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Dear Carmie:
I read your latest letter about all your new adventures in New York and at Lisagore Bankshares. So interesting and exciting. I know you will do killer work there. Your letters mean so much to me. They keep me from becoming a candidate for the psych ward. My life here is too dull to write about, even talk about. Just managing this big house, going to charity things with mother, and, can you believe it, she’s even got me into a bridge club!
Any more I feel that my mind is a time-release instrument of sadness. I think I’m over the loss of my babies, but then I’m not. A cloud forms. Tears come like raindrops. It ends. I think I’m done. And I am, until the next storm. There’s always a next storm. I didn’t know the children. They didn’t know me. No names for headstones. It’s that way for much of life on earth, isn’t it? All species have young. Many know they will die jumping up stream or burying eggs in sand. Or they kill those who are threats to their babies. I never understood the bond before I laid my own eggs. It’s not a bond tied on both ends, though. How many bear cubs come home for mother’s day after they grow up?
My own youth feels so distant. Now when I see a snowflake, or spring flowers or golden leaves, all I can think of is how transient. Life’s so fleeting. I used to entertain myself with thoughts. Now my body feels idle while my thoughts run away so recklessly. I think of those acres of airplanes and ships at anchor no one wants or needs any more. Not that long ago shiny, desired, useful. Now just immobile, waiting for the scrap sentence. Disposability.
I can’t believe I became useless to Andres. Well, maybe not useless, but devalued. We were the most important people in each other’s lives. Now I’m the most important person in my life and I’m struggling to make sense of it. Why? You know, when I go to art galleries and museums I like to get up very close to a painting to see the brush strokes. It amazes me how anyone can be close enough to the canvass to make the most delicate of lines or dabs or squiggles and to understand how that will look to someone who observes the whole painting from ten feet away. I’ve been making those strokes up close in my own life and when I step back I see that the whole picture’s a mess.
Oh, my, Carmie. I should wad this letter up and throw it away. When I step back and look at what I’ve written so far all I see is a lonesome, aimless old lady. I’ll survive. I promise. But it helps me so much to talk with you. Don’t give up on me.
I love you,
Tenny
Dear Tenny:
Not long ago a close friend of mine was killed in a car accident. As I sat in the church, listening to the memorial service, I felt myself choking up. Tears, yes. But more than that. It became harder to breath, harder to swallow. I had this sense of panic, almost to the point of running from the church. But then I asked myself, what am I feeling? Remorse that such a wonderful friend had lost her life at such a young age, of course. But more than that. I was feeling sorry for myself. Sorrow for the loss in my life as well as hers. No more last minute dinners with her. No more days shopping or going to fun places. I was feeling my own loss. She was gone, beyond feeling. It was my first real experience with death, and it was so hard to understand.
Now you have to understand your loss. I can imagine how horrible. Not just your own children but the prospect of not having others. Cry all you need to, but know what you are crying for. Yourself. And since it’s about you, you can pull yourself out of it and move on.
The lesson here isn’t one of melting snowflakes or mothballed ships. It’s living the rest of your life as it can be lived, by you, a healthy, brilliant woman in her prime. Read this and put it up on a wall where you can read it often. It’s from Dante’s Inferno, and if you excuse the gender reference (they had a different idea of political correctness in the fourteenth century) the message fits:
Up on your feet, this is no time to tire,
The man who lies asleep will never waken fame,
And his desire and all his life slip past him as a dream,
And the traces of his memory fade from time,
Like smoke in air or ripples in a stream.
A few letters ago I suggested you go back to school. Your answer? I’ll quote your own words: “Oh, I’m not a kid anymore. I’d be an old lady in those classes. I’m not sure I could handle it.” Excuse me, but you and I are the same age and I’m not an old lady. Neither are you. Get a grip, Tenny. You can breeze right through those business courses. And at the other end you don’t even have to worry about getting a job. Drop the Navarro name. Go back to being an Aragon. Last I heard there was a company by that name that had thousands of people on the payroll. That grandfather of yours still hires Aragons, you know.
I’d offer to come to L.A. and be with you, but you need to work this out for yourself, dear friend. I’m sure you will.
Love,
Carmie
Carmie was right, as usual. Brother Federico was still in executive training. Why not her? Adversity had veiled the obvious. Groupo Aragon did employ tens of thousands of people. Its interests reached into banking, mortgages, swaths of agriculture, communications, entertainment. It controlled much of Mexico’s electric power generation and distribution. In many areas it was a virtual monopoly. Why not join Federico in the family business?
Tenny’s return to USC’s business school was a different experience than the partying of her former life. Not as frivolous. Actually more satisfying. There were classmates her age, women who also had married and divorced, or returned from the Peace Corps or military service, or those who just needed more age or savings. Undergraduate work led to a master’s program in business finance. Within three years, Tenny walked down the graduation aisle, cloaked in the school’s cardinal and gold regalia, diploma in hand.
But her plan to join Federico ended abruptly just before her graduation when he phoned to tell her he was leaving the company. It was a Friday afternoon. He had just informed Papa.
