Chloe can count to five.
To five, yes.
For now that Mr. Tennyson’s plantation has been added
there are five in Alabama
that sell raw cotton to the Lehman Brothers.
She can count to five, Chloe.
She cannot count all the years of her age,
since Chloe is fourteen,
and the two Lehman brothers have bought her for 900 dollars:
their first slave.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5! Well done Chloe!
Until recently
before the yellow fever took one of them
there were four suppliers:
the Smith & Gowcer plantation
where Roundhead Deggoo works,
Oliver Carlington’s small plantation
just outside Montgomery,
Bexter & Sally’s with two hundred Caribbean slaves
and the so-called Mexican plantation
because the owner is old Reginald Robbinson
aged eighty-one
who never goes down to the plantation
and gets his three trusty Mexicans to do it all,
from choosing the slaves to selling the cotton.
Five plantations.
Just under four hundred wagons of raw cotton
to buy and resell.
Two hundred wagons are taken
by Teddy Perfecthands Wilkinson
and the rest go to two factories in Atlanta
and on the coast, at Charleston:
found
by Rab Kassowitz’s nephew from New York.
Fixed profit for the Lehman Brothers
is twelve dollars a wagon.
It seemed a lot at first.
In fact, all in all, it’s very little.
Because transporting raw cotton
from Alabama to the North
costs.
The horses cost, the wagons cost
the porters and unloaders cost
even if Roundhead Deggoo, by arrangement
sometimes gets help from the slaves
at the Smith & Gowcer plantation.
But even with the slaves
twelve dollars per wagon is a pittance
a trifle
and the costs are high
too high
it’s not worth it
for twelve dollars
it’s not worth it
calculations at the ready
for twelve dollars
might as well give up now.
To make a profit you’d need at least twenty dollars a wagon.
At least.
And a minimum of four, five hundred wagons of raw cotton.
A minimum.
Which means twice the number of plantations.
Twice.
And so: if all ten of the largest plantations in Alabama
were persuaded to sell cotton now and then to the Lehmans
business
yes
it would begin
—for sure—
to be worthwhile.
Of the two remaining brothers
Emanuel Lehman is more certain.
He, Emanuel, wants to go ahead
like every self-respecting arm
figures on paper aren’t enough, he wants action.
After all, sure, isn’t it easy enough?
Just go to the cotton owners
and explain that the game is worth it for them too:
for as soon as the harvest is ready
they’ll get their money in less than a day
by selling all their raw cotton to the Lehman Brothers
who from then on
are there just for them
ready straightaway to buy it
the cotton
from them
and to pay them for it
yes sirs
everything
—a reasonable price—
but in cash.
All here.
What more do you want?
He, Emanuel, wants to go ahead:
and in fact it is he
—with his beard still long with mourning—
who went knocking on the doors of all the owners
sat on their drawing room sofas
joined them for dinner on the veranda
listened to their little girls who play the piano;
he who can’t stand music, or the piano
“How beautiful, Miss!
Your daughter is wonderful!
Do play some more!”
But these words
through clenched teeth
with gray face
and trying not to doze off during recitals
are the maximum diplomacy that he can manage:
Emanuel Lehman is no fine weaver of words
is no politician
is no smiler
his father always used to say
there, in Rimpar, Bavaria:
“you’re no Kish Kish”
which means “kiss kiss.”
And it’s true.
Without a doubt.
No arm is a Kish Kish.
Least of all Emanuel.
Who gets easily annoyed, angry
goes red in the face
terribly red
each time the masters of the house
plantation owners
fail to understand his offer
or tell him:
“I’ll think about it . . .”
“We’ll see . . .”
or even worse:
“Why exactly should I be giving cotton to you?”
and on saying this they call for their daughter
to play the piano.
All good American families in the South
have a little girl pianist.
All of them get her to play for guests,
even for those who come to talk about cotton.
The impossible ideal
utopia
mirage
would be a businessman who teaches piano.
Baruch HaShem!
The idea of trying out
the other surviving Lehman brother
isn’t even considered.
Partly because no potato understands diplomacy.
Partly because Mayer Bulbe
for some time
has had other things on his mind
since the festival of Purim
when at the table of fritters
he kissed Barbara Newgass
known as “Babette”
on the forehead
whispering in her ear—it is said—
“Babette, beautiful as the moon . . .”
which is an uncommon feat
for a vegetable of poetical bent.
Age nineteen, Babette.
A small red birthmark on her right cheek, Babette.
With luminous eyes, Babette.
Her plaits held in a cork grip, Babette.
Hair darker than the wooden counter of the shop, Babette:
the counter where Mayer
for some time
gets even his additions and subtractions wrong
—Babette—
and leaves the storehouse door open
—Babette—
and
—through distraction and for no other reason—
breaks his fast
tasting Roundhead Deggoo’s soup.
Yes: Babette, always Babette.
The parents of Babette Newgass
well know
who the Lehman brothers are.
And their nine children too.
