“Sir, you can’t treat a child so coldly and expect—”
“I have no time for this nonsense. Take care of him. Do your job.”
She regarded him with maternal disdain. “Yes, sir.”
As he walked away he measured his gait carefully so that it would not appear that he was on the verge of running.
Due to the brutal schedule he set for himself as head of the transplant unit, months passed before Sebastien realized that something strange was happening to Marie. She had gradually filled every extra spot in the downstairs library with books on astrology, psychic phenomena, spiritual channeling, and other occult subjects. He found crystals tucked among the cushions of the stately eighteenth-century divan in their bedroom suite. When he passed through the somber rooms downstairs he smelled the lingering aroma of an incense so heavy it obscured the delicate scents of fresh flowers the maid regularly set about the house.
At first he found it difficult to believe that Marie, the soul of earthly pragmatism, had succumbed to a spiritual fad. He disdained the commercialized and public grasping for spiritual fulfillment, and he thought of his mother’s quiet adherence to her Catholicism and the occult, her faith, lifelong and simple, potent, filled with magic.
He didn’t discuss his own fancies, not certain whether he believed them himself: the longings that he couldn’t name; the dreams in which he was always reaching, always searching; the moments when he paused during his daily routines, feeling compelled to listen. He couldn’t shake the idea that someone who cared about him was whispering so softly that he couldn’t quite hear.
Yes, he could tolerate a few harmless chimeras, whether his own or Marie’s. It was only when they invaded his breakfast—a cherished tradition of thick coffee and pastries—that he rebelled.
One predawn morning he sat down in the breakfast alcove to enjoy his usual fare, but the cook, coughing with embarrassment, set out new concoctions. “What is this?” Sebastien demanded, throwing down a medical journal to glower.
“Wheat germ cereal, sir. With soy milk. Herbal tea and a slice of melon. Madame said this is what you’ll be having from now on.”
“Not unless I’m being force-fed through a tube inserted in my stomach. Take this away and bring me my usual.”
“I can’t, sir. Madame has forbidden it. I’ve restocked the kitchen and thrown everything away.” The cook, a florid middle-aged man with classical training, seemed to be on the verge of tears. “I can’t manage this health-food cuisine, sir. I’m going to resign.”
“You most certainly are not. For me, at least, you’ll continue to cook as before.”
“God bless you, sir. Will you tell madame?”
“Yes. This evening.”
Late that night when he returned home from the hospital Marie was waiting for him in their suite. He stopped in the center of the bedroom and stared at her in much the same way he’d studied his breakfast. In the course of one day she had transformed herself. Her tailored silk robe had been replaced with a shapeless wrap of mustard-colored cotton. Her long black hair had been shorn; it now lay flat and straight against her head in a style that barely covered her ears. Good-bye to her pearls. On a loop of leather around her neck hung a large, brilliant crystal.
“I decided that an abrupt change would shock you less,” she said, folding her hands across her stomach placidly, almost nunlike in the new robe. “I’ve been planning this.”
“What? To impersonate a harem boy?”
“For one thing, I’m closing my business, as soon as possible.”
“Why close your school?”
“I’m going to spend all my time in personal study. Meditation. Yoga. Trust me, Sebastien. For the past five years you and I have allowed ourselves to be twisted by negative forces. That is why we haven’t had a child. We must purify ourselves.”
He felt a vein throbbing in his neck. “We haven’t had children because one of us has some as-yet undiscovered medical problem. You don’t seriously expect me to agree with your plan, do you? And don’t ever tamper with my breakfast menu again.”
Her expression remained benign, almost beatific. “I knew you would resist. So be it. But I intend to perfect my contribution to conceiving a child, so that if anything goes wrong the next time I’ll know that my body and spirit are not at fault.”
“Making for a convenient assumption that I’m the guilty party.”
“I don’t place guilt. It’s a negative—”
“Stop. I really don’t want to hear the jargon. Do what you feel you have to. I won’t complain.”
