by Alan Glynn
Oh Jesus . . .
I drain the glass.
‘Look, although Trager and Doug Shaw built Paradime Capital together, everyone knows there’ve been problems. Call it a clash of ideologies, call it what you like, but what we know today, in light of this awful PromTech deal, is that Doug Shaw has emerged the clear victor. He gets to play with his new LudeX. What we also know, however, in light of Trager’s hypocritical posturing on Charlie Rose the other night, is that he has ditched his principles—’
‘He’s crossed to the Dark Side.’
‘Exactly . . . so I suppose, here’s my real question, Rachel: just who the hell is Teddy Trager?’
I raise my hand, stretch it back and fling the empty glass at the screen.
Within about a minute, Mrs Jeong appears in the room carrying a dustpan and brush, but I wave her away. I flick the TV off and walk over towards the window.
Who the hell is Teddy Trager?
What a question. And the irony, of course, is that I don’t know. How would I? I only met the guy once. I know him from watching YouTube clips, tons of them.
Then I remember there’s one clip I haven’t seen. Trager made a reference to it in the car. He said it was a speech he delivered at some university a few years ago, that it was like a mission statement.
It doesn’t take me long to find it on my laptop.
And . . .
There he is, on a stage, pacing back and forth, headset mic attached, PowerPoint display behind him. ‘. . . because make no mistake,’ he’s saying, ‘human nature is on a collision course with disaster unless we can do something very radical and very soon about re-engineering our fundamental “greed gene”. But since the only thing any of us ever really seems to be greedy for any more is money, let’s just do away with the damn stuff, metal, paper, fiat, whatever, let’s find another way to organise our affairs. Because take the monetary system out of the equation, take profit out of the equation, and there’s no problem on this planet we couldn’t all solve together in six months flat . . .’
I stare at the familiar image of Trager on the screen – familiar from the other clips, familiar from the hour we spent together in his car.
Isn’t that who he really was?
Seems like it to me.
Wealthy, influential, maybe a little eccentric, maybe a little fucked up in the head, sure . . . but also bold, radical, maverick, idealistic, sincere . . .
Definitely not a hypocrite.
So what the fuck was Ray Richards talking about?
Then it hits me. It’s not what, it’s who . . .
Who signed the contracts? Who sold out? Who is the real hypocrite?
Although he didn’t realise it, Ray Richards wasn’t talking about Teddy Trager at all. He was talking about me.
13
I need to get out of the apartment. On my way down in the elevator I feel a bit sick, and the prospect of fresh air is welcome, but then, as I cross the lobby and get closer to the exit, I’m put off by the noise from outside, by the bustle and speed of the traffic on Twelfth.
Is Ricardo around? I’m still not sure how this works. He’s always waiting for me in the morning, and he’s there whenever I need him during the day. But now? What time is it? Nearly 10 p.m.? I call him on my cellphone. He says he’ll be outside in fifteen minutes.
I stand waiting at the foot of the Mercury and stare out over the darkness of the Hudson.
When Ricardo shows up, I tell him to cruise around for a while. He goes north for a bit, then gets onto 57th Street, which isn’t too busy at this hour. He turns right at Lexington and drifts downtown. From the quiet interior of the limousine, I gaze out at the city, at the passing figures on sidewalks and street corners. Through tinted glass, it all seems spectral, like the carefully textured background graphics in a gritty urban video game. But then – the further down Lex we get – a weird feeling creeps up on me. As we approach 23rd Street, Gramercy Park directly ahead, I tell Ricardo to take a left, to get onto Second Avenue, and to keep heading downtown.
I haven’t been down here, in this neighbourhood, around 14th Street – below it, now – since that night . . .
I look out the window, alternating my gaze, right, left. What I’m hoping for, all I’m hoping for – and it’s taken me a while to admit this – is maybe to catch a glimpse of Kate. She could easily be going to the store, or walking home from something . . . 12th Street . . . 11th . . .
