The Lehman Trilogy, page 16
both are iron, but you should see the difference.
So the greatest care is required.
Get the quantity of carbon wrong by half a gram
and even the strength of a metal changes in its nature.
I’m sure you’ve understood the crucial aspect
of my reasoning
And so tomorrow morning we leave together
for an appointment.”
Mayer obviously understood nothing
except that his brother
was running the real risk
of becoming all one with iron
experiencing his old age
as a process of oxidization
and the bank as a blacksmith’s forge.
He shuddered
and against his better judgment
prepared to follow him
wondering what devil in the world
that rusty old madman
had arranged to meet.
In reality the key
lay not so much in iron
as in the carbon that makes the difference:
Emanuel meant that the power of the bank
—as resistant and strong as pure iron—
had been moved by him into the carbon sector
—and carbon for him seemed a perfect metaphor—
to make money in the industrial market.
But beyond what degree could they go too far with carbon?
Wasn’t there a risk of becoming fragile
overexposing themselves if the sector collapsed?
His idea was this: not to go beyond a certain limit
investing in carbon, yes,
but with moderation and good sense.
Therefore
so as to vary the investment
Emanuel
had arranged a meeting with Mr. Spencer
in Oklahoma,
where a black gold spurts up from the drills
like the jets of a fountain
and this black gold sells at a price per barrel
a hundred times more
than the coal of Jeremy Wilcock.
If the trip to Black Hole
had been the opportunity
to put turbulent David to the test
perhaps the next day’s mission
—to explore the prospects of crude oil—
could and should be
the right moment
to renew discussions
with stiff-faced Dreidel
so many years after
his disgraceful sugar sabotage.
The long journey south
served meanwhile as a prelude.
Questioned by his uncles on the fact that now, at the age of twenty
he could ignore
that absurd nickname of spinning top
Dreidel’s reaction was disturbing:
he puffed and snorted through his nose and mouth,
turning suddenly purple
and swelling the veins of his neck.
But he said nothing
and like a toad
having puffed himself up
he shrank inside his excessively dark suit
which if anything
for one his age
seemed more fitting for a waiter than a future banker.
This too was pointed out to him.
And his reaction
differed not much from the previous one:
that they should let him seem a waiter.
And so it was.
Evening fell
as they reached their destination.
The avenue that led to
Mr. Calvin Spencer’s
large pink villa
was surrounded on all sides
by tall structures of wood and iron
at the top of which
black blood
spurted portentously heavenward
celebrating
the future omnipotence of oil.
Barrels stacked in rows
separated the roadway
from the work sites
where busy teams of mechanics
leapt about
turning valves and levers
on a lattice of tubes.
The pump pistons
at full capacity
marked time
up and down
high and low
up and down
like pendulum clocks
and it was all too clear
that time was paid far more
in weight of gold
than a coal mine.
The omens, in short, were perfect.
The prospects for making money excellent.
There was a blue sky, a warm southern sunset:
encouraging horizons
opened up for Lehman Brothers
in the Eldorado of oil.
They were offered a seat outside,
around a white marble fountain
where instead of water
black liquid gushed
in constant circulation
spurting from the open mouth of a dolphin.
Impressive.
As impressive as the gold candelabra
shaped in the form of an S
like the symbol stamped everywhere
of SPENCER OIL.
Less pleasing, for sure,
was the first contact with the man who awaited them.
The oil king
turned out, from the very start,
to be irritating
unctuous and slimy
of indeterminate age between 14 and 80
parceled up in a finely tailored yellow suit
which perfectly matched the blond toupee
that squarely framed his face.
His eyes of irksome blue
throughout the interview
fixed
languidly
on that small
obviously stupid
white dog
that growled at Dreidel Lehman
not taking kindly
—like the uncles—
to him dressed up like a fake manservant.
Mayer trembled.
And not for his nephew.
Because there was only one thing in the world
that displeased his brother
more than little girls who adored Chopin
and that was capricious dogs
especially those with an intolerable
yelping bark
far worse than the mechanical orchestra of the drills.
Mr. Spencer’s voice
though very deep
therefore reached the Lehmans
only against the background of canine hysteria.
