Palladio

by Jonathan Dee

  What I felt right then, I suppose, was the desire to be able to say to someone, as we walked past, Hey, look; look who just showed up from nowhere. But no one in my current life knew that about me – who Molly Howe was, I mean. The only one with whom I might have shared this revelation, that the sheer unlikelihood of something happening was apparently no guarantee that it wouldn’t happen even so, was Molly herself: and she kept turning to look out the little hexagonal alcove windows in the hallway, or wherever she needed to look in order to keep her face discreetly averted from me.

  I led them down the broad front stairs and through the main entrance hall, with its original wooden chandelier from 1842; through the tiny, belfry-like east parlor, with the glass-fronted bookcases and the window seat where Alexa, the land artist from Los Angeles, sat folded up in the sunlight, looking up irritably from a copy of Elle; through the long parquet-floored ballroom, curtains drawn, animated by the hum of two dozen computers, in which a lavish all-night dance was held in 1861 to celebrate Virginia’s secession from the Union. These days we keep most of our video-editing equipment in there.

  It’s hard to say how she’s changed. Her hair is darker now. She doesn’t dress much differently, that’s for sure: a baggy black sweater, fatigue pants, no comb or pin that would hold her hair in anything other than its most artless position. She’s put on some weight. Her face is fuller, the curves of her body somewhat more pronounced, but that’s by no means a bad thing: she always was too skinny. I don’t just mean that it makes her more attractive. I mean one can take it as a sign of stability, that she’s eating, that she’s not too depressed, that her life is settled at least to the degree that she can look after her own health. I used to worry about that. She was never someone who took great care of herself.

  Awkwardly abreast, we passed through the dining room and kitchen to the back stairs that led down to the basement. It’s like a warren, all brick and low ceilings and the occasional inconveniently placed steel support beam the contractors made us put in. I thought I’d show them the soundproofed artists’ studios we’d installed down there, but they were all occupied, or at least locked, by the artists themselves. Milo, not content with a sign, had painted the words ‘Do Not Disturb’ in Day-Glo orange across the door itself. The whole basement had the thrumming, busy silence of a library, and I found myself whispering as we passed through. Just to the right of the stone steps leading out to the driveway is the so-called basement lounge, a doorless rectangle where for decades firewood was stored; Fiona (the artist I hired in Venice), Daniel the novelist, and my girlfriend Elaine were huddled together in there on an old thrift-store couch, watching what I knew must be some of Elaine’s work-in-progress on a laptop.

  I started past the doorframe, but Dex, for whatever reason, took a few steps into the room. The three of them looked up. Elaine noticed me and smiled uncomfortably before returning her attention to the screen; I have an idea what she’s working on, but she doesn’t want me to see it yet. Daniel and Fiona glared darkly at the strangers – at the very idea of strangers.

  Sorry to disturb you guys, I said. This is Dexter Kilkenny and Molly Howe. Guests of Mal’s. Dex directed Throw Down.

  We’re working here, Daniel said. You want to stare, go to the zoo.

  Somewhat embarrassed, I led them from there up the basement steps and around the southwest corner of the house, to where you could really start to get a sense of the layout of the grounds. Palladio used to be a plantation home; the greater part of that land was sold off nearly a century ago, but we still have about two hundred acres. The hedges make a kind of smooth geometry of it as it rolls up and down, folding over and over itself like chop on the ocean, toward the Blue Ridge Mountains to the west. It was a beautiful Virginia spring day, hot, breezy, and fragrant.

  That orchard, Dex said, sniffing like a hamster. What is that?

  Cherry.

  Beautiful.

  I kept trying to fall a step behind him so I could catch Molly’s eye, but then Dex would deferentially try to fall a step behind me again. The wind was blowing, and she kept pushing her hair back from her cheek. She still wears it long enough to blow over her face, into her mouth. She hasn’t changed it at all.

  So when was this place built? Dex said. Before the Civil War, right?

  1818, I said.

  Were there slaves here?

  We’re pretty sure. They didn’t keep such careful records. We’ve never been able to find any record of the slaves themselves, but we did find some old architectural drawings of an outbuilding back by the orchard, with bunks in it and an outhouse nearby. It only makes sense as slave quarters.

  Can we see it?

  The outbuilding? It was torn down in 1866.

  Oh. Well, naturally, Dex said; he seemed disappointed.

  I walked them through the cherry orchard, with its brick footpaths and ornate iron benches, some more than a century old. I showed them the child-sized topiary maze the original owner had introduced to spoil his granddaughter, who died of tuberculosis in 1889. I mentioned his relation, admittedly a distant one, to Thomas Jefferson; I even threw in a quote from Jefferson’s famous essay on the beauty of Virginia. Somewhere in there, I heard the unmistakable throaty sound of Mal’s little Triumph turning off the main road and speeding up the driveway. Mostly to give him a few minutes to get settled, I called their attention again to the Blue Ridge Mountains, naming the ones whose names I was sure of, and in truth it’s rarely clear enough to get as beautiful a view of them as we had that day. Dex and Molly were politely awed.

