I told him briefly what had befallen me and he listened with some sympathy. ‘But I came here to collect my car. The PXI. Where is it now, Willy?’
He put awkward fingers to the back of his neck. ‘There’s not too much of her left, Mr P. I don’t know what you did to him or what he thought you did, but he came down here only a day or so after you’d gone to New York and told us to wheel that steamer out. Just there, on the quay. So we did. We wheeled her out. Then he went to his own car and got this forty-pound sledgehammer from the trunk and just started whanging away at her. Well, you know, he was the boss
It would not take a half-crazed Viennese Jew to know what had set John Hever off. It appeared that his only reason for funding the project was to ingratiate himself with Mrs Cornelius. What contempt I suddenly felt for the man! It was clear that he had no vision - even clearer, he had not even sense to respect mine! I let Willy lead me to a metal dump, used by all the machine shops, and there amongst the discarded boilers and engine parts, amongst the ruined elements of every land, sea or air vessel ever made, the pathetic remnants of more than my own dream, I saw the great PXI, its Buick body dented and smashed, every piece of glass destroyed. The hood had fallen open to reveal a ruined mass of tubes, wires and boilers. My steam car was unsalvageable!
At this point horror gave way to anger. What childish folly! Gevalt! What a fool I had been to trust such a chozzer! Mah nishtana! Me duele aqui. They put a piece of metal in my soul. ¡Estoy el corazon! Tak sie raz osiel dasaù! I could not stand any more. I left in some disorder shivering with anger and disappointment. ‘He went to Europe,’ Willy told me. ‘We were fired. But it’s not hard to get a job around here. I liked your car, Mr P. We all figured she’d do okay.’ He was wistful. ‘I told Bob we were on to something.’
An understatement indeed! Imagine my despair! This was not the first time, even at such an age, I had been bitterly disappointed in my hopes. Is it the fate of all men of vision to be treated thus? I think so. One has good years and bad years. 1924 was, perhaps, not to be one of my better years.
Taking a taxi back to Venice I located the landlord of my old San Juan house and, when he had extorted a vicious $50.00 from me, recovered my bags and bore them back to the hotel. Thankfully the Georgian pistols, all that I had left of my homeland, were still there, along with my plan cases, my clothes, some money and about four ounces of cocaine which I had placed in an air-tight tobacco tin and which was as fresh as when first distilled! The quality was much better than the version familiar to the lower classes, which I had grown used to, and so, save for dashing off a quick letter to Mucker Hever, which would not make his homecoming any more pleasant, I did nothing that evening but clean my goods and get them into order, luxuriating in newly-discovered ecstasy. I was glad to have my wardrobe restored to me and, determined not to brood on Hever’s appalling perfidy, dressed in formal elegance. Leaving the hotel, I was delivered by cab to the beachfront at Venice where fashionable bohemians mingled with actors and tycoons. I determined to order myself a magnificent meal at my favourite restaurant, The Doge’s Palace, and then enjoy a cigar and some brandy while I considered how best to approach a new backer for my inventions. The steam car had never been the only card up my sleeve. Afterwards I planned to patronise Madame France’s famous ‘maison’. Soon I would begin to build up another list of telephone numbers from the ‘baby stars’ who were always up for a good time and charged you nothing, save that you promised to help them in their careers if you ever got the chance. The Doge’s Palace remained undimmed in its fanciful glory, framed by tall palms, its forecourt lit by hidden yellow and orange lanterns and I was about to enter when an apparition in the livery of a 15th-century condottiere, its black face grinning like the sudden winner of some mighty sweepstake, bellowed from where it was frozen in motion, about to enter a local mogul’s massive Duesenberg: ‘By God! If it ain’t the Flying Dutchman himself!’
Irritated by this insolence I had almost complained to an unsettled doorman when I recognised with dawning pleasure the features of the ‘parking valet’. It was my old railroad companion, my amanuensis, who had shared so many adventures, so much hardship, so many nights talking of books, philosophy and politics when, I like to think, I contributed to his education, encouraging his eagerness to learn and to make something of himself.
‘Jacob Mix!’ I exclaimed in delight. ‘You are in California? How? Why?’
‘Looking for you.’ His grin was self-mocking. Then he became serious. ‘I figured you’d surely make it back here sooner or later. With your luck, it was only a question of waiting till you just naturally came by.’ He spoke without irony, with absolute certainty. For him this meeting had been inevitable.
Laughing happily, I clapped him on the shoulder and reassured the doorman. ‘This gentleman and I are old friends!’ I told Mr Mix I would see him again as soon as I had dined. He continued to offer me his delighted beam. ‘Oh, things are going to get a whole lot better now!’ He spoke almost to himself.
Just as the restaurant door was opened for me by the flunkey, Mr Mix added, ‘I guess I’ve seen that fiancée of yours around town. But maybe you’ve caught up with her by now. Or wised up.’ All thoughts of food driven from my mind, I whirled round. But Jacob Mix had started the Duesenberg and was driving it to the rear of the restaurant. I heard the doorman’s startled shout as I ran in frantic pursuit of that black Cassandra, the scent of a fresh spoor suddenly in my nostrils. Esmé.
Meyn shwester. Meyn trail buddy.
FOUR
YOU THINK YOU ARE without blame? Well, as we used to say in Kiev, there is always room on the tram for one more saint. We were fair judges of people, Jew or Gentile, in the old days before that pseudonymous Red trio saturated the map of Russia in blood and called the result ‘Progress’.
I am not here however to plough up old graves. I myself was once a great believer in the future. You could argue that my convictions were my weakness as well as my strength. Also I trusted others too much, for in that I was always my own worst enemy. I admit it. I continue as best I can to lift high the Torch of Christian Civilisation against the Darkness of the Beast. What better torch indeed! Yet I too have known the burden of guilt and moral ambivalence, the most painfully, the most unbearably, when I have betrayed a fellow human soul! By giving a machine priority over a person and by not arriving in New York earlier to make all appropriate arrangements for transport and hotels, I had betrayed the trust Esmé had placed in me. I had come to understand how it was entirely my fault and no surprise that, in her grief and terror at my presumed betrayal, she had blotted me, her rescuer, her passionate, loving husband, almost entirely from her consciousness.
I was soon to become well aware of her state of mind when I telephoned her at the number Carmelita Geraghty, a well-known ‘baby-star’, gave me.
The hotel agreed she was registered but, every time I called, said she was not available. It was a small but very sophisticated palm-shaded private hotel on Sunset Boulevard, West Hollywood, in its own grounds. When I presented myself the concierge was polite, accepted my messages, but was otherwise extremely close-mouthed and rather haughty. I understood that this was his habit. I explained some of the tragic events leading to the misunderstanding between us, but nothing I tried would get him to tell me when Esmé was expected back.