“Us,” she says. And then, “Edwee, I think you’re crazy. You expect me to make up some cock-and-bull story—to tell an outright lie about a conversation with Berenson that never happened—just so you can get that Goya? Yes, I think you are quite crazy.”
“Just a little white lie,” he says in a wheedling tone. “After all, it could have happened.”
“I am a woman with a certain reputation for integrity, Edwee. I am something of a public figure, whether you realize it or not. I don’t intend to sacrifice my integrity, my credibility, for something like this.”
“Your credibility could be a plus factor,” he says. “Your credibility could mean that people will be inclined to believe what you say.”
“As a magazine publisher, my dedication was to editorial integrity. In any future venture I may undertake, I will need that reputation for total integrity. I cannot afford to sacrifice, or to risk sacrificing, that reputation.”
“Your integrity didn’t prevent your magazine from folding,” he says.
“How was I to know that Johnny Fairchild would attack me in Women’s Wear?”
“Wasn’t there a little more to it than that, dear girl? Wasn’t there a little flurry of complaints within the advertising community when it turned out that you were charging different advertisers different rates for the same space?”
“That was—”
“And I seem to remember hearing something about padding circulation figures?”
“That was never proven!”
“And what about your little predilection for pinching things from here and there—from department stores, and other people’s houses? Every time you leave my house I feel I should count the silver!’
“And what about you? What about that Collier business? What about that business with the Florida police? Talk about morals!”
But wait, she thinks. Wait. There is nothing to be gained by either of them from this sort of quarreling. Slowly, unexpectedly, it dawns on her that her baby brother may be playing right into her hand. He wants something. What he wants is not necessarily to put their mother in a nursing home. It is clear what he wants now. He wants the Goya. What she had not guessed was how desperately he wants it. He will risk his own reputation as well as hers to get it, and he needs her to help him get it. Well, anyone who wants a thing as badly as that should be willing to pay for it, shouldn’t he? Of course he should. It is known as the law of supply and demand. In life, as in the marketplace, one gets what one pays for.
She stands up and moves across the cluttered room toward the east-facing windows, which overlook Edwee’s perfect garden and the river. The summer is ending, and the days are growing shorter, and from the borough of Queens lights are beginning to flicker on. The days are growing shorter for me, too, she thinks. All around me, time is running short. The safety catch on her gold bracelet has come loose, and she fiddles with this with her free hand, playing for time, while in her mind she composes what she will say to him next.
“You know, I think Goya would rather like my idea,” Edwee says quietly. “There’s something very Goyaesque about it, isn’t there? He was the most cynical of painters. He painted the Duchess of Osuna in a way that revealed all her ugliness and ignorance, her venality and greed and decadence and self-indulgence. Yet he managed to make her think that the result was a portrait of a great beauty. He must have, because she commissioned him over and over again. He managed to paint a screen over her own eyes, so that what she saw on the canvas was something entirely different from what was so clearly there. Remarkable, isn’t it? It is as though he was able to hypnotize his subjects while he painted them. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but what is in the eye that the beholder beholds? A totally different vision. Four successive Spanish monarchs and their families and courtiers were fooled that way by him.”
“What a pretty little speech, Edwee,” she says, still fiddling with the safety catch, while all around her the room looms large and electric with possibilities.
“Someday I may write an essay on the subject.”
“Do,” Nonie says, studying the walls of Edwee’s room, his collections arrayed along the bookshelves and in vitrines. Suddenly the room itself seems to her Goyaesque, rich and ripe and ready for intrigue and high deception.
“Edwee,” she begins carefully, “you are a very rich man. I, of course, am something of the poor relation. This is a very valuable painting we’re talking about, correct? Fifty million dollars? Just to take a wild guess at what it might be worth. How much would it be worth to you, Edwee, if I were to do this?”
He looks very unhappy now. “We’d have joint ownership, the two of us, of a great art treasure,” he says. “After all, we’re Mother’s only direct heirs. The old battle-ax can’t live forever!”
