by Robert Ward
Debby sat down next to Peter on the white couch. She touched his knee.
“Did you hear that?” she said. “God, I’d love to go to Paris, wouldn’t you, Peter?”
“Yes … of course,” Peter said.
The way the light hit the room … the way it came in off 61st Street. Even the light in the room looked expensive and successful. Peter thought of his own barren place on West 12th. He felt as if he were a starving man who was being offered overly rich food.
“The life is so wonderful there,” Heather said. “People take time with things. I’ll tell you … I got off the plane the other day and the first thing I noticed was the stress factor here. People wear their stress on their faces. You can actually see the difference.”
Beauregard smiled and poured everyone another round of champagne.
“That’s true,” Beauregard said. “I remember when we went to Sweden the first time … I got back here and it was like entering the depressive ward of the hospital. You simply can’t notice it unless you’ve been. How’s everyone doing?”
Peter and Debby smiled. Peter was doing fine; in fact, he had never felt more lightheaded, more carefree. He looked up and there was the maid staring at him. In her hand was a silver tray on which were twenty or thirty hors d’oeuvres.
“This is terrific,” he said. He took one and put it in his mouth. It was warm and full of a delicious cheese. He sat back and stared at Debby, and again noted how well she seemed to go with the company, the decor. As if she were meant for such a life. He felt a rumbling in his stomach, but he drank some more champagne and it quieted down.
“Speaking of stress,” Peter said, “I think maybe this champagne might be better than all the tranquilizers in the world.”
“Well, have some more,” Heather said, and before Peter could protest, she was pouring for him. He sipped and sat back, and Heather began telling them about all the places she’d been in the last year. London, Belgium, Germany …
“Oh,” Debby said, “we simply have to go, Peter. Wouldn’t it be wonderful?”
“Yes,” Peter said, “I’d really love that.”
He was surprised at himself for saying so. Indeed, up until very recently he hadn’t wanted to leave his room. Now here he was chatting with these sophisticated people and holding his own. He felt strange, like he was swimming in unfamiliar waters … but such pleasant waters. They seemed to hold him up effortlessly.
“How long will you be staying now that you’re back?” he heard himself ask. Immediately, he knew he had committed a faux pas.
“Well,” Heather said, “I’m not certain. I’m supposed to help a friend who is opening a bookstore in Montmartre … I did promise to go back for that … in a month.”
Beauregard cleared his throat and smiled a little painfully at Peter.
“I didn’t mean …”
But Beauregard raised his hand.
“It’s perfectly all right,” he said, “but we’re betting that Heather won’t leave at all. I think we’ve got a few magic tricks to keep her here.”
“Keep feeding me these hors d’oeuvres,” Heather said.
“And this champagne.”
“There is a basement of it,” Beauregard said.
“You’re kidding,” Debby said. “You’ve got a wine cellar?”
“Well,” Beauregard said, “not exactly a cellar. More like a wine room. Temperature-controlled. Just right. I’ll show you after dinner.”
“Speaking of which,” called Mrs. O’Shea from the other room, “dinner is served.”
She rang a golden gong, and Debby and Peter laughed. As they walked into the dining room, Debby pinched Peter’s ass.
He turned and smiled at her.
“Are you really interested in books?” Peter said, as Mrs. O’Shea served them their seafood salads.
“Oh, yes, very much so … and I hear you are a great admirer of Poe.”
“That’s right,” Peter said.
He reached across the table and saw Sarah there. Her perfect face … the kind of girl he dreamed of as a child. The champagne had made him feel as though he were floating, as though anything were possible. He could not look at her, though. She was so physical … It was unnatural in a child. He wished to God they hadn’t seated him next to her.
“You know,” Heather said, “the French are crazy about Poe.”
“Yes?” Peter said. “They are?”
“Certainly,” Heather said. “Baudelaire really discovered him.”
Peter shook his head as he ate his salad.
“Of course,” he said, “men of talent are rarely appreciated in this culture.”