As we pass it, I glance down 10th and feel a rush of emotion. It’s bad enough that I miss my old life, but this sense of having been completely erased from it is so much worse. Though, to be honest, now that I’m down here, I know what the worst feeling of all is.
It’s missing Kate.
When we get to East Houston, I tell Ricardo to loop around and go back up First.
Okay, I missed her when I was in Afghanistan, and in a way I missed her even more when I got back . . . when I was lying next to her in our bed or sitting across the kitchen table from her, when I was looking right at her.
But somehow that was all negotiable. Now I miss her in a way that feels irreversible, that feels like grief – except that she’s not the one who’s dead.
I am.
Is that how she misses me?
I get Ricardo to pull over on the right, between 4th and 5th, and we sit there. I lean back and stare out as people float by in either direction. The thing is, I’m tired and confused, and I’m not really expecting anything to happen, I’m not even hoping at this stage. But after only a minute, and it’s like an electrical jolt to my system, there she is, on the sidewalk. I see her from behind. It’s through tinted glass, and there’s a glare of storefront neon, but there’s no question in my mind that it’s her. I recognise . . . everything, how she’s dressed, how she moves. It then takes me a couple of seconds to realise that she’s not alone. Walking beside her – not just parallel to her, definitely with her – is some guy. He’s young-looking, hipsterish. He has a beard and is wearing a jacket and T-shirt.
They get to the corner of 5th and keep going.
I immediately reach for the door, mumbling something to Ricardo as I open it. Within seconds, I’m out of the car and following Kate on foot – focusing on her, ignoring the guy. This is reckless, I know, and irresponsible, but I really don’t care. I get close to her, then closer, and then I’m only a few feet behind her – head pounding – as she comes to a stop at the next corner and waits to cross.
In this moment, though, what’s my plan? What am I about to do? Tap Kate on the shoulder? Whisper her name? Give her that long-delayed heart attack? End this whole thing in a sudden, sickly swirl of anger and insecurity and weakness and jealousy? I don’t know, but it feels like a real possibility to me. Then I feel something else, a light tap on my own shoulder. I turn around. It’s Ricardo. In a low, firm voice, he says, ‘Mr Trager, please . . . we need to go now.’
I look at him, and hesitate. I’m confused. I turn back to look at Kate.
The light changes.
Then I just stand there, paralysed, and watch as she and the guy she’s with cross the street, recede into the crowd, and eventually disappear.
*
When we’re settled in the car again, me in the back, Ricardo up front, I want to press the intercom and say something to him.
I want to interrogate him.
But I also want to close my eyes, to rewind, to grieve. Something else I think I might like is a drink. Which is when I realise that the little mahogany unit directly in front of me here is probably stocked full of booze. If I want it.
Which I suddenly now don’t.
I glance around at the leather upholstery and the walnut trim and the side panels and the monitors. I always sit in the interior cabin of this thing as though I can’t wait to get out of it, as though it’s an MRI machine or something.
‘Sir? Where to?’
I look up, but don’t say anything.
I’m curious about something. Who was that hipster guy? With his
beard. And his new friend.
‘Sir?’
‘Okay, okay.’ I think for a second, then press the intercom. ‘Upper West Side, 68th Street.’
Ricardo pulls out and joins the flow of traffic.
I wonder if he knows where we’re going. I wonder if he knows that 68th Street is where Nina Schlossmeier lives.
*
It’s another one of these preposterously luxurious condos with a huge lobby area that has a reflecting pool and a waterfall. I’m pretty sure the guy at the desk recognises me, or thinks he does. I ask for Nina. He calls up, but she’s not there.
‘Would sir like to leave a message?’
‘No, but . . .’ I point at a seating area. ‘I’m going to wait over there for a bit, see if she gets back any time soon.’
The guy nods, but seems a little puzzled.
I find a spot and sit with my back to the desk.
