McDowell pulled back a French cuff that was held together with a shiny gold cuff link and stared into the crystal of his Cartier watch. “Well, it’s time for me to find a member,” he announced. “I haven’t spoken to one in fifteen minutes. Maybe we’ll see each other again if we both make it to the next round. Good luck.” I slipped out of his hand, then watched him slither toward his next prey.
I continued walking in the direction of the bar and finally spotted a familiar face from my cellular biology class. He was surrounded by three boarding school types raptly listening to his every word. I knew he was telling another one of his jokes, because the others had looks on their faces like they were getting ready to explode. Binky Grunwald was the funniest kid I had met at Harvard, and he loved to hold court. Standing barely five feet with a barrel chest, Binky had the kind of presence that could swallow a room. He was a young Danny DeVito. He had such a run of jokes one night at a seminar that he turned the class out a half hour early because the teaching fellow was laughing too hard to finish the lesson.
“Hey, Binky, what’s up?” I said, waiting for a break in his delivery.
“Spenser, how’s it going?” he said. “I didn’t know you were coming to this. Why didn’t you tell me in class last night?”
“I was so bored with all those crazy diagrams, the only thing on my mind was getting outta there,” I said.
“No one even understood the damn problems,” Binky said. “It was like a Chinese fire drill. Oh, by the way, this is Landon, Nestor, and Duke.” Binky pointed to the other guys surrounding him. They were preppie clones in too-short beige corduroy pants, suede buckskin shoes, and tapered haircuts. We shook hands. I recognized Landon, the biggest of the three. He was a varsity lacrosse player.
“Landon, haven’t I seen you in the weight room at the ITT?” I said. “You work out with a guy with bright red hair.”
“Yeah, that’s Pint Stevenson,” Landon said. “He’s our coxswain on the varsity boat. Coach is on a rampage this month. He has us lifting and running before every practice. He gets in one of his moods every couple of months. You’re on the basketball team, right?”
“Yeah, we started our preseason practices a couple of weeks ago,” I said. “Beasley’s been working us like dogs too. Morning and afternoon practices.”
The five of us talked about sports and girls and parties. The conversation was easy, and for the first time since stepping into the mansion, I felt relaxed. Everyone was confident in the unique way that Harvard students can be. They knew that success in the real world was not an “if” but just a matter of “when” and where they wanted to focus their efforts. I was surprised by how easily we found common ground. Duke was heading to the bar, so he took everyone’s order and asked me if I wanted to join him.
I followed him as he walked right up to the front of the line, weaving ahead of the punchees clamoring to place their order. “Janice, I’d like you to meet one of our punchees,” he said as the harried bartender, ignoring the others, approached us. “His name is Spenser. I’ll take two Amstel Lights, a Sam Adams, a glass of red, and get Spenser here whatever he wants.” I hadn’t realized Duke was a member until he said, “one of our punchees.”
“Good evening, sir,” Janice greeted me in an Irish lilt. “A pleasure to meet you. What will you be drinking?”
“A root beer if you have it,” I said.
Duke laughed. “We have a bar full of the best alcohol in the world, and you only want soda? You gotta be kidding.”
“Beginning of the season,” I said. “Coach will kick my ass if I show up with a hangover tomorrow. He’d have me running wind sprints till I spit up blood.”
“See, that’s why I swore off all sports when I was a kid,” Duke said. “I saw my older brothers come home from practice every day, looking like they had gotten the shit kicked out of ’em. Their entire lives were controlled by games and practice schedules. So, I decided early on that I’d become a writer and dictate my own schedule and have a glass of red wine anytime I wanted.”
“Smart man,” I said. “This time every year after running the fifth or sixth wind sprint, believe me I start questioning my own decision.”
“My point exactly,” Duke laughed. “By the way, you came with great recommendations.”
“What do you mean?”