“Oh, I don’t know that that’s true,” said Beauregard. “That’s the argument I hear all the time. But you take our field. In spite of all the backbiting and infighting, I think as a whole the medical profession in this country, and in anesthesiology in particular, is open now to experimentation.”
Peter thought of the men who discovered the first anesthetics … Horace Wells, who had been laughed into madness …
“No,” he said, “that’s not true. It’s true with you … Because you set up an atmosphere at Eastern that encourages experimentation. But it’s certainly not the rule. The safe ways—the tried-and-true—are the only things most of the administrators want to use.”
“I’d have to agree with Peter, Beau,” Heather said.
Beauregard nodded and smiled, as if he agreed.
Encouraged, Peter went on.
“And as for Poe,” he said, sipping the champagne again, “you know, I think few people really understand what he was up to. He was a visionary … His tales weren’t just horror tales meant to shock, but explorations into dreams, into moments of pure consciousness.”
Heather leaned over the table now and nodded enthusiastically. “That’s right,” she said. “He was trying to get outside of what is known … altogether … the French poets were the same way … what was it Rimbaud said, about the systematic derangement of all the senses … that’s what Poe was after. He was a revolutionary … and this damned country was too conservative, too puritanical to understand a thing he was doing.”
Peter felt thrilled. He couldn’t have put it better himself. Heather Beauregard was almost too good to believe. Not only beautiful but excited by ideas. He felt as though she would understand him.
“Well,” Beauregard said, “excuse me for playing devil’s advocate, but my feeling about ‘systematic derangement’ and all that stuff is it’s pretty scary. I remember the 60’s when kids were talking like that … though I would scarcely blame poor Edgar Allan Poe for it. Anyway, they were all popping drugs, psychedelics, and the like, in an effort to become instant visionaries, and a lot of them are now thirty-year-old cripples with half a brain.”
Debby held up her glass and nodded.
“I’ll have to go with that,” she said. “Whatever happened to good old-fashioned love and friendship. I don’t know, maybe I’m just an uptight Yankee, but it seems to me there are certain roots …”
Everyone chuckled around the table, including Peter, who was again amazed at how pleasant he felt. It was almost as if he had wings and had been lifted, magically, out of the ordinary and dull into a dream world where all the visions were full of bright yellow light. Perhaps this was success … this was what it meant all along. To be with brilliant people … to talk and be friends with them … and even in disagreement to realize their essential worth. But he felt vaguely suspicious … It seemed to be too good to be true. Certainly it was totally different from anything he had experienced before … but, Christ, it felt good.
“Well, a toast,” Beauregard said, holding up the wine glasses. “I propose a toast to Peter and Debby … the good young people on our staff … and good friends …”
Peter smiled and found himself joyously clinking glasses with the others. Heather smiled at him, Debby put her hand on his leg under the table, and Beauregard looked down on him calmly, full of pride … like a fa
ther beaming at the All American son.
“Oh, Lord,” Beauregard said. “We’ve run out of wine.”
He held up the empty bottle and turned it over. Mrs. O’Shea was by his side.
“Yes,” Beauregard said. “We could use a little more … but maybe this is a good time to show Peter the wine room. How about it, Dr. Cross?”
“Sure,” Peter said.
Again he felt that excitement. Like a kid going down at Christmas to get his train set. He felt foolish but too damned good to care.
They descended the spiral staircase into the basement, and at the bottom came to a dark oak door. Beauregard pushed it open, and Peter was amazed at the coolness of the room. It was at least ten degrees cooler than upstairs.
‘Brr,” he said.
“Yes, it’s always fifty degrees in here,” Beauregard said. “And here we have the wine.”
He gestured toward the wine bins, and Peter stared at the many bottles with their silver and golden seals. Beauregard walked over to one of the bins.
“Here we have a fine Bordeaux,” he said. “Château Mouton Rothschild, 1959. It’s really full-bodied, well-developed … and, as they say, has a beautiful nose.”
