, and I was relieved that I had at last found a present
which she could use as well as appreciate.
‘Hi,’ I said as she picked up the phone. ‘How are you doing Down East?’
‘Good. The weather’s terrible, so cold. My rheumatism’s bad again but the doctor just says take aspirin – five dollars he
charges, and all he can say is take aspirin. Mrs Hayward died, and they had a nice funeral. Marie Ashe and her husband split
up – drink – I always said he was no good. The TV’s still going nicely. There’s no other news. Are you coming in next week?
What do you want to eat?’
We discussed food. Finally my mother said in a brisk voice to hide her excitement: ‘It’ll be nice to see you. How’s New York?’
‘Just fine.’
‘Good.’ My mother never asked about girlfriends, never suggested
I should get married, never complained that she had no grandchildren. Once long ago she had asked me about my private life
and my father had been furious. ‘Don’t you persecute that boy with goddamned women’s questions!’ he had shouted at her. ‘Don’t
you realize that if you make him uncomfortable he won’t come back and see us any more?’ And when I had protested he had been
equally furious with me. ‘Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think I don’t understand?’
The fragility of our relationship terrified my mother and made me think often of the ordeal of parenthood. How could parents
endure to labour for years, to sacrifice themselves so that their children should have nothing but the best, and to discover
in the end that it had all been for so little, for a quick visit on national holidays and a few hours spent in front of the
television set in a silence neither side knew how to break? I wished my mother could enjoy all the presents I wanted to give
her to assuage the guilt I felt. I wished there were some magic words I could use to alleviate our constraint. After my father
died I did manage to say to her: ‘Has it all been worth it?’ but she had not understood, and when I had tried to explain she
had said simply: ‘Of course. If you’re happy.’
‘I’m glad you’re happy, Hans,’ my mother was saying on the phone as I watched the sunlight slanting across the carpet of my
office. The German name had been slipping out more often since my father’s death. ‘I’m glad everything’s going well for you
in New York.’
‘It’ll be good to get home again,’ I said, and immediately the words were spoken I felt a great sadness, for of course, as
my parents and I had known for years, I could never go home again. I was a victim of that classic dilemma which probably exists
in other countries but which I always thought of as peculiarly American: I had left my home to pass through the looking-glass
into the land of milk and honey only to find later that the looking-glass was a one-way mirror and that no matter how hard
I tried I could never go back again to the country I could so clearly see beyond the glass wall. The milk might go sour and
the honey might run out but the glass would never crack. I was an exile in the world I had chosen for myself, a prisoner serving
a life-sentence which no one could cut short.
It was a subject Teresa and I had once discussed. ‘You must amputate your past,’ she had said firmly. ‘You’re falling into
the trap of all exiles and looking back at home through rose-tinted spectacles. At least I’m not tempted to make
that
mistake! I can remember my home town all too well – the coal-dust and the filthy shacks and the mean streets and the children
without shoes and my father getting drunk and my mother always being pregnant—’
‘But it was home, wasn’t it?’ I had said. ‘It’s still part of you.’
‘I amputated it,’ she had insisted. ‘It’s gone.’
I had wanted to ask her more questions but she had changed the subject and it never arose again. Yet I often wondered how
successful her amputation had been, particularly since I could see that despite her bitterness she still clung to the symbols
of her early life, the little gold cross which represented the church she had long since left, the Polish cooking which she
favoured whenever she had not volunteered to produce a Creole dish for a special occasion, the frugal habits acquired during
years of poverty, and finally, most important of all, the blend of pride and dignity which prevented her from living off men
and stooping to pick up any financial favours which came her way.
Eventually it occurred to me that her belief that she had amputated her past was an illusion. The past was still with her
and she was still on the other side of that looking-glass. She was living far from home but somehow, through some process
I could not guess, she had managed to maintain contact with her early life. Although she had blended into the background of
New York she had remained untouched by its corruption, and when I realized this I realized too why it was so necessary for
me to win her. I had this deepening conviction that Teresa could lead me back through the looking-glass; I felt increasingly
sure that once I had Teresa I could at last go home again.
The sunlight was still slanting on to the carpet of my office. ‘There’s just one more thing,’ I said impulsively to my mother.
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve met this girl and I’d like to bring her with me next weekend to meet you. Her name’s Teresa. She’s twenty-five. She
was brought up as a Catholic but she doesn’t practise any more. She’s only been in New York for a few months. She’s just spent
seven years in New Orleans but she comes from West Virginia. She likes to cook.’
‘Oh!’ My mother sounded in despair for fear she should say the wrong thing. Huge excitement battled with the knowledge that
she must remain calm to avoid annoying me. ‘Teresa, you said?’ she murmured tentatively. ‘Would that be Italian?’
I had been prepared for this question and had decided to be frank from the start in order to give her time to adjust to the
idea. ‘No,’ I said. ‘She’s Polish.’
There was a silence. ‘Well,’ said my mother rapidly at last in a frantic attempt to repair the gap in the conversation. ‘I’m
sure there are a lot of very nice Polish people in America. Yes, do please bring her here. I’ll – I’ll spring-clean the guest-room
for her – and get out those new sheets you gave me – the ones which were too good to use—’
‘Fine, but don’t make too much fuss. Teresa’s like the girl next door. She’s no Eastern Seaboard princess.’
My mother, on the verge of expiring with excitement, somehow managed to bid me goodbye.
