The Portrait of a Mirror
Page 17
—Come on, Dad, you know I wouldn’t do that.
—I’m serious, he added, doing his best to look serious.
This time Eric appealed nonverbally, blinking his eyes in that exaggeratedly innocent “who me” face of his. His new new glasses—not the new ones he started the project with, but a slightly heavier, more sophisticated set—somehow accentuated this motion. Even Eric’s precious blinky hedgehogness had undergone a subtle change, one characterized specifically by his awareness and cultivation of it. There was a temerity embedded in his timidity now, a well-acted quality to his affectionate insubordination. Eric Hashimoto was officially in on the joke of himself, and eager for everyone to hear it.
At first Diana managed to repress her laugh, but when it got the better of her, Dale too smiled in spite of himself, shaking his head in resignation.
—Your notes from all the workshop sessions better be flawless today, he bartered.
—Oh, absolutely, Dad—I promise you, I promise you they will be.
—Here, let me give you a head start, Diana cut in with a look Dale registered as exceptionally mischievous. Don’t get sidetracked by all the rousing welcome speeches about “innovation” and “agility”—the main thing you need to get down today is the participants’ names and roles and home organizations and personal anecdotes. Calling people by their names, showing them that you listened to and remembered their little stories—these tiny kindnesses build trust and rapport, and trust and rapport incline people to share things that they weren’t intending to share. Maybe even things that they shouldn’t. Right, Dale?
—That tactic tends to be most effective when the other person doesn’t know that you’re employing it, he said wryly. Bonjour Monsieur, nous voudrions aller à la Rue de Richelieu près du Palais Royal . . . oui, deux ou trois blocs au nord, ça marche.
—I know, said Eric with offense, oblivious to Dale’s conversation with the driver. The whole workshop is predicated on deception. That’s kind of the point of a Trojan horse.
Dale would not have been so annoyed if Eric hadn’t been right. They had all been calling the fraud workshop a Trojan horse as a clever sort of compliment to the deceptive blur of its deception. Diana had perhaps brought up trust and rapport for its more private relevance, but Monday’s introductions and pleasantries were a ploy to build false trust. The fraud presentations scheduled for Tuesday were likewise pretext and Wednesday’s “small-group work” was a daylong euphemism for underhanded knowledge transfer to Pegaswipe. No victor would be named on Thursday, Dale already knew. The judgment of Paris would be delayed until the safeguards were in place for layoffs to commence, and delivered under telephonic cover. Indeed, this had been his recommendation to Prudence Hyman. It was getting harder and harder not to see the fraud workshop for what it was—a fraud. One with real consequences, with people’s livelihoods on the line—defrauding antifraud professionals out of their jobs. Framed as an epic clash, Dale was less than proud of the side he was on. He looked to Diana for some telepathic reassurance before his thoughts could get too entangled in the metaphor, but her attention was lightly focused on Eric in the kind of platonic flirtation in which she engaged when she had already succeeded in collecting someone.
That was what she did. Diana collected people the way Vivien collected things, carefully choosing those most flattering to her, tucking them in her drawer like scarves from Hermès. In this moment of self-doubt, Dale wondered if he was just another trinket. But no, even as he indulged himself, decorating his burrow of pity, Dale knew it wasn’t true. There was nothing light or platonic about his relationship with Diana. Their interactions were loaded with heavy artillery and real danger. Dale knew he gave her pause in her decision to marry so young—knew, and reveled in it, reveled in presenting the same torturous cognitive possibility, however distant, of an alternative life that she reveled in presenting to him. The magic of their connection was established in its equal footing, and his ego urgently sought some new validating sign of it. The next time she turned toward him, Dale held her gaze with rapt seriousness until she returned it with greater avidity, touching the very extremity of appropriateness. Dale wanted to rip her dress off right there. But how could he? They were in the back of a taxi with Eric Hashimoto.
The Merchantes offices occupied the third to sixth floors of a Lutetian limestone building, yes, but a far sparer, more modernly designed one than an American might hope to find. It was nowhere as nice as Olympia inside—all mid-tier office furniture and industrial blue carpet. But when you looked out the window, down the side streets, or across the vista of rooftops, you knew you were in Paris. She was right there, all the more alluring for her proximity, just out of reach. A prison, certainly, but the kind of prison you would choose. A prison with an Instagrammable view.
CHAPTER XIX.
SELECT USPS MAIL ACTIVITY (RESORTED, BY POSTAGE CLASS, WEIGHT), VIVIEN FLORIS AND DALE S. MCBRIDE (XXXX WALNUT ST, PHILADELPHIA, PA 19103), RETRIEVED BY VIVIEN FLORIS, THURSDAY, JULY 2, 2015.