“Would it be worth five million dollars to you, Edwee?” She smiles brightly, straightening her bracelet. “Would it?”
But at that moment their conversation is interrupted by Edwee’s Filipino houseman, who opens the door a crack and says, “Your other guest is here, Señor Myerson.”
“Thank you, Tonio.”
“Would it, Edwee?” she says again. “Edwee, you’re looking a little ill. Are you all right? Is it your morning sickness again, do you think?” She taps his shoulder. “Now for goodness’ sakes, get out of that silly chef’s apron and hat. You look exactly like the little man on the Chef Boyardee spaghetti can.”
Nonie follows her brother out of the office and down the long walnut-paneled gallery, past the collection of Greek amphorae, which, tonight, are individually lighted from concealed spots. The pricelessness of things, she thinks, the pricelessness of dreams, of all the dreams that money can buy. She hooks a hand in his elbow. “Five million,” she says. “That’s my price, sweetie.”
“You drive a hard bargain, Sis.”
They start down the short flight of carpeted steps into Edwee’s sunken living room where, at the far end, a blond young man in a dinner jacket who looks vaguely familiar awaits them.
“Dirk, you remember my sister, Nonie, don’t you?” Edwee says.
“Did I wake you, Mother?” It is Badger on the phone.
“No darling. I’m in bed, reading. What’s up?”
“I wouldn’t bother you this late, but I’ve learned something that you ought to know.”
“What’s that?”
“Our friend Horowitz has been talking to some of the Leo cousins.”
She sits up straight in bed and cradles the receiver between her chin and shoulder. “How do you know this?”
“My squash-playing buddy who works for him. He’s turning out to be quite a nice little source of information. We were having drinks tonight, and Horowitz’s name came up. My friend said, ‘Guess what my crazy boss did today. He flew up to Scars-dale in his helicopter … took his helicopter to fly twenty miles to Scarsdale.’ I said I had some cousins in Scarsdale, people named Bernhardt. He said, ‘That’s funny, he went up there to see a Mrs. Richard Bernhardt.’ I said ‘Funny coincidence,’ or something like that, but Mrs. Richard Bernhardt is one of Leo Myerson’s granddaughters, Mother.”
“I see.”
“So it looks as though our friend may already be a jump ahead of us.”
“Obviously. Damn!”
“I think if we’re going to act, we’d better act fast.”
“Yes. I agree. Absolutely.”
“I have all the cousins’ names, addresses, and telephone numbers. Do you want me to give these to you now, or shall we wait until the morning?”
“No, give them to me now.” She fishes a pad and ballpoint pen from the drawer of her bedside table.
“Okay. Leopold Myerson’s son and two daughters are all dead, but their children are all very much alive, and they all own shares in varying amounts. There are eight of these—or seven, if you don’t count one who’s in a loony bin. His brother’s his custodian and votes his shares. One of the larger shareholders is this Mrs. Richard Bernhardt, Eight Rockinghorse Lane,
Scarsdale, area code nine-one-four …”
“You’re a genius, Badger,” she whispers. “Have I told you that lately?”
Long after he has hung up, Mimi sits up in her bed, studying the list of names, memorizing them. The trouble is, she thinks, that she still has not decided on what might be the best way to approach these people. With a letter? Or a telephone call? Or a telephone call followed by a letter? Finally, she decides to discuss this with Badger first thing in the morning. She closes her book, using the list of names to mark her place, and turns out her lamp.
Sleep comes with difficulty tonight. Memories and questions crowd her mind. “Little white stars,” he said. “Did you see them, too, Mimi?”
“Yes.”
And then, much later, she has the dream again. It is always the same: the dark shape flying across the windshield, the shouts, the horns honking, her mother’s screams. But suddenly the dream changes, and it is no longer her mother sitting beside her in the car. It is Michael, and he is laughing, but then she sees that he is weeping, too. “Don’t cry,” she tells him. “Don’t cry, dear Michael. It wasn’t my fault, my darling. It wasn’t my fault.”
