‘Thank you, Mr Rosnovski, that’s most generous of you.’
‘No need to thank me, Mr Chairman,’ said Abel. ‘It’s no more than we agreed when you sold me your two per cent.’
PART EIGHT
1963-1967
57
ABEL WAS surprised to find how little satisfaction his final triumph gave him. A Pyrrhic victory.
George tried to persuade him to travel to Warsaw and look over possible sites for the new Baron, but he wasn’t interested. As he grew older, he became fearful of dying abroad having never seen Florentyna again, and for months he showed scant interest in the group’s activities.
When John F. Kennedy was assassinated on November 22, 1963, Abel became even more depressed, and began to fear for his adopted country. Eventually George managed to convince him that a trip abroad could do no harm, and that he might return invigorated.
Abel took George’s advice and flew directly to Warsaw, something he never thought he’d do in his lifetime. His command of the language and long history of fighting for Polish recognition helped him to secure a confidential agreement from the Government to build the first Baron in a communist country. He was pleased to beat Conrad Hilton and Charles Forte to be the first international hotelier behind the Iron Curtain. But he couldn’t help thinking … and it didn’t help when Lyndon Johnson appointed John Gronowski to be the first Polish-American ambassador. But nothing seemed to give him any real satisfaction any more. He may have defeated William Kane, but he’d lost his daughter, and he suspected Kane was having the same problem with his son.
After the Warsaw deal was signed he roamed the world, staying in his existing hotels, watching the construction of new ones and selecting sites for ones he may never live to see. In Cape Town he opened the first Baron in South Africa, then he flew to Germany to open another in Du sseldorf. He then lingered for six months in his favourite Baron, in Paris, roaming the streets by day and attending the opera and the theatre at night, hoping to revive happy memories of the days he spent there with Florentyna.
Finally he left Paris and returned to America. As he descended the metal steps of an Air France 707 at Kennedy International Airport, his back hunched and his bald head covered with a black hat, nobody recognized him. George, as always, was there to greet him; loyal, honest George, looking quite a bit older.
On the drive into Manhattan, George brought him up to date with the group news. The profits continued to grow as its keen young executives thrust forward in every major country in the world. Seventy-two hotels with a staff of over 22,000. Abel didn’t seem to be listening. He only wanted news of Florentyna.
‘She’s well,’ said George. ‘She’s coming to New York early next year.’
‘Why?’ asked Abel, suddenly excited.
‘She’s opening one of her shops on Fifth Avenue.’
‘Fifth Avenue? Lucky you didn’t take that bet, George.’
George smiled. ‘The eleventh Florentyna’s.’
‘Have you seen her, George?’
‘Yes,’ he admitted.
‘Is she well, is she happy?’
‘Both of them are well and happy, and so successful. Abel, you should be very proud of them. Your grandson is quite a boy, and as for your granddaughter - she’s the image of Florentyna when she was that age.’
‘Will she see me?’
‘Will you agree to meet her husband?’
‘No, George. I can never meet that boy, not while his father’s still alive.’
‘What if you die first?’
‘You mustn’t believe everything you read in the Bible,’ said Abel. They drove in silence back to the hotel, and Abel dined alone in his suite that night.
For the next six months, he rarely left the penthouse.
58
WHEN FLORENTYNA KANE opened her new boutique on Fifth Avenue in March 1967, everyone in New York seemed to be there to join in the celebration, except William Kane and Abel Rosnovski.
Kate tucked William up in bed and left him muttering to himself while she, Virginia and Lucy went off to attend the opening. George left Abel alone in his suite and set off for Fifth Avenue. He had tried to talk him into coming along with him. Abel grunted that his daughter had managed to open ten shops without him, and one more wouldn’t make any difference. George told him he was a stubborn old fool and left for Fifth Avenue on his own. Abel knew he was right.
George arrived at the shop to find a magnificent modern boutique with thick carpets and the latest Swedish furniture - it reminded him of the way Abel used to do things. Florentyna was wearing a long green gown with the now famous double F on its high collar. She handed George a glass of champagne and introduced him to Kate and Lucy Kane, who were chatting with Zaphia. Kate and Lucy were clearly very happy, and Virginia surprised George by asking after Mr Rosnovski.
‘I told him he was a stubborn old fool to miss such a good party. Is Mr Kane here?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Kate. ‘I’m afraid he’s another stubborn old fool.’
William was still muttering angrily at The New York Times, something about Johnson pulling his punches in Vietnam, when he folded the newspaper and dragged himself out of bed. He dressed slowly, very slowly, before inspecting himself in the mirror. He looked like a banker. He scowled. How else should he look? He walked slowly down the stairs. He put on a heavy black overcoat and his old Homburg hat, picked up his black walking stick with the silver handle - the one Rupert Cork-Smith had left him - and somehow got himself out onto the street. It was the first time he had been out on his own for the best part of three years. The maid was surprised to see Mr Kane leaving the house unaccompanied.