1. FIRST CLASS PACKAGE SERVICE
Exterior:
[MAILING ADDRESS]
Ms. Vivien Floris
XXXX Walnut St.
Philadelphia, PA 19103
[RETURN ADDRESS]
Knotty Little Letterpress
XXX Grant Ave.
San Francisco, CA 94108
[POSTMARK]
June 30, 2015
Contents:
Signature 2-ply Letterpress Wedding Invitation in Bone, 250 count
[SAMPLE 1 REPRODUCED BELOW]
Signature 2-ply Letterpress Program (single page) in Bone, 250 count
[SAMPLE 2 REPRODUCED BELOW]
Signature 2-ply Letterpress . . . &c.
Customer Receipt, Total (Paid: American Express): $5,435.22 on June 20, 2015
[SAMPLE 1]
[Monogrammed Logo]
DR. & MRS. ALTON ANDREW FLORIS REQUEST THE PLEASURE OF YOUR COMPANY AT THE MARRIAGE OF THEIR DAUGHTER
VIVIEN CHRISTINA TO DALE SEATON MCBRIDE
ON SATURDAY, THE FIFTH OF SEPTEMBER TWO THOUSAND AND FIFTEEN AT HALF PAST SIX O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING
WHIPPLEPOOL COUNTRY CLUB VILLANOVA, PENNSYLVANIA
DINNER AND DANCING TO FOLLOW
BLACK TIE
[SAMPLE 2—FRONT]
[MONOGRAMMED LOGO]
VIVIEN + DALE SEPTEMBER 5, 2015
— THE CEREMONY —
PRELUDE “YOU ONLY LIVE TWICE,” FROM YOU ONLY LIVE TWICE
SEATING OF THE MOTHERS “LOVE THEME,” FROM CINEMA PARADISO
PROCESSIONAL “ORCHARD HOUSE,” FROM LITTLE WOMEN
OFFICIANT’S GREETING
READINGS FROM THE METAMORPHOSES, OVID FROM “THE PHOENIX AND THE TURTLE,” SHAKESPEARE
EXCHANGE OF VOWS & RINGS
PRONOUNCEMENT OF MARRIAGE
RECESSIONAL EXCERPT FROM VIOLIN CONCERTO IN D, OP. 77, I. ALLEGRO NON TROPPO, BRAHMS
[SAMPLE 2—BACK]
OFFICIANT FATHER BENEDICT HUMMEL
PARENTS OF THE BRIDE ALTON & KIKI FLORIS
PARENTS OF THE GROOM MATTHEW MCBRIDE & PENELOPE SEATON
MAID OF HONOR | GRACE CHO BRIDESMAIDS | JACQUELINE DARBY, AUDREY WIMBERLY
BEST MAN | GAGE THOMPSON GROOMSMEN | SEBASTIAN FLORIS, HARRISON SINCLAIR
READERS | PAIGE SINCLAIR, ANDERSON GREGORY
MUSIC | THE VIOLENT VIOLINS
THANK YOU TO OUR DEAR FAMILY AND FRIENDS FOR JOINING US ON THIS EXTRAORDINARY DAY ALL LOVE, DALE + VIVIEN
#KISSTHEMCBRIDE
2. FIRST CLASS MAIL LETTER
Exterior:
[MAILING ADDRESS]
Mr. Dale McBride and Ms. Vivien Floris
XXXX Walnut St.
Philadelphia, PA 19103
[RETURN ADDRESS]
St. Joseph’s Episcopal Church
XX Ardmore Ave.
Ardmore, PA 19003
[POSTMARK]
June 29, 2015
Contents:
Tri-fold letter,
typed, hand-signed [REPRODUCED BELOW]
[TRI-FOLD LETTER]
FATHER BENEDICT R. HUMMEL
ST. JOSEPH’S EPISCOPAL CHURCH
June 19, 2015
Dear Ms. Floris and Mr. McBride,
As I am sure you are aware, we have been trying to organize a congregational service trip to Nepal since April’s earthquake—an intention made all the more urgent by the devastating aftershock in May. Thanks to the compassion of our dear community (including the generosity of your wonderful parents, Vivien), we have reached our funding goal even sooner than anticipated, and I will be leading a group of fourteen volunteers to spend six months in Kathmandu. Our plans were finalized yesterday and we leave July 13.
Alas, just as there is a blessing embedded in every sacrifice, there is a sacrifice in every blessing, and the collateral impact of the dates above can scarcely have failed to register for you. I am, truly, deeply sorry not to be able to officiate your wedding. It has been my great pleasure getting to know you as a couple, and I was very much looking forward to the joyous event. Your commitment to one another, your patience, and the seriousness with which you are taking this step is a testament to fidelity, and an honor to God.