They surmised—from his lip movement more than anything else—
that oil was first choice,
and for this very reason
His Majesty the Oil King
wasn’t so sure about looking for contracts,
all the more since—so he understood—
they were already in the coal sector.
He was answered
courteously
by Mayer Bulbe:
Lehman Brothers was now a bank.
And he hoped Mr. Spencer wouldn’t ask him
what exactly this meant.
He didn’t.
Or at least so it seemed:
instead they had the impression
that behind the yap!-yap!-yap! of the little creature
the blond man was replying: “A bank, sure!
But a bank . . . which all the same is in the coal business.”
so that Mayer Bulbe instinctively
found himself expounding
an interesting theory
(which surprised him too):
“A bank is not in any area of business, Mr. Spencer:
if anything, it’s the businesses that are located in a bank.”
It was a clear and simple concept,
and Emanuel Lehman felt reassured just to hear it
for he could see he had been right
to move his brother into a bank
taking him from the clutches of cotton.
Their host’s reaction
was not so measured.
Oil magnates were a strange race
with their very own brand of excellence
that didn’t take too kindly
to lessons on finance
especially from a potato:
“Look around: do you know where you are?
yap!-yap!-yap!-yap!
You’re inside the visiting card to the future:
yap!-yap!-yap!-yap!
all that will take place tomorrow
yap!-yap!-yap!-yap!
will be thirsty not for water but oil
yap!-yap!-yap!-yap!
which is why it’s not me who needs you
yap!-yap!-yap!-yap!
but it is you who need me!
yap!-yap!-yap!-yap!
And that’s the difference between oil
yap!-yap!-yap!-yap!
and every other business on planet Earth.
yap!-yap!-yap!-yap!
If you’re happy with this, fine,
yap!-yap!-yap!-yap!
otherwise you’ve traveled a long way for nothing.”
There.
And it was then
as the story goes
that the little dog
made its first attempt
to sink its teeth
into young Dreidel Lehman’s black shoe.
He drew back, aiming a kick
which luckily didn’t reach its target
but the King nevertheless noticed:
“Messrs. Lehman, would you mind telling your manservant
not to try hitting my animals ever again?”
At which the uncles
held their breath
fearing—and at the same time hoping for—
some verbal reaction
which was not forthcoming even here:
the spinning top muttered between his teeth
and the dog started barking again, even louder.
Mayer Bulbe
as always a Kish Kish
tried as best he could:
“Your estate is splendid, Mr. Spencer,
just as much as your delightful dog.
Returning to oil, it is a market
that we are interested in exploring.”
“You are naturally interested!
yap!-yap!-yap!-yap!
You are looking for a bone to pick clean,
yap!-yap!-yap!-yap!
but I’ll gladly leave you with Wilcock
yap!-yap!-yap!-yap!
and his filthy coal-covered face!”
At this statement
though spoken with a regal smile
Emanuel could not remain indifferent:
the iron that fused within him rebelled
and on finding—from who knows where—carbon superior to
2 percent
amalgamated with steel and cast iron:
“My friend, you have taken us for two miners?”
“Mr. Lehman, I have taken you for what you are:
yap!-yap!-yap!-yap!
a competitor that sells coal
yap!-yap!-yap!-yap!
but would like to get his hands on oil.”
It was here
as the story goes
that the dog launched a second attack
at the silent Lehman,
who jumped to his feet
and taking hold of the candelabra brandished it
against the animal
like a circus tamer against jaguars.
“Messrs. Lehman, would you mind telling your manservant
not to sully my ornaments?
Instead, he can light the candles: it’s turning dark.”
At which
once again
the uncles feared (and hoped for)
some verbal reaction
which didn’t come even then:
Dreidel obeyed muttering who-knows-what
and lit the candles one by one.
Indeed
at the sight of fire
the dog went quiet for a moment
in a celestial silence
broken only by the harmonic backdrop of pumping
and
Emanuel Lehman
took immediate advantage of this oasis:
“A few words, Mr. Spencer: figures and returns!
If our bank were to finance your
excavation, drilling, and transport of barrels?”
It was an extravagant proposal
which the oil king
(convinced that he had two amateurs before him)
sought to investigate with a smile:
“And for how long?”
