The Last Bastion

by Peter C. Wensberg

  Owen wondered about Gland. Had Seymour set him up as a pawn in some devious plot on behalf of the Charles Club? Had his old friend and new boss tried to get something started between Demi and himself? If he had, he had almost succeeded. But why had Seymour not told him who Demi was? Gland was nothing if not devious. But his motives aside, what was to be done now? Owen walked quickly across the bridge over the Swan Boat lagoon, now empty of its flock, in something like misery. He noticed they were beginning to drain it. Who drained lagoons? The nameless, faceless They, he supposed. Could he ever again get Demi to speak to him on the phone? Their evening a week ago had gone so well. The feeling of life renewed that had filled his gut along with the scallops provençale returned now as heartburn. He had to talk to Demi again. As he paused, waiting for the chance to cross Charles Street between the Garden and the Common by the statue of Edward Everett Hale, he decided to call her as soon as he reached his desk. He would dial her every five minutes through the day until she took the call. Who the hell was Edward Everett Hale anyway, he wondered angrily, staring at the bronze beard and the wide slouch hat.

  “One of the great egos of history,” said the last balloon vendor of the season, as if reading his mind.

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. He kept Lincoln sitting in the rain for two hours while he read a speech which was a lot of horsecrap anyway. You know, at Gettysburg. He was the one who introduced Lincoln.”

  “No,” said a Park Ranger, “that was Edward Everett, his uncle. This one wrote The Man Without a Country.”

  “Is that why they built a statue to him?” asked Owen in spite of himself.

  “Who knows why they build statues?” said the first historian, snapping a balloon off the valve of his air cylinder. The light changed and Owen moved quickly with the crowd. The nameless, faceless They put statuary around the city as well as draining lagoons and naming perfumes. He thought he caught a whiff of Poison as he crossed the Common heading for Milk Street.

  It proved to be amazingly easy with the grudging assistance of Gland’s secretary, the icy Ms. James. Usually unapproachable, she had yielded to Owen’s explanation that he had been asked by Seymour to return some plans to Constantine. As she checked her Rolodex, Owen noticed that the card was filed under M for Massachusetts Licensing Board, rather than C for Constantine. He entered his office and without sitting down reached over, punched the speaker phone button and dialed Demi’s office number. He listened to the electronic music of the dialer and to his astonishment Demi’s voice came booming through his office like an announcement at Fenway Park. “Hello,” it echoed. “Constantine,” then, “Who is this?”

  Owen snatched up the receiver and found he could not speak into it.

  “Hello. Who is this?”

  “Ah, Demi …”

  “Oh. I might have guessed. I’d rather not talk to you.”

  “Why?”

  “I am likely to say something very rude.”

  “I can’t imagine you saying anything rude.”

  “That’s only because you know nothing about me. I can be exceedingly rude. Rude as hell, as a matter of fact, when the circumstances warrant it.”

  This speech had a calming effect on Owen if only because it was so long. “Demi, I’m sure you must think I’m either a conniving bastard, or a fool …”

  “That’s rather well put.”

  “… but I want to assure you I am not a conniving bastard.”

  “I don’t know which is worse.”

  “It’s much worse to be thought a conniving bastard than a fool. I’ve been a fool often enough to be sure of that.”

  “Are you trying to tell me that you did not deliberately seek me out to try to sell me a bill of goods about the Charles Club?”

  “That is what I am trying to tell you.”

  “That you had no idea I was Chairperson of the MLB?”

  “Right. I’m trying to tell you that.”

  “That this is all coincidence and misunderstanding?”

  “Yep. That’s it.”

  “Don’t pull Gary Cooper on me again.”

  “Nope.”

  “Stop it.”

  “Can I see you? I’m really anxious to see you.”

  “It’s very much against my better judgment.”

  “Look, Ms. Chairperson …”

  “Watch your ass, Owen Lawrence. I was—am—really furious.”

  “Sincerely furious?”

  “Furious in a way a few people around town have learned to appreciate.”

  “Look, you had every right to jump to the wrong conclusion. But clubs and licenses are the last things I want to talk you about. I’m not very good at this.”

  “What?”

  “Begging. I’m out of practice. Can I please buy you a drink after work? Then I’ll try to persuade you to have dinner with me.”

  “All right. A drink, I mean.”

  “Where would you like to meet?”

  “Your apartment. One look around and I’ll know whether you’re a conniving bastard or a fool.”

  “I’d rather we went somewhere else.”

  “I’m already getting a signal.”

  Owen walked quickly past Ms. James’ beige desk and smiled at her back as he pushed Gland’s office door open. He knew Seymour was in because his office, perched on a small mezzanine, was enclosed by glass panels the size of department store windows. From his eminence at the top of the curving stairway Gland had a commanding view of all the other offices, the two conference rooms, the tangle of computers, the mailroom, and the reception area with its plants and imitation leather couch, all of which—with the exception of the plants—were beige. His employees, in turn, had full view of their leader whose every movement could be seen through the large panes. Gland clung to the theory that the chief executive of a company should set a visible, virtually uninterrupted example to his subordinates. The only exception occurred when he disappeared into his private bathroom. Otherwise he was on stage for his associates throughout the day. It was Ms. James’ duty, however, to limit access to the glass box only to those who had been summoned. Owen waited until she was occupied with the telephone before running up the stairway on her blind side as she poked among the twenty-four buttons on the phone keyboard.

