The word millionaire alone was to blame, not the millionaire himself, but just the word alone; for quite apart from the moneybags, there is something in the mere sound of the word which affects equally
people who are scoundrels, people who are neither one thing nor the other, and good people; in short, it affects everyone.
G000t.
The poverty of the rich.
GEORGE MIKES
M
ARK certainly had no idea of his standing in the world. Looking on his job at the Seven Seas Club simply as a way to provide for his room and board and Coco's pay while he searched for the wreck, he did not expect that anyone would take him for a servant, and as soon as he stepped out of the taxi he began to earn the acrimony meted out to people who do not know their place.Two porters brought a dolly to carry his bags to the staff house, while a third led him inside the main building. He tipped them all, oblivious of the offended looks they gave him as they pocketed the money. Did he think he was a cut above the rest of them?
He did, and this ensured that his relatively easy job would be a hard one, full of disagreeable surprises. He would come to hate the pleasant grounds shaded by huge trees, the bright plaza formed by two crescent-shaped shopping arcades leading up to the main building, an imitation southern colonial mansion with Greek columns — the whole luxurious mess — although he liked it well enough at first sight, especially the gardens. The lobby was done up in Spanish style with leather, dark wood and wrought iron; indeed, as he learned from the brochure which he picked up while waiting to see the manager, all the rooms were furnished in different styles ranging from Japanese to Jacobean, and the trees and shrubs in the gardens were selected from five continents. The manage-ment, it seemed, didn't want the guests to miss out on anything. The chief offering of the establishment, however, was peace and quiet and
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freedom from holiday crowds — in a word, exclusiveness. Mark didn't see a single guest in the lobby, only a silent army of clerks and porters.
Getting into conversation with one of the desk clerks, he learned that, besides the twenty-six bungalows renting for six hundred dollars a day, there were only a dozen suites in the main building, at four hundred dollars a day. At the time these were still fabulous sums for a day's comfort. Food was extra and expensive.
"Who could afford to stay here?" Mark exclaimed.
"A better class of people than you see in most hotels," answered the clerk stiffly, squaring his shoulders and twisting his fleshy nose for greater emphasis.
"What an obscene waste of money!"
"We have our own yacht harbor and a championship golf course. And we also have the only Spanish fort in the islands."
"There isn't much of it left," Mark commented, wondering whether he would ever identify that much with a place where he had to work.
"It's not your business to criticize," the clerk rebuked him, losing patience. "Look at yourself — you're even dressed impertinently!"
"What do you mean?" Mark looked down at himself; he was rather proud of his elegant striped shirt and cashmere pullover.
"The manager sees you without a jacket and tie and you'll be out of here on the next plane. Who do you think you are, some sort of a guest?"
Dashing to the staff house to change, Mark couldn't understand how he could have overlooked such a simple matter. Hadn't he stayed in ho- tels often enough? It was a stupid rule, though. Why should they care how he dressed as long as he was clean and presentable? And why couldn't he criticize things? By the time he was summoned to the man- ager's office he had worked himself up into a temper. 'So here's some-body who'd give me a hard time just for a lousy tie,' he thought, giving the man behind the desk a protesting look and introducing himself in a loud, firm voice.
Charles Weaver responded with a frown and a slight nod. A chubby, sandy-haired Englishman with a freckled face and the healthy appear- ance that goes with living in a semi-tropical climate, he had nothing about him to suggest that he merited more sympathy than resentment, but he was in fact a thrice-deserted husband. In his thirties he had conceived an irresistible passion for eighteen-year-old girls and in quick succession had married three of them, all of whom were evidently attracted only to an inexperienced notion of the married state and left him within months.
Shy and diffident to begin with, Weaver was convinced by these fias-cos that he was a dull and dislikable person, and became as withdrawn as his position allowed him to be. He would not impose himself on his staff beyond telling them what to do. With the new employee, however, there was a problem. He hadn't asked for anybody. Picking up the letter
"4
from the head office, signed by Mr. Anthony Heller, vice-president for personnel, he re-read it with a puzzled expression.
"I see you have no previous experience in the hotel business, and you're being employed part-time, for a four-day week."
"That's right," said Mark.
Taken aback by this unsolicited comment, Weaver raised his sandy eyebrows. "I imagine you're not the first member of your family with our organization."
"No, I'm the first."
"Perhaps you're related to Mr. Heller in some way?"
"Oh, no."
"He's an old friend of the family, then?"
"Mr. Heller? No, I only met him when I went to his office. He wouldn't give me a job at first, but when I got drafted I went back to see him, and he changed his mind. He said he felt he ought to help me in honor of his namesake who wrote Catch
-
22—
you know, that great funny anti-war novel. Seeing that I was a draft dodger, I mean.""What?"
"You know — we're both against the Vietnam War. Big countries should leave small countries alone, don't you think?"
Weaver held up his hands. "I don't want to hear about it!"