They pass along
the main street of Montgomery
in front of the black and yellow LEHMAN BROTHERS signboard.
And yet Babette’s father
begins precisely from there
seated in an armchair
surrounded by all eight sons
in a circle behind him
—since Babette is the only daughter: mazel tov!—
like a firing squad
lined up
facing Mayer Bulbe
wearing his best suit already seen at the funeral
but with hair combed
a bunch of flowers, cold sweat
and his beard, alas, still long with mourning.
His brother Emanuel three steps behind
motionless, silent
there by force:
the family representative.
“Since you wish to introduce yourself
I’d like to know
young man
exactly what you do in that shop of yours.”
“At one time we sold fabrics
Mr. Newgass
now no longer.”
Babette and her mother
in the next room with the colored servant women
are posted
with an ear to the door and an eye to the keyhole.
“If you are no longer selling, what is the purpose of a shop?”
“Because
we do sell, we are still selling
Mr. Newgass.”
“Selling what?”
“We sell cotton
Mr. Newgass.”
“And cotton is not fabric?”
“No not yet . . . not when we sell it
Mr. Newgass.”
“And if it’s not fabric then who buys it?”
“Those who will turn it into fabric
Mr. Newgass.
We’re in the middle, in fact.
We’re right in the middle
Mr. Newgass.”
“What sort of job is that
being in the middle?”
“It’s an occupation that doesn’t yet exist
Mr. Newgass:
we’re the ones who are starting it.”
“Baruch HaShem!
No one lives from an occupation that doesn’t exist!”
“We do, Lehman Brothers do.
Our occupation is . . .”
“Come on: what is it?”
“It’s a word invented:
we’re . . . middlemen, there, yes.”
“Ah! And why should I give my daughter to a
‘middleman’?”
“Because we’re making money
Mr. Newgass!
Or rather: we will be making money
I swear: trust me.”
And on this “trust me”
Mayer Bulbe gives
such a wondrous smile
so certain
so sure
so credible
that Mr. Newgass and his eight sons
in fact
relent
indeed more:
they trust
and, through trusting,
they entrust to a potato
their only daughter and only sister
who bursts merrily through the door.
But most surprised at this triumph
is Emanuel Lehman.
The truth is that since the time when Henry
no longer sits
on the ledge of the open window,
with his legs drawn together
and an arm up at the back of his neck.
Emanuel has always felt—up to now—
as though he were alone, entirely alone,
and not with a brother
but with a vegetable.
For this reason
he now stares in surprise
with true admiration
he watches him
pay his respects to the lady of the house
he hears him laugh, relax, joke
and even
most courteously
kiss—Kish Kish Kish Kish . . .—
in a way that for him, a good arm, there is no way:
he doesn’t know how.
Next morning
First day of official engagement
—720 days left to the wedding—
Mayer Lehman
—once called Bulbe, now Kish Kish—
is formally recruited:
on behalf of the Lehman brothers
he will be responsible
for business dealings and relationships
knocking on the doors of all owners
with his fine funeral suit
going to all plantations
sitting on drawing room sofas
eating dinners on the veranda
listening to little girls who play the piano . . .
which won’t be too hard, since Babette
—süsser Babette—
plays the piano too
and teaches the piano
like no one else.
In March 1857
94th day of official engagement
—627 left to the wedding—
thanks to Mayer Kish Kish
to Babette and to Chopin
the plantations that sell cotton to Lehman
increase from five to seven.
September 1857
274th day of official engagement
—447 left to the wedding—
thanks to Mayer Kish Kish
to Babette and to Schubert
the plantations that sell cotton to Lehman
increase from seven to ten.
January 1858
394th day of official engagement
—327 left to the wedding—
thanks to Mayer Kish Kish
to Babette and to Beethoven
the plantations that sell cotton to Lehman
increase from ten to fifteen.
June 1858
544th day of official engagement
—177 left to the wedding—
thanks to Mayer Kish Kish
to Babette and to Mozart
the plantations that sell cotton to Lehman
increase from fifteen to eighteen.
December 1858
720th day of official engagement
—one day left to the wedding—
thanks to Mayer Kish Kish
to Babette and to Johann Sebastian Bach
the plantations that sell cotton to Lehman
increase from eighteen to twenty-four.
“Mazel tov!”
Twenty-four suppliers of raw cotton.
From Alabama to the edge of Florida.
From Alabama to South Carolina.
From Alabama to New Orleans.
Plantations, plantations, plantations:
on which slaves work night and day
whose raw cotton
sooner or later
is purchased by the Lehman brothers
2500 wagons of raw cotton a year.
earning 50,000 dollars
which pass through a small room in Montgomery
with a handle that in remembrance of Henry will always stick.
Buy and resell.
Buy and resell.
Buy and resell.
Buy and resell.
Between the two things
right in the middle
as “middlemen”
are the Lehman Brothers.
CLOSED TODAY FOR WEDDING
is written on the card fixed to the door.
And Emanuel Lehman
as a wedding present
has a beautiful
grand piano
delivered
from New Orleans.