I know your thoughts and prayers, like mine, rest first and foremost with the thousands dead and millions left homeless in Nepal. But I am also aware that Christian priorities do not solve for the problem of a missing officiant. Father Clements is unfortunately already scheduled to perform another wedding the same day as yours, but has assured me he will be available to assist you in finding another suitable Episcopal Priest in the coming weeks.
Again, my sincerest apologies, and thank you for the grace and perspective with which I know you both will take this news.
Best Regards,
[SIGNATURE]
Father Benedict R. Hummel
St. Joseph’s Episcopal Church
3. NONPROFIT POSTCARD
Exterior:
[MAILING ADDRESS]
Ms. Vivien Floris
1000 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10028
FORWARDED
Ms. Vivien Floris
XXXX Walnut St.
Philadelphia, PA 19103
[RETURN ADDRESS]
THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART
1000 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10028
[POSTMARK]
June 8, 2015
Contents:
Event invitation, Ninth Annual Young Members’ Party
[REPRODUCED BELOW]
[EVENT INVITATION]
[CELEBRATORY GRAPHICS]
THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART CORDIALLY INVITES YOU TO THE NINTH ANNUAL
Young Members’ Party
THURSDAY, JULY 9, 2015 8:00–11:00 P.M.
DRINKS, DANCING, HORS D’OEUVRES, AND ART
FEATURED EXHIBITIONS: CHINA: THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS ART & MYTH: OVID’S HEIRS THE ROOF GARDEN COMMISSION: PIERRE HUYGHE
MUSIC: DJ ME-J
COCKTAIL ATTIRE
THIS EVENT IS MADE POSSIBLE BY CONDÉ NAST AND MERCURY INCORPORATED.
4. RETAIL GROUND POSTCARD
Front:
[GRAPHIC FEATURING TWO STYLIZED SILHOUETTE PORTRAITS, ON THE LEFT A DOG, ON THE RIGHT A CAT, EMBEDDED IN A GEOMETRICALLY PERFECT HEART, SYMMETRICALLY FACING INWARD Toward ITS Y-AXIS BISECTION]
Back:
[NOTE FROM POSTAL SERVICE]
ATTENTION! MAILING ADDRESS NAME DOES NOT MATCH RESIDENT ON FILE
Dear DIANA WHALEN,
We hope that DALE has fully recovered from his little mishap, and is back to his rambunctious self!
At Best Friends, we know how important you and DALE are to each other—that he’s your “special” friend. That’s why for a limited time we’re offering 15% off future visits when you register with us online as your primary provider of furry care.
Thanks for choosing Best Friends, and we hope to see you and DALE again soon!
[RETURN ADDRESS]
Best Friends
XXX Arch St.
Philadelphia, PA 19103
[MAILING ADDRESS]
Ms. Diana Whalen
XXXX Walnut St.
Philadelphia, PA 19103
[POSTMARK]
July 1, 2015
CHAPTER XX.
The Mendelssohn violin concerto opens with the soloist, with the concerto’s ultra-urgent signature melody at its very most urgent, an E-minor imperative statement, the one that ran through Mendelssohn’s head prior to composition and gave him “no peace.” It is a notably innovative break from the classical tradition, musically speaking, where it is customary to let the orchestra give a formal introduction—and yet, more broadly, nothing could be more classical than beginning in medias res, a Dionysian euphoria underlying the soloist’s Apollonian control. As the nineteenth-century virtuoso violinist Joseph Joachim put it, “The Germans have four violin concertos. The greatest, most uncompromising is Beethoven’s. The one by Brahms vies with it in seriousness. The richest, the most seductive, was written by Max Bruch. But the most inward, the heart’s jewel, is Mendelssohn’s.” The Mendelssohn is technical and ruthless and disciplined—famously a favorite of prodigies—and yet there is an audible warmth there, a bridled romance, a tender youth and insecurity. You can hear the human blood under its skin, pulsing from protruding veins, trying in vain to escape. The soloist seems to play twice as many notes as two violins combined, and still its cadenzas, while extraordinary—perfect, even—are also insufficient, as if some inexpressible, achingly ungraspable joie de vivre is just out of reach. It is a thoroughly German concerto, but with a repressed French soul.
