All morning Peter kept staring at his phone, trying to will a call from Holly. Why he didn’t exactly know. He couldn’t imagine what she might say that would please him, except possibly that Arthur Beeche had called her at four a.m. completely drunk and made several obscene suggestions. He guessed that he just wanted some indication that she still knew he was alive.
She did call eventually, but not when Peter was in his office. She left this message: “Hi, Peter, it’s Holly. I know you’re really busy, but I was hoping I’d get you. I have to take off in a minute. I had such a great time last night. Thank you so much for taking me. I’d love to go over the whole thing with you. That house! Incredible. And it really is so beautifully put together—you don’t just feel pounded by collector mojo, do you know what I mean? Oh, and my table was so much fun. The princess speaks English as if she’s lived in Naples her entire life, and Gerald Hoffheimer and I had a funny conversation about Epode VIII.
“So here is something sort of funny, and it’s why I have to leave pretty soon. Your boss has asked me to go away for the weekend. It turns out that I am able to get away, so I said yes. He’s taking a bunch of people—well, I’m still not sure where exactly. It involves a helicopter ride, and I am in a panic, because I have no idea what one wears on a helicopter. Anyway—um—that’s what’s happening. It should be interesting.
“But also—I remembered that you wanted to talk to me about something, which I got the feeling was important. I’m so sorry! I forgot all about it last night. You can actually call me on my cell if you want. It works basically anywhere in the world.
“Okay! I’m really sorry I missed you! Call me. Bye!”
Pistol? Razor blade? Poison? Barbiturates? Jumping off a building? Peter weighed each of these options. They all had something to be said for them.
Listening to the message that followed Holly’s, Peter was startled to hear a cool, clear, low voice. Miss Harrison’s.
“Mr. Russell, this is Miss Harrison in Arthur Beeche’s office. Would you be kind enough to phone me as soon as possible? Mr. Beeche would like to see you right away. He is leaving shortly. It is nine forty-eight. Thank you very much.”
Miss Harrison was informing him that Arthur Beeche wanted to see him. Most employees of Beeche would go through their entire careers without anything like that ever happening. However, under the circumstances, Peter could feel little pride. He doubted that Beeche was calling him in to inquire about his views on the structural imbalances in the economy. By reflecting on the call for even a few seconds, Peter had already let too much time go before returning it, for of course his response to such a message from such a source should have been instantaneous. He called Miss Harrison’s extension and reached a secretary, who immediately put him through.
“Hello, Mr. Russell. Thank you for calling back.”
“Of course,” Peter said.
“Fortunately, we still have some time. May I trouble you to come to the sixty-third floor? You’ll have to use the south elevators. I’ll meet you there and take you up to Mr. Beeche’s office.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll leave right now.”
“We’ll see you in few minutes then. Thank you so much.”
“Thank you, Miss Harrison,” Peter said, inanely.
Stepping out of the elevator on the sixty-third floor, Peter was greeted by a woman who seemed to be in her late thirties. She wore a gray skirt that ended just above the knee, a cream-colored silk blouse, and pearls. She was flawlessly groomed, but in such a way as to make this condition seem perfectly natural rather than effortfully wrought. Smooth, straight, and full, her dark hair fell to her shoulders. Miss Harrison had such regular features that her face would have almost been dull had it not been animated by her purposefulness and intelligence.
“Hello, Mr. Russell. I’m Miss Harrison.” In her speech, she rounded off every sound, producing no harsh notes or reverberations; it reminded Peter of the sound made by a rap on a hollow wooden box.
“Hello, Miss Harrison,” said Peter. “Very nice to see you.”
“We go this way.”
She led Peter over to an elevator in the corner, whose doors were already open. This must be the elevator, Peter thought, that goes straight from the ground floor up to seventy-seven, where Arthur had his office. Miss Harrison put a card in a slot, and they began to move. The elevator had elaborate wood paneling and the fittings—the little lamp over the buttons, the ceiling light, the grilles—were all in brass and seemed not to belong in an elevator, but Peter could not identify their likely origin. Miss Harrison noticed his perplexity.
“This was all taken from one of the Beeches’ old private railcars. They don’t get much use now, but Mr. Beeche remembered them from his childhood, and when the new building went up, it occurred to him that he could use some elements here.”