“Some of the guys are really high on you,” he said. “That’s a good thing. We need some fresh faces in the club. We have enough tennis players and heirs. Same shit all the time gets old. I hear you’re from Chicago.”
“Born and raised,” I said. “Where are you from?”
“New York City. Manhattan. You ever been?”
“Not yet, but it’s on my list.”
“Greatest city in the world bar none,” Duke said. “My father works in the State Department, so we’ve traveled and lived all over the world. Rome, London, Paris, Hong Kong, Berlin, you name it. But every time I go back home, I realize one thing—there’s just no place like New York, especially Greenwich Village, where I like to hang out.”
“Greenwich Village?” I remembered reading about that part of the city when I was applying to NYU.
“Exactly. Greenwich Village is downtown, west of Broadway. It’s more open and artsy and diverse than the East Side. If you’re ever in the city over the summer, look me up. I’d love to show you around down there. You’d have lots of fun. The coeds at the NYU summer school are smokin’ and very available.” He winked confidently.
Janice returned with our drinks. Duke gave her a nod and scooped them up. As we were turning to leave, one of Duke’s friends approached us. He introduced me to another punchee, Jason Arnaud from the crew team. He was the prototype crewbie: tall, close-cropped blond hair, sky blue eyes, and strong, callused hands from years of gripping those heavy wooden oars. As he and Duke talked about boats and regattas, I drifted in and out of the conversation, inspecting the room. As I took in the sumptuous décor, I couldn’t help but wonder what my mother and grandparents would say if they were standing next to me as the live jazz band entertained and champagne flowed like water. We saw these kinds of homes only in the movies or magazines. I had to keep reminding myself that I was actually an invited guest and not someone who had sneaked in through the back door. I wanted to memorize every detail so that I could share them back home—the silver trinkets lined up on the mantelpiece, the antique guns in lighted cabinets, and the sparkling crystal vases on every tabletop. This one room contained enough furniture to fill our entire apartment twice.
I noticed a regal elderly man with silver hair, working the room. He was dressed in a single-breasted gray pin-striped suit, French blue shirt, and bold red tie. He steadied himself with a long black cane topped with a brass lion’s head. Everyone seemed to be falling over each other, trying to meet him. Those who couldn’t get close nodded their heads deferentially as he passed. He commanded the room with ease. For a split second, he caught my eye and started to make his way across the room. As he neared, I could see the creases in his tanned, leathery skin.
“Hello, I don’t think we’ve met,” he said, switching the cane to his left hand and extending his right. “I’m Stanford L. Jacobs, class of ’47. I’m your host for the evening.” He had that distinct inflection in his voice of someone accustomed to privilege.
“I’m Spenser Collins, class of ’91,” I said, shaking his hand firmly. My stomach tightened.
“Is this your first time at one of these affairs, or have you been punched by any of the other clubs?” he asked.
“This is my first,” I said. “I was lucky enough to receive the invitation a few days ago.”
“Lucky indeed. The Gas is a very special place. Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Definitely. I’m meeting lots of interesting people.”
“Young man, if you survive the cuts, this could be the most exciting four weeks of your life. I remember my days as a punchee. I had the most divine time meeting all those wonderful people and going to all those fabulous
parties and dinners. I was eventually elected into the Delphic, Porcellian, and Spee. Choosing between the three was one of the most difficult decisions I’ve ever had to make.”
Suddenly Dalton’s parting words sounded in the back of my head. “Your home is amazing,” I said. “I noticed the Rembrandt hanging in the front hall. It looked like Portrait of a Young Girl, 1645.” Thank God for last year’s Fine Arts 234b final exam.
“Excellent eye, young man,” he said. “One of my favorites. Not one of his best pieces, but in the family for five generations. On that very wall since I was a little boy.”
Jacobs had that rich person’s way of speaking that I had never heard until I got to Harvard, those punctuated rhythmic fragments instead of complete sentences.
“Made a few important acquisitions over the years, but most of the pieces were here when I inherited the house. Great-grandfather was a big collector. Traveled all over the world, purchasing some of these pieces.”
