“I’d say Kafka’s Castle, the place always in view that you can never reach.”
“Well, I hope we’ll be an exception. I’m just over from London for a few days.”
The woman remarked that she looked quite far along to be traveling abroad. And then—perhaps she made some gesture of encouragement—Verona began to pour out a muddled version of what she had imagined telling Zeke: Henry, debts, ruthless creditors, lies.
The woman listened, wide-eyed and silent.
“You know,” she said, when Verona paused, “you can only do so much. Your brother isn’t your responsibility. If he’s an adult, if he’s clinically sane, it’s up to him how he lives his life. Your responsibility is to yourself and your baby.”
It was exactly what Verona had been thinking, but as soon as she heard the words spoken aloud she disagreed. “Actually,” she burst out, “I hate all that putting-yourself-first American nonsense. I think the main reason we’re here is to take care of each other.”
But her rudeness was lost in the sound of the loudspeakers announcing the first stop. The woman reached into her handbag. “This is where I get off. If you need any help while you’re in New York,” she said, holding out a card, “pick up the phone. Unlike almost everyone else in the city, my husband and I have two spare rooms since the kids left home.”
And that too, thought Verona, was so American, the openhanded generosity. When they were once again sailing along she read the card: Marcia Hirsch, psychotherapist: individuals, couples, and family counseling. Children welcome. She tore it into twelve tiny pieces and dropped them in the rubbish bin.
Yesterday, in Boston, after she had telephoned Zeke, she had spent the remainder of the afternoon going for a long walk through the snowy city and avoiding Henry. She was fully aware of her promise to Toby to make one more attempt, but first she needed to recover from the quarrels and revelations of the last twenty-four hours. This morning she had woken to clear skies and the conviction that today everything would be resolved. She had gone downstairs, hoping to find Henry in the hotel restaurant, but there was no sign of him. After a leisurely breakfast she had finally broken down and called his room at 9:45, 10:02, and 10:13 and each time reached the voice mail, which could, she reminded herself, mean he was talking on the phone. At 10:20 she had walked down the corridor. The door of his room was open. Inside, two women in striped uniforms were making the bed. Where’s the man who stays here, she asked.
The older woman smiled and nodded. No English, she said.
For a moment Verona was sure she’d mistaken the room number. Then other excuses leaped in. He was doing an errand. They’d missed each other coming and going to breakfast. There was his shirt draped over the chair; there were his papers on the desk. But the swath of white material turned out to be a towel; the pile of papers, restaurant menus. She stepped farther into the room—the woman uttered some sort of protest—and pushed open the bathroom door.
Empty, gone.
She raced down the corridor. When the lift came it was already full, but she pushed blindly forward. At the ground floor she was out and striding across the lobby while her fellow passengers were still reconstituting themselves. Ignoring the queue at the front desk, she went straight to the clerk and asked if he had any messages for her. At least this time she didn’t faint when he held out the envelope, but for a few seconds she could not bring herself to take it. Whatever its contents, its existence once again signaled Henry’s absence. Please, she thought. Within the last forty-eight hours, he had demolished most of her ideas about him and about herself, so why did she feel as if she still had so much to lose?
Dear Verona,
Do you remember Adrian Lepage? He was at university with us, or at least with me. Now he’s a businessman in Manhattan. I called him a couple of hours ago, and I’m catching the first train tomorrow to New York. It would be excellent if you could follow.
Why, you may ask? Because I need help.
What sort of help? Strategizing on how best to present unappealing facts. (Do you use bullet points in radio?)
Please, V, you’ve come all this way. Why not a little farther?
And why the rush? Let’s just say that I’m desperate to leave for the same reason you came, difficult visitors. Capisce?
I will be staying with Adrian on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. He’s expecting you too. Please phone 212-555-5125 when you get in.
Love, Henry
PS I plan to check out by phone after I get to New York so I won’t get any messages this morning. Be sure they give you my company discount on your bill.
