My Heart Laid Bare Read online

  It was all Claudel could do to quiet the crowd and continue.

  Thanking them humbly for their “sacred vote of confidence” and reiterating his statement that a six-month delay in the lawsuit would not be a source of despair to him, even at his age, and should not therefore be a source of despair to any of them; calculating that the suit would “certainly” by settled by the end of 1916 at the latest; and that, with interest compounded daily, the fortune would by that time be somewhere beyond $900 million according to the most recent estimate of the conservative Wall Street accounting firm Price, Waterhouse.

  At which point more applause ensued, tumultuous as before.

  YOU MUST LEAD them like sheep—gently. For sheep will stampede.

  You must allow them to think that you are one of them, and your fate linked to theirs.

  You must honor their profound wish to believe. Even as, with a smiling countenance, you slash their uplifted throats.

  THE SURPRISE OF the evening followed immediately: the appearance of the only “pure-blooded living descendant of Emanuel Auguste Napoléon Bonaparte”—a native-born Moroccan by the name of Jean Joliet Mazare Napoléon Bonaparte, twenty-five years old, only just arrived on these shores. Would the membership please welcome their privileged visitor, with the spirit that only Americans can summon forth?

  So, applause began; individuals at the rear and extreme sides of the vast armory rose to get a clearer view; until at last all were on their feet, more than three thousand eager kinsmen; but, what a surprise, what consternation, when, in a crimson velvet suit with knee breeches and white stockings, and a rakish plumed hat, a gilded dress sword at his side, a young Negro appeared!—as assured, insouciant and feckless as if he were not only of royal blood but superior to the Caucasian race itself.

  At this point an absolute silence fell over the hall. All who had leapt to their feet to cheer stood paralyzed, staring.

  Negro? . . .

  Taking no notice of his audience’s alarm, a smiling François-Leon Claudel graciously drew the young man forward and introduced him, with the zealous aplomb of P. T. Barnum introducing one of his prized exhibits: “Monsieur Jean Joliet Mazare Napoléon Bonaparte, the purest-blooded of all Emanuel Auguste’s descendants!” He embraced the handsome young man with great warmth; as if such behavior, between men, were commonplace to these shores, he kissed the young man smackingly on both cheeks. The Negro’s eyes and teeth flashed dazzling white; his skin gleamed and winked as if oiled; in a sweeping gesture of mock humility he whipped his elegant hat from his head and bowed low before his still-silent audience.

  How woolly his hair, that fitted his head tight as a cap!

  Negro?

  Still taking no notice of the paralyzed quiet in the hall, Claudel stood with his arm draped affectionately about young Jean’s shoulders and spoke at length of the fact that, according to the most meticulous genealogical charts prepared by the Oxford Authority of Genealogical Research in England, here stood the embodiment of Emanuel Auguste himself; the lost heir’s “pedigreed blood” beat fiercely and proudly in Jean’s veins as, to varying degrees, it beat in theirs; and how deserved it was, that young Jean would inherit the title of prince in France when the estate was settled.

  Negro?

  As the flamboyant young man evidently spoke no English, his address to the gathering was unintelligible though rapid, charming, and assured. “Messyers ay madamez ici I am! Mon freres ay mon sewers voulezvou thankyou pour invitee me ici!” He interrupted his cascade of words with childlike giggles; his wide white teeth glared in the stage lights; his hand gestures were flamboyant. Clearly this Moroccan-born black possessed none of the wary, craven air of an American black, for he was of princely blood and not descended from slaves, and so possibly, just possibly, he might be excused for thinking so highly of himself. Yet his audience remained mute, mortified. Here and there one might have seen a face crinkled with repugnance or even revulsion; some were perplexed; others looked from young Jean to the prominently placed posters of their noble ancestor, and back again, taking note too of the dark-complected François-Leon Claudel, whose olive-dark complexion contrasted with his filmy pale hair and his unmistakably “white” manner. What did such things mean?

  With monkeyish high spirits young Jean began to jabber yet more excitedly in his native tongue, taking up an exotic musical instrument seemingly a cross between a tambourine and a drum and singing, as a beaming Claudel looked on, a ditty even those in the audience who might have known some French could not have grasped:

  “Merdeyvous! Je hais you!

  Tu hais me! Merdeyvee!

  Ooolala! Ooolalee!

  Merdeyblanc! Merdeynoir!

