by Chris Knopf
“And you’re Auric,” she said, giving my hand a sturdy shake.
“It’s a pleasure, Ms. Bellefonte.”
“Nitzy, please. Would you care for a brief tour before we chat?”
What could have been brief turned into nearly two hours as Nitzy shared with us not only the significance of each work, but the circumstances surrounding its acquisition. Much of this involved cagey negotiations and some dazzling escapades on the part of her grandfather, and then subsequently Aidan and herself. It was hard to call this outsized pride since her delivery was so charming and unburdened by self-awareness. Natsumi and I did little to discourage her, since with every step through the museum she became warmer and more loquacious. By the time we reached the comfortable leather seating in her office, all of us armed with a delicate glass of light white wine, the atmosphere positively glowed with good will.
“So, please, you must tell me what you’re thinking about, event-wise,” she said as she perched on the edge of her seat, giving the hem of her skirt a symbolic adjustment, leaving plenty of shapely, bare thigh for all of us to enjoy.
“Fire and Ice,” said Natsumi, after allowing the suspense to build for a few seconds. “Of course it will be optional, but we’ll ask each couple to dress in either fiery gold, or icy silver. Jewelry will naturally be optional.”
She and Nitzy shared a giggle over the absurd notion that any woman would come unbejeweled, given such a blatant excuse.
“Inside the house,” Natsumi went on, “we’ll have the big room with the walk-in fireplace just ablaze in gold and red décor. Here’s where we’ll have drinks and chitchat before moving to the banquet room for dinner. I think if we run two tables, we can comfortably seat fifty. The red and gold theme continues on—did you know you can burn torches that are absolutely nontoxic? Then, after dinner, we retire to this gigantic glassed-in room. We’ll open all the doors and the ceiling vents and have ice sculptures on a big center table, plenty of aperitifs and gelato—I know a place in the city that delivers direct from Venice. So what do you think?”
She looked at Nitzy like a candidate for the junior high cheerleading squad.
“Oh, Charlene, I just love it to death. You are so clever.”
I breathed a hidden sigh of relief. Whether she meant it or not, the local society’s chief arbiter of taste had to be behind the concept.
“You are such a lucky man,” she added, looking at me. I tried to look modestly prideful.
Nitzy went on to discuss a host of logistical details I wouldn’t have considered in a million years. Natsumi did a brilliant job engaging in the discussion without betraying her own bewilderment. I just hoped she’d remember it all.
We wrapped up with a celebratory glass of wine, and Nitzy escorted us to the door and the darkening evening. She took me by the elbow as we walked, and in a voice drenched with apology, asked me, “What should I tell people you do, Auric?”
“Strategic commodity trading,” I said without hesitation. I stopped and turned to her. “It’s important for Charlene’s sake that we’re welcomed into the community. But I strive for privacy in business matters. There is very little public information. I have people who do a daily scrub.”
Nitzy seemed relieved by the first part of my answer, and captivated by the second.
“Of course. I completely understand.”
As soon as we passed through the open gate and out to the street, Natsumi let out a sound somewhere between a whoop and a laugh.
“We’re in the club, Alex. We’re in the secret club.”
“Not yet. We need to get through the party.”
“No prob. She told me everything I had to know. Gave it to me on a silver platter. Silver and gold. Hey, what was that?” she said. “I think I saw a little smile. I did. Don’t try to deny it. I made you laugh.”
“I’m practicing a repertoire of responses appropriate to the party environment.”
“No, you aren’t. I made you laugh. Ha.”
It felt odd to be infected by Natsumi’s good cheer, her natural lightness of being. But there it was. Despite all my best efforts, she persistently disrupted my standard internal dialog, my relentless drive for focus and calculation.
I didn’t know what constituted the bigger surprise. That she had that effect on me, or that I liked it so much.
Though perhaps the biggest surprise of all—I didn’t care.
CHAPTER 20
Before we got to the big house I called Little Boy.
“Sorry, Mr. G., he don’t want to deal direct. It’s Jenkins or nothing. This doesn’t surprise me. Three Sticks is one private dude.”
