Wetware

by Craig Nova

  “You’ve helped me see what is happening to me. That’s the way I feel about someone now,” she said.

  They both got up and Briggs opened the door. Carr seemed exhausted. She walked out, although she hesitated and glanced into his face once.

  “I guess we’re in the same boat,” he said.

  “No,” she said. “We aren’t. What you are asking me to do is to get in the same boat with you.”

  She walked a few steps down the hall that was made out of glass and where those pictures and slips of paper had been hung so as to suggest free fall.

  “Leslie,” he said.

  She stopped and turned back.

  “What?” she said. “What do you have to say to me?”

  “Good luck,” he said.

  She went down the hall, the paper still shaking in her hand, and in her office she checked off the boxes, marked the scales for imagination, dedication, effort, precision, innovation, all at 99 percent (no one ever got a hundred), and then signed her name and put it in the out box. She thought, Well, what am I going to do now? I have just signed off on work I should have reported.

  She wanted to talk to Blaine about it, but he resisted her. They had established rules of behavior with each other, and those rules had been created without any discussion. She would never ask for anything overt, and he would never offer it; they existed in an epic of the tacit, of the unspoken. Now, though, with a sense of complicity that left her at once amazed and sick (how, after all, had she gotten herself into this?), she needed to change the rules. She was certain that she had been seduced, but by whom and what?

  At dinner, as they sat among the glint and shine of the silver, eating fish ravioli, endive salad, sea bass with a garlic crust, she looked up and said, “Would you risk everything for me?”

  “Risk?” he said. “I’m not sure I’m a big believer in risk.”

  “You know what I mean,” she said.

  “Do I?” he asked. “Would you like some more wine?”

  She sat there in the noisy gurgle of it being poured into her glass.

  “Let’s put it another way,” she said. “I’d like you to tell me you love me.”

  “My dear,” he said, “I thought we understood one another.”

  “We did,” she said. “But there are times when understanding needs to be precise.”

  “You mean like a contract?” he said. “Is that what you are asking?”

  “No,” she said. “Not like a contract.”

  She sat there, realizing that the conversation had turned from what she wanted. She closed her eyes. Maybe later.

  He was affectionate to her in the enormous bed, and in the warmth of it, she almost felt better, but she still wanted to speak, to explain. And what was there to say, really? She thought, A hell of a lot. For instance, now that she was so vulnerable, she didn’t get such a thrill when she noticed the lights had changed from the beautiful to the ominous. In fact, now they didn’t seem beautifully ominous so much as just plain scary. It was obvious that the mistake she had made at work was a reflection of being utterly besotted. And yet, the notion of going back to her own life before Blaine filled her with panic. With a change this big, she had to have things clear: Blaine had to love her, too.

  She was scared. She whispered in the dark, trying to explain the metamorphosis of the lights. Ominously beautiful and then just frightening. Of course, she knew it wasn’t really the lights so much as her state of mind. She needed something. Her words came out in small, damp, insistent puffs on his shoulder. He listened quietly. She hoped he wasn’t going to send her another bracelet, which, as she thought about it, was undergoing a transformation, too, just like the lights. Not ominously beautiful anymore, but just frightening.

  She stayed in the warmth between them, or tried to, and as she lay there, Blaine reached up and turned on the light. He had never done this before, and then she heard the rustle of some papers as he began to read. Reviews of concerts that the Russian violinist had given in other cities. Carr saw a picture of the young woman’s face lost in the bouquets of roses that had been thrown on the stage, and even in this stock photo, the musician had that manner of sultry assurance, as though the erotic and the music she played were somehow intertwined. How could Carr compete with that? And then she thought with horror, Am I competing? Is that what has happened? He read carefully, as though trying to remember the sound of the music that the critics were writing about.

  CHAPTER 6

  March 15, 2027

  THE MEETING of Blaine’s board of directors took place on the first Tuesday of the month in a brownstone on a public commons. Downstairs the building had a library and a restaurant, and upstairs it had bedrooms for directors who came to these meetings from out of town. On the second floor was a conference room with green cloth wallpaper, a table with a green felt top, like a billiard table, and a window through which the trees on the commons could be seen. This was where Blaine faced his board of directors. Outside, the new leaves were the color of crème de menthe mixed with milk. As Blaine waited, he was fully aware of the way he would lose his job: in the midst of some difficulty, the board would release a statement of complete support, and then, in the space of an afternoon, they would panic and he would be asked to resign. This was the way his predecessor had been removed.

  He stood in front of them, thinking about Carr’s desire to be told that he loved her. What, after all, did love have to do with what he would face here? He had trouble putting the two together, since there was so much difference between the personal aspect of his life and the fact of his business. Then he turned to face the members of the board. They were men and women chosen for their understanding of economic and social difficulties, and for their ability not to lose their confidence when dealing with trying matters. Now he was confronted by their faces, all gray bags, with necks like gray accordions, their eyes not so much lizardlike as tempered by years of experience in exceedingly tough circumstances. When one of them made a joke, it was with a raised eyebrow or a subdued comment, and even the youngest one had the look of an itinerant executioner. They were not here to be lied to or trifled with, and Blaine had learned long ago that he should never tell anything but the truth. He gave his report, going through the list of items from the Hit Parade, explaining what each worry had been, and what had been done in each case. When he didn’t know an answer, which was exceedingly rare, he said, “I don’t know. But I will soon.”

