“Since my time in America, I have seen that many Americans call themselves artists as if the act of calling themselves an artist makes them an artist. This is most common in California where I was writing screenplays. Truth is these are talentless empty vessels—they are nothing more than very loud empty vessels of shit. In contrast, the true artist demurely says, ‘read my book.’”
For two hours, the novelist from New York kept up her monologue. It was clear to her that she had Albert’s complete attention—he interjected the occasional question or comment. His interest, bordering on fascination, aroused her like few other men could. His power in his country, his good looks and his gentlemanly manners—all combined to make her want him. And she did not just want him, she wanted him to dominate her, to take her spirit and do whatever he wanted, however he wanted. There would be no boundaries, no limits, no petty bourgeoisie niceties. She wanted it rough—very, very rough. She was one of those women that love the slow, teasing increase in intensity, so that pain and pleasure combined as one.
She kept teasing Albert with her speeches about “false premises.” The wine helped. As the day lengthened and shadows entered the room, she ineluctably opened her legs, so slowly it was like ice melting on a pond on an early bright spring day. Her dress obliged and rode up her legs. For the duration of the monologue, Albert had been sitting in one of the two large armchairs opposite the sofa.
“Come and sit next to me, Albert, I have a secret to impart,” she commanded in the language of a bad novel.
Albert obliged.
He took his right hand and put it up her dress. She was naked under her dress.
“I want you to completely dominate me. Do whatever you like. I want to feel pain. My premise is that pain is often a sexual concept. I want to worship you, Albert. Dominate me and do whatever you want to my body. I want it now. And I want you to slowly pain me so the pain is overwhelming and I feel nothing but heat and I want to feel pain.”
Truth be told, Albert had never felt a woman so soaking wet. It reminded him of one night years ago in his university years when he had drawn the shortest straw of three at a whore house, and had to patiently wait his turn. But even then, the girl that night was not as wet as the Russian novelist.
Expecting this outcome, Albert had taken the earlier precaution of buying the understanding of the hotel’s staff about “some possible disturbances.” The concierge politely smiled and said, “I shouldn’t worry, sir—the hotel is mostly empty this time of the year.”
Nevertheless, the two young whores in the lobby shook their heads in disbelief as the novelist’s increasingly insistent demands and moans were heard down the central open stair case; how could such a meek German be capable of generating such noises from this woman, or from any woman; what in God’s name was he doing to her? The next evening the two gaudy young beauties found out for themselves, and neither of them was disappointed.
14: Isaiah’s Message
THE THIRD SUNDAY IN SEPTEMBER was a blustery one in Washington with the police reporting five trees uprooted in the District. The Police issued a flash radio bulletin just after The Red Skelton Show.
In the Oval Office, the President was discussing with Harry Hopkins the previous week’s fireside chat. Hopkins was Roosevelt’s closest adviser and the President was aware how Hopkins was key to the President’s New Deal.
So it was odd when Hopkins suggested that the President meet Louis Brandeis.
“Brandeis, Old Isaiah, that cunt—are you out of your mind—he and his fucking cunt buddies on the Supreme Court almost killed my ND?” (By this stage, Roosevelt had developed an addiction to abbreviations—‘my alphabet opium’ he called it, forgetting how his grandfather had made his fortune destroying millions of innocent people with the selfsame drug.)
“That cunt and his buddies on the Supreme Court killed my NIRA.”
It was true that the center piece of Roosevelt’s New Deal was his National Industrial Recovery Act or NIRA. Roosevelt had designed the NIRA to give him almost unlimited powers to dictate how American industry would be organized. And Brandeis had infuriated the President by telling one of Roosevelt’s aides, “go tell your boss that the world already has more than enough dictators—we don’t need another one, and certainly not in America.” The balls on this sick old man.
“That cunt, that fucking cunt!”
On and on went the President.
Hopkins put his hands up, as though a trainer in a boxing ring training a promising fighter with pad work, “He’s outside.”
“Outside, outside where, outside here you mean?” the President asked, a little startled.
“Yes, I think you need to speak to him.”
“What, now?”
“Yes, now, and I think you will find what he says very interesting.”
Roosevelt sighed.
“Alright, bring the cunt in.”
While Hopkins went to the door, Roosevelt wheeled himself over to the low table in middle of the room. On either side of the table was a long sofa upholstered in yellow damask; the pattern was a Greek bull wildly but ineffectively tossing its horns at the heavens.
“Louis, so wonderful to see you, how are you?”
Hopkins’s manner was impassive—he’d seen Roosevelt pull this volte-face hundreds of times—wailing in private then all smiles in public.
“Mr. President, I am sorry to bother you on such a stormy night, but I wanted to show you and Mr. Hopkins a document.”
“OK, but what is so important? And why can’t it wait until Monday?” asked the President, who was known for his very short attention span, short even by politicians’ standards.
The President was sitting in a magnificent maple and birch wheelchair, with polished stainless steel spokes and hard-polished solid brass handles. In his hand he held a cigar from Havana (attached to the wheelchair was a glass ashtray that could quickly be removed for his “official duties” and for photographs).
Like many skilled politicians, Roosevelt’s public persona was very carefully manipulated to project a down-home image, a “man of the people,” just as the Duce was photographed bare-chested “bringing in the harvest,” whereas in reality the short, rotund Italian had never cut a sheaf of wheat in his life.
“Please, have a seat, Louis, and let’s see what you have.”
“Say, would you like a drink?”
“No thank you, Mr. President, my doctor tells me at my age my drinking days are over.”
Roosevelt noticed that Brandeis’s lips were an unhealthy crimson.
“This document comes from a very close friend in the Swiss army who is the ADC of General Guisan, the head of the Swiss Army. Just to give you a little background, in July 1940, Guisan spoke to the entire Swiss officer corp where he outlined a plan of defense against a possible German invasion. As part of this, the Swiss have infiltrated the German and Italian high commands. They have had extremely limited success with the Germans—all too professional and too closed-mouthed, but with the Italians it is the exactly the opposite. As you know, the Swiss cantons speak French and German, as well as Italian.”