Sins of the Fathers Read Free Page A

entered my head.
    ‘Ingrid went to Hollywood,’ By this time she was looking at mewith as much surprise as I was looking at her. ‘You’re not one of Kevin’s regular crowd, are you? Would you be his lawyer
     or something?’
    ‘Good guess. I’m a banker.’
    ‘A what? Jesus, the noise is awful in here! I thought you said you were a banker!’
    ‘I did. And what’s your line, Teresa?’
    ‘I paint. Gee, are you really a banker? You mean you stand in a teller’s cage all day long and dole out the dough?’
    I was entranced by her ignorance. Later I realized she was entranced by mine.
    ‘You’ve never heard of Edvard Munch? You’ve never heard of Paul Klee?’
    ‘No,’ I said, ‘but I’m more than willing to learn.’
    After a couple of dinner-dates I told her a little about my work.
    ‘You mean I can’t come into your bank with a ten-dollar bill and open an account?’
    ‘Our commercial bank, the Van Zale Manhattan Trust, deals with that kind of client. P. C. Van Zale and Company is an investment
     bank. We raise money for the big corporations of America by floating issues which the public can buy as an investment.’
    ‘I don’t believe in capitalism,’ said Teresa firmly. ‘I think it’s immoral.’
    ‘Morality’s like mink,’ I said. ‘It’s great if you can afford it.’ And although she laughed I did not mention my work to her
     again.
    Meanwhile she was still refusing to tell me about her painting, and even when she eventually took me up to her studio I found
     the canvases were stacked facing the wall because she felt they were too bad to be displayed. Once when she was taking a shower
     I nearly raised the cloth which covered the half-finished work on the easel, but I was afraid she might realize the cloth
     had been disturbed and I liked her too much to put our new relationship in jeopardy. I liked her lack of pretentiousness and
     the way she always said what she thought. Although she was shrewd and by no means naïve she had managed to retain a simplicity
     which reminded me of girls I had dated long ago when I had been growing up in Bar Harbor. I wanted to take her out to the
     smart midtown nightclubs but she said she preferred the little ethnic restaurants in the Village. I wanted to give a big dinner
     party so that she could meet my friends but she said she preferred our evenings alone together. I wanted her to spend more
     time at my apartment but she said the servants made her nervous. For some time I had postponed inviting her to my apartment
     because I found it hard to believeshe was as indifferent to money as she appeared to be, but eventually in February I took the risk and invited her to hear
     some records from my collection.
    We listened happily to the phonograph, watched our favourite television shows and read the
New York Sunday Times
together the next morning.
    ‘Imagine being ashamed of being rich!’ she said affectionately when we went to bed again on Sunday night.
    ‘I’m not ashamed of it. It’s my own money, I earned it and I’m proud of it, but I’ve met too many women who have ended up
     finding my bank account more attractive than they found me.’
    ‘Sam,’ said Teresa, ‘no matter how often we start a conversation on an interesting subject we always wind up talking about
     money. Have you noticed? I can’t understand it. I’m not even interested in money. Why do we keep talking about it?’
    I smiled, apologized and at last allowed myself to believe she meant what she said.
    Teresa might not have been interested in money; but she had some strong ideas about earning it. Although she accepted my free
     dinners and the occasional modest gift she refused my offers of financial assistance and she had always believed in ‘paying
     her own way’. To provide herself with the bare essentials of life she used to take temporary jobs as a waitress and quit as
     soon as she had saved up enough money to keep herself for a few weeks. She seemed to have no