He felt the sort of bewilderment that plagued him about his former wives. Was the time coming when he would have to worry about bell-boys and waiters starting political arguments with the guests? "No hotel employee has views Or opinions about anything," he said, staring down at his desk. "You left your opinions back in New York, is that clear?"
"Yes, sir," said Mark, swallowing.
"Only guests have opinions. And remember, when they complain they're always right, except possibly about the bill."
"Yes, sir." Mark shifted his feet, glancing at the two empty arm-chairs in front of the desk.
"You're expected to be at the reception desk whenever planes arrive or leave, but otherwise you're here to interpret between foreign guests and the staff. Mr. Heller writes that your father is an actor — perhaps you can be of some use to Miss Little, our social director. We have crab races on the beach every afternoon, and nightclub shows and films in the evening, but any additional entertainment ideas are welcome." For the first time Weaver looked searchingly at the handsome young man, then bent his head to study his fingernails. "I assume you know how to behave yourself."
Mark straightened his tie. "Yes, sir."
"You have three days off a week. What do you plan to do in your spare time?"
"I dive, sir."
II5
"It's a dangerous sport."
"I've had a lot of practice — I've been diving for nearly six years, off and on."
"Right, we'll have a word with the waterfront director — maybe he'll have some use for you." Hoping that the new employee would be able to earn his keep after all, Weaver loosened up a little. "You've already seen something of the island. This place was nothing, you know, until Sir Henry Colville took it over. No doubt you've heard about Sir Henry.
. . . Only vaguely? Dear me. He was a big man in Middle East oil.
He's still alive, you know — he dines at the Club once or twice a year.
Incidentally," he added in a changed tone, "you must not wander around outside the Club's property. Apart from the roads and the natives' com- pound, and the ruins of the fort, which Sir Henry keeps open to the pub-lic, everything here is private. And people value their privacy. I say 'value' not as a mere figure of speech — each of these estates cost between a million and a million and a half dollars just for the land. The dogs here are Alsatians, and they're trained to bite."
`And she was complaining how hard it is for the rich to have friends!' Mark thought. He had been planning to walk over and see Marianne one evening, but as he listened to Weaver, he remembered that she hadn't invited him.
"If you get sick," said Weaver, perhaps reminded of the subject by Mark's change of color, "you're entitled to go to the clinic on the is- land, as our employee. Sir Henry built it and they say it's one of the best in the world for its size. The doctor who heads it is paid three hundred thousand a year," he added for emphasis. Mr. Weaver was a man who believed that high salaries were proof of excellence.
"I'm not the type to get sick, sir."
Weaver raised his eyebrows again, troubled by so many unsolicited remarks. "I certainly hope not. I've arranged for you to be instructed in the way things are done here, and you'll have a couple of days to settle in. Tomorrow you'll go to our tailor in Nassau to be fitted with a uni-form. One more thing. Even though I didn't hire you, I can fire you if it should become necessary," he concluded with a resigned air of au-thority. "Be guided in everything by the head clerk."
'So now I'm an employee, an absolute nobody,' Mark reflected bit-terly as he left the manager's office. 'From now on I can only exist on my time off.' This thought drove every other idea from his mind. The clerk who had to instruct him in the daily routine thought he was stupid.
STILL distracted, Mark left the main building and took a turn around the crescent-shaped shopping arcades, seeing nothing. Only the shock of a collision woke him: hurrying along with his head bent, he nearly knocked over a tall man standing in front of a shop window.
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There was a flash of mutual hostility and Mark suddenly found him-self in the air.
The man had seized him with both hands and lifted him two feet off the ground. However, this considerable feat of weight-lifting had evi-dently exhausted his fit of temper, for he set him down again, somewhat more gently. "Sorry, my reflexes ran away with me," he said with a conciliatory grin. "I'm Ken Eshelby, I run the camera shop here. I was just admiring my new window display when you happened along."
Mark's first impulse was to hit the man, but by the time he had caught his breath he felt less violent and decided to shake Eshelby's out-stretched hand instead — especially as he looked reassuringly uncon-ventional, with a crimson scarf around his neck in place of a tie. Be-sides, there was a sense of affinity: they were both the kind of people who tended to blush for their ill feelings, and the prompt change of mood from belligerent to amiable marked them as members of the same civi-lized world. "Sorry I bumped into you like that," said Mark, apologiz-ing in his turn. "I'm new here — this is my first day."
"Oh, well, that makes all the difference," conceded Eshelby with a benevolent nod. "You can't be expected not to knock people down on your first day."
Mark's ungrudging laugh at his own expense livened up their conver-sation and earned him an invitation into the shop. As they passed through the door under the Kodak sign, he thought for a moment that they had made a mistake: there were more books than flashbulbs inside. Seeing all the Penguins and Livres de Poche lining the shelves, he decided that Eshelby must be intelligent, and confessed to him that he didn't like their boss.