He handed the bottle to Peter, who took it awkwardly, afraid he would drop it. Wine cellars were, to him, the stuff of movies or TV.
“And here,” Beauregard said, moving down the line, “we have a Chateau Lafite, 1961. Though ‘59 is slightly better, this is also very, very good.”
Peter took the bottle in his hand, and this time a strange sensation came over him. It was as though the wine was more than simply a liquor to drink. It seemed to possess the qualities of a talisman, magic to stave off the ordinariness of life. Suddenly he understood how serious wine tasters felt … wine—collecting it, making it, tasting it—was a way of life, an aristocracy of the senses … and he felt delighted, sophisticated.
Beauregard smiled and pulled out another bottle.
“Here we go,” he said. “One of my personal favorites … a Château Latour, 1964. They say the ‘59 is better, but I love the taste of this one. Perhaps we should take this one upstairs …”
Peter nodded, and Beauregard handed him the bottle, but suddenly there was a call from up above.
“Beau?”
It was Heather.
“Yes?”
“There is someone here to see you. He says it’s important.”
Beauregard smiled at Peter and shrugged. “Even tonight,” he said, patting Peter’s arm. “I wanted to show you the rest of the place … but why don’t you look around on your own. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
Peter held the wine in his hands.
“Sure, Beau,” he said.
Beauregard smiled and left the room, and Peter heard his footsteps as he went up the steps.
He stood in the cool, dark room, trying to enjoy it as he had a minute ago, but something had changed. It didn’t seem as wonderful as when Beauregard had been there. No, it was empty without Beauregard … almost as if the room itself responded to the real aristocrat, but as soon as he left, the room knew that Peter was a fake. He began to feel uncomfortable; he put the wine back in its rack and went up the steps.
Then he saw Jimmy Myers walk by the kitchen door. He ducked back, felt the sweat on his neck. Jimmy Myers … the oscilloscope … he saw himself cutting the wires … He took a deep breath and finished climbing the steps to the kitchen. He looked into the room. No one there. Then he heard footsteps from the hallway and heard Mrs. O’Shea. He ducked back onto the top step, heard her walk by him, open the refrigerator, get something, then head back to the dining room. He entered the kitchen, saw a hallway to the left. He slid close to the wall and came upon a half-open door.
“You’re sure,” Beauregard said.
“Absolutely, Doc,” Jimmy said.
“Christ, Jimmy, don’t spill your Ho Ho’s all over the rug. Mrs. O’Shea will throw a fit.”
“Sorry, Doc. But that’s the lowdown. I checked the switch. It was broken all right, but the way it was broken showed it was still off. So there is no reason for anybody to tamper with the wires inside.”
“Unless,” Beauregard said, “they weren’t sure the switch was off, and the only way they could really be sure was to clip the wires. But that’s crazy. You know what you’re saying?”
“Yeah, Doc. I know exactly what I’m saying. Look, I’ve seen wires that wore out before. First of all, they get a kind of corroded look … you know, they are just too old. Well, this wire was new. Do you understand? There was no way for it to wear out. And what’s more, it was clipped. You don’t have to be an electronics expert to tell the difference between a clipped wire and a beat-up one. That’s just the way it is.”
“Yeah,” Beauregard said, “I understand that. But isn’t it perfectly possible that the wire was put in broken. You said yourself that it was off center … almost touching but not quite. So who’s to say that the wire wasn’t that way when we put it in. It was just a lemon.”
“The same thing occurred to me, Doc. Two days ago I had that bum Calvin testing these things out. He was supposed to go over every one of them, since we had that trouble with the ‘scope on the ninth floor.”
“So—did he check?”
“Well—I can’t reach him. His old lady says he’s out.” Jimmy laughed around the wad of gum in his mouth. “Out my ass—he’s probably too scared to come to the phone. Anyway, tomorrow is payday—he’ll be in—I can get the story then.”
