“What did you do before you were his chela?”
“His meal ticket, you mean. Same thing—model and whore. What else is there to do? Babysat. Served drinks in my skin for a while but they let me go when they found a girl who could write—discrimination and I could have fought it as I never got my orders mixed up; my memory is better than people who have to write things down. But, hell, no use trying to hang on when they don’t want you. Joan, you said you’d been giving money away all your life.”
“I exaggerated, Gigi. Never had much until after World War Two. I just meant I wasn’t stingy even as a kid, when every nickel came the hard way.”
“‘Nickel’?”
“A five-cent piece. They used to be minted from a nickel alloy and were called that. Dimes and even dollars used to be silver. We actually had gold money when I was a kid. Then during the Great Depression I was flat broke for about six months—and other people helped me—and then later I helped some, sometimes the same people. But giving money away on a large scale I didn’t start until I had more money than I could spend or wanted to invest, and the tax laws at that time fixed it so that you could do more giving it away than by keeping it.”
“Seems a funny way to run things. But of course I’ve never paid taxes.”
“You just think you haven’t. You started the day you were born. We may eliminate death someday but I doubt if we’ll ever eliminate taxes.”
“Well. . . I won’t argue it, Joan, you must know more about it than I do. How much money have you given away?”
“Oh, it didn’t amount to more than a few thousand until after War Two and most of that was loans I knew I would never collect. Kept records for years—then one day I burned the record book and felt easier. Since then—I’d have to consult my accountant. Several millions.”
“Several millions! Dollars?”
“Look, cuddly, don’t be impressed. After a certain point money isn’t money, it’s just bookkeeping figures or magnetized dots in a computer.”
“I wasn’t exactly impressed. Confused. Joan, I don’t have any feeling of any sort for that much money. A
hundred dollars I understand. Even a thousand. But that much is like the National Debt; it doesn’t mean anything to me.”
“Nor does it to me, Gigi; it’s like a chess game—a game played just for itself, and one I’m tired of. Look, you wouldn’t let me buy groceries even though I am helping to eat them. Would you accept a million dollars from me?”
“Uh. . . no! It would scare me.”
“That’s an even wiser decision than the one you made before breakfast. But page Diogenes!”
“Who’s he?”
“Greek philosopher who went around searching for an honest man. Never found him.”
Gigi looked thoughtful. “I’m not very honest, Joan. But I think I’ve found an honest man. Joe.”
“I think so, too. But, Gigi, may I say why I think you were smart to say No? Oh, it was a gag, sort of, but if you had said Yes, I would not have welched. But I would hate to do it to you. May I tell you why?—what’s wrong with being rich?”
“I thought being rich was supposed to be fun.”
“It’s fun, some ways. When you’re really wealthy—and I am—money is power. I’m not saying that power isn’t worth having. Take me, if I hadn’t had that much raw power, I wouldn’t be here chatting with you; I’d be dead. And I like it here, with your arms around me and Joe painting a picture of us because he thinks we’re beautiful—and we are. But power works both ways; the man—or woman—who has it can’t escape it. Gigi, when you’re rich, you don’t have friends; you just have endless acquaintances.”
“Ten minutes,” said Joe.
“Rest time,” said Gigi.
“Huh? But we’ve been resting.”
“So get up and stretch, it’ll be a long day. If Joe says we’ve posed fifty minutes, we have; he uses a timer. And have a cup of coffee; I’m going to have one. Coffee, Joe?”