  In this meeting, Blaine went through the list of items, although he and everyone else knew that at the end they would have to make a hard decision. But as far as Blaine was concerned, it was either hard medicine now or radical medicine later, and he was convinced that an adjustment in monetary policy was the best thing. He knew, and everyone else knew, that people would suffer. Unemployment would increase and businesses would fail, but there was nothing else to do. Blaine went through the list. He came to the difficult decision. The board listened. When he asked for the authority to do what had to be done, they voted by nodding: it was a gray, moving, quiet assent. They looked at him like vipers who have just injected a rat with venom. All but one.

  This was an industrialist, Harold Warren, a relatively new member of the board, tall and thin, with blue eyes and a beautifully made suit. There was not much he hadn’t seen, such as the strikes in South America in which thirty thousand people had been killed in one afternoon. He was one of the most ardent supporters of the action they had decided to take, and when it was approved, he said to Blaine, “Well. It’s not going to be easy.”

  “That’s not your worry,” said Blaine.

  “I know,” said Warren. “But perhaps you would like some assistance.”

  Blaine stiffened.

  “Assistance?” said Blaine. “No. I have my orders and, as I think you know, I am aware of what has to be done.”

  “But still,” said Warren, “perhaps there is something we can do. Maybe we can help you take the heat.”

  “My job is to take the he
at, as you say,” said Blaine.

  “But—” said Warren.

  “For Christ’s sake, Warren,” said Evelyn Black, a woman who had made her money in the last dregs of coal. “He said he can take care of it. Why don’t you listen to him?”

  “Because, Evelyn, I think this is a hard decision.”

  “Don’t you think he knows that? Don’t we all?” she said.

  “Well, I just wanted him to know we are here for him,” Warren said.

  Black made a dismissive gesture with her hand and turned to look out the window.

  “Twaddle,” she said. “Our job is not to be here for him. Our job is to stay the hell out of his way.” The gray faces expanded and contracted with approval, as though their jowls were organs of respiration. “Now, if there is nothing else, let’s get out of here. It’s a beautiful day, for Christ’s sake. What’s done is done.” She shrugged again, her bulk moving in her black clothes. She turned to Blaine. “Good luck and Godspeed.”

  The members of the board filed out, bent, angry, somehow still voracious after all the years they had lived, and then Blaine was left alone. He knew that the most important thing was the timing of the announcement he was going to make. He went back to his office, waiting for the elevator as he stood under the angels in the dome, who looked down at him with their usual lofty and cool, gilt-winged indifference. Blaine picked a date, a Friday, to make the announcement and he had his staff, or the communications part of it, begin to work on the release. He spoke to other department heads.

  In the evening, Blaine went to a hotel, the Metropol, where he was going to meet Carr. A small fountain stood in the center of the lobby, surrounded by overstuffed leather chairs among some palm trees. At the rear of the room, musicians in black tie played music that was popular and yet old-fashioned, and Blaine sat there, on this evening, waiting for Carr and hearing, through the plash of the fountains, the sound of music from a hundred years before. A few more days and the announcement would be made, and that would be that.

  Across the room, Blaine saw that Harold Warren was sitting with a man who was the financial editor of an international business paper. Warren looked overwrought and he spoke quickly, sighing from time to time, and then speaking again. Blaine watched, hearing “Fascination,” a song he had always detested and that seemed to him to be somehow correct, as though this nightmare should have this music to go with it. He stood up and walked across the room. A number of people watched him as he went, their eyes following him as though they were seeing a wife or a husband with a secret lover.

  “Harold,” he said. “How nice to see you. And McCourt. Of the Financial Times. Well, well.”

  “Wendell,” said Harold. He looked sick.

  “Yes,” said Blaine. “Would you like to explain yourself?”

  “I’ve been having second thoughts,” said Harold.

  “Second thoughts,” said Blaine. He looked around. “About what?”

  Harold licked his lips.

  “Policy,” said Harold. “Like the announcement you are about to make.”

  “Announcement?” said Blaine.

  “Fascination” continued to play, the violin rising to a yearning peak.

  “Which one, in particular, are you talking about?” said Blaine. The colors in the room had a luminescence, a throbbing pulse, which Blaine supposed was a reflection of how the blood was moving through the veins in the backs of his eyes.

  “Look,” said the editor, “Harold has been telling me that you are about to make an announcement.”

  “Is that right?” said Blaine. “That was quite considerate of him, from your point of view, don’t you think? Harold, it was pretty considerate, wasn’t it?”

  Blaine looked around. Ten, perhaps fifteen people in the lobby. He tried to see each of their faces, and he knew that any one of them could be someone who should not see Blaine, the member of the board, and a reporter from the financial papers looking sick in public. He turned back. Harold had tears in his eyes.

  “I guess the pressure got to me,” said Harold.