At the phrase difficult visitors she had stopped reading to search the lobby. Useless to pretend she was calm when she could feel sweat prickling her face and chest. She had gone upstairs and crammed everything back into her suitcases; only then had she thought to phone Zeke. She dialed three numbers, both of his and Emmanuel’s, and listened to three recordings. He must be on his way to the airport, perhaps already waiting in those interminable lines. Just in case, she left a message on his home phone: Something came up and I have to go to New York for the day. I’ll be back in Boston this evening or first thing tomorrow. She and Zeke could spend the day in one of the enormous hotel beds, and fly back to London together. Meanwhile, every noise she heard made her start.
Downstairs she checked out and reserved a room for Zeke. She told the clerk she’d be in the lobby for the next half hour. If anyone rang, could he call her to the phone? Sitting at a table so small that it barely accommodated a sheet of hotel stationery, she had at first been unable to write a single word beyond Dear Zeke. She tried her customary trick of silently mouthing sentences. Think before you speak, Mr. Sayers used to say, unable to grasp that for her speech was thought. Now her lips remained frozen. I should kiss his shoes, she thought. I should spread my coat over the snow for him to walk on. What use were a few paltry excuses in the face of her abominable departure?
At last she stammered out a note that did little more than repeat her phone message. Then she had taken yet another taxi and caught yet another plane. At La Guardia she had seen signs for the ferry and decided, on a whim, to take this more romantic form of transport.
The last stop was announced and she disembarked with the remaining passengers. A young man wearing a jacket covered with badges insisted on carrying her suitcases and hailing her a taxi. As it trundled north, she studied the crowded sidewalks with relief. Here, surely, she could be anonymous; here, she and Henry could talk in safety. She had phoned the number he’d given her from the airport and got only an answering machine. Now she asked the driver to drop her near a coffee shop. She dialed Adrian’s number from a pay phone and left another message.
She had been sipping mint tea and skimming The New York Times for almost half an hour when a pair of hands covered her eyes. She uttered a small scream and wrenched them away. “Christ, Henry. We’re not five years old anymore.”
He stepped into view, smiling, palms raised as if to show he had no further tricks up his sleeve. He was dressed like an American, with a blue shirt over a black polo neck and pleated black trousers. “Sit down,” she said. “What the hell’s going on?”
“Let me get some coffee. Do you want anything?”
Several answers sprang to mind, but she shook her head. She watched him approach the counter. He must have made a comment or asked a question because the young man behind the espresso machine laughed. He reached under the counter and held out something that Henry leaned forward to study. As he smiled and talked, Verona had to struggle not to rush over and drag him back to the table. None of this—Nigel and George’s threats, his own dire situation, her pursuit—had made the slightest impression on him.
“You’ll never guess,” said Henry, setting down his cappuccino. “That boy used to work at my friend’s restaurant in Notting Hill. I thought he looked familiar.”
Too angry to speak, she glared.
“Oh, God.” He took a sip of cappuccino and licked the foam
from his upper lip. “Are you back on your Trappist kick?”
“Henry, I came all this way because you’re in trouble. I’m not going to pretend that everything’s fine and we’re here for a nice holiday.” Even in the midst of her fuming she managed not to mention Zeke; she wanted to protect him from Henry for as long as possible. “If you’re not interested in sorting this out, I’ll get the next plane to London.”
“And conveniently, you’re already packed. I’m sorry, I’m an idiot. I do appreciate your efforts. I just can’t stare into the abyss twenty-four/seven, as Neal”—he motioned toward the counter—“so aptly phrased it.”