It was an unusually warm spring evening, but William still felt the cold after being stuck in the house for so long. It took him a considerable time to walk to Fifth Avenue and Fifty-Sixth Street, each pace taking a little longer, and when he eventually made it he found the crowd inside Florentyna’s was spilling out onto the sidewalk. He didn’t feel he had the strength to fight his way through, so he stood on the sidewalk and watched. Young people, happy and excited, were thrusting their way into Florentyna Kane’s fashionable boutique. Some of the girls were wearing the new mini skirts from London. What next, thought William. Then he spotted Richard talking to Kate. He’d grown into such a fine-looking man - tall, confident and relaxed; he had an air of authority about him that reminded William of his own father. But in all the bustle and movement inside the shop, he couldn’t work out which one was Florentyna. He stood there for nearly an hour enjoying the comings and goings, regretting the stubborn years he had thrown away.
The March wind was beginning to race down Fifth Avenue. He’d forgotten how cold that wind could be. He turned his collar up. He must get home, because they were all coming to dinner that night, and he was going to meet Florentyna and the grandchildren for the first time, and be reunited with his beloved son. He had told Kate what a fool he’d been, and begged her forgiveness. All she said was, ‘I’ll always love you.’ Florentyna had written to him. Such a kind and generous letter. She had been so understanding about the past, and had ended with ‘I can’t wait to meet you’.
He must get home. Kate would be cross with him if she discovered he’d been out on his own in that cold wind. They could tell him all about the opening over dinner. He wouldn’t let them know he’d been there - that would always be his secret.
As he turned to go home, he saw an old man standing a few yards away in a black overcoat, with his hat pulled down over his head and a scarf around his neck. Not a night for old men, thought William as he walked towards him. And then he saw the silver band on his wrist. In a flash it all came back to him, fitting into place for the first time. Tea at the Plaza, later at his office in Boston, then again on a battlefield in Germany, and now on Fifth Avenue. The man must have been standing there for some time, because his face was red and raw from the wind. He stared at William out of those unmistakable blue eyes. They were now only a few feet apart. As Will
iam passed him, he raised his hat to the old man. He returned the compliment, and they continued on their separate ways without a word.
I must get home before they do, thought William. The joy of seeing Richard and his grandchildren would make everything worthwhile. He must get to know Florentyna, ask for her forgiveness, and trust that she would understand something he could scarcely comprehend himself. Such a fine young woman, everybody told him.
When he reached East Sixty-Eighth Street, he fumbled for his key and opened the front door. ‘Turn on all lights,’ he told the maid, ‘and build the fire up to make them feel welcome.’ He felt very contented and very, very tired. ‘Draw the curtains and light the candles on the dining-room table. There’s so much to celebrate.’
He couldn’t wait for them all to return. He sat down in the old maroon leather chair by the log fire and thought happily about the evening that lay ahead. Grandchildren surrounding him, the years he had missed. When had his little grandson learned to count? At last William felt he had a chance to bury the past and earn forgiveness in the future. The room was so nice and warm after that cold wind …
A few minutes later there was an excited bustle downstairs, and the maid came in to tell Mr Kane that his son had just arrived. He was in the hall with Mrs Kane and his wife and two of the loveliest children the maid had ever seen. Then she ran off to be sure that dinner would be ready on time. He would want everything to be perfect that night.
Richard entered the room, with Florentyna by his side. She looked quite radiant.
‘Father,’ he said. ‘I would like you to meet my wife.’
William Lowell Kane would have stood to greet her, but he couldn’t. He was dead.
59
ABEL PLACED the envelope on the table by his bed. He hadn’t dressed yet. Nowadays he rarely rose before noon. He tried to put the breakfast tray on the floor, but the movement demanded too much dexterity for his stiff old body to accomplish. He inevitably ended by dropping the tray with a bang. It was no different today. He no longer cared. He picked up the envelope once more, and read the covering note for a second time.
‘We were instructed by the late Mr Curtis Fenton, sometime manager of the Continental Trust Bank, LaSalle Street, Chicago, to send you the enclosed letter when certain circumstances had come about. Please acknowledge receipt of this letter by signing the enclosed copy and returning it to us in the stamped addressed envelope supplied herewith.’
‘Goddamn lawyers,’ said Abel, and tore open the envelope.
Dear Mr Rosnovski,
This letter has been in the keeping of my lawyers until today for reasons that will become apparent to you as you read it.
When in 1951 you closed your accounts at the Continental Trust after over twenty years with the bank, I was naturally very distressed and concerned. My concern was caused not by losing one of the bank’s most valued customers, sad though that was, but because you felt I had acted in a dishonourable way. What you were not aware of at the time was that I had specific instructions from your backer not to reveal certain facts to you.
When you first visited me at the bank in 1929, you asked for financial help to clear the debt incurred by Mr Davis Leroy, in order that you might take possession of the hotels which then formed the Richmond Group. I took a personal interest in your case, as I believed that you had an exceptional flair for your chosen career. It has given me a great deal of satisfaction to observe in old age that my confidence was not misplaced. But in truth I was unable to find a backer, despite approaching several leading financiers. I might add that I also felt some responsibility for your predicament, having advised you to buy 25% of the Richmond Group from my client, Miss Amy Leroy, when I was unaware of the financial difficulties Mr Leroy was facing at that time. I digress.
