Irwin Shaw - Rich Man, Poor Man

On one such afternoon, Mr Goodhart said, ‘Captain, are there many Jordaches in this part of the world?’

‘Not that I know of,’ Thomas said. ‘Why?’

‘I happened to mention your name to the assistant manager of the hotel yesterday,’ Mr Goodhart said, ‘and he said that a Mr and Mrs Rudolph Jordache were sometimes guests at the hotel.’

Thomas sipped at his whiskey. ‘That’s my brother,’ he said. He could feel Mr Goodhart glancing at him curiously, and could guess what he was thinking. ‘We’ve gone our different ways,’ he said shortly. ‘He was the smart one of the family.’

‘I don’t know.’ Mr Goodhart waved his glass to take in the boat, the sunlight, the water churning away from the bows, the green and ochre hills of the coast. ‘Maybe you were the smart

one. I worked all my life and it was only when I became an old man and retired that I had the time to do something like this two weeks a year.’ He chuckled ruefully. ‘And I was considered the smart one of my family.’

Mrs Goodhart came up then, youthful in slacks and a loose sweater and Thomas finished his drink and went and got a whiskey for her. She matched her husband drink for drink, day in and day out.

Mr Goodhart paid two hundred and fifty dollars a day for the charter, plus fuel, and twelve hundred old francs a day for food for each of the crew. After the charter the year before he had given Thomas five hundred dollars as a bonus. Thomas and Dwyer had tried to figure out how rich a man had to be to afford two weeks at that price, while still paying for a suite at what was probably one of the most expensive hotels in the world. They had given up trying. ‘Rich, that’s all, rich,’ Dwyer had said. ‘Christ, can you imagine how many hours thousands of poor bastards in those mills of his in North Carolina have to put in at the machines, coughing their lungs out, so that he can have a swim every day?’ Dwyer’s attitude towards capitalists had been formed’young by a Socialist father who worked in a factory. All workers, in Dwyer’s view of labour, coughed their lungs out.

Until the Goodharts, Thomas’s feeling about people with a great deal of money, while not quite as formally rigid as Dwyer’s, had been composed of a mixture of envy, distrust, and the suspicion that whenever possible a rich man would do whatever harm he could to anyone within his power. His uneasiness with his brother, which had begun when they were boys, for other reasons, had been compounded by Rudolph’s rise to wealth. But the Goodharts had shaken old tenets of faith. They had not only made him reflect anew on the subject of marriage, but about old people as well, and the rich, and even about Americans in general. It was too bad that the Goodharts came so early in the season, because after them, it was likely to be downhill until October. Some of the other charter parties they took on more than justified Dwyer’s darkest strictures of the ruling classes.

On the last day of the charter, they started back towards the hotel earlier than usual because the wind had sprung up and the sea beyond the island was full of whitecaps. Even between the islands the Clothilde was rolling and pulling at her chain. Mr Goodhart had drunk more than usual, too, and neither he

nor his wife had gone below for their siesta. When Dwyer upped anchor they were still in their bathing suits, with sweaters, against the spray. But they stayed out on deck, like children at a party that was soon to end, hungry for the last drop of joy from the declining festival. Mr Goodhart was even a little curt with Thomas when Thomas didn’t automatically produce the afternoon whiskies.

Once they were out of the lee of the islands it was too rough to use the deck chairs and the Goodharts and Thomas had to hold on to the after rail while they drank their Scotch and sodas.

i think it’s going to be impossible to get the dinghy into the hotel landing,’ Thomas said. ‘I’d better tell Dwyer to go around the point and into Antibes.

Mr Goodhart put out his hand held Thomas’s arm as Thomas started towards the pilot house. ‘Let’s just take a look,’ Mr Goodhart said. His eyes were a little bloodshot. ‘I like a little weather from time to time.’

‘Whatever you say, sir,’ Thomas said. ‘I’ll go tell Dwyer.’

In the pilot house, Dwyer was already fighting the wheel. Kate was seated on the bench that ran along the rear of the structure, munching a roast beef sandwich. She had a hearty appetite and was a good sailor in all seas.

‘We’re in for a blow,’ Dwyer said. ‘I’m going around the point.’

‘Go to the hotel,’ Thomas said.

Kate looked over her sandwich at him in surprise.

‘Are you crazy?’ Dwyer said. ‘All the speedboats must have gone back to the harbour hours ago, with this wind. And we’ll never get the dinghy in.’

T know,’ Thomas said. ‘But they want to take a look.’

‘It’s a pure waste of time,’ Dwyer grumbled. They had a new charter beginning the next morning at St Tropez and they had planned to start immediately after discharging the Goodharts. Even with a calm sea and no wind, it would have been a long day, and they would have had to prepare the ship for the new clients en route. The wind was from the north, the mistral, and they would have to hug the coast for protection, which made the voyage much longer. They would also have to reduce speed to keep the hull from pounding too badly. And there would be no question, in this weather, of doing any work below while they were moving.

‘It’s only a few more minutes,’ Thomas said soothingly. They’ll see it’s impossible and we’ll make for Antibes.’

‘You’re the captain,’ Dwyer said. He pulled viciously at the wheel as a wave quartered against their port side and the Ctothilde yawed.

Thomas stayed in the pilot house, keeping dry. The Goodharts remained out on deck, soaked by spray, but seeming to enjoy it. There were no clouds and the high afternoon sun shone brightly and when the spray swept over the deck, the two old people shimmered in brief rainbows.

As they passed Golfe Juan, far off to port, with the boats at anchor in the little harbour already bobbing, Mr Goodhart signalled to Thomas that he and Mrs Goodhart wanted another drink.

When they got within five hundred yards of the palisade on which the cabanas stood, they saw that the waves were breaking over the little concrete dock to which the speedboats were usually tied. The speedboats, as Dwyer had predicted, were all gone. At the regular swimming place farther along the cliff, the red flag was up and the chain was across the swimming ladder below the restaurant of Eden Roc. The waves went crashing in high over the steps, then pulled back, frothing and green-white, leaving the ladder uncovered down to the last rung before the next wave roared in.

Thomas left the shelter of the pilot house and went out on deck. ‘I’m afraid I was right, sir,’ he said to Mr Goodhart. There’s no getting a boat in with this sea. We’ll have to go into port.’

‘You go into port,’ Mr Goodhart said calmly. ‘My wife and I have decided we’ll swim in. Just get the ship in as close as you can without endangering her.’

‘The red flag’s up,’ Thomas said. ‘Nobody’s in the water.’

The French,’ Mr Goodhart said. ‘My wife and I have swum in surf twice as bad as this at Newport, haven’t we, dear?’

‘We’ll send the car around to the harbour to pick up our things later, Captain,’ Mrs Goodhart said.

‘This isn’t Newport, sir,’ Thomas said, making one last attempt. ‘It’s not a sandy beach. You’ll get thrown against the rocks if you….’

‘Like everything in France,’ Mr Goodhart said, ‘it looks worse than it is. Just pull in as close to shore as you think is wise and we’ll do the rest. We both feel like a swim.’