  Thankyee vous! Thankyee me!

  Blezzeygod you! Blezzeygod me!”

  Following the young prince’s performance, Lemuel Bunting, one of the Society’s officers, rose to summarize the “salient points” of the session: the temporary suspension of the lawsuit in the Court of Paris; the temporary suspension of all investments until further notice—“That is to say, no more investing, and, of course, no withdrawals”; above all the need to maintain faith in the Society’s aims—and to keep the sacred vow of secrecy.

  By this time, however, virtually no one was listening. Many persons were streaming toward the doors, eager to escape; abashed, confused, somber, stricken; not wishing to look too closely at their neighbors, or to be seen by them. In this way, at about 9:20 P.M., what would be the final mass meeting of the Society for the Reclamation & Restoration of E. Auguste Napoléon Bonaparte came to an end.

  “DELIGHTFUL, ’LISHA! YOU outdid yourself tonight. And, if I dare to say so, so did I.”

  In triumph, in the privacy of their suite in Philadelphia’s most prestigious hotel, Abraham Licht proposed a champagne toast to his son; for Elisha had never performed before any audience so irresistibly, including, to Abraham’s surprise and delight, the delicious opéra bouffe aria of his own improvisation. He’d deserved more applause than the fools had given him, Abraham said with a chuckle. “For, like any consummate player of The Game, you knew your audience; you plumbed the depths of their shallow racist souls.”

  Elisha swallowed down his champagne thirstily, yet seemed to take little pleasure in it. He was missing Millie, perhaps: for her praise in his ears meant as much, if not more, than Abraham’s. Yet there was something melancholy in his victory, and he found it hard to fall in with his father’s celebratory mood. “Yes, Father,” he said, sighing, “I knew, I mean I know, the racist hearts of my countrymen well.”

  CAUSING ABRAHAM TO worry, in his bed that night, whether his most prodigiously gifted son wasn’t becoming sensitive about exploiting his skin; as if, in his heart, ’Lisha had somehow believed himself white after all. “God help me if I meet resistance from ’Lisha, too,” Abraham tormented himself, “—for I am rapidly running out of sons.”

  FOOLS AND KNAVES

  A chronicle, pitiless and humbling, to be set down in further damning detail in Abraham Licht’s memoir My Heart Laid Bare; but, here, in brief:

  5 SEPTEMBER 1913. Abraham Licht discovers to his chagrin that approximately $3,500 in door receipts is missing, after the armory meeting, and that one of his accountants is missing as well.

  6 September 1913. Abraham Licht discovers in going over the books in his Broome Street headquarters (in truth, a single near-barren room over an Italian grocer’s) that said “accountant” had very likely been embezzling funds since midsummer; and that even an approximation of the loss is impossible. Thousands of dollars, tens of thousands?

  11 September 1913. Sometime in the late afternoon a newly hired bookkeeper operating out of the Society’s East Fourteenth Street office (a small utilitarian room above a dry goods store) makes the irrevocable error of sending a letter to a member of the Society in Corvsgate, Pennsylvania, not by American Express messenger service, as Abraham Licht has decreed, but by way of the Post Office Department. (The slip for which postal inspectors have been waiti
ng for months!—the business of this crucial letter being most damning when opened: for “Albert Armstrong” was behind by $200 in his dues and was being threatened with being dropped from the Society unless he paid within ten days.)

  12 September 1913. Warrants issued for the arrests of “François-Leon Claudel,” “Marcel Bramier,” “Lemuel Bunting” and other officers of the Society for the Reclamation & Restoration of E. Auguste Napoléon Bonaparte on several charges of mail fraud.

  12 September 1913. Six o’clock at the Broome Street headquarters where Abraham Licht, gloved, sits counting the receipts of the last several days and Elisha, with a mild headache, stands at a window gazing down into the street and sees, by chance, several grim gentlemen in ill-fitting jackets and neckties approaching, with an indefinable yet unmistakable look of being law enforcement officers. Plainclothes federal agents bearing warrants to serve! Never has Elisha been present at any “raid” and never has Elisha been interrogated by law enforcement officers, yet, by instinct, he knows; retreats from the window with the monkey-like alacrity of Jean Joliet Mazare Napoléon Bonaparte himself, and says calmly, “Father, excuse me. They are coming for us, I think.” With scarcely a moment’s hesitation, Abraham Licht rises from his desk, sweeps the remainder of the money into the half-filled canvas sack, tells Elisha to lock the door and barricade it with the filing cabinet—“And make haste, son.” Within twenty seconds, before the federal agents are rapping at the door, Abraham and Elisha have stealthily escaped by way of a rear window; to avoid the likelihood of agents stationed below in the alley, they are making their swift but unhesitating way across adjacent roofs; at the end of the block, they descend a fire escape to the street. Panting as much with elation as exertion, Abraham Licht murmurs to Elisha, “Poor ‘François-Leon’! Not a very gracious exit.”

