The Last Bastion

by Peter C. Wensberg

  Pesht sank into his wooden throne in the corner of the kitchen which afforded an unobstructed view of the huge nickel and black gas range. The assistant chef, Rory Halloran, poked his sandy head through the door, assessed the tranquility of the scene, and ambled in to brew a pot of tea. A young Irishman without a green card, he was Pesht’s most promising pupil in years. A sensitive touch, a sophisticated palate, boundless good humor, and a desire to absorb all he could from the master outweighed the fact that no one in the kitchen except Pesht could understand his Kerry brogue. The Boston Cat slipped in and curled up by an empty plate on the floor next to the stove. It was followed by three women who shared the preparation and serving duties, and a few minutes later by the young drudge, Earl, who did cleanup and washed the dishes. They tied on their whites, casting enquiring looks in Pesht’s direction to gauge his emotional temperature. The kitchen began to hum quietly, then buzz as the disruption of the night before was finally put to rights. The air grew warmer and the first of the day’s soup kettles gave off a spicy essence of simmering chicken stock. How long has she been here? Pesht asked himself, studying the buttons on the back of Miss Ontos’ blouse. He watched her stroking the keyboard like an organist flying through an intricate partita. Occasionally she leaned her head back and searched for inspiration in the patterned garlands of the yellow tin ceiling. Her fingers, however, never slowed. Why do I devil her, he wondered. Pesht studied the graceful curve of her throat, the elegance of her wrists and forearms, the narrow span of her waist.

  He had lived alone since the death of his wife, in a small apartment eleven blocks from the club. In the confusion and bitterness of his grief he had closed the little restaurant they had run together on the floor below. Now, when he returned late at night, the sight of the ugly convenience store that had so quickly replaced all that they had built ended each day with a taste of bile in his mouth. As he mounted the stairs the image of his wife was always vivid. She was Hungarian, as was he, beautiful, strong, with broad shoulders and powerful arms. She was born in Buda across the Danube from his home, well-educated, from a good family, intelligent and quick with figures. They had never met in their own country. He saw her first at a party given for Hungarian refugees in Boston in 1957. Within six months they were married and had opened the Magyar. For twenty years he had never given a thought to the past. Although no children came, they were busy and content with the creation of their new world. Life in America with Ava was a song for him until the day she was killed in the street in front of the Magyar by a truck which hit her and did not stop. Since there was no focus for his rage he retired into his room. He gave up the English classes he had begun at his wife’s insistence, cut off communication with their friends, sold the Magyar. It took him almost a year to emerge, a man of black moods and wild moods, but a man who knew that if he did not work he would die. He found a job at the Charles Club under the legendary Marcel. When in two years Marcel retired, Anton Pesht stepped forward to assume his own greatness. Miss Ontos was one of the few at the club who realized he did not read English.

  She sat back in the uncomfortable chair, her throat and cheeks flushed with exertion, her curls bouncing. “The brunch you have planned for Sunday sounds intriguing.” She took a grateful sip of tea. “Thank you ever so much, Rory.”

  “Argh la wurrie ta?” asked Rory.

  “No. Thank you,” replied Pesht. To Miss Ontos he said, “Come back tonight after dinner if you still stay. If you can leave stupid box alone, I give you a sweet.”

  “I suppose you think that will erase the memory of your ugly and quite inexplicable behavior this morning.”

  “Come if you want.”

  “No one has ever called me a fool. Never in my life.”

  “I did not call you a fool.”

  “Well there were only the two of us within the range of your bellowing. Thank goodness,” she added under her breath.

  Anton did not answer, just stared at her with heavy-lidded eyes as, amid the quickening pace of the kitchen, she re-read him the menus for the week in her elegantly modulated little voice. I am the fool, he thought. I am a great fool.

  Chapter 23

  His first impression was that Demetria Constantine owned the room. Owen slipped inside the door just before the guard closed it. As he squeezed past this burly presence who was armed with a sinister black radio and a stick the length of a perpetrator’s forearm Owen trod clumsily on the officer’s foot. “Beg your pardon.”

  “Sit down and be quiet,” she growled and Owen obeyed. The room reflected the spacious, shabbily utilitarian architecture of the State House Annex. The ceiling vanished in haze some twenty feet above them. The far wall of the room was panelled in tired wood, its surface innocent of moulding or decoration other than a large symmetrical waterstain which hung like a map behind the dais. The other three walls were decorated with framed officeholders of yore who were set off nicely by the light green plaster behind them. A carpet of the plastic fiber usually identified as indoor/outdoor absorbed some of the moisture brought in by the boots of the small audience. Owen counted a few more than thirty people occupying the metal stacking chairs that faced the bar. Several towers of unused chairs leaned in casual attendance at the walls and corners. The room could hold a hundred, he thought as he shrugged out of his trench coat, stuffed his plaid cashmere scarf, one of the last tangible reminders of his former life of, if not affluence at least comfort, into a side pocket, draped the coat on an empty chair and dropped down beside it. It was the day before Christmas.