  That was the end of their tour. I walked behind them up the stairs to the third floor, and as I did I saw Dex put his arm around her, saw him whisper something she didn’t respond to and then kiss her on the top of her head. Colette, Mal’s assistant, was just closing the door to Mal’s office behind her; she saw me and nodded discreetly.

  You can go on in and see Mal now, I said. Where are you staying, by the way?

  The Courtyard Marriott, Dex said.

  I know it well. Listen, I’ll come by when you’re done with Mal and walk you back out to your car.

  Molly was standing like a dog outside Mal’s closed door, her back to me. She couldn’t wait to get away.

  Oh, that’s nice of you, Dex said, but I’m sure we can –

  I insist. You’d be surprised how easy it is to get lost in here.

  Colette opened the door and ushered them in. A few seconds later she reemerged, pulled the door shut, and looked quizzically at me still standing there in the middle of the hall.

  Buzz me when they’re done, would you? I said.

  BACK IN MY office downstairs, the last of the initial shock wore off, and the truth is, I found myself feeling a little angry. I’m not talking about residual anger, anger over what she did to me ten years ago: ten years ago is ten years ago, and however all that might have fucked me up at the time, I’m well over it. We were kids then. I’m talking more about wondering where she got off acting so petrified.

  I mean, what do you suppose she thought I’d do? Scream at her, throw her out, make a huge scene? She knows me better than that.

  Of course maybe on some level it was gratifying too, let’s be honest; after all, the worst, most humiliating part of any failed love affair is the suspicion that maybe it never meant as much to the other person as it did to you. So if I still had the power to upset her, just the very sight of me, I can’t pretend that didn’t mean something. But still, to act afraid of me, to the point where she wouldn’t look at me or speak to me, that’s just over the top. She owes me more.

  HALF AN HOUR passed before Colette summoned me upstairs.

  Mal’s ready for you, she said when she saw me.

  From her desk I could see that Mal’s office door was standing open.

  Where are they? I said.

  They left about ten minutes ago. I offered to buzz you but they said they could show themselves out.

  In a state of disbelief, I walked into Mal’s office. He
was in a lively mood. He sat on the front of his desk, in a white tennis shirt and jeans, his black hair still blown back from his recreational drive. John, John, he said. What news?

  So you just saw Dexter Kilkenny and his, and his assistant?

  I did. He’s kind of a character, isn’t he?

  They cleared out of here awfully quickly. You guys didn’t get into any sort of …

  God, no. Just talked about movies. He still wants to make a documentary about Palladio.

  You told him no?

  Just like I told him no two months ago. He’s a very single-minded guy. I told him to take a drive on Route 20, just get out to where the farmland starts, take in the beauty of the place. What a day! You get maybe ten days like this in a year.

  Did he say he’d do that?

  I don’t think he even heard me. You know he actually brought release forms for me to sign? The self-confidence of the guy! You have to respect that. I’m tempted to let him try it.

  Are you?

  Mal stopped bouncing his feet and looked at me; something in my voice, I suppose. Not really, no, he said quietly. The artists would never go for it in a million years. No upside for us in doing it anyway. Why, what did you think of him?

  I had the strongest urge, right then, to tell Mal the whole story. But I didn’t.

  I don’t know, I said instead. There’s something about him. Not that I think he should make a movie about us. But he’s young and very talented and he’s got a certain focus, doesn’t he? Maybe we should try to keep him around for a while, see if we have anything for him. I know Elaine needs some help. She asked me about directors just the other day.

  Mal smiled fondly at me. Always on the job, he said. Where are they staying?

  The Courtyard Marriott.

  Christ. Okay, well, let’s at least call them up and invite them to stay over here for a few more days. We have room for them, right?

  THAT WAS THE first lie I ever told him. In my defense, it was entirely spontaneous. I simply can not believe that she could run into me like that and then just leave town again without a word to me, as if all the history there is between us, everything that connects us, just plain didn’t exist at all. I have no plans to demand some big explanation from her. I have no plans at all. To me it’s more like a matter of simple courtesy.

  I had Colette make the call. Well, Dex said, I don’t see how we can say no.

  BUT ALL THAT was ancillary to what my meeting with Mal today was really about. I told him about the call I’d had from the President’s people, and also about the trial next month of the two guys from CultureTrust, the ones arrested for defacing our artwork in a gallery out in Spokane. In retrospect it was a mistake to tell him the two things at once, because he seemed to forget all about the first matter as soon as he heard about the second one. I should have seen that coming. It’s resistance, rather than the promise of reward, that always gets Mal going.

  I don’t get it, he said. These are, what, activists of some sort?

  College professors, I said. I mean, there’s a group of them, but these two particular guys are a couple of middle-aged professors from Eastern Washington University.

  What’s their objection, exactly? To me, I mean?

  I was at a loss as to how to answer that one in a way that wouldn’t rile him up further.

  Maybe you should go out there, Mal said.

  Out to Spokane?

  Well, yeah.

  And do what?

  Mal held his hands apart. Do what you do, he said, smiling confidently, having disposed of the matter now in his mind. You’re the fixer.