“Leaving? After a dozen years training to run the company?” She was incredulous.
“I’ve been called, Bell. I can’t explain it, but it’s something I must do.”
“Called?”
“I’m joining the Jesuit order.”
“You, a priest?”
“Yes,” he quietly replied. “Me. I hope I am worthy of it.”
“What’s happened, Federico? What’s happened to you? Have you thought this through?”
“It’s not a matter for thought, Bell. It’s a matter of mission. I’ve been called.”
Within days Federico had a new address, the thirty-seven-acre Montserrat Jesuit Retreat House, north of Dallas, Texas. Federico had been accepted as a novitiate, the first step on what would likely be a multiyear journey toward becoming a Jesuit priest.
Miguel was shaken by Federico’s abrupt departure. He had so carefully mapped Federico’s future, not only to benefit his grandson, but to preserve the Aragon line, to continue Groupo Aragon as it should be continued, as an Aragon enterprise. He had even convinced Federico to drop the Tennyson name. Now, Federico was out the door. Gone.
Through another door walked another Aragon, Isabel. Suddenly an unexpected dilemma for Miguel. Federico was a bright young man, not particularly assertive, but very presentable to the outside world. Inside the organization he had shown a willingness to listen closely to long-time, experienced company managers, to accept their counsel, and to not interfere with operations that through the years had been extraordinarily successful. Isabel, however, Miguel’s pequeño tesoro, his little treasure, was another matter. She was her mother’s daughter, a bit rebellious growing up and even more so, he noticed, since the end of her marriage. Not only would she be a woman in what traditionally had been a man’s executive world, but her willingness to not rock the boat could be a question, and most upsetting to harmonious operations. He had always envisioned Isabel in the proper role of wife, mother, guardian and manager of the family home. Now she was on his doorstep, asking for an executive role. Miguel f
retted for days over this puzzle.
Finally, a decision. Isabel would join the wealth management team. Miguel had long hoped to add wealth management as a lucrative revenue stream, handling the portfolios of the nation’s elite, steering them into investments beneficial to Aragon’s broad range of products and services. None of his plans had yet succeeded. In wealth management, Isabel would not be exposed to existing Groupo Aragon organizations. She would be more or less independent, removed from potential conflicts with line managers. In a way he would be throwing his pequeño tesoro into the deep end of the pool. Maybe she would find a wealthy and well-connected husband there. Maybe she would succeed and build a practice independent of other company activities. Maybe she would fail or tire of the executive life. Yes, wealth management. A good solution.
Seven years had elapsed since the idolized princess wore a gold tiara and a necklace of flashing diamonds as she stood on the altar with Andres Navarro. Years in which she had survived a wrenching transition from rejected, infertile bride to now, at age twenty-eight, a woman embarking on a professional career. While the interval years had been difficult for her, they were a valuable prerequisite for hunting down and capturing rich prey. That’s not a game best played with unrealistic illusions. Those who claim assets counted in more than seven figures are not dreamers, except, possibly, if they came by their wealth through inheritance. For most of the moneyed class, reality is packaged with every dollar or peso. Making money is one thing, keeping it another. Force fields go up to guard against the hungry hordes always at the gates with ideas for how to spend another’s wealth. Isabel was signing on to participate in rough, often ruthless competition.
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Isabel’s first conquest was Rafael Celeste, a popular figure on the long-running Latin soap opera Los Amantes, The Lovers. Celeste played father to the show’s female star, a beautiful businesswoman constantly embroiled in love and financial affairs requiring her father’s money, counsel, and often his contacts with police officials and judges to extricate her from trouble. Celeste was in his mid-sixties, age appropriate for his fatherly role, needing little make-up magic. His younger years had been his partying years. The television show had settled him in one place, with a steady job and a secure family. It had made him a wealthy man. Celeste long since should have placed his millions into Groupo Aragon funds and investments. The soap opera aired on an Aragon television network. Celeste was often featured in Aragon entertainment magazines.
All of this gave Isabel considerable research to work with—the tapes of the television shows, the newspaper and magazine articles that featured him, the files from others at Groupo Aragon who had tried unsuccessfully to win his account. Isabel spent weeks preparing before she made her first move, an invitation for lunch. She was an Aragon, a difficult invitation for Celeste to refuse. Once in conversation, Celeste was impressed and flattered that Isabel was such a fan. She was familiar with all the players. She recalled many Los Amantes highlights, dividends from her recent binge watching of past episodes.
They met at Hotel Geneve’s La Terraza restaurant, under its high glass atrium.
“I never drink at lunch or during the business day,” she said. “But please, if you’re inclined.”
“Will you join me in some wine,” he said.
“Perhaps a sip,” she replied. “Please, you choose.”
Through three courses and a bottle of fine French cabernet Isabel said nothing to disturb the sense that this meeting was anything but personal. Once she was drained of questions about Los Amantes, she moved the discussion to Celeste, his background, his plans, his family. She was interested. She was genuine. She was an admirer. She was grateful for his time. Would it be possible to come to the set some time to watch an episode in creation?