  The offices of Gland, Hollings had been remodelled from the second floor of a bank. Gland had acquired the building five years earlier when the Old Currency Bank had moved to its new home, One Currency Place, next to the reincarnated Mercantile Exchange. Gland caught the crest of Boston’s avid demand for office space. He refurbished the old marble lobby, reserved the second floor for his own beige suite, installed new elevators, leased the bank vault to a restaurateur more interested in atmosphere than ventilation, and signed lucrative long-term leases on all the remaining office space within six weeks. Since that epic period his coworkers could watch him hard at work crafting deals on the telephone every day. They did not, however, realize that many had little to do with the investment of venture capital in technology.

  As Owen stepped in the door he found his friend talking with a strange mixture of fury and sincerity into a beige telephone. “Lester, that is not the parcel we are talking about. I specified the old Walton block, the one with the bookstores and the peepshows on the Washington Street side and, I believe it is called, Pussy’s Lounge on the corner. Owen, excuse me, please, I’m on a call. Can you come back … no, Lester, can you hold for a minute?” Gland punched a button on the elaborate telephone console that occupied the center of his leather-covered desk, “Owen, this is quite important. I’ll buzz you when I’m finished on the …” he searched the buttons in front of him “… intercom, yes, here it is I think, when I’m through.”

  “Seymour, remember when I bailed you out of the Cambridge Jail? When I lent you taxi fare to Northampton? From downtown Boston? When I helped you look for your car for two hours when it wasn’t even there and then you puked on your patent leather dancing pumps?”

  “Please get out.
This is important.” He pushed the button to reestablish contact, but was assaulted by a dial tone. “God damn it! Why does this idiot system never work the way it is supposed to?”

  “Have you read the instruction book?”

  “Of course I haven’t. It’s sixty-four pages long, for Christ’s sake.” Gland’s voice had risen both in pitch and decibels. “Why should I have to read an instruction book to complete a simple telephone call?”

  “Technology, I suppose.”

  “Technology? What do you know about technology? You’re only an engineer. I’ve invested more money in technology …”

  “Be quiet for a moment, Seymour. I want you to answer a question. It has nothing to do with technology. Why didn’t you tell me Demetria Constantine was the Chairman, or whatever, of the Massachusetts Licensing Board? Why did you send me to meet her at the Parker House? You could have sent the office boy for those plans.”

  “Ah-ha! Did you listen to yourself? That’s two questions and a declarative statement. I choose to answer the statement. I did send the office boy.”

  Owen studied Seymour Gland. “I can’t decide whether you set me up or not.” He thought about office boy for a moment. “Don’t involve yourself with my private life, Seymour. It’s been enough of a disaster so far without your help. I am going to say this just once. I like Demi and I don’t want anything of a, uh, political nature to spoil our relationship. I hope you understand me.”

  “Your ‘relationship’! You sound like the cover of Cosmopolitan! And as to your two questions, you don’t want me to ‘involve myself.’ More psychobabble, but if it hadn’t been for me you would never have met the estimable Ms. Constantine, who, by the way, could easily grace the cover of Cosmopolitan, or even …”

  “Can it, Seymour.” Owen turned to go.

  “Just because I didn’t give you the complete curriculum vitae of the lady, you come, blustering and complaining, into my office, interrupting an important, no, a crucial conversation that could well change the face of one of Boston’s most blighted neighborhoods. Really, Owen, I don’t understand you. I had no ulterior motive in arranging that you and Demetria become acquainted. I am delighted to hear you like her. I hope you get to know her better. The lady is what they call a comer in political circles, a potential political superstar in my opinion. Her friendship could be worth a great deal some day. Now, could you please see your way clear to allow me to return to my work?”

  Owen walked across the beige carpet and opened the beige door. He stopped and glanced at the now smiling Gland behind his beige desk. “If you mess me up with Demi, or fool around with my private life, Seymour, I’ll sic my dog on you.”

  Chapter 13

  The dog barked. The doorbell rang., Owen tipped the dustpan, spilling the ashes he had just swept up with a clothes brush back onto the tiny hearth. He had never heard the doorbell before, never realized there was a doorbell. The sound momentarily paralyzed most of his functions. His thoughts wandered, visualizing the outside frame of his front door at the foot of the three damp stone steps with its mossy stone doorstep. He was sure there was no bell by the door. His mind’s eye wandered up the facade of the building, the exuberant neo-Gothic pillars, the massive arch over the main entrance, the hideous red sandstone carved in a variety of wreaths, pediments, circular window frames and beetling cornices. The bell rang again and he realized the sound was emanating from the door itself, not an electric bell somewhere in the kitchen since there was none, but from an old twist bell set in the center of the door. Shaped like a half a bagel without the hole, it was encrusted with many coats of paint, the last a purplish brown, all of which layered the door itself. Tasha barked again, staring at the door with fascination, intent on performing her watchdog duties, though the tone of her bark suggesting the situation was not life-threatening.