"The poor man! What has he done?"
"Well, for one thing, he made me stand all through the interview."
Eshelby gave him a wondering look. "This must be the first job you've ever had."
"Hey, that's right — how did you know?"
"Just guessing."
Mark liked Eshelby in spite of his mocking tone. "You're clever!"
he complimented him.
"How kind of you to notice! But I musn't commit the same mistake as Mr. Weaver — have a seat." Evidently welcoming every opportunity to show off his strength, he picked up a heavy swivel chair with one hand and hoisted it effortlessly over the counter. "Tennis," he ex-plained in response to Mark's amazed look. A tall, thin man in his early forties, with quick blue eyes, he had a supple body and an easy grace, gifts of form and style common to refined sportsmen and some homo-sexuals. He was both, but apart from tennis, his passions were talking and reading. ("Sex is too spasmodic to sustain passion," he said to Mark later on in relation to one of the bellboys.)
"I brought a camera with underwater casing, I hope to take some pic-tures of the seabed," Mark told him, wishing to establish himself as a worthwhile customer. "So you'll be getting a lot of color film to de-velop."
Eshelby promptly refused to have anything to do with it. "It would bore me and ruin you," he replied with an expression of mild disgust.
"Why don't I just teach you how to develop film and let you use the darkroom in the evenings. Don't look so worried, I won't charge you for it." He had been a high-school teacher in Edmonton, Alberta, until it had come to light that he was cohabiting with another man, and his interest in shopkeeping was casual to say the least.
The former teacher and former student, both forcibly interrupted in their scholarly pursuits, got along very well, and as the cheer of sudden comradeship made Mark feel likable and important again, he wanted to talk about Marianne.
Summoning an offhand manner, he asked about the rich residents of the island. "Do you see them much around the Club?"
"No, you don't."
"How come?"
"That's the whole point, dear boy — they don't want to be seen. It may not have occurred to you, but nobody needs to lay out the kind of money they do, just to buy a bit of land and some beach. All those extra millions go to erect the expense barrier — to keep out the poor, God forbid, middle-class riffraff like you and me, and the not so terribly rich.
Everybody, in fact. To keep out people, period."
"Come to think of it," Mark commented sullenly, "they don't even need the dogs, do they?"
"That's to protect the paintings. Dogs, nothing! Sir Henry has armed guards with submachine guns. You can never have enough protection in this vile world. It's tragic."
"They must have fantastic houses, though. I wouldn't mind looking around them."
"Well, they're not your Renaissance palaces, I can tell you that. In the old days the great ones of this world built with vision and marble -now it can be ready-mixed concrete for all they care. Sir Henry's the only exception — he built his whole vast house out of marble — the floors, the walls, the ceilings, the stairs. Not for the grandeur of it, mind you! It's just that marble is cool and he dislikes air-conditioning. As for the rest of the very rich, what shows who they are is the silence all around.
Relative silence I should say. Not even the Queen of England can do anything about the planes."
"So I guess the thing to do is just leave them alone."
"Whatever gave you that idea?" asked Eshelby, enjoying his own amazement. "Actually, they're starved for company. They succeeded in 118
isolating themselves so perfectly, you see, that they get lonesome. Just think what eleven families can find to say to each other, year in, year out. It's easier on the men, they're reading Saul Kent's Anti-Aging Rev-olution and breathing condensed oxygen at the clinic every day — keep-ing alive keeps them busy. But the women — dear God, the women!"
"What about them?"
Eshelby seated himself on the counter and leaned forward toward Mark, visibly eager to explain it all. Although it was eight years since he had given up teaching, he still retained his authoritative classroom manner and his zest for enlightening the young. "This is an old man's island -apart from Kevin Hardwick, our chemical overlord, who comes and goes
— but the wives are mostly on the young side. After all, what would money be worth if it couldn't even buy you fresh, juicy flesh? You should read Balzac on the subject!" he exclaimed, casting a searching glance at Mark to see whether the name meant anything to him. "But of course in Balzac's time it was different — old men were stuck with their old wives, and girls could milk them for fortunes, clean them out and leave them. Now there is divorce with alimony and the old men pay off the old wives and marry the girls, and the deal is 'you get nothing now but when I die you'll get everything.' Only they don't die. And they expect to be looked after properly. They've spent their lives making people jump and they're not about to lose the habit now. The toast must be just so crisp and just so hot. And they want to be kept warm in bed, too. Those poor girls could all quote Eugene McCarthy — Stubbornness and peni-cillin hold the aged above me."
He made a grimace to show sympathy for the deceived wives and slid off the counter to pace the floor. "So the darlings end up like maids, and by the time they catch on, their youth is gone. Their waistline. Worse
He made a grimace to show sympathy for the deceived wives and slid off the counter to pace the floor. "So the darlings end up like maids, and by the time they catch on, their youth is gone. Their waistline. Worse