Vilhelm Moberg - The Settlers

“It’s Wednesday today,” said Fred. “You can have a knull at a special rate today.”

“Special rate? What’s that?” Fred had been using the American expression.

“I mean it costs less.”

“Oh — I thought it was a disease.”

“No, you needn’t worry about that! The whores are healthy as hell! But business is kind of slow in the middle of the week. You can get a piece of ass for half price. They have awfully nice girls — and Saturday it costs twice as much!”

Robert sat silent; perhaps he was contemplating whether or not to go. Fred understood fully; he might be too tired tonight. There was no hurry, he was to remain at the Grand Hotel, and the house across the street was open twenty-four hours a day, at least until the next tornado. The big storm last year had after all left the whorehouse standing; the good Lord had so far been as careful of the place as if he were a partner in the business.

The bartender poured whiskey for those customers still able to ask for refills; then he resumed. The gold seekers passing through Grand City on their way to California were the best customers at the whorehouse. They took advantage of this stop, they knew how few women there were in the goldfields. He too had known. There was only one woman to each hundred men, and she was well used. And the women in the goldfields were horribly expensive and demanded payment in pure gold, big nuggets. Never before in the history of the world had there been such an opportunity for women to get rich by lying on their backs. A woman in California could gather a fortune within three months, if she was decent and capable.

And the men out there, in their loneliness, grew so soft-hearted and weak they would often faint at the mere sight of a woman. Many gold diggers couldn’t stand being without and used their mules. These animals didn’t always smell so good so the men sprayed them with costly perfumes; after that they smelled like women. Men always wanted pleasant smells about the business, something grand — the gold diggers were soft that way. So some bought the finest silk and velvet they could find and spread it over the mules; they hung lace on the mule ears, embroidered linen and garlands around their necks, and often pieces of expensive jewelry. They decked the mules as if they were beautiful women before they mounted them. For everything must be beautiful, as it should be; the gold seekers were that way.

And Fred wanted to point this out: men were good and kind and fine deep inside, even when they were forced to use animals. In whatever circumstances men found themselves they longed for the beautiful.

Silence had again descended over Fred’s Tavern; only a soft snoring was heard. The customers were going to sleep again; one after another lost his voice and passed out. Occasionally a belching, a snore, or a clearing of the throat was heard, but spoken words had given out.

And the host explained to Robert all the advantages for his guests: Grand Hotel of Grand City offered all the things in the world a man could ask for. And in the house across the street a gentleman could satisfy his further desires.

It had grown stuffy and close in the bar and Robert felt sleepy. He rose and said he would go to bed.

Fred nodded. “Good night! Sleep tight! I must attend to my business. .”

He looked in annoyance at his customers and bent down for his spray can again to get life into his business.

— 4—

Robert stayed on with his compatriot at the Grand Hotel in Grand City. During the day he would wander about and look at the place. There were remains of many houses that once had stood along the street: foundation stones, heavy timbers, caved-in chimneys, an occasional iron stove — the heavy objects the tornado had been unable to carry out on the prairie when it had struck last year. Robert thought that if the big storm had hit the town on the night the Seventh-Day Adventists waited in their church for the Last Day, they might have thought they were being taken bodily to heaven on the hurricane.

Here were places where people had lived; the people themselves were dead or had moved away. Even the rats were dead — furry, flat, dried-up rat carcasses lay strewn on the old sites like lost mittens. This was a ghostly place; people and animals had lost their lives here — their ghosts might return at night. Who knew? The town in the sand pit was a ghost town. It suited Robert to live here.

But after dark he hardly dared move about in Grand City; it was too easy to fall into holes. And the gravel walls hung over the city as a constant threat, as if they could bury the town at any moment.

The ghost town had only one-tenth of its original population but there were still a few hundred inhabitants who might ask each morning: Will our town cave in and bury us all before evening?

The guests at the Grand Hotel were travelers who passed through Grand City and needed a place to rest for a night. But for days on end Robert was the only guest in the house. The saloon gave the owner his income. After a few weeks, Robert offered to pay for his lodging. He made the suggestion one day when only the two of them were eating in the main dining room. But Fredrik Mattsson threw up his hands: there was no hurry about that. Moreover, he wanted to treat an old friend from Sweden to lodging for some time. Countrymen must stick together. Robert insisted he wanted to pay for himself — he had plenty of money.

Fredrik Mattsson’s swollen, bloodshot eyes fluttered about a moment, he turned away as if suddenly embarrassed, he didn’t want to snoop into other people’s affairs, but would Robert feel hurt if he asked how much the Mexican had left him?

“Not at all, Fred. You are my friend — I’ll show you!”

He went to his room and fetched the small pouch of soft black leather with the letters M. V. embroidered on it. He had so far used only a little of the contents. He really ought to count the rest of it. He poured the gold and silver coins onto the table. His host eagerly helped him count the money. He divided the coins into piles according to their value; he knew American money, he conducted big business.

Robert still had almost three thousand dollars, two thousand of which was in gold.

Fred threw his hands up as if wanting to call on the high one in heaven.

“My dear boy! Have you entirely lost your mind! How are you using your money? Do you just hide it away?”

Robert said he used the money as he needed it. What was wrong about that?

“My poor fellow Swede! It’s criminal, that’s all! You can double your money, many times! Have you never met a sensible person in America before? Has no one advised you about money?”

And Fredrik Mattsson’s voice sounded truly sad when he heard how foolishly Robert had handled his fortune: to leave all that cash in a pouch! That was called dead money! And a businessman like himself could only feel sad when he saw how dead this money was. Money must be put into something to earn interest. Money must be kept alive, multiplied — a hundredfold, a thousandfold, like seeds in the ground. If he had put his money into a business when he got it he would have had ten times as much by now. He would have had thirty thousand instead of a mere three thousand. It was indeed a crime to handle money this way. It was not only a crime against himself, it was a crime against humanity! To keep all this money uninvested! For humanity, in order to survive, must keep business going.

“Bob,” said Fred, and patted Robert’s hand in deep compassion: “Bob, you do indeed need a good friend.”

And in his solitude, after Arvid’s death, Robert had often felt he did indeed need a friend.

Fred’s eyes could not leave the piles of gold and silver coins before him on the table. At last his face lit up.