  “Owen, I know you are in there. I can see you through the window. Are you going to let me in, or not?”

  He leaped like a fish and threw the door open. Demetria collapsed her umbrella and with a questioning glance edged past him leaving a damp trail behind her. Tasha sniffed the hem of her raincoat appreciatively. The room, ordinarily unobtrusive and even welcoming in Owen’s eyes, withered to the cell it had appeared when the real estate agent first showed it to him. “I’m sorry. Let me take your coat,” he said, shoving the dustpan and brush under a chair with his foot.

  “What were you doing? It looked like you were praying in front of the fireplace.” She turned slowly, absorbing the apartment in its entirety. She seemed to be searching for something to say. “What a wonderful old rug.”

  “Oh, you mean that?” Owen glanced at the Navajo weaving thrown across his—for once—carefully made bed.

  “Yes, it’s superb.” She walked into the bedroom, a distance of three steps. “A Ganado, and an old one, isn’t it?” She lifted the frayed edge, felt the close weave of the red wool, examined the pattern of two encased crosses surrounded by a heavy black border and a frame of stepped terraces. It smelled of dust and lanolin, baked for a long time in the sun.

  “I don’t know. That is, I know it’s old. I used to have it on my bed at home. I’m not sure where it came from. Or if it’s superb.”

  “Didn’t you tell me you came from New Mexico?”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t make me an expert on Indian blankets.”

  “Rugs. Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?”

  Owen collected himself and looked around for the ice.

  “It’s from Hubbell’s Trading Post in the Navajo Nation in Arizona,” Demi continued, looking at it again, feeling the weave. “Probably worth five thousand dollars. Aren’t you going to ask me how I know?”

  “How do you know so much about Indian rugs?” he asked as he began to put ice in the two glasses set out on a tray on the birch log table. “At least I know what you drink.” He poured a healthy dollop of Jack Daniel’s in each glass from a small bottle and pitched the plastic ice holder into the sink.

  “My father, the insurance agent who sold policies to all the Greeks in Newton, collected Indian things.”

  Owen, feeling a trifle silly, offered her the tray and Demi took one of the glasses. She smiled a little smile. “He had pots, rugs, chief’s blankets, beadwork, silver. It was a lovely collection.”

  “Did he travel out West a lot?”

  She laughed, a derisive little snort that brought Tasha’s ears up as the dog lay in the Sphinx position studying this new being with an unwavering black-eyed gaze. “He and my mother never went west of Springfield. The longest trip he ever took was last year when he went back for a visit to his village in Greece.”

  “How did he do his collecting?”

  “He read books and he went to estate auctions, the two things in life he loved to do the most, as a matter of fact. He discovered that many of the old New England families had travelled to the West in the twenties and thirties. There were beautiful Indian pieces sitting in attics for years until they turned up in the auctions. And, of course, everyone else was interested in furniture, or flatware, or a Colonial musket to hang over their fireplace.”

  “How big was it?”

  “He had almost two hundred pieces. My brother has it all now. I was the only one in the family who ever showed an interest, but my father gave it all to my brother when Father bought the condo in Florida. God knows what Stephan has done with it now.”

  “I meant his village. The village he went back to visit in Greece. How big was it?”

  “About six hundred, I guess.”

  “That’s about the size of my village.”

  “But this village has been a village for a thousand years.”

  “So has Tesuque Pueblo, although I lived in another part of town.”

  Demi looked at him for a silent moment as she sipped her bourbon. The glass had a band of blue anchors and whales around it. The inscription read: NEW BEDFORD WHALING MUSEUM. “What are you doing here?” she asked, finally.

  “I’m not sure.” />
  “You’re a bright person.”

  “I wonder sometimes.”

  “You’re not unattractive. An engineer with an MIT degree, for God’s sake. Why haven’t you made a million dollars? It’s not that hard to make a million dollars in Boston these days. Why are you living in this, this …”

  “Yes, I know. Except, I don’t really know. I guess I never set out to make a million dollars.” He seemed to be out of words. The telephone rang, startling him again. It had rung only a few times before, the New England Telephone Company checking to see if the line was functioning, a wrong number or two. This time it was Abbie.

  “Owen? I wanted to let you know that I gave the key to the safe deposit box to my lawyer. She’s going to mail it to your lawyer, who will give it to you. I think it’s the safe deposit box. It may be the key to the Post Office box in Mattapoisett. There’s a problem with the Mattapoisett closing, too. You know it’s been under agreement for six months. Now, at the last possible moment, it’s been delayed because there is some stupid question about the title. Do you know anything about … am I interrupting anything?”

  “Hello, Abbie. No, that’s all right.” He instantly regretted uttering her name.

  “An easement across the property for a water line that goes next door … do you have someone there?”

  Owen’s mind went blank again. He looked at Demi, who was scratching Tasha’s ears. Demi looked back at him and he again wondered what color her eyes were.