“Then you’ll try to understand why I want us to be celibate for a year.”
Sebastien studied her in dull fury, his chin up, his hands slowly balling into fists by his side. A dozen responses streaked across his mind—brutal, sarcastic, threatening words that he would never have believed himself capable of speaking to a woman. A brittle expression entered her eyes, and her face went white.
She shrank back, hugging herself. “Sebastien,” she whispered. “I’ll scream if you do anything.”
Understanding slammed into him and made a cold shiver crawl up his spine. What had he become, that he could terrify her with a mere look? She who was as strong and hard as himself, she who could not be intimidated, was now on the verge of cowering.
It made him sick. It frightened him. He did not know himself anymore. “Do whatever you wish,” he said in a barely audible tone.
She sagged. A huge sigh of relief came from her throat. ‘I know how strange and cruel this must seem to you, but several of my spiritual advisers—”
“Fine.” Sebastien waved a hand in dismissal. “Our sex life degenerated long ago into brief ruttings devoid of imagination or tenderness.”
“I won’t complain if you take a mistress.”
“How kind of you. But it would be more trouble than the pleasure is worth. Be glad that I don’t have the patience or the time to seduce any woman discriminating enough to suit me.”
She opened the robe and held it apart, showing that she was naked underneath. “Tonight, one last time, if you like—”
“No.”
“I’ve moved into the guest suite in the left wing.”
“So be it. Good night.” He turned away and walked onto the balcony. The night air was sharp on the cold sweat that beaded on his forehead. After he heard Marie leave the suite he sat down on the balcony’s wide stone balustrade and sank his face into his hands. He laughed softly, without humor, and after a while he went downstairs and across the back portico, through the small courtyard to the garage, where a black Ferrari always waited.
He drove out of the city and found the open highway under a clear sky. Only on these late-night excursions did he feel totally free, yet totally in control. When the Ferrari was soaring at its speed limit, when certain death waited on the other side of even the smallest mistake, he felt better. He told himself that he did not make mistakes, in his driving, in his marriage, in his work, in any of his choices. He had conquered himself again, at least for now.
There was only one aspect of his work that Sebastien didn’t relish, but its growing importance couldn’t be ignored. Unlike many surgeons, he was not interested in the limelight; speaking and lecturing conflicted with his private nature. Language seemed inadequate; it made him feel trapped inside himself, his thoughts a jumble of earnest enthusiasms and concerns that he didn’t know how to express.
He relegated public relations chores to one of his staff surgeons and spoke as rarely as his prominent position would allow. The requirements of his ego, which he knew with sharp self-awareness were great, were satisfied by the attention his transplant protocols had already begun to receive.
So he viewed his speech at the 1988 World Seminar on Transplantation with stoic disinterest. What did fascinate him, to his surprise, was its setting. He had never been to California before, and as a limousine carried him from the airport to the hotel he sat on the edge of the seat, absorbing San Francisco’s postcard-
perfect views with more delight than he’d felt in a long time for anything other than his work.
The next day he stole a few hours from meetings, rented a car, and drove north into the wine country. It charmed him. He stopped on the side of the road and walked to a small vineyard. In the distance sat a weathered house and barns; he hesitated by an unlocked gate in the wire fence, planning his apology if the owner noticed his intrusion. He knew the sacred bond between a man and the land. He inhaled the scent of earth, breeze, and vegetation, remembering how he’d followed Pio around the vineyards as a child, loving the outdoors.
He slipped into the small enclosure and went to the grape trellises. Under his breath he exclaimed over the quality of the vines; kneeling in the soil heedless of his crisp tan slacks, he scooped dirt into one hand and admired its richness. No wonder Jeff Atwater had bragged so about his home state.
Atwater. He had returned to this area to take a job. Sebastien scowled. He had thought of him when he planned the California trip. Years ago he had hated Jeff, even though he blamed himself for leaving Amy in the man’s seductive care.