“Seems to me if he tested it, he’d have picked up on the stuck knob.” Beau was frankly glad to have Calvin to blame instead of his staff. “I bet he never checked the damn thing and we lost a patient—there’s going to be lots of trouble, Jimmy. I’m not losing one of my best nurses because your assistant was too stoned or too stupid to do what you told him to.”
Jimmy stopped chomping and was silent, wrapping his mind around the implications of what would happen when he nailed down Calvin.
There was a silence, and Peter breathed a little better. There was nothing Myers could say to that.
“I don’t know, Doc,” Jimmy said. “This kind of thing happens, but the wires, that seems mighty strange to me. You might find one oscilloscope with one bad wire, but one with a bad wire and a bad switch … that’s almost impossible.”
Again there was a silence. Then Peter heard movement in the kitchen and quickly ducked into the bathroom. He locked himself in and stared at his face in the mirror. Amazing how relaxed he looked, how together. He knew the rest of the dinner was going to be anything but calm.
“Peter, you’re acting extremely childish.”
He looked down at her as they rode up Second Avenue. There were tears in her eyes, and he wanted to stop and hold her, but there was no way. He had been so damned happy … so ecstatic … He had thought for a while … Christ, it was pathetic really … thought that he was like everybody else—make clever conversation, enjoy the good food, drink good wine, be successful … but it wasn’t true. He was marked out now, changed utterly by what he had done. They were moving toward him, getting ready to nail him … Oh, they still acted friendly, still patted him on the back, but soon, soon they would start to hunt … unless he stopped completely … but there was no way to do that … He had the Space to answer to … and he was taking it out on her. He didn’t want to … He really didn’t … but he couldn’t help it …
“I got so sick of it all,” he said. “The fancy conversation, the fucking talk about Paris and Germany, the goddamned wine cellar. It was all so Upper East Side la-di-dah, and if that wasn’t bad enough, you seemed to be taken in by it.”
He pounded his hands on the steering wheel.
“But I don’t understand,” she said. “What you’re saying just doesn’t make sense. You seemed to be having fun too … until … I don’t know … until you came back from the wine cellar. Did you and Beau have a disagreement?”
“Beau?” he said. “It’s ‘Beau,’ is it? I love that �
�� I really do. We go over there one night and you start calling him fucking Beau. It makes me sick. It really does. You were so sucked in by all that slick shit. I can’t believe it.”
“But he’s your friend. Come on, Peter. Tell me what happened between you. What is it?”
She tried to reach for him, but he smacked her hand away.
“You were flirting with him,” he said, surprising himself with the absurd allegation. “You like him, don’t you? Maybe you’d like to sleep with him … huh? You’ve had the lackey … Maybe you’d like to make it with the suave, debonair rich boss?”
“Peter?”
She began to cry for real now, and he looked out the window at miserable, corroding Second Avenue and it seemed the perfect reflection of his soul. How they had tricked him … Letting him have a taste of it and then pulling it all out from under him … He would never be safe … never … and never be taken in again.
“Peter,” she said, as they pulled up to her apartment, “I’m sorry you feel this way, but I never flirted with Dr. Beauregard. I just want you to know … that I love you. I do. I don’t like to see you like this. I feel like there is something wrong … something you’re not telling me … that’s making you take off at me like this.”
“No,” he said, “there isn’t anything. I’m just disgusted with myself for going along with all that crummy, phony, charming crap … and with you, too.”
She looked over at him, and the sight of her eyes and long blond hair pierced him; he felt it all the way to the bone.
“Peter,” she said, reaching over again. But he slapped her hand hard, and she got out of the car and ran up to the apartment house, crying.
He gunned the motor, tires squealing as he headed up the long, dark block.
16
Dios paced nervously up and down his office. He picked up the statue of the Su God that he kept with him at all times. The things he had been through with it. He felt dislocated, nervous, and when the door opened behind him, he jumped, nearly dropping the statue on the floor.
“Hey, pardner,” Harry Gardner said, “calm down.”