She had chosen a table by the window, happy to find one free. Now, in the street, two men strolled by so close their jackets almost grazed the glass. Was that—? Before she could formulate the question, they had disappeared into the crowd. Across the table Henry too was staring after the men. Beneath the smooth mask of charm, she glimpsed the jagged edges of his anxiety. He set down his cappuccino and began to explain what had transpired since he threw the miniature whiskey bottles at the window and left her room. He had spent the day after the blizzard dealing with business matters in London. In the evening he had gone downstairs to the bar. He was talking to two women from Santa Fe, in Boston to promote their jewelry, when the bartender asked if he was Henry MacIntyre and held out the phone. The next thing he knew, Nigel was yelling at him.
“The last straw,” he said, snapping a wooden coffee stirrer in half, “was that just before he hung up he said hadn’t I better buy my lady friends a drink; they were looking at the bottom of their glasses. When you told me about coming home to find Nigel and George, I didn’t understand.” He shredded an empty sugar packet. “After all, they didn’t hurt you. But it isn’t what they actually do that’s so frightening. It’s the feeling that they could do whatever they please.”
She let his words hang there for four seconds. “So why are we here?” she said.
“I’m hoping I can persuade Adrian to lend me the money as an investment.”
“Which means you’ll still have a huge debt.”
“But he won’t come after me with a blunt instrument. I’m fairly sure I can pay him back in eighteen months.” He drummed the table. “Two years tops.”
“Why don’t you sell your house?”
“That house is my only asset.” His voice rose so that even the boy at the next table, who was listening audibly to heavy metal on his Walkman, glanced over. “If I lose it, I’ll be starting at the bottom, the very bottom.”
The place you’ve never actually been, she thought, but didn’t say. Henry was holding forth about London house prices, how the market was out of control, how everyone had to keep moving up not to lose their place, and with every phrase he seemed more like his usual buoyant self, which in turn, she supposed, made him seem more like a man to whom you’d want to lend half a million pounds. “So what are the chances of Adrian saying yes?” she asked.
“I don’t know. But I thought you could help me to ask him.”
“Ask him what? Make that a soy milk latte, Nigel.”
In her imagination, George had loomed large in all possible ways. Now her first thought was how much smaller he was than she remembered, five foot eight, perhaps on tiptoe five nine. He was standing beside their table wearing black jeans, a red shirt, and a gray cardigan, the last obviously hand knitted and a size too large. In one hand he held a briefcase; in the other a leather jacket. “Do you mind if we join you?” he said.
At George’s first syllable, Henry had pushed back his chair and half risen. His ears, Verona saw, were scarlet but she was oddly calm. The terror she had felt when Henry had persuaded the manager of the hotel to break into her room, when she had read his letter and known that Nigel and George were in Boston, failed to appear. Her heartbeat remained steady, her skin cool. Of course many people had been injured, even killed, in public places, especially here in the States, but now that she was once again in their presence, she had faith in Nigel and George’s self-interest. They wanted money, not carnage.
“Henry,” she said warningly. And then to George, “Not at all. Can you find some chairs?”
First, like a finicky waiter, he cleared away their dirty cups and stirrers and napkins and empty sugar packets; then he moved her suitcases closer to the wall; finally he begged a couple of chairs from nearby tables. Verona pushed her chair back from the small table to make room and then, as Henry sat there, eyes downcast, told him to do the same. By the time George had everything organized, Nigel arrived, carrying their drinks, his crooked pinky sticking out in a parody of politeness.
“Hiya,” he said brightly. “Henry, Verona. Long time no see.” He raised a mug with a mound of whipped cream on top. “Cheers.”
“Hello,” she said. She caught again the faint smell of cinnamon, but perhaps this time it came from his drink. His green shirt was the exact same velvety shade as the foliage in the pre-Raphaelite painting at the museum. Unlike George, Nigel had remained constant. He was as plump as she remembered, but no more so.
“Dreadful weather,” he went on. “I always forget that about America. It’s bloody freezing in winter, at least in this part of the country.” In the bright light of the café she could see the faint creases of his lower eyelids.