Time had softened the hatred but not the sense of betrayal. He didn’t blame Amy, from whom he had never exacted promises. He had asked her to forget him, and she had, and that was that. But he did blame Jeff, and he always would.
The world was silent around him; the road empty. Birds swooped past and insects made a pleasant hum. He lifted his head, listening, experiencing the quicksilver, familiar sensation that someone was calling his name. A good omen, he told himself.
By the time he returned to the car he had made his decision. Before he returned to France he would hire a real estate agent to find what he wanted. He was going to buy a home—a refuge?—in this place.
Sebastien couldn’t tell if the mostly American audience had been impressed by his speech on heart-assistance devices or by the fact that a foreign surgeon had contributed important research. American physicians generally felt superior. At any rate, everyone in the hotel’s darkened ballroom rose to applaud him. He basked in the sea of respect for a second, then stepped down from the stage and shook hands with a portly, balding man who wore an amicable smile and the ugliest plaid jacket in existence. His outfit included a string tie and cowboy boots. Dr. Adrian Johnson resembled a carnival barker, but he was actually a pioneering heart surgeon and one every surgeon in the past twenty years, including Sebastien, had idolized. He ran the cardiothoracic research program at the Pacific Heart/Lung Institute, a private foundation affiliated with Stanford University. Johnson was the seminar’s chief coordinator.
“I knew that you’d knock ’em off their asses,” he told Sebastien, pumping his hand. “Congratulations. Magnificent. I owe you a bottle of cognac.”
Sebastien walked with him toward the row of double doors at the side of the room. “I won’t hold you to a bet made over dinner. But I will take your suggestions concerning real estate agents.”
“Hell, Frenchy, don’t you know that I’ll do anything to get you to California? Think about what I said last night. You’d be welcome at the institute. I think we could offer you research opportunities you”d never find elsewhere. Of course, I’d have to mellow you out a little, get you to loosen up, but other than—”
“To be asked by you is the greatest honor. But I have too much at stake in my own program.”
“You’re not Dr. Kildare, man. You’re no good at back-slapping other doctors and coddling patients. You belong
“Dr. Kildare? Do I know him?”
“Nevermind. Just remember my offer, if you ever get the urge to transplant yourself to the States.”
“I will. Thank you.”
Sebastien turned toward the doors, anxious to escape the throng of surgeons converging on him. He was not staying for the seminar’s final day. He had a plane to catch that evening. Someone grasped his shoulder from behind in away that was too commanding and personal. Sebastien pivoted, frowning with impatience.
Jeff Atwater looked back at him. “Dr. Livingstone, I presume,” Jeff deadpanned. “It’s so good to see you again. I had to sleep with several important people—most of them women—to get an invitation to this sawbones’ event. But I heard that you’d be speaking, and I couldn’t miss the chance to say hello to you.”
Jeff had less hair but more money, judging by the fine cloth and cut of his tan herringbone suit. The angular, rubbery face had changed very little. He had gained a few needed pounds. He gave Sebastien a jaunty smile, but the expression in his eyes said that he knew the risk he had taken.
Sebastien regarded him for a moment in bitter silence. It had been five years since he’d learned about Jeff and Amy. Five years had not dulled the anger, he discovered quickly. “Do you think we have anything to discuss?”
“Nuclear waste has a shorter half-life than your memory.” Jeff pointed to his blond head. “Look, I’ve pulled out enough hair over this.”
“Excuse me. I have a plane to catch.”
“I see by your expression that now is not the time for jokes.”
“I think I’m reacting well for a man who once considered castrating you with a rusty scalpel. Not that the loss of your balls would have been noticeable. You have no honor.”
“Can we go have a drink and talk? At least let me drive you to the airport.”
“Unless there’s something you care to explain, something you never bothered to explain five years ago, get out of my way.”
“I wasn’t to blame for what happened. Look, no woman is worth losing a friendship over. This is ridiculous.” Jeff blocked his way with deliberate slowness. “You wouldn’t hit an earnest man.”
