Rich Man, Poor Man

Until the Goodharts, Thomas’s feeling about people with a great deal of money, while not quite as formally rigid as Dwyer’s, had been composed of a mixture of envy, distrust, and the suspicion that whenever possible a rich man would do whatever harm he could to anyone within his power. His uneasiness with his brother, which had begun when they were boys, for other reasons, had been compounded by Rudolph’s rise to wealth. But the Goodharts had shaken old tenets of faith. They had not only made him reflect anew on the subject of marriage, but about old people as well, and the rich, and even about Americans in general. It was too bad that the Goodharts came so early in the season, because after them, it was likely to be downhill until October. Some of the other charter parties they took on more than justified Dwyer’s darkest strictures on the ruling classes.

On the last day of the charter, they started back toward the hotel earlier than usual because the wind had sprung up and the sea beyond the islands was full of whitecaps. Even between the islands the Clothilde was rolling and pulling at her chain. Mr. Goodhart had drunk more than usual, too, and neither he nor his wife had gone below for their siesta. When Dwyer upped anchor they were still in their bathing suits, with sweaters, against the spray. But they stayed out on deck, like children at a party that was soon to end, hungry for the last drop of joy from the declining festival. Mr. Goodhart was even a little curt with Thomas when Thomas didn’t automatically produce the afternoon whiskeys.

Once they were out of the lee of the islands it was too rough to use the deck chairs and the Goodharts and Thomas had to hold onto the after rail while they drank their Scotch and sodas.

“I think it’s going to be impossible to get the dinghy into the hotel landing,” Thomas said. “I’d better tell Dwyer to go around the point and into Antibes.”

Mr. Goodhart put out his hand and held Thomas’s arm as Thomas started toward the pilot house. “Let’s just take a look,” Mr. Goodhart said. His eyes were a little bloodshot. “I like a little rough weather from time to time.”

“Whatever you say, sir,” Thomas said. “I’ll go tell Dwyer.”

In the pilot house, Dwyer was already fighting the wheel. Kate was seated on the bench that ran along the rear of the structure, munching a roast beef sandwich. She had a hearty appetite and was a good sailor in all seas.

“We’re in for a blow,” Dwyer said. “I’m going around the point.”

“Go to the hotel,” Thomas said.

Kate looked over her sandwich at him in surprise.

“Are you crazy?” Dwyer said. “All the speedboats must have gone back to the harbor hours ago, with this wind. And we’ll never get the dinghy in.”

“I know,” Thomas said. “But they want to take a look.”

“It’s a pure waste of time,” Dwyer grumbled. They had a new charter begi

“It’s only a few more minutes,” Thomas said soothingly. “They’ll see it’s impossible and we’ll make for Antibes.”

“You’re the captain,” Dwyer said. He pulled viciously at the wheel as a wave quartered against their port side and the Clothilde yawed.

Thomas stayed in the pilot house, keeping dry. The Goodharts remained out on deck, soaked by spray, but seeming to enjoy it. There were no clouds and the high afternoon sun shone brightly and when the spray swept over the deck, the two old people shimmered in brief rainbows.

As they passed Golfe Juan, far off to port, with the boats at anchor in the little harbor already bobbing, Mr. Goodhart signaled to Thomas that he and Mrs. Goodhart wanted another drink.

When they got within five hundred yards of the palisade on which the cabanas stood, they saw that the waves were breaking over the little concrete dock to which the speedboats were usually tied. The speedboats, as Dwyer had predicted, were all gone. At the regular swimming place farther along the cliff, the red flag was up and the chain was across the swimming ladder below the restaurant of Eden Roc. The waves went crashing in high over the steps, then pulled back, frothing and green-white, leaving the ladder uncovered down to the last rung before the next wave roared in.

Thomas left the shelter of the pilot house and went out on deck. “I’m afraid I was right, sir,” he said to Mr. Goodhart. “There’s no getting a boat in with this sea. We’ll have to go into port.”

“You go into port,” Mr. Goodhart said calmly. “My wife and I have decided we’ll swim in. Just get the ship in as close as you can without endangering her.”

“The red flag’s up,” Thomas said. “Nobody’s in the water.”

“The French,” Mr. Goodhart said. “My wife and I have swum in surf twice as bad as this at Newport, haven’t we, dear?”

“We’ll send the car around to the harbor to pick up our things later, Captain,” Mr. Goodhart said.

“This isn’t Newport, sir,” Thomas said, making one last attempt. “It’s not a sandy beach. You’ll get thrown against the rocks if you …”

“Like everything in France,” Mr. Goodhart said, “it looks worse than it is. Just pull in as close to shore as you think is wise and we’ll do the rest. We both feel like a swim.”

“Yes, sir,” Thomas said. He went back into the pilot house, where Dwyer was spi

“What do they want to do,” Dwyer asked, “commit suicide?”

“It’s their bones,” Thomas said. Then, to Kate, “Put on your bathing suit.” He himself was wearing swimming trunks and a sweater.

Without a word, Kate went below for her bathing suit.

“As soon as we’re off,” Thomas said to Dwyer, “pull away. Get well off the rocks. When you see we’ve made it, head for port. We’ll get a ride in a car and join you. One trip in this stuff is enough. I don’t want to swim back.”

Kate came up in two minutes, in an old, bleached, blue suit. She was a strong swimmer. Thomas took off his sweater and they both went out on deck. The Goodharts had taken off their sweaters and were waiting for them. In his long, flowered swimming trunks, Mr. Goodhart was massive and ta

The swimming raft, anchored midway between, the Clothilde and the steps, was dancing in the waves. When a particularly large one hit it it would go up on end and stand almost perpendicularly for a moment.

“I suggest we make for the raft first,” Thomas said, “so we can take a breather before we go in the rest of the way.”

“We?” Mr. Goodhart said. “What do you mean, we?” He was definitely drunk. And so was Mrs. Goodhart.

“Kate and I decided we’d like a swim this afternoon, too,” Thomas said.

“As you wish, Captain,” Mr. Goodhart said. He climbed over the rail and dove in. Mrs. Goodhart followed. Their heads, gray and white, bobbed up and down in the dark green, frothing water.

“You stick with her,” Thomas said to Kate. “I’ll go with the old man.”

He dove overboard and heard Kate splash in just after him.

Getting to the raft wasn’t too difficult. Mr. Goodhart swam an old-fashioned trudgeon stroke and kept his head out of the water most of the time. Mrs. Goodhart swam an orthodox crawl and when Thomas turned to look at her she seemed to be swallowing water and breathing hard. But Kate was close beside her at all times. Mr. Goodhart and Thomas climbed onto the raft, but it was too rough to stand up on and they stayed on their knees as they helped pull Mrs. Goodhart up. She was gasping a little and she looked as though she was going to be sick.