Nonie Myerson lets herself into her apartment and rushes to the telephone and dials his number. After three rings, the oddly disembodied male voice answers. “You have reached five-five-five-one-eight-eight-oh. If you wish to leave a message, please wait for the sound of the tone.”
The tone comes, and Nonie says, “This is a message for Mr. Roger Williams. This is Naomi Myerson calling. The message is this: Have secured necessary funding. Repeat. Have secured all necessary funding. Please call me at home as soon as you possibly can. Urgent.” Agonizingly, she hopes it is not too late.
Alone in his living room now, Edwee Myerson turns to the blond young man and said, “Come upstairs with me for a minute. I have an interesting idea.”
The young man follows him up the curved staircase, a bemused expression on his face.
At the top of the stairs, Edwee taps on a closed door. From behind it come the sounds of a television set.
“Is that you, Daddy?” she says.
He opens the door a crack.
“Johnny has Eddie Murphy on,” she says. “He’s really funny.”
“Feeling better, Pussyface? Good. I have a little surprise for you.”
She turns her head from the huge television screen that occupies the entire wall opposite her bed. A look of alarm crosses her face when she sees he is not alone, and she pulls the satin sheet up across her bare shoulders.
“Isn’t he pretty?” Edwee says. “I thought we’d try something a little different tonight: a threesome. What do you think, Pussyface?”
Still looking frightened, she studies the young man’s smiling face, and gradually her look of alarm grows softer. She settles her blond head back against the many multishaped, lace-edged pillows on her bed and, with one arm, reaches out and turns off the television from the remote-control unit. She giggles. “Hell, I’ll try anything once,” she says.
The younger man begins loosening his tie.
“Mind if we videotape this?” Edwee says.
Part Three
A HOUSE DIVIDED
13
Sometimes Mimi’s famous—at least within the industry—“Mimi Memos” were not about proposing new projects or developing new products, but were simply sent out to impart cosmetological lore to the people who worked for her. Since she learned that many of her employees saved the memos, she decided that they were good for employee morale. These “general” memos had the effect of reminding her staff that they were part of an ancient and respected industry, not just a glitzy and show-bizzy trade. They were designed to inform, educate, and amuse, and they always revealed how thoroughly Mimi had immersed herself in her subject.
For instance, there was this one from 1973, after Mimi had headed Miray for about ten years and was well on her way to making Miray the second-largest (second only to door-to-door Avon) cosmetics manufacturer in the country:
MIRAY CORPORATION
Interoffice Memorandum
TO: All employees
FROM: MM
SUBJECT: This & That
Humans have been using cosmetics for at least 8,000 years. Archeologists have uncovered palettes for grinding and mixing face powders dating from 6000 B.C. In ancient Egypt, by 4000 B.C., beauty shops flourished. Women tipped their fingers and toes in reddish henna, accented the veins on their breasts in blue, and painted their nipples gold!
Egyptian men were just as vain, and Egyptian tombs are frequently found with makeup kits for the afterlife. In the 1920s, when King Tut’s tomb was opened after more than 3,000 years, jars of skin cream, lip color, and rouge were found there—still usable, and still fragrant of oleoresins.
By 850 B.C., Phoenicia was the fashion and cultural capital of the civilized world, and cosmetics were introduced to Israel by Queen Jezebel, the wife of King Ahab, and the Bible refers to her use of makeup (2 Kings 9:30): “And when Jehu was come to Jezreel, Jezebel heard of it; and she painted her face …” From her window in the palace, in her makeup, she taunted Jehu, who was her son’s rival for the throne, until Jehu, tired of this treatment, ordered her eunuchs to throw her out the window. When she landed, Jehu trampled her to death. Since then, Jezebel became the symbol of the scheming, evil woman, and for many years she gave cosmetics a bad name.