“Did he also live here?”
Jacobs nodded. “Built it in the early 1800s. Father added another wing, but I’ve made very few changes since he passed away. Did a little restoring and opened up a couple of the rooms. But the house is basically the same as Father left it. I sense you have a keen interest in art.”
I almost fell out right there when he said that. Me with a keen interest in art? It wasn’t that I disliked art, but keen interest was definitely pushing it. I’d memorized about twelve paintings by some famous artists, just enough to get through an exam and sound like I knew what the hell I was talking about.
“I didn’t know much about art before last year,” I admitted. “But after studying it second semester, I’ve gained some appreciation. The more I learn, the more I’m fascinated.” I was turning into a goddamn phony right before my own eyes.
“Best time in your life to learn,” he said. “Youth is like a clean canvas. So much empty space to paint on, so much time to interpret the meaning of art. A tremendous opportunity to form opinions and appreciate subtleties. Distinguish one artist from another. Father insisted I take an early interest. He’d always say, ‘Try to understand the story and intention of every brushstroke.’ Can’t say I was enthused by the idea at the time. But as I got older, I valued what he had done for me. Opened up the entire world right here in this old house. Do let me show you some of my favorite pieces.”
Without waiting for my answer, Mr. Jacobs politely excused us, leading me through the room, shaking hands with others like a politician exiting a victory party. I followed him through a back door and down another long, dark corridor. I couldn’t understand why everything was so dark.
“Follow me,” he said. I feared I was getting involved in a situation that could prove embarrassing. I silently prayed that he would do more explaining than questioning. As we made our way through the lavish rooms, I thought about what Dalton had said. Was it possible that Jacobs was a member of the Ancient Nine, and if so, would I see something on this private excursion that might confirm that? I kept my eyes open for the smallest clues.
“Let’s look in here,” he suggested as we entered yet another spacious room with yet another vaulted ceiling. “I’ll never forget the day I received my first Delphic invitation,” he said. “I still have it in a box in an armoire in my bedroom.”
We stood for a moment in the darkness. His words continued to echo somewhere off the marble ceiling.
“Why did you choose the Delphic over the Porcellian and Spee?” I asked.
“Two generations of Jacobs men had worn the torches of the Gas, my father and his grandfather. Other Jacobs men had been proud members of the Spee. But the Gas just had something special about it that I didn’t feel with the others. Plus, it was almost impossible to get into at the time. Many of the graduate members had gone on to be world leaders, and the buzz about the club was fanatical. All the rage. Everyone wanted to get into Morgan’s mansion.”
Jacobs flicked on a wall switch. We stood underneath a large, ornamental Italian chandelier that scattered light throughout the mahogany-paneled room. Three of the four walls were lined with books from floor to ceiling. A sliding ladder leaned against the upper shelves.
“Oldest of the three libraries,” he said. “My brothers and I would sit here every night for our French and Latin lessons. Mother was determined her boys would not grow up provincial, as she liked to say. She had designs to make us fashionably international.” He smiled softly. “Latin would increase our vocabulary and give us a solid command of the language. French for summers on the Riviera.” Jacobs sighed as his mind wandered back in time. “Anyway, I brought you here to show you something.”
He walked across the room and stopped at a wide cabinet, then flipped a switch that made several rows of lights flash behind the glass windows.
“That entire top shelf is from the Qin dynasty, about 221 to 207 B.C.,” he said. “I acquired most of those pieces from a museum in Baoji, a city in Shaanxi.”
The first piece was a gold crouching tiger with its mouth open and strange ears. It was only a couple of inches long, and to be honest, didn’t look very impressive. I nodded my head pensively as if I were completely overwhelmed by its historical significance.
“An important piece,” Jacobs said. “Once used as a harness ornament for horse-drawn chariots. At the back, there’s a bar where the leather strap could attach. That and the drinking vessel next to it are two of the oldest Chinese artifacts I own.”