Seconds later he was flat on the floor with blood streaming from his mouth. In the general chaos, as men crowded around and someone called for paper towels, Sebastien bent over him and wrapped a hand around his silk tie. Jeff stared up at him through glazed eyes, then mumbled, “Feel better?”
“I have only one question. Do you know where Amy is?”
“No. I haven’t seen her since I left Georgia. I swear. What difference does it make now?”
Sebastien asked himself the same question. Trembling, he released Jeff with a little shove. “You and I have had our reunion, Doctor,” he whispered in an acid tone. “Adieu.”
He smoothed a hand across the lapels of his black suit then walked out of the ballroom and across a glittering atrium. He realized that his fellow surgeons were watching him, and he smiled thinly. Dr. de Savin was building two reputations, they would say—one for his work, another for his violent temper. Sebastien grasped the rail of an escalator and rode down to the hotel’s main lobby. His mind was blank, charged with adrenaline and anger. He vaguely noticed the video monitor mounted on a marble pedestal near the base of the escalator. Announcements were scrolling upwards on the screen:
THE GOLD PAVILLION RESTAURANT WILL BE CLOSED TONIGHT FOR THE TAPING OF THE TELEVISION SHOW “THORNTON AFTER HOURS”, STARRING ELLIOT THORNTON. PLEASE PARDON THE INCONVENIENCE.
He passed the monitor without a second glance.
The hotel suite was a madhouse. Amy scrawled notes on a pad atop her clipboard and recalled scenes from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Shifting on the floor, where she sat cross-legged, she glanced up at the two harried young men who were yelling at each other while Elliot stood to one side, waving his arms.
“It stinks. The concept stinks!” one bellowed. “There’s nothing funny about Iranian cabdrivers!”
“Not to you. You only think dick jokes are funny!”
Elliot bounced a soft-drink bottle off a full trash can and climbed atop a chair. “Shut up!” he yelled among the arguing writers, the red-faced producer, the muttering director, and the dozen other staff members. “We’ve got three hours until we tape! So what if a guest cancelled! This talk show is not going to be about the goddamn celebrity guests! We’re not doing a Carson or Letterman rip-off! This is consumer comedy! The comedy of the masses! Interactive comedy! If you people fall apart just bec
ause we have an extra ten minutes to fill, then you don’t belong on my payroll! Now shut up! Zip it! Let’s think.”
Elliot could afford to talk tough. He had his own production company now. He was executive producer of Thornton After Hours, and this was the premiere show. It had had the hottest press buildup of any non-network, syndicated program in years. A record number of stations across the country had bought it. It would tape at seven P.M., five nights a week, and air at midnight, eastern standard time. Unlike any other talk show, it would frequently be taped outside of the studio with impromptu audiences, the weirder the better. Studio shows would be taped at a big independent station in L.A., where Elliot’s production company had rented offices.
Tonight, for better or worse, Thornton After Hours would make its home in the Gold Pavillion restaurant of the Alistar Hotel, one of San Francisco’s grandest. During the show the restaurant would serve dinner as usual, though the diners would be carefully selected guests: a dozen people who had appeared on The Price Is Right without winning anything, the stage crew from General Hospital, a clogging team of transvestites, and various pals of Elliot’s. Elliot’s plan was to incorporate the quirky audience into the show. Robin Williams had promised to drop by for a brief round of anarchy.
But the anarchy had begun already. Veins bulged above the collar of Elliot’s white golf shirt; his khaki trousers were stained from the cigarette ashes he kept dropping; barefooted, he curled and uncurled his toes, looking like a large yuppie bird trying to perch on the chair. “I need space,” he said suddenly, his voice strained. “Amy. Yo. Five minutes.”
She got up and followed him into the bedroom, where paperwork, cue cards, and luggage took all but approximately four square feet of space on the bed. She sat down on it and waited. Elliot slammed the door and leaned against it, his eyes shut. “I need a drink. A beer. One beer.”
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