William Randolph Hearst was a newspaper magnate. He owned a vast ranch where he lived with his mistress, the sultry diva Marion Davies, who never tired of the lavish parties they threw. Marion loved high society life; the balls, the people, and the champagne that flowed like water. She could not fathom her lover’s listless demeanour; as she saw it, they had everything they needed to be happy. But the Great Depression worried William, so much so that he had trouble sleeping at night. His heart was acting up, and he feared he was on the verge of an attack. Sudden death, with no warning. “You worry too much, darling,” Marion insisted. If she only knew what it had taken to build an empire like his...decades of toil, sapping every ounce of your mettle, your health, your strength and your imagination. And that empire, powerful as it might be, was little but a house of cards.
Not long ago, Marion had had the brilliant idea of buying him a pet: a gentle, loving dog to comfort Hearst. Nothing had been the same in America since the Wall Street Crash in 1929. Black Thursday would remain etched in his memory forever. In a single morning, a quarter of the New York Stock Exchange’s value had been wiped out. A quarter of his power, of his wealth, a quarter of his crown, a quarter of his ambition. A quarter of the banks had closed. Banks, the saviours of the free world, nailing their doors closed. So many people had lost their jobs, their houses and the food from their tables. William had not been spared, but he had enough to bounce back. He’d fired a hundred staff and sold his convertible. Marion hadn’t worried a bit; she’d thrown a lavish dinner party just the week after. Russian caviar, salmon from the great American rivers, French champagne, canapés...it was worthy of the court of Versailles. Marion was his Marie-Antoinette, turning heads with her extravagance. But she consoled him, reassured him and encouraged him too. Marion knew him well.
William was planning a trip to Germany. He supported the National Socialists with their crooked crosses. Germany was a rising power, having recovered from its defeat in the Great War and the shame of Versailles. Germany was back on her feet and ready to build an empire. He’d never had much luck in politics; he should have been mayor of New York, and should have been governor too, but he was beaten out each time. “Politics just isn’t for you, but you’re the biggest tycoon around,” Marion consoled him. Her words were scant comfort; that dream was already lived, and had been for twenty years, and no longer mattered. But Germany...that was another story. He needed a change of scene, far away from the economic crisis at home. He was too smart, too cultured, too strategic, too rich and too powerful to rest on his laurels in his ranch, smoking cigars and drinking whisky. He wanted to understand the ambition of these Germans. He wanted to extend his reach into Europe. Marion would surely come with him to Berlin, where he would be met by press barons and politicians. And, of course, he would bring his Dachshund for the occasion. William petted the little dog: “Soon we’ll be in Germany, my pet! Soon we’ll be in Germany.” The dog had been a faithful companion to him lately; when William couldn’t sleep at night, his hound got up too. When William worried about his newspapers, the hound licked his hand eagerly. When William grew frustrated with Marion’s vanity, as had occurred half an hour ago, the dog gave him an excuse to go out to the park. “The world is changing, and we’re not going to get left behind,” William concluded, before they headed home.
“Have you packed for Berlin?” he asked Marion when they got back.
“We’re leaving in three weeks, my dear...of course I haven’t! What do they wear in Germany? I don’t have any outfits!”
“Come now, Marion, the wardrobe is full of dresses and shoes.”
“I have to get some fashion magazines from over there...I can’t show up in Berlin dressed like an American!”
“Just dress like Marlene Dietrich.”
“You know, that’s not a bad idea. I like her. She’s a little vulgar, a little depraved — just what the world needs. Where’s puppy?”
“Puppy?! The dog’s name is Abraham, like Abraham Lincoln! Puppy? Puppy?! Shame on you. He’s doing his business outside.”
Alan Alfredo Geday