What am I doing here? Some talking head on TV effectively calls me an asshole, and this is where I end up? What am I looking for? Comfort? Consolation? No, it’s that I need to talk to someone who’s real. Not just someone else on the occult payroll, not just someone whose job it is to talk to me. Maybe Nina’s on the payroll too, I don’t know . . . but the way she walked out of Trager’s life like that, when he was in the hospital? It never felt right to me. She must have realised at the time that I was a replacement. But then . . . where did she think Trager was? Where does she think he’s been all along?
Does she know he’s dead?
And if she doesn’t, am I going to tell her?
These are questions I should have considered in the back of the limo down on First.
But it’s too late for that now.
I look over and see Nina entering the lobby. She glides in, as though onto a catwalk. She’s wearing some kind of a print dress under a pale pink coat. I stand up at once, and this sudden motion catches her attention. She turns and sees me.
I don’t know what kind of a reaction I’m expecting, but it’s not the one I get. She sort of flinches, a look of shock on her face. She turns away and heads straight for the elevators. I move swiftly in her direction and, out of the corner of my eye, sense the desk guy starting to move as well.
Shit.
‘Nina!’
‘Sir! Sir!’
By the time I get to within a few feet of her, she has already pressed the button. She turns around, looking composed now and, with two simple gestures, takes control of the situation. The first is a barely raised forefinger that stops me in my tracks. The second is an eyebrow manoeuvre directed over my shoulder that calls off the desk guy.
Then our eyes meet.
‘What?’ She delivers the word quietly, and it has the force of an ultimatum: you have until this elevator door behind me opens.
‘Nina,’ I say, leaning hard on the second syllable, as if that’ll somehow make a difference.
Ping.
She shakes her head.
‘Nina . . .’ Then a spurt of desperation. ‘I need to talk to you, please, come on, just five minutes.’
How do we calculate these things? Five minutes? What, I have it all worked out? Four specific points to make, each one requiring seventy-five seconds?
Nina stares at me, clearly making a rapid calculation of her own. What is she seeing? On reflection, the shock I saw on her face just now might have been closer to fear. Does she recognise the same thing in me?
As the door behind her starts closing, she flicks an arm back to hold it open.
Her apartment is on the twenty-fifth floor. Naturally, it’s pretty big. The decor is an artful mix of modern and rustic, but the place itself is warm and feels really lived in – unlike Trager’s place.
We didn’t speak in the elevator, and now Nina directs me to a sofa and says she’ll be back in a minute.
I sit down and stare at the pine floorboards.
Maybe she’ll offer me a drink. That might help.
Or not.
Every day with Teddy is a challenge . . .
It’s really quite disconcerting how beautiful she is. When she reappears, she has changed into jeans and a loose-fitting powder-blue cashmere sweater. She sits opposite me.
She doesn’t offer me a drink.
‘Okay,’ she starts. ‘I have to say, this is pretty fucking weird for me, so . . . just who are you?’
I stare at her. ‘I’m Teddy Trager.’
What am I doing?
‘No, you’re not.’
‘I am.’
Nina shakes her head. ‘Please.’
‘How . . . how do you know I’m not?’
‘Because of everything. Because of how you’re behaving. Because Teddy would never wait for me in the lobby. And because . . .’ She pauses. ‘And because I’m pregnant.’
Almost in spite of herself, she smiles. And it’s a wide, disarmingly radiant smile – which is what I react to first, because it obliterates everything in its path. Then the words sink in.
‘You’re . . . pregnant?’
She nods emphatically. ‘I knew almost immediately. I felt it. And then I had it confirmed within . . . ten days?’
I don’t know what to say to this.
She leans forward slightly, holding my gaze, and whispers, ‘It’s yours.’
My head starts throbbing. ‘But . . . I’m not your boyfriend, I’m not Teddy Trager . . .’
‘No.’
‘But if I’m not Teddy, then . . . who do you think I am?’
She shrugs. ‘You’re the guy who came to the gallery that night. You’re the guy from the restaurant. I don’t know who you are, and, to be honest? I don’t care.’