“Thanks for trying. You might hear from him anyway in a few weeks. Just a heads-up.”
“You got some kind of scam in mind?”
“I might,” I said.
“You want some help?”
“Maybe. Don’t take this the wrong way, but why would you want to help me?”
“This Three Sticks, he piss me off. I stay out of his way, he stay outta mine. But I put myself out there in the world. There’s risk in that, but it’s the honorable thing to do. So he’s too good to meet with me, to sit down and talk? It’s insulting. You, Mr. G., you watch your own ass, but you have respect. I can see it. Maybe I’m too sensitive, but you try being a Muslim in Bosnia, part of a people almost wiped out like the Jews in the big war. You don’t know how disrespect can turn into death so fast you never see it coming.”
“I know how death can surprise,” I said, despite myself.
“So that’s that. Call me if you need anything. And more of that gold would be a nice thing. It’s got my distribution all hot and wet.”
AT TEN in the morning the next day, Nitzy called to ask if we’d stop by her house that evening to meet her husband.
“I’ve told him all about you. He insists.”
“Of course,” I told her. “What could be more delightful?”
We filled up the rest of the day drafting a plan of attack for the party. It was a month away, leaving precious little time for such an ambitious event. Even so, it felt like a dangerous expenditure of time. Natsumi was helpful in assuaging these fears, showing herself a fine party planner, even with no experience, as well as a woman of firm, steady resolve.
Our Colombian caretakers, Jorge and Adelita Costello, pressed into extra service by Natsumi, were of priceless value. Neither of us had ever managed employees, so we played it by ear, applying a strategy of excessive appreciation enhanced by overcompensation. The Costellos responded as one would hope.
This is why they were still there in the big foyer on tall stepladders—working well into the evening stringing a giant woven red and gold boa along the crown molding—when we left to meet Nitzy Bellefonte and Aidan Pico.
I used the onboard GPS in the Mercedes to find their house. It was up in the northern, wooded region of Greenwich at the end of a long, intentionally curvy driveway. The house itself was a loose collection of square, white boxes with vertical siding and vast picture windows.
Nitzy greeted us at the door in either a very big sweater or a very short knit tunic, black leotards and black, fur-covered boots. Behind her stood a tiny balding guy, at least three inches shorter than his wife, in a silk T-shirt and sport coat, both perfectly color coordinated with Nitzy’s reddish-brown sweater thing. Both held huge wine glasses containing barely an inch of wine.
“Aidan, allow me to present the Grenouilles,” said Nitzy, as she herded us into the house.
He bowed as he shook our hands and spoke a line of French that I didn’t quite understand. Something about being honored to have fellow countrymen visit him in his humble home. I answered in kind, though far more crudely, explaining that I was second-generation French, which my terrible accent must surely make clear.
He smiled and said, “What is an accent but a manner of speaking? My parents immigrated to Lyon from Mexico City when I was ten years old. I grew up having Frenchmen constantly answer my questions in Spanish. Vin?”
He held up his glass and named the label, another demonstration of his linguistic acumen. “It’s one of our winter favorites.”
Before they could escort us toward the living room, I took a moment to compliment the twelve by twelve Wilson Franklin hanging in the two-story foyer. It depicted a young girl watching a boxing match from the front row of the stadium. Nitzy stood behind Natsumi and held her by both arms as we all looked up in veneration.
“Some of them you just have to bring home, don’t you think?” said Nitzy. “If I couldn’t have beautiful things surrounding me, I wouldn’t feel like life was worth living.”
“You home is very beautiful,” said Natsumi.
“Everyone thinks it’s Le Corbusier, but it’s actually Willa Petersen, one of his students,” said Nitzy. “I frankly think she’s head and shoulders better, but who’s objective about their own house?”