After concluding the call I did not immediately return to my work but sat thinking in my chair. I knew my mother had always
hoped I would marry someone high-class, but I knew too she would feel far more at ease with Teresa than with some expensive
product of the Anglo-Saxon Protestant aristocracy. It was unfortunate that Teresa was Polish, but once my mother was presented
with grandchildren she would soon forget her prejudices, and although I suspected Teresa might be ambivalent about the prospect
of maternity I felt sure she would want children once she realized they need not interfere with her painting. I intended to
hire a live-in nurse so that she could paint whenever she liked. I knew how much her painting meant to her, and besides I
thought it was a good thing for a woman to have a hobby in addition to her domestic duties. Cornelius had remarked lately
that since her two boys had grown up Alicia often had trouble finding ways to occupy her time.
A warm glow enveloped me as I thought of my mother happily spring-cleaning the guest-room. I was glad I had made her happy.
I was going to make her happier. It was a good feeling.
With a sigh I turned my thoughts back to the office, and after dictating as many letters as possible in the limited time at
my disposal, I left the building and was chauffeured uptown to the Colony to lunch with the president of Hammaco.
[3]
I was satisfied that the lunch had been a success, but my satisfaction was jolted on my return when Scott told me the president
had lunched the previous day with the account manager of the rival syndicate.
‘The bastard!’ I said. ‘Trying us both on for size! If he just wants to pick the side he likes best, why put us through the
hoops of this goddamned competitive bidding system? He should either go the fancy-lunch route or else he should have nothing
to do with either of us until the sealed bids are delivered. The trouble with clients nowadays is that they think they’re
God. It makes me laugh when I see the reports of the current anti-trust case and read how prosecuting counsel is bleating
about the all-powerful conspiracy of investment bankers which is terrorizing American big business. Here I am, slugging it out
to the death with our rivals, and prosecuting counsel is saying there’s no competition in the investment banking industry!
Sometimes I think it’s too bad the Justice Department didn’t name Van Zale’s in the anti-trust suit. I’d have told Judge Medina
a thing or two!’
‘I’ll bet you would, Sam,’ said Scott, adept as always at the respectful response.
I abruptly changed the subject.
[4]
I gave Whitmore the number of my private line and told him to call me immediately his syndicate’s final price meeting finished
the following afternoon.
‘Sure, Sam, no problem, no problem at all …’ Whitmore looked white but somehow produced a fond smile and we parted with a
long lingering handshake.
When I reached home I called Scott. As usual he was working late. ‘We’re all set for tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Whitmore’ll sing
all the details of our rivals’ final bid as sweetly as a canary. Are you working on that final market report?’
‘Of course,’ said Scott, ever perfect.
I hung up.
[5]
I had brought the Hammaco files home with me and I worked till midnight as I went over the details and calculated the best
price we could offer. Then I went to bed and snatched a few hours’ sleep before riding downtown for the final battle. When
Scott met me at my office at eight we went through the final market report and updated my pricing.
The morning meeting of the syndicate’s price committee took place at ten and the final meeting was scheduled to take place
at two. I expected to hear Whitmore’s news at three which meant I could make any necessary adjustment with the committee before
the bid was submitted at four. It was a tight schedule and my nerves were on edge as I chaired the final price meeting and
gave the report on market conditions, the status of recent offerings of similar size and quality and the extent to which institutional
buyers had expressed interest in Hammaco. The next order of business was to decide upon the public
offering price of the issue and the price to be paid to the issuer. As the account manager I put forward the proposal relating
to this ‘cost of money’ and my proposal was discussed for some time by the entire group before several pollings succeeded
in fixing our final prices. No one dropped out at the last minute so there was no panic while shares were reapportioned.
‘Okay, gentlemen,’ I said at last. ‘And now if you’d all care to wait a few minutes I’ll check with my sources to see if I
can come up with a little inside information.’ I turned to my two partners from the sin-bin. ‘You can get the boys in number
seven to start wrapping up the paperwork. I don’t anticipate any major adjustments.’
I sped back to my office. ‘Get Whitmore on the phone for me,’ I said to Scott as soon as the door was closed, but Whitmore
was still out of his office. Evidently our rivals’ price meeting was still going on.
I fixed myself a Beefeater martini, very dry, on the rocks with two olives, and sat drinking it while I waited.
The red phone rang.
‘Any news?’ said Cornelius.
‘Not yet.’
The white phone rang. It was my private line. I hung up on Cornelius and grabbed the receiver.
‘Sam?’ said Whitmore.
‘Go ahead.’
He gave me the news. I hung up on him too and fixed myself another martini, even drier, straight up. Then I called Scott.
‘Get in here.’ I called the syndicate division at Seven Willow. ‘Hold everything.’ I drank my martini very fast and had just
got a cigarette alight by the time Scott arrived at the double.
‘They’ve undercut us.’
‘My God! But how?’
‘They must be really paring down the spread. There’s no way they could come up with those kind of figures and still make a
respectable profit.’
‘What do we do now?’
‘See Neil.’
We ran downstairs. Cornelius was talking to two of his aides who were immediately dismissed as soon as I appeared in the doorway.
As the door closed Cornelius said sharply: ‘Well?’
I gave him the news. Cornelius took it calmly. ‘Well, there are two possibilities,’ he said, leaning back in his chair. ‘Either
our illustrious rivals have gone out of their minds or Whitmore’s lying.’
‘Jesus!’ I was appalled. ‘If he’s been lying to me I’ll—’
‘Of course,’ said Cornelius soothingly. ‘Of course we will. However meanwhile—’