I had given up all hope of finding a backer for you when you came to visit me on that Monday morning. I wonder if you remember that day as well as I do? Only thirty minutes before your appointment I had a call from a financier who was willing to put up the necessary money. Like me, he had great confidence in your ability. His only stipulation, as I advised you at the time, was that he insisted on remaining anonymous because of a potential conflict between his professional and private interests. The terms he offered, allowing you to gain eventual control of the Richmond Group, were in my opinion extremely generous, and you rightly took full advantage of them. Indeed, your backer was delighted when you were able, through your own diligence and hard work, to repay his original investment with interest.
I lost contact with you both after 1951, but soon after I retired from the bank I read a distressing story in the newspapers concerning your backer, which prompted me to write this letter, in case I died before either of you.
I write not to prove my good intentions in this affair, but so that you should not continue to live under the illusion that your benefactor was Mr David Maxton of the Stevens Hotel. Mr Maxton was a great admirer of yours, but he never approached the bank in that capacity. The gentleman who believed in you, and the future of the Baron Group, was William Lowell Kane, the former Chairman of Lester’s Bank, New York.
I begged Mr Kane to inform you of his personal involvement, but he refused to break the clause in his trust deed that stipulated that no beneficiary should be privy to the investments of his family trust, because of the conflict it might cause at the bank. After you had paid off the loan and he learned of Henry Osborne’s association with the Baron Group he became even more adamant that you should not be informed.
I have left instructions that this letter is to be destroyed if you should die before Mr Kane. In those circumstances, he will receive a similar letter, explaining your total lack of knowledge of his personal generosity.
Whichever one of you receives a letter from me, it was a privilege to have served you both.
I remain, your faithful servant,
Curtis Fenton
Abel picked up the phone by the side of his bed. ‘Find George for me,’ he said. ‘I need to get dressed.’
60
GRANDMOTHER KANE would have approved of the turnout at William Lowell Kane’s funeral. Three senators, five congressmen, two bishops, most of the leading banks’ chairmen and the publisher of The Wall Street Journal were all in attendance. Jake Thomas and every director of the Lester board were also present, their heads bowed in prayer to a God William had never believed in. Richard and Florentyna stood on one side of Kate, Virginia and Lucy on the other.
Few of the mourners noticed two old men standing at the back of the cathedral, their heads also bowed, looking as if they were not attached to the main party. They had arrived a few minutes late, and left quickly at the end of the service. Florentyna recognized the limp as the shorter man hurried away, and told Richard. But they didn’t say anything to Kate.
Kate wrote and thanked the two men the following day. She hadn’t needed to be told.
A few days later, the taller of the two men went to see Florentyna in her shop on Fifth Avenue. He had heard she was returning to San Francisco, and he needed to see her before she left. She listened carefully to what he had to say, and agreed to his request with joy.
Richard and Florentyna Kane arrived at the Baron hotel the next afternoon. George Novak was waiting in the lobby to escort them to the 42nd floor.
After ten years, Florentyna hardly recognized her father. He was sitting up in bed, half-moon spectacles propped on the end of his nose, still no pillows, but smiling defiantly. They talked of happier days, and both of them laughed a little and cried a lot.
‘You must forgive us, Richard,’ said Abel. ‘We Polish are a sentimental race.’
‘I know. My children are half Polish,’ said Richard.
Later that evening they dined together - magnificent roast veal, appropriate for the return of the prodigal daughter, said Abel.
He talked of the present, avoided the past and told her how he saw the future of the group.
‘We ought to have one of your shops in every hotel
,’ he told Florentyna.
She laughed and agreed.
He told Richard of his sadness about the long-running feud with his father, and that it had never crossed his mind even for a moment that William Kane could have been his benefactor, and how he would have liked one chance, just one, to thank him personally.
‘He would have understood,’ said Richard.
‘Your father and I met, you know, the day he died,’ said Abel.
Florentyna and Richard stared at him in surprise.
‘Oh yes,’ said Abel. ‘We passed each other on Fifth Avenue -he had come to watch the opening of your new store. He raised his hat to me. It was enough, quite enough.’
Abel had only one request of Florentyna: that she and Richard accompany him on his journey to Warsaw in a few months’ time for the opening of the latest Baron.
‘Can you imagine,’ he said, again excited, his fingers tapping the side table. ‘The Warsaw Baron. Now there is a hotel that could only be opened by the president of the Baron Group.’
During the following months the Kanes visited Abel regularly, and once again Florentyna grew very close to her father.
Abel came to admire Richard and the common sense which tempered his daughter’s ambitions. He adored his grandson. And little Annabel was - what was that awful modern expression? - she was something else. Abel had rarely been happier in his life, and he began to make elaborate plans for his triumphant return to Poland where he would open the Warsaw Baron.
The president of the Baron Group opened the Warsaw Baron six months later than originally scheduled. Building contracts run just as late in Warsaw as they do in every other part of the world.