As with the rest of the place, the walls, floors and ceiling of the living room were a satin white, better to display the paintings, fabric hangings and sculpture that filled the space. Some of the artists I recognized from the gallery or my own research, though most were unknown to me. A situation duly remedied by another hour’s lecture on the origins and intricacies of contemporary art. Nitzy did all the work. Aidan focused on the wine and sustaining an admiring and admirable silence. When she seemed nearly spent, he said, “Nitzy tells me you have some hell of a party in mind.”
Nitzy gestured at us as if bestowing permission to speak.
“We do,” said Natsumi. “It’s so exciting that the Bellefonte Gallery has agreed to be the beneficiary.”
“No less exciting for us,” said Aidan. “It takes a great deal of money to collect at this level. And lately, with the Russians and Chinese and Brazilians all getting into the act, the price pressure is getting nuts.”
“We’re only too happy to help,” I said.
“You know something about price pressure in your work, Auric,” said Aidan. “Commodities is it?”
“It is.”
He waited for me to offer more, and when I didn’t he said, “Commodities scare me, I have to admit. I don’t have the nerve for it. Too much like the wild west. I’m just a dull old securities trader. So your dodge is oil, wheat, pork bellies . . . ?”
“Precious metals,” I said, “though not in the open market. I prefer to call it strategic trading.”
“That sounds interesting,” said Nitzy, looking over at her husband as if to say, see, there’s something intriguing about this guy.
“It’s pretty esoteric, and frankly, really boring when you get down to it,” I said. “You’re right, this is excellent wine. Charlene, tell our hosts more about your party plans.”
Which she did, lavishing appreciation on Nitzy for having contributed to both the concept and the planned arrangements. Nitzy took it all in with “but of course” written all over her face.
“So the theme is ‘Gold and Silver, Fire and Ice,’ ” said Aidan. “Seems appropriate for a precious metals trader. Will you be giving away some of your product?”
“Well, we’re prepared to do just that,” I said, as conspiratorially as I could. “Maybe the rumor of such a possibility will assure a good turnout.”
Causing even a brief moment of speechlessness in Nitzy Bellefonte wasn’t an easy task.
“Oh, my,” she said, finally, “what absolutely delicious fun. I will definitely get the word out. I’m sorry—the rumor.”
She stretched out the last word in a loud whisper, then sat back and clapped her hands. Natsumi clapped hers as well. I looked at her adoringly and Aidan looked at me with narrowing eyes.
“Auric Grenouille is a fascinating name,” he said. “And unusual. In fact, Google’s never heard of you.”
“That’s on purpose,” said Nitzy. “I told you that.”
“You’ll have to give me the name of the people who keep your privacy,” said Aidan. “There’s too little of that these days.”
“Charlene, you must love vintage clothing,” said Nitzy, jumping out of her seat and grasping Nitzy’s wrists. “Come along, you have to see what I have stored upstairs.”
Natsumi went docilely and I was left alone with Aidan Pico. He leaned closer to me, as if he could be overheard by his wife.
“Enough of this wine shit. How ’bout a real drink?”
I shook my head.
“Sorry. I have the capacity of a five-year-old. But please, you go ahead.”
“I will.”
He went across the room to what looked like a raised-paneled wall, pushed one of the panels and it swung open, presenting a shelf with a tiny ice chest, a few chunky glasses and a bottle of Makers Mark bourbon. He poured himself a stiff one.
After he settled back into the opulent white couch and drained off about a third of the drink, he said, “What level of trade are you into? Can’t help it, just curious. What sort of numbers? And tell me to stick it up my ass if I’m getting too nosy.”
“Seven to ten figures. Depending on a lot of variables. This crappy economy is warping the spreads, which isn’t all bad if you know how to play it. Most of the product comes out of bad places, so there’s another wild card. But that’s manageable. And I’m not going for the home run. Too easy to strike out. Don’t get greedy, keep a low profile and ignore crazy run-ups. They’re always followed by blow-ups.”
“Interesting.”
“Profitable,” I said, then asked him to tell me all about his business, which he did in great detail, helped along by my well-worn interview techniques. He was so engrossed in his own story, he almost missed the return of Nitzy and Natsumi, who were wearing different clothes from the ones they left in.