  The canvas sack contains only $12,403 but of course there remain millions of dollars secreted away elsewhere in several impregnable vaults on Wall Street.

  1 OCTOBER 1913. A gentleman by the name of Horace Brisbane, Esq., presents himself at Knickerbocker Trust, 99 Wall Street, with the intention of withdrawing $160,000 from his $780,000 account but is informed after an uneasy wait of twenty minutes that no one by the name of “Horace Brisbane” has an account at Knickerbocker Trust; nor do records show that Horace Brisbane has ever had an account there. Mr. Brisbane is dumbfounded. Mr. Brisbane is incredulous. Mr. Brisbane reels as if struck a blow to the head. Why, does no one recognize him? The senior officer with whom he has been doing business since last April, with such understanding? “It may be, sir,” Mr. Brisbane is coolly informed by a Knickerbocker vice president, “that your account is with one of our neighbors. You entered, you see, the wrong building.” Following this episode by less than a half hour, a gentleman by the name of Michael O’Toole presents himself at 106 Wall Street at American Savings & Trust, where, according to records, deposit slips, receipts and so forth he has an account of $829,033; yet is astonished to learn that he has no account at American Savings & Trust; nor do records show that “Michael O’Toole” has ever had an account there. “But this is—preposterous,” Mr. O’Toole says in a faint Irish brogue, bringing his fist down hard on a marble-topped desk, “—this is criminal!” A pause of several seconds; bemused glances between the bank officers; and the manager says, with a smile, that Mr. O’Toole might, then, if he wished, file a complaint with the proper authorities. “Our local Manhattan police might not be up to the effort, so you will want to involve the federal government, yes?”

  So too at Lynch & Burr just across the street, a gentleman in a black homburg, one Horace Rodweller, is informed by the unctuous Lynch in person that no one at that establishment recognizes him—no one has done business with him—he has no account—“Not for one million dollars, sir—not for one dollar”; and had better take himself up the block to Throckmorton & Co., for perhaps it was with these rivals he’d plied his vaporous trade. Mr. Rodweller stammers, “Why, I can’t believe this! This is unheard of! Why, you are all—criminals!” Lynch says with a prim smile, “Why, then, you’re well rid of us, Mr. Rodweller, yes?” Though guessing by now that the situation is hopeless, Mr. St. Goar, also in a black homburg, dares present himself at 3:20 P.M. that day in the alabaster interior of Throckmorton & Co., the oldest and wealthiest of the Wall Street firms; only to be informed politely that his entire account of $1,374,662 is lost to him forever—$1,374,662 of his hard-earned fortune! Does the pale, perspiring, shaken St. Goar imagine it, or are numerous eyes fixed upon him?—young men lingering in doorways, craning their necks in his direction?—do even the file clerks and young women secretaries regard him with pitying smiles? None of the senior officers is present, for the hour is late, but the office manager meets with Mr. St. Goar to tell him in a tone of unfailing courtesy that not only does his account not exist as of 1 October 1913 but that he himself does not exist. “For we have looked into it, Mr. St. Goar, and there is no such individual as you purport to be. How, then, can such an amount of money as you claim be in your ‘account’?”

  1 October 1913. 5:25 P.M. In their sumptuous ninth-floor suite at the Park Stuyvesant, speaking as calmly as possible, Abraham Licht informs Millicent and Elisha that the situation “has become somewhat precarious” and that it might be prudent for them to pack their bags as swiftly as possible, taking nothing but essentials and giving no hint to the hotel’s sharp-eyed employees that they don’t plan to return. (For the family in whose name the spacious suite is registered, the Fairbairns of Boston, haven’t settled their bill for the past two weeks.) Though Millie may be frightened, it’s in a teasing voice she says, “I hope, Father, we’re not going to be arrested!” and Abraham Licht, a fine Cuban cigar clamped between his teeth, says, “Not at all, Millie—if we don’t linger.”