“A period of three years renewable!”
the arm exclaimed impetuously.
“Your offer would be this?”
“That is what a bank is for!”
Emmanuel enjoyed the sound of such words.
Mayer, for his part, felt it was risky,
but didn’t have time to restrain his brother
on the downward slope of his enthusiasm,
for the oil king
didn’t let the offer slip:
“And why are you telling me only now?
If you’d like to stay, we can talk about it after dinner . . .”
But there was no dinner.
For here the critical event occurred:
the dog
having regained its strength
in that peculiar interlude of silence
relaunched the attack
but this time against a different leg:
it headed straight for Emanuel
who, taken unprepared,
didn’t gauge his response
and having grabbed the enemy by its neck
hurled it into the monarch’s lap
who in turn
rose up
in defense of the little prince:
“You filthy Jew!
He only wanted to show you how he does a somersault!”
“Oh yes? I haven’t journeyed for days
to watch an animal with its paws in the air!”
“He does the best somersaults in Oklahoma!
That’s why we call him Topsy
the Spinning Top.”
Hardly a second elapsed
between the last syllable of the last word
and the flash that illuminated the villa:
Dreidel Lehman
having exhausted all patience
on hearing that his nickname had been given to the dog
grabbed the lighted candelabra
and threw it into the fountain of black gold.
Instantly
the flames leapt twenty feet high
so that Emanuel at first
was stirred by a shiver of delight
imagining iron melting in the blast furnace.
But it was only a momentary pleasure,
surpassed by the awareness
that Lehman Brothers
newly founded bank
was setting fire to the villas of oil magnates.
There was great pandemonium
among sovereigns, pages, vassals and chamberlains:
the whole court of oil
rushed with buckets to put out the blaze
while the pumps worked nonstop
since oil leaps high
night and day
never rests
gushes ceaselessly.
Ah! The burning bush!
Ah! Ner tamid that never dies down!
At last
they put out the flames
and by the time they were out
no Lehman was anywhere to be seen.
In religious silence
they were back on the road.
The uncles silent.
The spinning top mute.
Yet a hint of pleasure
could be detected on the boy’s face
like a boxer who had just proved his worth.
No one knew about it
apart from them.
Maybe because in just a few months
Dreidel would be twenty-one.
In short
in all respects
the hornet was waiting for his moment.
5
Familie-Lehmann
The children, it must be said,
can see nothing from down here.
They have to lean out
or jump to the tips of their toes.
From the twenty-first row there is no view.
Though there again, the seats are allocated
and they can at least say they have them.
Yes.
In the Great Temple of New York
the Lehman family has its seats:
engraved on the twenty-first pew.
Of course: it’s not the first row.
But we are not the Lewisohns
and until just now
half of us
were still in Alabama.
We have to be content, therefore. To be content.
Twenty-first pew.
That’s fine.
Twenty-first pew.
On which is written
FAMILIE—LEHMANN
with two n’s
and dear Sigmund feels ashamed of the mistake:
like a rabbit
that finds its burrow has been blocked
he stares at his brothers:
“They could have been more careful
and why did they do it to us?
They haven’t written Lewisohn with three n’s.”
Yes. The Lewisohns.
They sit in the front row
since they control
none other
than the gold market.
We can’t expect to equal them:
no one can compete
with anyone who is measurable in karats.
Gold, after all, we know,
is what makes the difference.
And it’s no surprise that the first three rows
are always in hot competition:
the Lewisohns in first place
the Goldmans in the second pew
the Hirschbaums permanently in the third.
There they are.
Lined up, the keepers of the gold.
As for the Lehmans
at today’s service no one is absent.
Mayer standing with Emanuel beside him.
Mayer with eyes closed: a mystical potato.
Emanuel in concentration
high concentration
because an arm is an arm
even in ascetic form.
Clinging to their trousers
are the boys under ten years old
bored and yawning
like their fathers had once been
in that synagogue in Rimpar.
Next to Mayer is Sigmund
still pink-cheeked,
a schoolboy overweight through munching donuts
a rabbit in spite of his years
with pockets full of candies
(and not to eat them: to offer them).
