Бруно Травен - Aslan Norval

Holved emptied his glass and turned his head to the door, which opened at that exact moment.

“Dinner is served, sir,” said the Negro from the door, and then he disappeared like a shadow swallowed up by the sun.

The meal was incredibly simple. It was so plain indeed that Beckford asked himself: Are millionaires too stingy to serve a real meal that fills your belly? Or can their little bellies not stand anything better? They don’t even have a glass of wine or beer at table, these rich scrooges. In any cafeteria, I would eat better and more for a dollar and a half than in this princely palace. What is wrong with these people?

“You know, Holved,” said Aslan, skewering a few of the measly morsels of meat, “Mr. Beckford is the young hopeful man I supposedly crushed with my car, according to the police.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“He is an engineer, you know. The president of a recently founded construction company.

“A construction company?” Holved was all ears. This was his territory. “What kind of construction projects do you take on?”

Beckford poked around on his plate. “My—our—eh—” He swallowed and helplessly looked at Aslan.

“His company mainly deals with construction of canals and such things,” Aslan helped the stammering Beckford.

“Construction of canals? That’s interesting, young man. Very interesting.” Holved kept his eyes on his plate. Apparently, his thoughts were elsewhere.

“Yes and Mr. Beckford has a tremendous plan.”

“Really? What kind of plan?” Holved broke off a piece of bread, lightly dipped it into the sauce, and put it into his mouth.

“He wants to build a large canal for ships to cross North America.”

Beckford’s last bite got stuck in his throat. He had to cough so terribly that he thought for a minute he would have to leave the table.

“Really?” said Holved in a tone of disinterest. Apparently, his brain had not comprehended. Suddenly, her words registered.

“What did you just say? A canal? Across North America?”

“Yes, all the way across North America. That is Mr. Beckford’s plan.”

“That’s crazy. I’m telling you that’s crazy. Your plan is absolutely crazy in every way, young man.”

Aslan calmly maneuvered a bite into her mouth and, chewing, she said without a trace of excitement: “I don’t think the idea is so crazy. Stranger things have happened.”

“But never one that was crazy as this,” interjected Holved.

“Mr. Beckford and I know exactly what we want. We have completed all the plans. All we need is the funding.”

“So, it’s your plan and not Mr. Beckford’s! Only you could come up with such a crazy plan. It’s a plan totally fit for Hollywood. In reality, you could never build such a canal.”

“And why not?” asked Aslan as innocently as a little girl who has just been told that her doll cannot grow up to become a young lady.

Beckford forgot to eat, drank a sip of water, and sheepishly busied himself with his napkin. Holved slowly put down his fork and knife. “Young man, have you considered even for a second what it would cost to build such a canal? Many billions, I can’t even begin to imagine how many billions of dollars. Oh, what am I saying? Many trillions of dollars.”

“Costs, Holved?” asked Aslan as innocently as before. “According to preliminary estimates, such a canal would cost our country less than the two World Wars, the Korean War, and the financial support of European, Asian, and African nations that are constantly close to bankruptcy due to inept governments.”

Holved stared at his wife as if he did not know how she had arrived at his table and what she wanted.

“It was money thrown out the window,” Aslan continued, “for wars we had no business participating in. Those wars got us nothing, not even a single withered stalk of straw. They left in their wake nothing but national and international confusion, as well as material and moral destruction and corruption wherever you look.”

“Indeed, there’s some truth to what you are saying. I’m surprised how cleverly you’re defending your plan.” Holved looked above Aslan’s head as if searching for a new thought. “It might be possible to consider it. Maybe there’s something to your and Mr. Beckford’s idea after all. It might be worth examining more closely.”

“Yes, and as I said,” Aslan further explained, “none of these wars, costly as they were in terms of human life and in terms of money, brought us anything other than hatred, lack of gratitude, distrust, envy, and jealousy. Our canal would not only make back its initial cost, but eventually it would even bring in quite a considerable profit. Just so you know, I’m going to invest half of my assets in the company that I plan to found in the next few days to realize my idea.

She hesitated for a few seconds. Then she continued: “Holved, you are invited to participate.”

He drank his coffee, followed by a cognac, slowly and thoughtfully folded his napkin, put it down, and said: “Let’s talk this through in peace and quiet. How about right now, while you”—he turned to Beckford—“have time.”

“Mr. Beckford always has time, when it comes to the canal.”

“You know, darling, don’t you want to allow Mr. Beckford to say something, too, every now and then? You seem to know more about all this than he does.”

“Of course I know more about it. The whole idea is mine.”

Holved apparently knew his wife better than he thought, because he said: “I should have realized it from the beginning. But in the end, it doesn’t matter.”

A little later, the three were kneeling on the thick carpet covering the floor in the salon. They were looking at a map spread out in front of them.

“To think,” said Holved, while whisking a compass across the large map of North America, “to think that the distance between New York and San Francisco going through the Panama Canal is five thousand two hundred sixty-three nautical miles, and the distance between New York and San Francisco above land is two thousand five hundred seventy-one miles—” He stopped. “Now, wait a minute, what’s the difference between an international nautical mile and a mile on land? Let me look it up!”

“No need to look it up, Holved. I know it by heart. Converted into kilometers or rather meters, the length of an international nautical mile is one thousand eight hundred fifty-two meters, and the length of a mile on land is one thousand six hundred nine meters.”

“Now look at my wife! Where did you learn that?”

“If I want to build a canal, I have to know such details.”

“Details, ma’am?” interjected Beckford. “I haven’t even gotten to that in the curriculum at the Technical Institute yet. To learn that, I probably would’ve had to study two more years.”

In the meantime, Holved was writing some numbers on a piece of paper.

“So, there you have it: the distance between New York and San Francisco would be two thousand two hundred thirty-four nautical miles.”

He rapidly did the calculations on the paper: “Therefore, a ship traveling on such a canal would save three thousand twenty-nine nautical miles. My God, what you can save in time and transportation costs would go into the millions for a single shipping company alone. That’s unbelievable. Aslan, I have to admit, there’s something to be said for your plan. Congratulations!”

One month later, they founded the company under the name Atlantic-Pacific Transit Corporation, or APTC for short. President: Aslan Norval. Vice president: Grayson Brady, an esteemed New York banker. Holved was part of the board. His name and that of the banker, Mr. Brady, assured the public that this was a serious company.