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About
In 1929, 26-year-old Irène Némirovsky shot to fame in France with the publication of her first novel David Golder. At the time, only the most prescient would have predicted the events that led to her extraordinary final novel Suite Française and her death at Auschwitz. Yet the clues are there in this astonishingly mature story of an elderly Jewish businessman who has sold his soul.
Golder is a superb creation. Born into poverty on the Black Sea, he has clawed his way to fabulous wealth by speculating on gold and oil. When the novel opens, he is at work in his magnificent Parisian apartment while his wife and beloved daughter, Joy, spend his money at their villa in Biarritz. But Golder's security is fragile. For years he has defended his business interests from cut-throat competitors. Now his health is beginning to show the strain. As his body betrays him, so too do his wife and child, leaving him to decide which to pursue: revenge or altruism?
'A hundred, Golder? Think about it. It's a good price,' said Marcus.
'No,' Golder murmured again, then added, 'I don't want to sell.'
Marcus laughed. His long white teeth, capped in gold, gleamed eerily in the darkness.
'How much were your famous oil shares worth in 1920 when you first bought them?' he drawled; his voice was nasal, sarcastic.
'I bought them at four hundred. And if those Soviet pigs had given the nationalised land back to the oil companies, I would have made a lot of money. Lang and his group were backing me. In 1913, the daily output from the Teisk region was already ten thousand tons ... seriously. After the Genoa Conference, I remember my shares fell from four hundred to one hundred and two ... After that ...' Golder made a vague gesture of frustration. 'But I held on to them ... Money was no object, in those days.'
'Yes, but now, in 1926, don't you realise that your Russian oil fields aren't worth shit to you? Well? I mean, it's not as if you have either the means or the inclination to go and run them yourself, is it? All you can hope to do is shift them for a higher price on the Stock Market ... A hundred is a good sum.'
Golder slowly rubbed his eyes; the smoke that filled the room had irritated them.
Golder is a superb creation. Born into poverty on the Black Sea, he has clawed his way to fabulous wealth by speculating on gold and oil. When the novel opens, he is at work in his magnificent Parisian apartment while his wife and beloved daughter, Joy, spend his money at their villa in Biarritz. But Golder's security is fragile. For years he has defended his business interests from cut-throat competitors. Now his health is beginning to show the strain. As his body betrays him, so too do his wife and child, leaving him to decide which to pursue: revenge or altruism?
'A hundred, Golder? Think about it. It's a good price,' said Marcus.
'No,' Golder murmured again, then added, 'I don't want to sell.'
Marcus laughed. His long white teeth, capped in gold, gleamed eerily in the darkness.
'How much were your famous oil shares worth in 1920 when you first bought them?' he drawled; his voice was nasal, sarcastic.
'I bought them at four hundred. And if those Soviet pigs had given the nationalised land back to the oil companies, I would have made a lot of money. Lang and his group were backing me. In 1913, the daily output from the Teisk region was already ten thousand tons ... seriously. After the Genoa Conference, I remember my shares fell from four hundred to one hundred and two ... After that ...' Golder made a vague gesture of frustration. 'But I held on to them ... Money was no object, in those days.'
'Yes, but now, in 1926, don't you realise that your Russian oil fields aren't worth shit to you? Well? I mean, it's not as if you have either the means or the inclination to go and run them yourself, is it? All you can hope to do is shift them for a higher price on the Stock Market ... A hundred is a good sum.'
Golder slowly rubbed his eyes; the smoke that filled the room had irritated them.