“Was it difficult to get them?” I asked, searching for something to say without displaying my complete and utter lack of knowledge.
“Let’s just say there was a significant amount of backroom wheeling and dealing.” Jacobs smiled.
“You did the negotiating?” I asked.
“Never,” he said, as if the mere thought offended him. “One of my dealers handled all the hand-to-hand combat. Sometimes this can be a tricky business. Lots of fakes out there. Gotta be careful. I’ve got something else you might like.”
He switched off the lights and led me out the door. I followed him farther down the hall and into another room with enough space to play a full-court game of basketball. “Mother’s sitting room,” she said. “Loved to entertain her guests here.”
We stepped into the airy room filled with baroque furniture and bright watercolor paintings. This was the first time I had ever seen peach lacquered walls. To my surprise, I actually recognized several of the paintings. It was as if half the works we had studied in our fine arts course were hanging in that room.
“These paintings are impressive,” I said. “Many of them masters.”
“Indeed,” he said. “Mother liked to keep most of her major pieces here despite the best efforts of her interior decorator, who absolutely detested the arrangement of this room. She tried to convince Mother that all these pieces shouldn’t be in one room, but rather spread throughout the house. She complained that too many big pieces in one room would cause them to fight each other.”
“Then why did your mother still keep them all here?” I asked.
“She was getting older and not moving around the house as much. She wanted all of her favorites in the one room where she did most of her entertaining. Mother could be a very practical woman. But I brought you here to see what she really treasured more than anything else.”
Jacobs led me across the room to a long walnut table that was filled with vases and colorful porcelain bowls. He turned on a row of lamps, and I immediately knew what he was talking about. Anyone who knew anything about art could recognize the work of El Greco and his religious imagery, a dead Christ with blue-hued skin lying softly in the arms of Mary.
“Pietà. Circa 1592. How ironic that a Greek would become one of the greatest to swing a brush in Spain. Mother acquired this right before she died. She loved his Mannerist style of painting.”
“Do you worry about keeping all this great art in the open?” I said. “What if there’s a fire or someone breaks in?”
Jacobs smiled.
“Art is to be seen, Spenser, not hidden. If collectors lived in fear of destruction, they would never have the opportunity to enjoy the work. Having said that, we are very confident in our security protocol.” He winked at me and turned off the lights.
As we made our way back to the gathering, he pointed out the masters—Picasso, Renoir, Monet, Cézanne—and told me brief stories about how a piece was acquired or why the work held such importance in the collection. We passed through one room that had a grand piano with keys made from the ivory of elephants his grandfather had killed on safari in Eastern Africa. Another room in the far corner of the west wing was used only for VIP dinners and was filled with a long table that ran the length of the room and was covered with enough sparkling silver and china for sixty people. We didn’t go into the solarium that ran along the back of the house and out into the yard, but he explained how his mother had it built specifically for afternoon tea parties to properly entertain fellow board members of the many charitable organizations she served.
The rooms looked as though they were never used, not one chair or pillow out of place. We walked down another long hall where most of the twenty bedrooms were located. They were all extravagantly furnished, many of them with daybeds and chaise lounges flanking an enormous four-poster bed draped with silk dust ruffles. At least half of them boasted grand marble fireplaces with gold-encrusted utensils. Their lavishness was dizzying.
“Before we go back to the party, there’s one room upstairs you must see,” he said.
I followed him up two short flights and into a spacious room. Windows filled three of the four walls. He kept the lights off.
“Father renovated this room for Mother on their tenth anniversary,” he explained. “The glass in each set of windows has a different magnification that offers a different view of Boston. No building in this city has a better view of the Charles winding its way through Cambridge and into Boston. When the room was complete, architectural magazines across the country ran stories on it. I can remember strangers coming to the door, asking to see ‘the room.’ It was an amazing time for this old house, like a rebirth.”
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