“We had a fashion show,” said Nitzy. “I have all these vintage and designer things from the last fund-raiser. I have to give it away to get the tax break, but it’s so hard to let go, even though one of the bedrooms is floor to ceiling. At least your gorgeous wife has a few new outfits to honor your visit.”
Natsumi was wearing a relatively modest white camisole under a red jacket that barely reached her waist, a tight black skirt and pumps that had her nearly on tiptoes. Her unhappiness with the situation was apparent to me, though clearly lost on Nitzy and Aidan.
“Isn’t she the bee’s knees?” said Aidan, before gulping another large mouthful of bourbon. “And you, Nitzy, a vision.”
So she was, in a floor-length dress with bunched up fabric growing out of it everywhere, and a narrow neckline that nonetheless plunged about as far as anatomically possible. She struck a pose that had to be restruck after briefly losing her footing.
“We have to stop polishing these floors, Aidan. They’re too slippery.”
Sober as a judge, I was able to time a strategic withdrawal. Natsumi was alert to the moment, and helped with the transition.
After several rounds of thank you’s, two-handed handshakes, cheek kisses and hugs, we were out the door—Natsumi unsteady on the heels, holding a fabric Gucci bag full of the clothing she’d arrived in, as well as a few items more, and me holding her.
“Well,” said Natsumi, slumping down in her seat as if to avoid deadly fire from the rear, “that was interesting.”
“Love the new threads.”
“Women wear these on purpose,” she said, kicking off the shoes. “I wouldn’t even if my mother hadn’t forbidden it. You can get a nosebleed from the altitude.”
“I think she likes you.”
“As a little Asian doll. I’m ready for anything, Alex, but playing dress-up with Nitzy Bellefonte sort of pushes the creepiness factor.”
“It was all a pretext to get me alone with Aidan so he could pry.”
“How did he do?” she asked.
“Fine, for our purposes. Not so sure for his.”
“Does money always warp people?”
“I believe money only warps the warpable. But I don’t have all the data,” I said.
We sat in silence for a while. Then she said, “You’re one of the unwarpable. I can t
ell, even without the data.”
I thanked her and we retreated back to our grand mansion, our eager Colombians and a greater appreciation for the deeper pleasures of the placidly mundane, even as fantasy and delusion swept up around us like a swirling, uncontrollable tide.
THE WEEKS before the party sped by with reckless abandon. Mostly because there was so much to do, and so little time to do it. The plan we’d made held firm, meaning each of us had equal amounts of too much to do, but it undoubtedly served its purpose in getting it all done.
Throughout, Natsumi maintained her lively level-headedness and I my dour determination.
Perhaps the only unwise assignment for me was to audition and secure the fire dancers. No amount of online research can prepare one for the sight of attractive, flimsily clad people twirling lit batons and exhaling vast clouds of billowing flame. Nonetheless, I hired one of the candidate troupes, based more on their willingness to reveal the inner workings of their craft than the actual thrill of the performance.
It didn’t hurt that they were French Canadian. They pledged the greatest party ever.
“Monsieur Grenouille, nous allons presenter un spectacle le plus stupefiant au monde.”
“That’s good enough for me.”
DISTRACTED AS I was, Evelyn was right to be angry over the long delay in hearing from me.
“You didn’t answer my last email,” she said.
“You’re right. I was going to, then forgot.”
“That’s not like you.”
“It’s getting harder to tell what is and what isn’t like me,” I said.
“Is that supposed to be comforting?”
“I have a new accomplice. I stupidly exposed her to a very dangerous person, so I had to bring her along with me.”
“Her?”
“Yes, and yes before you ask,” I said.
“My, my. Now I know why you aren’t yourself.”
“It’s more than that, but you’re probably right. It changes things.”
“I wish you could tell me more.”
“I have the name of the person behind the one who pulled the trigger. It’s an alias, of course. His modus operandi is to be invisible and unreachable, but I have a plan. It isn’t fully formed, but I’m already committed, so we’ll have to see.”