  The Licensing Board sat in its majesty on a riser that ran the width of the room. The five members or, as Owen saw it, the two pairs of men sitting on each side of Demi, faced the supplicants over a long oak counter furnished with five pitchers of water and five plastic glasses. Yellow legal pads and yellow pencils graced each place, the tools, Owen supposed, of the trade. In front and below the counter sat a man with a stenographer’s machine before him on a small stand. He was at rest, possibly asleep, Owen thought, since his head hung forward and his eyes were not visible. As he breathed heavily, in and out, radiance from the industrial lighting fixtures danced on his bald pate. At the center of the counter and the center of everything in the room existed Demi. She looks as though she has a spotlight on her, Owen said to himself. He absorbed her image. She wore a red suit and no jewelry. Her blonde hair gleamed like a metal, neither copper nor gold, perhaps some improbable alloy. She held an object in her long red-tipped fingers as she counted the house. Then at the moment when the room paused fractionally in its gabble she whipped the wooden mallet smartly against the wooden block. The report shut all sound off like a switch. Demi smiled, her generous mouth conferring welcome, her eyes rescinding it. “This hearing of the Licensing Board of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts will come to order.” As she spoke the stenographer moved his fingers over the mysterious keys of his machine. The connected pages began to fold like large tickets into the basket in front of him. “Please read today’s agenda,” Demi said staring straight ahead. Her voice was rich with a theatrical timbre which did not require a microphone to carry.

  The light in the big chamber was patchy and Owen sat in a little pool of dim in a back row. He knew she had not seen him. It’s her place, he thought. She is not only in charge here, this is her stage. He slouched down in the chair studying the scene with fascination. The secretary of the board began reading, in a toneless Boston drone, the cases to be heard. It was to be a busy morning. A bar called Nephews Three was called to respond to complaints registered by various individuals and the South End Neighborhood Association. The allegations included noise, serving after closing time, fights, excessive late night traffic, careless disposal of trash, and several lesser charges. The litany filled two pages. When the secretary finished he looked at Demi. She paused a moment then invited a representative of the establishment in question to speak in its defense. A short, stocky man in a blazer and turtleneck, presumably one of the Nephews, rose and refuted in uncompromi
sing terms each of the charges. “We heard all of this before and we handled it. And besides it’s a crock.” His lawyer stood up, pushed his client back into his chair and in a more conciliatory tone asked exactly what steps were necessary to have the matter resolved.

  “This is the third time in a year we have heard this story,” said Demi in her effortless contralto as she sorted documents on the desk. “Both sides of it. It is evident that the problems have not been cured. Many credible sources have complained that this establishment is a constant and major focus of disturbance in a largely residential neighborhood.” She looked down at the lawyer. He started to speak, then changed his mind. Perhaps it was something he saw in her eyes. Her expression suggested to Owen the professional gaze of a ranch hand honing his cutter on his boot before turning a bullcalf into a steer. Without consulting her colleagues she went on. “We will give you six months to clean up this situation.” The lawyer smiled a sickly grin of relief and sat down. “Your license is suspended for six months,” she added and snapped the gavel down again.

  During the shouting which followed Demi turned to the board member on her left to discuss the next item on the agenda. Owen got up to stretch his legs. He followed a young man out into the hall. A short recess was declared while the aggrieved Nephew registered dissent at the top of his voice. The guard was moving purposefully towards him as the door swung shut. Owen walked to a window overlooking the back side of Beacon Hill, four floors beneath them. He knew he should be at work, that his desk had a pile of new business plans to be read, that a review meeting was scheduled in half an hour. Umbrellas slid along the sleet-slicked bricks like jellyfish on the surface of the water. “Isn’t she a piece of work?”

  Owen turned to the young man who stood under a no-smoking symbol taking a deeply relished drag. “Well, yes, I guess you could say that,” said Owen.

  “She’s going to be a star. One of the bright new faces in this toxic waste repository.” He inhaled mightily. “I like to drop by when she’s holding court. She’s good copy.”

  “Do you work for one of the papers?”

  “The Sphere.”

  “She’s a good picture, too.”

  “You noticed. There isn’t anyone in what passes for government around here who comes within a country mile of her. Most of them are empty suits.”

  “What’s the story in there today?”

  “Well, she just stuck her pretty neck way out. That mouth, he’s connected. He runs three bars around town and each one is sleazier than the next. He handles the cops who come around and the health inspectors. But no one seems to be able to handle Miz Constantine. Not that there aren’t plenty of volunteers,” he added thoughtfully.

  “Is she going to have trouble because of this decision?”

  “Probably. That’s what politics is, trouble. But I wouldn’t bet against her. When she goes after someone, she makes it stick. I’m not sure she can be turned. That prick will probably give it a try.”

  “Are you writing a story about it?”

  “No. It’s small potatoes so far. If it escalates to the next level, so to speak, then it might be something. I like to write about beautiful women anyway.”