  “Would you excuse me for a moment?” said Blaine.

  He went across the heavy carpet and around the palms, putting his hands in his pockets, and when he came to the desk, he asked the clerk if he could have a room. He needed to discuss a couple of personal matters. The clerk gave him a card, which Blaine filled out.

  “I’ll take the key,” said Blaine. “I can find it.”

  “Are you sure?” said the clerk.

  “Yes,” said Blaine.

  He went back to the lobby and said to Harold and the reporter, “Let’s go upstairs.”

  “Why?” said Harold.

  “I think we could use a little privacy,” said Blaine.

  Blaine made a small gesture toward the room, the green palms, the white tablecloths, the dark furniture, around which people sat, each one of them glancing at Blaine when they had the chance.

  “We can talk here,” said McCourt.

  Blaine smiled, although it wasn’t very warm.

  “I don’t think so,” he said.

  “Oh,” said Harold, looking around. “Yeah. I guess that’s right, isn’t it?”

  They stood up and walked through the room, all of them with their shoulders square, and as they went, Blaine made a joke, a rare one, and as McCourt smiled, as much in shock as in recognition of something funny, the people in the room turned away. If they were smiling, it couldn’t be that much. Not really. The elevator slid open and they stepped in, all staring into the distance, which was chopped off by the closed elevator door. The grain in the wood, which usually looked elegant, now appeared to Blaine like flames in hell. Warren took a handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose. “Christ,” he said.

  They went down the hall, Blaine leading the way and thinking that at least he had been able to get them out of the lobby. He pushed open the door and saw a sitting room with gray walls, a sofa in light blue, an easy chair, a coffee table. The lights were on. Blaine stood until the others sat down.

  “Would you like something to drink?” said Blaine. “Something hot? A cup of tea?”

  McCourt took out a notebook and put it on the table.

  “That’s all right,” he said.

  “I just got to thinking,” said Warren.

  “Did you?” said Blaine.

  “It seems like a bad idea,” said Warren. “A lot of people are going to be hurt, and then I thought that there had been no public discussion, and so I called McCourt.”

  Warren looked even worse up here, his skin pale and greasy, his shirt dirty.

  “I think Harold is a little overwrought,” said Blaine. “But, yes, we are going to make an announcement. He has told you that, hasn’t he? And the details, too.”

  “It’s not the details that bother me,” said McCourt. “It’s the chaos. What’s going on? How come Warren is calling the papers?”

  “So that’s the way you would print it? That we don’t know what we’re doing?” said Blaine.

  “Well,” said McCourt. “How would you put it?”

  He picked up his notebook.

  “You’re missing what is happening,” said Blaine. “I know precisely what I’m doing. Have you ever known me to make a mistake about a thing like this?”

  McCourt shrugged. He glanced at Warren. “What’s gotten into you people?”

  “I told you,” said Blaine. “Nothing. I know precisely what we are doing. Warren here is overwrought.”

  “Is that all you’ve got to say?” said McCourt.

  “No,” said Blaine. “Obviously you want some proof. Isn’t that right?”

  “Well, yeah,” said McCourt.

  “And if I give you some, will you forget this”—Blaine looked at Warren—“unfortunate display? There is no need to start a panic. Surely you can see that if you ran a story that said we were in disarray, why . . . ”

  “What’s the proof?” said McCourt.

  “Your word,” said Blaine. “That you will f
orget this.”

  The reporter looked around.

  “All right,” he said. “What’s the proof?”

  “I will pick three indices,” said Blaine. “Markets, stock prices, futures. I will tell you what they will be for the next three days, give or take a half-percent. If they are what I say, you will forget this. In fact, if I were you, I’d try to come up with some money to take advantage of what I tell you.”

  “No kidding?” said McCourt.

  “No kidding,” said Blaine.

  “Okay,” said McCourt, “you’ve got yourself a deal. What are they going to be?”

  Blaine told him.

  “Well, well,” said McCourt. “And what’s with him?”

  He made a gesture to Warren.

  “As I said, he’s overwrought,” said Blaine. “That’s all. It happens to everyone from time to time.”

  Blaine smiled. Then he sat back and put the tips of his fingers together and thought, Is he going for it?

  “Okay,” said McCourt. “If the markets aren’t the way you say, you’ll be hearing from me.”

  “I expect we will never speak again,” said Blaine. He stood up. “Good night, Mr. McCourt.”

  They walked to the door, and the reporter went out into the hall, which stretched away like a nightmare, the doors regularly spaced and diminishing in size, the hall getting smaller and smaller as it stretched into the distance. Blaine closed the door and turned back to the room.

  “Do you know what you have done?” said Blaine.

  “I was just worried,” said Warren.

  “Worried,” said Blaine. “Worried?”

  He closed his eyes.

  “Maybe I can get on the phone to the other members of the board,” said Warren.

  “The decision has been made,” said Blaine. “But that is not the issue here. The issue is what you have done to me. There is a good chance McCourt will never think that I am in charge. Ever. He will talk to other people, and the next time a hard decision is made, they won’t believe me. They will start calling members of the board. Panic is built into such an arrangement.”