  LIES RAMIFY; I didn’t need another lesson in that. But they also raise the level of your alertness in a way, put you in more electric contact with your surroundings. Elaine and I went out to dinner that night at Il Cantinori. All her excitement over what she’s working on, the thing she won’t tell me about – all I know is it has something to do with Jack Kerouac, because On the Road has been sitting on the windowsill next to her side of the bed for the last three weeks – was sublimated into her eating; she went through her saltimbocca and started in on my risotto Milanese before I was halfway through it.

  You’re not pregnant, are you? I said.

  She rolled her eyes at me, and put down her fork. Very funny. Sorry, I’m just hungry. Listen, here’s a question, maybe you would know something about this. What’s the deal with copyright and dead people?

  How do you mean?

  I mean, a dead author, do you still need permission to quote from their work?

  I took a bite of my reclaimed dinner. Depends. I think it passes into the public domain fifty years after the death of the author.

  Oh.

  Has – has the figure you’re talking about been dead fifty years?

  Not nearly.

  I mean, I can’t see that it matters, permissions aren’t that hard to work out.

  Well, Elaine said, estates are funny sometimes. Plus I don’t want the cost to get out of hand.

  Don’t worry about that stuff, I said. You know Mal doesn’t want you to –

  I know, but I worry, I can’t help it. It’s in my breeding. And then the thing is, I spent the last three days looking at all the stock footage I could find of cameras shooting out of airplanes as they take off? Out the windows, or from the cockpit, from the wheel well, whatever? And it all sucks. None of it is what I need. So I have to find some way to do it in-house. Just like sixty seconds’ worth, but I know a shoot like that costs a fortune.

  You know, funny you should mention it, I said, feeling the blood rise into my face. You know that guy you saw me with today?

  Elaine nodded.

  He’s a director, and he’s staying in the house for a while. His name is Dexter Kilkenny. Mal and I were talking about trying to find something for him to do. He made this documentary about poetry slams in New York, it went to Sundance, he got a deal with Fine Line.

  She shrugged. Haven’t seen it.

  You want to talk to him?

  Sure, Elaine said, trying to act blasé. The busboy came over to remove the bread basket; Elaine laid a finger on it and waved him away.

  He’s from New York? she said.

  Sure is.

  Because I was thinking that would be perfect, actually, La Guardia or Newark, for what I need. Something right next to a whole web of highways, lots of cars. Newark would be perfect.

  I’ll get you guys together tomorrow.

  So who was the chick? Elaine said.

  Sorry?

  Who was that with him?

  Oh. Her name’s Molly. She’s billed as his assistant. I think they’re sleeping together, too.

  Huh. Well, he must be quite a talented director, then, she said. Because he’s way too ugly to be sleeping with her otherwise.

  We both had dessert, and I signed for the check; then we drove home with the top down. The night was as beautiful as the day had been; the smell of jasmine at every stop sign was enough to put you right to sleep. Back at the house there was a light in Milo’s window, but there’s always a light in Milo’s window: he’s like a vampire, he can only sleep when the sun is out. Otherwise the place was silent. I didn’t know if Dex and Molly had yet arrived, nor, if they had, where in the mansion Colette might have put them. Elaine and I took our shoes off and tiptoed up the back stairs, laughing. We didn’t even make it to the bed. It was just one of those nights, where all seemed right with the world and a locked room seemed like the most remote place on earth.

  * * *

  THERE ARE NOW a total of fourteen artists on staff at Palladio. Most of them live in-house, functionally if not officially – I suppose it’s too hard, especially for artists whose memory of material struggle is still fresh, to resist the maid service and the full-time kitchen staff. Even so, there are empty rooms. We certainly could do more hiring, but Mal has always resisted that, the idea of growth for growth’s sake: he never wants to take someone on unless he feels that person’s work has made itself indis
pensable.

  This morning, I took my time traversing the ground floor on the way to my office, poking my head in every room. I saw Jerry Strauss half-lying on the couch in the parlor, powdered sugar still in his beard, reading the Wall Street Journal and writing on it with a Magic Marker. Jerry seems to like me but I know that with others he can be exasperatingly touchy, self-centered, messianic almost: he works best alone because while he’s punishingly self-critical, one word of criticism from somebody else and he flies off the handle. He came to us as a graphic novelist. Jerry is actually not his real name. It took me the better part of a year to find that out. In high school they thought he looked like Jerry Garcia.

  I stopped in the main dining room to get myself a latte and there I saw Dex and Molly, eating breakfast, sitting somewhat sheepishly in the high-backed wooden chairs. Dex was at the head of the table, Molly to his right. I sat down across from her.

  Welcome! I said, feeling my own smile. You got in last night?

  Dex’s mouth was full, so he nodded.

  Colette got you all set up? Where did she put you?

  In a room up on the third floor in the … is it the west? (Molly nodded.) The west wing.

  Right upstairs from me, I said. And everything was comfortable? Molly?

  She looked a lot less agitated now, having had twenty-four hours to get used to my resurrection. Her panic had subsided, and in its place was a kind of injured stoicism, as if some joke were being played on her which she didn’t find funny at all. I didn’t care.