  “Do you know her?”

  “No one seems to know her.” He stepped on his cigarette and Owen followed him into the hearing room again. The Nephew and his lawyer were gone. The morning droned on with discussion about licensees, leaseholds, rights of renewal and other technical matters. From his dark corner Owen watched Demi operating in her own patch. It was a much bigger territory than he had guessed. Larger by far than his own at Gland, Hollings, where they must be wondering about his absence. He decided he was sick. Sick of his job, among other things. Demi spoke and moved with the authority of command. She seemed to be more than the Chairlady. She seemed to be the Massachusetts Licensing Board.

  He had not talked to her for two weeks. The sound of the message on her answering machine affected him like a breath of ether, instilling such deadly lassitude as took an hour to overcome. How many times have I been with her, he wondered. Watching the red and gold figure at the far end of the room he tallied the events of their, what should he call it? By the time he had re-screened their meetings, lunches, dinners, film dates, drinks, kisses, cab rides and arguments from the day in the Parker House lobby to the evening in his apartment he decided it seemed something like a love affair. But in the last two weeks it had been all telephone conversations and broken dates and recorded messages which began Hi I can’t come to the telephone right now but. Owen devoured her from the back of the room. She was speaking to the owner of a failed restaurant in Dorchester who wanted to sell his liquor license for fifty-three thousand dollars to a Canadian hotel chain. Demi smiled at the man and bade him return in two weeks. Owen got to his feet and went out in search of coffee.

  In ill-spaced letters the schedule board beside the hearing room door proclaimed that the Mass. Licensing Board session would break at 12:15 to resume at 2:30. Owen was coming up the stairs, a container of coffee in his hand, when he saw the door open, the spectators filing out followed by the board members, the stenographer, the clerk, the guard but, after a minute, he realized, not Demi. He waited a moment until the hallway cleared then pushed open the door.

  Demi sat in her chair, still in the spotlight, playing not to the empty room but to a single person standing in front of her dais who was laughing at something she had just said. Owen stopped inside the door. He watched the two of them, both laughing now. The young man was tall and beautifully encased in a suit of soft glen plaid. It was, Owen realized, a suit he could never wear and would not even look at in a clothing store—supposing for the sake of argument he were ever in a clothing store being shown patterns from which to choose. All the suits he had ever worn were dark blue or gray, mostly gray, perhaps, the thought occurred to him, because he might be a little color-blind. He stared hard at the suit talking to the woman he loved. Try as he might, he could not tell in the uncertain light whether it was green or gray or blue-green or bluish-greenish-gray. The suit had gold cufflinks and a white collar that stood up higher on his neck than any collar that Owen owned. Owen unconsciously reached back and pulled his limp collar a little higher but felt it shrink back into the obscurity of his jacket where it was used to hiding. The suit had on a yellow power tie, Owen was sure of that; and it, they, were walking toward him.

  “Owen. What are you doing here? Oh, this is Kevin Connors from the Governor’s Office.”

  Owen realized he was holding a very hot cardboard cup of coffee so he did not attempt to shake the suit’s muscular manicured hand.

  “Demi, I’ve got to run,” said the suit. “Remember what I said. It could be very important for you to be seen there. I know you’ve got a wild schedule but this is one of those opportunities you can’t afford to miss.”

  “Thanks, Kevin. You’re a darling. But you already know that.”

  The suit brushed past Owen and ran down the stairs waving one immaculate arm. It wore a gold chain-link bracelet.

  “Owen. What a surprise. Look, I’m sorry but I’ve got a conference upstairs and I have to be back here by two-thirty.”

  “I want to talk to you.”

  “Call me tonight.”

  “Your answering machine is giving me a fatal disease.”

  “Well, this is not the time or the place.”

  She looked dazzling in red. He had never seen her in red before. He put his hand on her sleeve. “When can I see you?”

  “I’ll talk to you tonight.” She was moving to the elevators.

  “Instead of talking let’s have dinner tonight.”

  “Owen. I can’t. I have a meeting.”

  “Then how can we talk? I’m going to get that recorded message again and I’m going to do something ugly.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “Too late for that,” he said as the elevator door closed.

  Chapter 24

  Owen was late for a business lunch. He hurried
up State Street through interminable January rain which aspired to sleet. He strode past the Colonial Bank, whose facade simulated with Disney-like attention to detail a humble roadside tavern complete with purple leaded panes and crumbling brickwork. Beyond it in an unbroken three-block rank came the drive-in entrance to the Bank of Bangladesh; Consolidated Fiduciary, a seventy-story glass showerstall; Commonwealth Specie, whose middle stories bulged above the street in the shape of a black marble bowling pin; and the Wampatuck Bank, whose symbol, a bust of Chief Wampatuck, glared out from every window, his expression of savage contempt daring Owen to come in and be scalped. Crossing Congress Street at the Old Currency, he splashed by the Mercantile Exchange, whose ficus forest nodded lazily in the empty atrium, and turned up Franklin Street.