Perhaps that was why it was playing in the lobby of the Westin Paris Vendôme, where Dale McBride sat with agitation in a brocade silver chair. Look at him, closely now. He has obviously showered. His skin still has that just-showered warmth and humidity. His hair still wet, but combed. The air-conditioning is normalizing the room to a patriarchal 20 degrees centigrade, and yet there is a distinct possibility he will sweat through his windowpane dress shirt, resemblant in both pattern and texture of a fine Japanese graph paper. The hurry has hindered his ability to appear effortless, a side effect that would have gone unnoticed had the rest of the team appeared bubbling with excitement around the same time. But they were all late, and his E-minor adrenaline was boiling rapidly into the cortisol-laden anxiety of eagerness, that particular eagerness not to appear eager, even before Diana W. Whalen came into view.
Presto.
He stood up instinctively. Nothing in the weeks of petite-Madeline-type shift dresses could have remotely prepared him for the little white shorts she was wearing. An arpeggio-like flutter of nerves manifested somewhere south of Dale’s sternum, a trill of a thrill. The voluminous asymmetry of her matching blouse allowed for an uninterrupted stretch of skin all the way up her left arm, all the way to the ear, behind which she had tucked severely straightened strands of hair. Her normally nymphesque physiognomy had been obscured by smoldering eye makeup; she glowed golden-pink all over. Diana had transformed, all right. She looked less like a nymph than a goddess.
Dale’s expression hovered between a smile and a wince. It wasn’t so much that she looked the way she did. Frankly it almost hurt to look at her like this, dressed to the nines, and on some level Dale probably would have preferred her unadulterated appearance. But Diana’s effort also felt like an exhilarating sort of admission, a pointed gift, if not a form of surrender. An illusion, but an awfully nice one—and that he’d compelled her to concoct it had the distinct flavor of a personal accomplishment. That is, at least until Diana’s perceptive smile quietly acknowledged the chinks in his own armor of nonchalance.
—Apparently the others left already and will meet us there, she said casually, in lieu of hello, as if to undermine her unprecedented sartorial effort.
—Really? How could I have missed them? . . . Oh, shit, my Wi-Fi isn’t working. We better go, then . . . uh . . . let’s hope they let you
into the restaurant . . .
—Excuse me? Diana balked.
He motioned vaguely in the direction of her shorts, fully earning the playful smack to his shoulder and nasty look he craved. Diana turned on her heels in mock offense, strutting toward the door with such hauteur that Dale had to jog a step or two to catch up.
Prestissimo.
—What? Dale laughed, quite inadvertently reaching for her arm and catalyzing an about-face. It’s just that this, er, ensemble . . . it’s not exactly Whalenesque.
—You don’t think it suits me?
—I did not say that.
—You don’t say a lot of things, she said with quiet precision.
Grand pause.
—Well, there’s a lot to be said for negative space.
—Please don’t . . .
—Whatever you’re telling me not to do, he assured her, is not something that I’m doing.
—Well, stop it, then!
—Stop what?
—Whatever you’re “not doing.”
—. . .
Diana evaluated Dale’s expression, looking for signs of her own sense of urgency, the kind that tends to appear when relationships of short duration but high intensity imminently push toward their natural, predetermined expiration date. Dale returned her gaze; she could feel him intensely analyzing her face. She wasn’t imagining it. Yes, he wanted her, certainly. She knew it. Precisely the way she wanted him. This scene of her metamorphosis was one Diana had been working up the courage to initiate for some time, and it was playing out so cinematically, so entirely to her satisfaction, that Diana’s immediate desire for its escalation rendered her helplessly, torturously unsatisfied. There were only a few weeks left on the project, and there wasn’t likely to be an extension. The workshops had proceeded exactly as anticipated. All that was left for Portmanteau to do was pretty-up and package the deliverables. Thus the future opportunities for such private exchanges were dwindling rapidly. And it was their last night in Paris.
The restaurant was only a few blocks away in the Eighth Arrondissement. Tucked into a side street just off L’avenue de New York, L’Autre Miroir was the sort of place that at first glance does not appear especially grand, but once inside it seems to expand into a vast array of plush period rooms. Upon entry, Dale swiftly realized it was one of those fancy old French restaurants where the menu is basically set, only the gentleman’s includes prices, and small gamey portions of every variety get interspersed with, like, shot glasses of chili-pepper sorbet and egg-yolk puree sipped from the shell. It was the kind of experiential, ultra-expensive, three-hour-dinner type place Vivien always wanted to go to and post on Instagram; the kind of place that appealed to Dale himself in the abstract, but invariably made him oppressively uncomfortable once there. It was of the genre, in short, that Eric Hashimoto probably should not have booked for a boisterous group of American consultants to expense. As they followed the maître d’ through the labyrinthine maze of velvet, Dale looked for him around every corner in the hope of conveying his stern disapproval.