David Golder - Softcover

Irene Nemirovsky; , Sandra Smith (Translator)

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0676979459 ISBN 13: 9780676979459

Publisher: Vintage Canada, 2007

Synopsis

In 1929, 26-year-old Irène Némirovsky shot to fame in France with the publication of her first novel David Golder. At the time, only the most prescient would have predicted the events that led to her extraordinary final novel Suite Française and her death at Auschwitz. Yet the clues are there in this astonishingly mature story of an elderly Jewish businessman who has sold his soul.

Golder is a superb creation. Born into poverty on the Black Sea, he has clawed his way to fabulous wealth by speculating on gold and oil. When the novel opens, he is at work in his magnificent Parisian apartment while his wife and beloved daughter, Joy, spend his money at their villa in Biarritz. But Golder’s security is fragile. For years he has defended his business interests from cut-throat competitors. Now his health is beginning to show the strain. As his body betrays him, so too do his wife and child, leaving him to decide which to pursue: revenge or altruism?

Available for the first time since 1930, David Golder is a page-turningly chilling and brilliant portrait of the frenzied capitalism of the 1920s and a universal parable about the mirage of wealth.

About this title

About the Author:

Born in Kiev in 1903, Irène Némirovsky fled the Russian Revolution for France where she became an acclaimed novelist. She wrote over 10 novels, including an unfinished magnum opus Suite Française which was published posthumously in France in 2004 and has become an international bestseller. She died in Auschwitz in 1942.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

‘No,’ said Golder, tilting his desklamp so that the light shone directly into the face of Simon Marcus who was sitting opposite him on the other side of the table. For a moment Golder observed the wrinkles and lines that furrowed Marcus’s swarthy face whenever he moved his lips or closed his eyes, like the ripples on dark water when the wind blows across it. But his hooded eyes with their Oriental langour remained calm, bored and indifferent. A face as unyielding as a wall. Golder carefully lowered the lamp’s flexible metal stem.

‘A hundred, Golder? Think about it. It’s a good price,’ said Marcus.

‘No,’ Golder murmured again, then added, ‘I don’t want to sell.’

Marcus laughed. His long white teeth, capped in gold, gleamed eerily in the darkness.

‘How much were your famous oil shares worth in 1920 when you first bought them?’ he drawled; his voice was nasal, sarcastic.

‘I bought them at four hundred. And if those Soviet pigs had given the nationalised land back to the oil companies, I would have made a lot of money. Lang and his group were backing me. In 1913, the daily output from the Teisk region was already ten thousand tons . . . seriously. After the Genoa Conference, I remember my shares fell from four hundred to one hundred and two . . . After that . . .’ Golder made a vague gesture of frustration. ‘But I held on to them . . . Money was no object, in those days.’

‘Yes, but now, in 1926, don’t you realise that your Russian oil fields aren’t worth shit to you? Well? I mean, it’s not as if you have either the means or the inclination to go and run them yourself, is it? All you can hope to do is shift them for a higher price on the Stock Market . . . A hundred is a good sum.’

Golder slowly rubbed his eyes; the smoke that filled the room had irritated them.

‘No, I don’t want to sell.’ He spoke more quietly this time. ‘I’ll sell after Tübingen Petroleum signs the agreement for the concession in Teisk. I think you know the one I’m talking about . . .’

Marcus mumbled what sounded like ‘Ah, yes . . .’ and fell silent.

‘You’ve been negotiating that deal behind my back since last year, Marcus,’ Golder said slowly. ‘You know you have . . . I bet they offered you a good price for my shares once they closed the deal, didn’t they?’

He said no more, for his heart was beating almost painfully, just as it did whenever he was winning. Marcus slowly stubbed out his cigar in the overflowing ashtray.

‘If he suggests we go fifty-fifty,’ Golder thought suddenly, ‘it will all be over for him.’

He leaned forward so he could hear what Marcus was about to say. There was a brief silence, then Marcus spoke.

‘Why don’t we go halves, Golder?’

Golder clenched his teeth. ‘Are you serious?’

‘You know Golder, you shouldn’t make another enemy,’ Marcus murmured, lowering his eyes, ‘You’ve got enough already.’

His hands were clutching the wooden table, and as they moved, his nails made short, sharp little scratching noises. Beneath the light of the lamp, his long fingers with their heavy rings shone against the mahogany of the Empire desk; they were trembling.

Golder smiled. ‘You’re no longer very threatening, my friend . . .’

Marcus remained silent for a moment, carefully examining his manicured nails.

‘Fifty-fifty David! What do you say? We’ve been partners for twenty-six years. Let’s wipe the slate clean and start again. If you’d been here in December when Tübingen spoke to me . . .’

Golder fiddled with the telephone wire, winding it around his wrists.

‘In December,’ he repeated, frowning. ‘How good of you . . . only . . .’

He said no more. Marcus knew as well as he did that in December he had been in America looking for investors in Golmar, the company that had bound them together for so many years, like a ball and chain.

‘David, there’s still time . . .’ Marcus continued. ‘Let’s negotiate with the Soviets together, what do you say? It’s a difficult business. We’ll split everything down the middle — commissions, profits . . . How about it? That’s fair, isn’t it? David? Otherwise . . .’

He waited for some reply, an agreement, even an insult, but Golder’s breathing was laboured and he said nothing.

‘Listen,’ Marcus whispered, ‘Tübingen’s not the only company in the world . . .’ He touched Golder’ s unmoving arm as if to wake him. ‘There are other companies, newer ones, and . . .’ he searched for the right words. ‘There are companies more willing to speculate, companies that didn’t sign the 1922 Oil Agreement and who don’t give a damn about who holds the old stock, you, for example . . . They could . . .’

‘You mean Amrum Oil?’ said Golder.

‘Oh!’ Marcus winced. ‘So you know about that as well? Well, listen my friend, I’m sorry, but the Russians are going to sign with Amrum. Since you’re now refusing to play ball, you can keep your shares in Teisk till Judgement Day. You can take them with you to your grave . . .’

‘The Russians aren’t going to sign with Amrum.’

‘They’ve already signed,’ cried Marcus.

Golder waved his hand. ‘Yes, I know. A provisional agreement. But it was supposed to be ratified by Moscow within forty-five days. That was yesterday. Now it’s all up in the air again, and you’re worried, so you came to see what you could get out of me . . .’ Golder started to cough. ‘Let me explain it all to you. Tübingen right? He wasn’t too happy when Amrum whipped those Persian oil fields out from under his feet two years ago. So, this time, I suspect he’d rather die than lose the fight. Actually, it hasn’t been that difficult so far: just a question of offering a bit more to that little Jew who has been helping you negotiate with the Soviets. Give them a call right now, if you don’ t believe me . . .’

About this edition

• Publisher: Vintage Canada
• Publication date: 2007
• ISBN 10: 0676979459
• ISBN 13: 9780676979459
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 176