Mr. Monday and other tales of Jewish Amsterdam

180 Air. Monday and Other Tales of Jewish Amsterdam

"Estate?"

"Yes, estate."

An estate it was, with farmers who worked for him. With a castle for a house. Garages and four shiny big limousines. Riding horses.

"Are you married, Sol?"

"Sure. She's a beauty, half British, half Spanish. Costs me a fortune each year, that woman. And I have one child. A son. One is enough for me."

"What's his name?"

"We call him Junior."

The car that he sent for me was a Cadillac, and if someone had told me that the accessories were made of pure gold, I would have believed it without hesitation.

The chauffeur was in uniform, a half-caste with the obsequiousness of a slave and the adroitness of a London headwaiter.

It was true, Sol's wife was a glamorous beauty, slender and with gracious movements. His son was a fat little brat about four years old, spoiled and troublesome. I thought he resembled Duplikate a bit, but of course I did not say that aloud.

During the meal, a deluge of food and drinks, a room with noiseless servants, Sol told me that he was still in business. Only now it was big business, very big. In Venezuela he had made loads of money. He had built hotels and sold them again. He had traded in mining claims, had speculated wildly with shady shipping companies along the coast, had traded in pearl fisheries at Santa Madelena. Frankly, he possessed more money than he could count. But he was not content. He wanted more, always more.