Charles Lewinsky - Melnitz

‘I would have expected it to be easier,’ Arthur admitted with embarrassment.

‘It’s never easy to get hold of other people’s money.’ François said that like an art critic who wants to win back an unjustly undervalued work into the canon. ‘It either takes a lot of skill, or…’

‘… which I plainly lack…’

‘… or a miracle. But perhaps…’ François laid both index fingers to his upper lip and from there ran them along the sides of his cheeks. Arthur knew that gesture as well. It dated back to the days when François had worn his moustache long, in the dandy style, and meant that he was very contented with something, usually a business deal. ‘Perhaps today is one of those miraculous days.’ He bent over his notepad and looked quizzically at Arthur. ‘How much does such a flag cost? And how much have you managed to get together?’ François wrote the two sums down, one below the other, drew a careful line and then announced the result of his calculation: ‘You will have to put off your ceremony. By about fifty or a hundred years.’

‘I had hoped you might be able to help me.’

‘As a goy?’ François raised his eyebrows.

‘As a brother.’

‘I will have to think about that.’ Carefully and without haste he removed a bit of fluff from the gold tip of the pen, drew a few experimental curlicues on his note pad, and only went on talking when the line was clean and slender again. ‘Such a flag always has a sponsor,’ he reflected. ‘I won’t say “godfather”, because I’m sure you would find the connotations unpleasant.’

‘Sponsorship is customary, that’s right,’ Arthur said carefully. He didn’t yet know where François was taking this.

‘And this sponsor — correct me if I’m mistaken — is generally the donor who made the biggest contribution. Is that not correct?’

Arthur nodded with some anxiety.

‘Fine, then I will now write you a cheque, and at your big occasion I will solemnly hand the flag over to the association.’

‘You?’

‘Perhaps with a nice little speech.’

‘That’s impossible!’

‘Why?’

‘You…’

‘Yes?’

Arthur didn’t reply, and François suddenly started laughing. ‘Why don’t you just say it? You would take money happily enough, but a baptised godfather — sooner not.’

‘I thought,’ Arthur said awkwardly, ‘we could appoint the department store as the donor. That would be a good advertisement.’

‘Of course.’ François smiled with ironic politeness. ‘If you all buy your gym vests from me, my turnover will reach unimagined heights.’

‘Then please forgive me. I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your valuable time.’

‘Just wait a moment. You’re always very quick to take offence.’ François grinned. He had once again been playing one of those games to which only he knew the rules, he had won and was very pleased with himself. He took a chequebook from a drawer of his desk, opened it, wrote in a sum and signed with a flourish. Then he tore the paper from the book, waved it in the air to dry the ink, and held it out to Arthur. ‘Here. I’ve rounded up the sum. Things always cost more than it says in the estimate.’

‘It’s really out of the question, having you as flag sponsor.’

François carefully screwed the lid back on his fountain pen and put it back in its case. ‘I’m not interested in that,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to see your face as you imagined the potential embarrassment. Jus tell your people you got the money from Papa. Let him make a ceremonial appearance at your party. He likes that kind of thing.’

Arthur still didn’t take the cheque. ‘Why are you doing this?’

‘Because I’m in a good mood,’ said François, and let the cheque flutter to the desk. ‘Because today I’ve had a piece of news for which I’ve been waiting for a very long time.’ Again he clapped his hands as if applauding the successful conclusion of a business deal. ‘Old Landolt has died at last. Isn’t that wonderful?’

Waiting in the corridor was a man with a big portfolio tied with black ribbons, which he was holding on to with both hands. He might have been waiting there for a long time and hadn’t even been able to sit down because the chauffeur was still snoring on the old sofa. The severe woman whose blouse collar was too tight came shooting out of her room and glared at Arthur; he had probably taken a schedule that had been puzzled over with a lot of time and effort and recklessly thrown it into confusion by having too long a discussion. She pulled open the door to François’s office and said to the man with the portfolio, ‘Please, Herr Blickenstorfer!’ Arthur noted with surprising relief that she was just as unfriendly to other people as she was to him.

François had the sign painter rest the cardboard against the wall, where the best light fell on it from the window behind the desk, and looked at the drawing for a long time. He felt Blickenstorfer looking at him anxiously, and enjoyed not showing how pleased he was straight away. And in fact it was perfect. Just perfect. That was exactly what the trademark of his new department store should look like. Solid, elegant and memorable. No garlands or ornaments of the kind that was so fashionable nowadays, but a clear form. He would have them painted on all the windows of the new building, not too big, but quite understated. Stylish. A company like his didn’t need to boast. ‘The form is like a seal,’ he thought, and he liked the idea. ‘The seal of quality.’ He would have to write the phrase down later.

He wasn’t superstitious, but he thought it was a good sign that the designer had brought it today. The day he had had the news of Landolt’s death. The young heirs would come round. He had already put out some discreet feelers, and they didn’t seem unwilling. They were modern people, for whom business was more important than hand-me-down prejudices. Of course they weren’t going to give him a special price, but that was fine too. Money shouldn’t be the clincher. It would be hard to pay off the debts, but then debts were nothing but figures on a balance sheet. The plot of land was the important thing. The perfect plot of land for the perfect department store. Nothing would get in the way this time. Not this time.

He must have been absently shaking his head, because the sign painter asked in alarm, ‘Isn’t this what you wanted, Herr Meijer?’

No, it was. Exactly what he wanted.

A circle, and in it, horizontally and vertically, the letters M-E-I-E-R, arranged in such a way that the two words shared the central I. Meier. Trustworthy and local. A Swiss name. ‘Let’s go to Meier’s,’ that slipped off the tongue nicely. Or, before one went shopping somewhere else, ‘Let’s go and look in Meier’s first.’

‘Well done, Blickenstorfer,’ said François. And he added the highest praise he knew. ‘You can send me your bill.’

There was already someone else waiting outside, but this visitor didn’t knock. He just walked through the door without first opening it, and sat down on François’s desk with his legs crossed.

‘Pretty,’ said Uncle Melnitz, holding the drawing with the new company insignia in his hand. ‘Really very pretty. But haven’t you forgotten a letter?’

‘You’re dead,’ said François. ‘I don’t have to talk to you.’

The old man shook his head as only a dead man can shake his head: the loose skin stayed where it was, and only the skull behind it moved. ‘I’ve died many times,’ he said without moving his mouth. ‘This is something quite different.’

‘What do you want from me?’

‘I want to remind you of your good name.’ said Melnitz. In his mouth his faded teeth formed the shape of a smile. ‘Your name is Meijer.’