  THE BETRAYAL

  1.

  Is it true, Father, Little Moses asks, that the white folks is devils, and all of them enemies, or is some of them different, Father, like you? and Father sucks his mighty cigar (so strong the tears spring to Little Moses’s eyes) and says, Why now look here boy: I’m not white.

  Not white? says Little Moses, blinking hard.

  I may look white, and I may talk white, but I stand outside the white race just like you; and all of the Lichts stand outside the white race; because the white folks is devils, and all of them are our enemies, yes boy each and every one!—and if you don’t know it at your age ’Lisha you’ll surely know it soon.

  But I’m not white? says Little Moses, blinking hard.

  No boy you are not.

  And you’re not . . . white.

  No boy I am not.

  But you’re not black.

  Not to look at, am I boy! says Father, laughing and expelling a big mouthful of smoke; and glancing about as if there is (but there is not) a third party observing.

  But am I black? says Little Moses, frightened.

  Now ’Lisha it’s true you look black, says Father, but you know that’s a necessary part of The Game.

  . . . a necessary part of . . . ?

  . . . a necessary part of The Game.

  Little Moses blinks hard to keep the tears from stinging but the tears sting just the same and run down his cheeks, and he hears himself say, But what is The Game, Father, and Father says expelling another mouthful of smoke, ’Lisha, The Game is what I say it is, and Little Moses says, crying, But how do I know, Father? and Father says, losing patience, You know what I tell you, boy, and beyond that you don’t need to know: now go to sleep!—as Father has an engagement elsewhere.

  . . . with loathing, such loathing.

  . . . with revulsion: I could see it in their faces.

  . . . (their faces! so ugly! so ignoble!)

  . . . But is Jean not handsome? is Jean not of noble blood? . . . a brave fine figure, a gentleman of style, humor, wit, sardonic charm, French to the very tips of his fingers, opéra bouffe as Father has said: and what genius!

  . . . (their faces! white faces! how dare they!)
<
br />   . . . yet, with loathing. Sickened loathing. Not even hatred but loathing. For one of what they call black blood.

  . . . Yet Elisha is not black, and there’s his genius! So Father has decreed. Which is to say: he tricks the eye like a magician: his inner being gloats at the confusion generated by his outer being.

  . . . And Millie who adores him and will soon be his wife, Millie laughs and laughs at such trickery, for in Love there is neither black nor white, in such secret love, such tenderness, there is only Love, and nothing to arouse loathing and revulsion and sickness, Why there is only Love! and Millie and Elisha will soon be wed.

  . . . (yet, such loathing. I could see it in their faces.)

  . . . (their faces! white faces! I could kill them all.)

  2.

  Elisha will tell Abraham Licht their secret, at last.

  Because it is time.

  Because it is well past the time.

  Because they are now lovers: husband and wife in the flesh, at last.

  BECAUSE, SINCE EARLY September, since the night of the armory, ’Lisha has needed comforting. ’Lisha has needed love, and ’Lisha has demanded love, and ’Lisha has frightened Millicent with his anger and his wild laughter and his lust.

  For lust too is Love: and no longer to be denied.

  “AND NOW DO you love me?” Millicent whispered, her lovely eyes bright with tears; and Elisha’s heart swelled with pride as he answered, “Yes.”

  THE LICHTS—FATHER, ELISHA, Millicent—have retreated again to Muirkirk because they are poor; but from Muirkirk Millicent will be going to Rhinebeck, on the Hudson, to stay at the country home of the wealthy Fitzmaurices, as, at Miss Thayer’s Academy for Young Christian Ladies, she became acquainted with sweet little Daisy Fitzmaurice, sweet little plain little not-entirely-bright Daisy Fitzmaurice, the wealthiest girl in their class. And Daisy adores her beautiful Millicent, as everyone does. And Daisy is eager to invite Millicent to the Fitzmaurices’ country place, where it is “pretty,” where they can go for boat rides on the river. And Daisy is eager to introduce Millicent to her family. Including of course (of course, says Elisha through his teeth), her handsome older brother who’s a West Point cadet, her handsome cousins, all the family—for Mrs. Fitzmaurice has met Millicent and been charmed by that gracious young lady, as everyone is.