Wonderful. She would be thrilled. For so many celebrities, vanity and recognition move in tandem. Celeste was only too happy to talk about himself and to bake in the warmth of admiration. When the check came, Celeste made the honorable gesture of reaching for it.
“Please,” he said, “This has been so enjoyable. Do me the honor of allowing me to host you.”
Celeste fully expected her to decline his offer. Instead, she replied, “That’s very gallant and generous of you. Thank you.”
That answer was off script. Obviously she was in sales and trying to win his account. She selected the most expensive restaurant in Mexico for lunch, and stuck him with the bill. What’s wrong with her? Doesn’t she know this game? Celeste seethed silently as he reached for his wallet. Me, a simple actor, and the great Groupo Aragon can’t afford lunch?
They walked together through the hotel’s corridors, past its stained glass, its famed chandeliers, its dramatic, historic paintings. Isabel purposely remained close enough to Celeste to envelope him in her scent, enhanced by a few fresh dabs of Jean Patou’s “Joy” fragrance. They each had car and driver waiting, and as they parted at the curb she pulled him close and left a discreet, moist kiss on his left cheek, complete with a trace of her red lips.
In a soft voice she whispered, “This has been so enjoyable for me and most generous of you. It means we must do it again soon, my treat, no arguments about it from you as this time. Next time when the check comes don’t be so naughty as to argue. Behave, promise?”
Her look was coy and flirtatious. Their heads were just inches apart, almost touching. He was enchanted by this woman, her looks, her manner, her sweet scent. He knew he must accept, all sense of irritation over the cost of the meal quickly evaporated.
“Next Tuesday, 1:00 p.m. Right here. I insist. I’ll make the reservation,” she said, continuing to hold his arm by the elbow, daring him to decline. He didn’t.
Isabel learned in her business school classes that when chasing executive level sales, statistically only 17 percent of sales calls result in a second meeting. Up to five meetings may be required to close a deal. By not paying for the first meeting she virtually assured herself another.
Celeste had Isabel on his mind between meetings. This clever, interesting, energetic woman. He looked forward to being with her again.
She was waiting for him in the hotel lobby, ready to greet him with a hug, a quick, father-daughter hug. He appreciated that it wasn’t more suggestive. Rafael Celeste didn’t want to be sexually seduced but knew he would have little resistance if that was her objective. His days of clandestine encounters were over. His confessions made. His conscience cleared. He and his wife had settled into a life of comfort, respectful of one another. Nevertheless...
She selected an even more expensive wine than they had consumed a week earlier and chatted idly about this week’s episodes of Las Amantes. But his interest, and finally his questions, turned to her, to Isabel.
“So, let me ask, are you an American or a Mexican?”
“Do I have to choose?” she asked. “By birth I’m both. My Aragon roots are here, as you know. But I also feel very American, having been born in New York and grown up in Los Angeles.”
“I didn’t know you were born in New York.”
She recreated the route of her life for him, as he quizzed her intently. Last week she had asked most of the questions, stroking his celebrity. Now she found the roles reversed. His curiosity was aroused. He had become the fan. Los Angeles. Hollywood. Tell me about it. What celebrities do you know?
“Now don’t you forget,” she told him over desert churros, “you promised me an invitation to one of your show’s video tapings. When can we do that?”
“Next week, in fact. We’re doing two shows each day, clearing time for the producers to work on another project. What day would be best?
“The end of the week, Thursday, Friday, either one. I’m very excited. I’ve never seen a show produced live.”
“Well, it’s not exactly live. We may do a number of takes of certain scenes. The editors put them together later. Making television programs or movies is a tedious business, often just a few frames at a time.”
“Don’t spoil my illus
ions. I can be a star-struck child. I’m amazed at actors and actresses, how you can become the characters on a script, and then completely turn yourselves into other characters with the next script.”
“I don’t have to do that. I can remain my plodding old self in program after program. I sometimes feel I am that man whose character I inhabit.”
“You can’t discourage me, Rafael. I’m in awe.”
Isabel had secured a third meeting. She had yet to ask for the order. That was about to happen.
Friday, 1:00 p.m., the last of the week’s ten-show marathon. Isabel was due on the set a half hour earlier, a seat for her arranged in the director’s booth. Two hours before air time Isabel called Rafael.
“I’m heartbroken, Rafael. I can’t leave our office. Aragon Investments is offering a private placement to our clients today, one of the most outstanding we’ve ever had. Our energy company’s purchased a refinery near Tula and created a separate entity for it. It’s just a remarkable opportunity and all of us are working with our clients to make sure they know about it and take orders before the investment closes.”
All true. Unsaid, Isabel knew about this a week earlier. She strategically timed this call.
“I will miss you here, Isabel,” said Rafael. “There will be other programs. Another time. But tell me, is this an investment that should interest me?”
“You? Oh, I’m so sorry, Rafael, this is a client-only offering.”
“What if I become a client?”
She was silent for an appropriate interval.
“I don’t know. I doubt it on this short notice. Are you really interested?
“Yes, I’m really interested.”
“I’ll try.”
The Latina President...and the Conspiracy to Destroy Her Page 3