Cosmetics became fashionable in England under Queen Elizabeth I, who had her own beauty formula. After bathing in a very hot bath to open the pores, she splashed her face liberally with red wine, which stained her a pretty pink color. Soon fashionable women were bathing their entire bodies with wine, including Mary Queen of Scots, who had the temerity to ask for an increased living allowance in order to afford this luxury!
By the 18th century, English women of all classes were using such a variety of paints, creams, stains, and rouges to such an extent that it was suspected that the sinister purpose behind women’s makeup was to lure unsuspecting males into marriage. In 1770, a drastic law was enacted by Parliament, stating “that all women of whatever age, rank, profession, or degree, whether virgins, maids, or widows, that shall, from and after such Act, impose upon, seduce, and betray into matrimony, any of His Majesty’s subjects, by the scents, paints, cosmetic washes, artificial teeth, false hair, Spanish wool, iron stays, hoops, high heeled shoes, bolstered hips, shall incur the penalty of the law in force against witchcraft, and like misdemeanors and that the marriage, upon conviction, shall stand null and void.”
Needless to say, we women prevailed, and this law did not stay on the books very long.
From England, the idea that cosmetics were an important adjunct to fashion quickly spread to the royal courts of France, Italy, and Spain. Cosmetics were much favored by the court of Louis XIII, and one of the most legendary royal advertisements of their efficacy was the beautiful Anne of Austria. But it was the Empress Josephine, the wife of Napoleon I, who can really be said to be the mother of the modern cosmetics industry. From her native island of Martinique, she brought to Paris trunkloads of exotic creams, rouges, powders, and dyes that the French public immediately wanted for themselves. This demand inspired French scientists to try to duplicate these artistic beauty aids on a scientific basis.
It is thanks to Josephine that, for many years, the French dominated the cosmetics industry.
Until we came along, that is!
Which brings me to the real point of this memo. There’s been a lot of talk in our industry lately about collagens and various cellular anti-aging emulsions being developed in Switzerland and other parts of Europe, and I’ve been asked whether we shouldn’t jump on this bandwagon and introduce an anti-wrinkle cream of our own. The fact is that collagens and elastins are simply fibrous animal proteins that are used in the tanning of leather. Our chemists have analyzed these products and found that they are quite useless when it comes to the actual elimination of wrinkles. All these products are moisturizers, and the regular use
of moisturizers (on most skin) will delay the appearance of wrinkles, but—as yet—there is no known substance that will actually remove or prevent wrinkling. I feel we would be doing our customers a disservice if we offered a product that made such claims. Meanwhile, of course, research continues.…
Despite her sophistication, Mimi often thinks that in some ways she had what amounted to a sheltered childhood. As an only child, with only her dolls for playmates, and with parents who spent much of their time expressing their displeasure with one another, she had become—quite contentedly, it seemed to her—something of a loner. Her grandparents remained mysterious beings to her, even though she saw them nearly every Sunday afternoon at their house for tea. They gave her elaborate presents, like the ermine jacket and the dollhouse, and yet they remained always distant and aloof, and she knew that her mother was frightened of them. They held some indefinable power over her parents’ lives. But there was always an insurmountable barrier, a wall implacable and stern, that stood between their house and hers.
Once, when leaving her grandparents’ house after one of those teas, she had made the mistake of saying to them, “I’ll see you next Sunday, Grandmama, ma’am, and Grandpapa, sir,” before performing her farewell curtsy. She knew from the expression on her mother’s face that she had said something terribly wrong, and afterward her mother was very angry about it. “Never tell them you’ll see them next Sunday!” her mother said. “That was very rude. That’s like asking to be invited to someone’s party.”
“But we go there every Sunday.”
“We go there because they ask us, not the other way around. It’s up to them to issue the invitation. Did you notice that neither of them said anything when you said that? That’s how shocked they were! Now I don’t know whether we’re to be invited there next Sunday or not. What will your father say if we’re not?”
Shades of Fortune Page 22