“You must be wondering why we’re here,” said George, his red lips moving in that exaggerated way she’d noticed before. “We’re fed up playing games. You owe us money, Henry. If you can’t get it from Betty or some other pal, you can borrow it on your house and put up a FOR SALE sign.”
Henry started to speak, stopped, cleared his throat.
“Yes?” said Nigel, patting his mouth with a napkin.
“What we did was illegal,” Henry said. “No court would acknowledge your debt.”
“You used the crucial pronoun,” said George. “We. Any court would acknowledge your part in some rather dubious transactions. You’d certainly lose your job and your reputation. Not as valuable as in Shakespeare’s day but still worth something.” He turned to Verona, and she noted that his head, like her own, was unusually large. “I’m sorry,” he said, “if we alarmed you. We don’t usually go in for strong-arm tactics, but your brother promised us he had the situation in hand. Then he vamoosed.”
“Still”—at the next table the heavy-metal boy got up to leave—“that didn’t mean you had to break into my flat.”
George nodded. “Nigel used to be a locksmith, and we got a bit carried away. We had the idea that you could bring pressure to bear on yours truly.” He had been looking at her as he spoke; suddenly his eyes slid over her shoulder. Following his gaze, Verona discovered that he was watching the departing boy. Oh, she thought. Everything that had happened fell into a new pattern. George too, she understood, had been a victim of Henry’s omnivorous charms. Some of the present mess was probably the result of his being a little too obliging, going a little further than he would otherwise have done. The boy, having wound his scarf twice round his long neck and buttoned his jacket, headed for the door. “So,” said George, returning his attention to their conversation, “would it be too much to ask what we’re doing on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, not exactly my neck of the woods?”
He looked at Verona again, then at Nigel. It was as if the three of them were the adults at the table and Henry was the badly behaved child whose problems they were trying to solve. She felt him squirming beside her and was glad. “Henry has an old friend here,” she said, “a businessman, who he thinks might be able to help.”
George and Nigel exchanged raised eyebrows. “That didn’t seem to work out too well in Seattle,” said Nigel. “What’s the setup this time?”
There was a pause of several seconds; she nudged Henry’s foot, meaning, answer, stick up for yourself. He cleared his throat again. “Adrian went to university with me, and he’s always liked England. I’m hoping the bungalows will strike him as a good investment, his very own piece of the old country. Or he could be a sh
areholder in my company. He’s made a killing in cable television.”
George took a sip of his latte. “I’m not keen on the bungalow idea,” he said. As he listed his reservations—the delays, the strong possibility of the survey report coming to light—Nigel kept saying “Right, right,” and even Henry made an involuntary gesture of assent. They might, Verona thought, have been any four English visitors to Manhattan, talking business.
“So,” said Nigel, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, “either you’re offering him a legitimate investment—in which case you need convincing documents—or you’re making this sound like a mercy loan with your house as security, and if this guy has any sense he’ll get you to put that in writing. Suing someone transatlantically is a nightmare.”
At the counter, the espresso machine let out a burst of steam. “The thing I don’t quite get,” said George, “is why not go to the bank? If I had the choice of buttering up my bank manager or going cap in hand to an old friend, I know which I’d choose. But none of our beeswax. As long as you pay us, we don’t care how.”
Two patches of color had appeared below Henry’s cheekbones. “Things are a little complicated,” he said.
“That’s where the personal element comes in,” interjected Verona. Her triumph in Henry’s discomfort had turned back into the old desire to protect him. “If Adrian knows it’s a crisis, he’ll understand why Henry can’t wait for the bank bureaucracy.” She felt as she did sometimes at work when an interview unexpectedly took off, both excited and calm.
“And what sort of crisis takes this much money?”
She hesitated, looking at Henry where he sat low in his chair, arms tightly folded as if even his own embrace was better than nothing. “It’s a gamble,” she said, “but maybe he should tell a version of the truth.”
“Well, it’s up to you”—George spread his hands—“but right now we need some security.”
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