She looks down at her belly and pats it gently. How long has she been pregnant? Eight weeks? Ten? She’s not showing yet, but clearly this is something she already likes doing.
‘You don’t care?’
There are many versions of this conversation I’ve had in my head, but the one that’s taking place right now doesn’t come close to any of them.
‘This is all I care about,’ she says, hand still on her belly. ‘Lately, my relationship with Teddy revolved around the fact that it was never going to happen for us. He’d been tested and . . .’ She stops, probably not wanting to share too much. ‘Anyway, there was tension around it. We spent a lot of time arguing.’ Her radiant smile returns. ‘But look at me now.’
‘You?’ I say, almost shouting it. ‘Look at me.’
‘I know, it’s incredible. I only noticed it that night, after a few hours. I mean, earlier? At the gallery? I was just too wound-up to notice anything. Then, at the hospital, I was confused. At first, I thought it was some elaborate game. But later, when I realised I was pregnant? It all seemed so obvious. What I have to keep reminding myself is that with Teddy just about anything is possible . . .’
I stare at her for a second, not getting it. ‘What does that mean?’
‘What else? This curious business of you. Whoever you are. Whatever your name is. But at the same time the perfect solution to our problem. Who could have dreamt that up? Only Teddy.’
I’m speechless. What does she think this is? Some advanced form of designer natural insemination . . . and that Trager actually arranged it for her?
Every day is an adventure . . .
‘It’s funny,’ she goes on, ‘that night at the restaurant? I told him about you, I told him what I saw, but he didn’t seem interested. I guess I should have suspected something was up.’
She smiles again.
Oh my God. She’s so fucking happy.
But then it all loops back in my head. ‘Nina,’ I say, ‘if that’s what you think I am, just some carefully selected sperm donor . . . why am I still here? Why am I running Paradime Capital? I mean, if you’re two months pregnant . . . where’s Teddy?’
She holds my gaze for what seems like a long time. Then she stands up. ‘I don’t know.’ She says this quietly, and partly facing away from me. Seeing her in profile now, I can make out a very slight
bump, a subtle curvature around the middle that someone like her, in normal circumstances – I imagine – would probably feel compelled to work off.
‘I gave up trying to understand Teddy a long time ago,’ she says. ‘So initially I thought . . . having found you, the perfect donor, he wasn’t just going to leave it at that. He’d be too excited. There’d be too many possibilities, too many games to play – starting, I suppose, with the charade at the hospital.’ She walks over to the window. ‘After a week, though? After two weeks? I don’t know, Teddy could be self-absorbed, even a little crazy sometimes, but not a jerk . . .’
Could be?
It takes me a moment or two, from the angle I’m at, from how I’m sitting, from how she’s standing at the window, to realise that Nina now has tears in her eyes. I stand up immediately. But what next? Go over and try to comfort her? Maybe in my dreams.
‘Then,’ she says, composing herself, and turning around, ‘when I saw what was happening with PromTech . . .’ She shakes her head. ‘It was ridiculous. It was clear that you were some kind of a . . . a puppet.’ She looks me directly in the eye. ‘So when I saw you down in the lobby just now, it was a little alarming. I didn’t know what to think.’
I drop back onto the sofa.
‘What do you think now?’ I ask.
Leaning against the window, she studies me for a while. ‘Well, what’s weird is, you coming here like this, wanting to talk,’ she says. ‘It doesn’t make sense. I saw you on Charlie Rose, and that didn’t make sense either. So what I think is that when Doug Shaw first became aware of you – however that happened, maybe Teddy told him, in his excitement, I don’t know – but he saw an opportunity, a chance to stop Teddy in his tracks, to replace him, and he couldn’t resist, because that’s something Doug has wanted to do for a very long time.’ She pauses. ‘But maybe he didn’t know what he was getting into. Maybe he didn’t know that when his partner chose you’ – she points at her belly again – ‘for this, it wasn’t a choice based solely on appearance, that maybe there were other, more complex factors involved. And maybe . . .’ She leans forward a little from the window. ‘What’s your name?’