The doors of the elevator opened directly onto a large room with an enormous floral rug. Two women sat at desks on one side, a woman and a man sat at desks on the other. They murmured into the mouthpieces of their headsets. Miss Harrison nodded as she passed by, executing a more pointed tilt to one of the women, who nodded back crisply and pushed a button. Miss Harrison opened one of a pair of double doors, and they entered a room that had been decorated as if by an extremely rich person who has sought an “informal” look for his or her apartment—American antiques and furniture covered in fantastically expensive chintzes and plaids. Not a single thread of upholstery showed any sign that a person had ever sat on or against it.
They came to a door on the far side of this room. Miss Harrison knocked.
“Come,” they heard Arthur say.
They entered and took a few steps. Miss Harrison stopped and raised her hand slightly to indicate that Peter should also stop and remain silent.
Arthur sat at a large desk at the far end of the room. Behind him, Peter saw only blue sky and a shallow, streaky cloud. His desk held no computer screen. No papers sat on it, only a lamp, a telephone, and a small picture frame. Highly polished and reflecting the sky behind it, the desk looked like a lake on a windless day. With his chair pushed a couple of feet back, Arthur sat staring straight ahead. His hands lay folded in his lap. His face and body were impassive, an immobile yet vital mass.
Miss Harrison and Peter stood by for a full minute. Finally, Arthur said in a matter-of-fact tone, “Please tell them, ‘No, thank you.’ Of course, you’ll want to call them motherfucking cocksuckers and say they can go fuck themselves and so on.”
“Got it,” said a voice.
“They’ll be back,” Arthur said.
“Okay, chief.”
For a moment Arthur stayed in the same attitude. Then he broke out of it. “Sorry about that, you two!” he called. “Was just finishing up.” Arthur rose out of his chair and came around his desk with his hand out, a hand that looked like a two-by-six.
“Hello, Mr. Beeche,” Peter said.
“Arthur!”
“Arthur.”
They shook hands and Arthur put his left hand on Peter’s shoulder.
“Have you ever been up here to our … ah … aerie before?”
This was one of those questions that people like Arthur always asked. Of course Peter had never been there before.
“No, I haven’t,” Peter said.
“Then I would love to show you around,” said Arthur. “There are some things that would interest you. In the gallery, next door, we’ve just installed the Beeche Venus. Do you follow Upper Paleolithic art at all?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Oh, you should! It’s fascinating. The Venus is extraordinary. There are also some English drawings I’d like you to see.” Arthur frowned. “The thing of it is, I’m in an awful rush. We’ll plan a tour for another day, when we can spend some time.”
“Certainly. I’ll look forward to it.”
Arthur guided Peter to a chair.
“Please, have a seat,” he said. Peter sat, and Arthur settled himself at the end of a
sofa. Miss Harrison had dematerialized, and now a wizened old woman in a maid’s uniform appeared with a coffee service.
“Hello, Noreen,” Arthur said. “Perfect timing, as usual.”
“Thems as don’t order their coffee but a minute before they be wanting it dunna deserve perfect timing, as ye call it.” Noreen spoke with a thick Irish accent. She set the tray down. “What will ye take, young man?”
“Cream and sugar, please,” Peter said.
“‘Cream,’ he says! It’s milk.”
“Milk. Of course, thank you.”
Noreen took an interminably long time to prepare Peter’s cup.
“One teaspoon of sugar, please.”
She dumped in several heaps. Then she hobbled over to Peter and gave his cup to him.
“Thank you.”
“Hmp.”
“No sugar for me, thank you, Noreen.”
“Amn’t I been giving you coffee every day now these thirty years? ‘No sugar’!” She brusquely handed Arthur a cup with coffee and milk, and then said, “Them scones is for ye.” She waved her hand at a plate on the tray. “Now if that will be all, gentlemen, I shall take me leave.” She hobbled away.
As soon as she was gone, Arthur leaned over and gave himself one spoonful of sugar. “Sorry, old man, should have warned you.” Arthur took a sip of his coffee, making a faint, aspirated sound of satisfaction after swallowing.
“Well, Peter,” he said. “The reason I asked you to come by, and thank you very much for doing so, by the way—”
“Not at all.”
Arthur smiled. “Well, you see,” he said, “it’s a personal matter, really. Your friend Holly, I enjoyed talking to her at dinner very much, she’s charming, and I thought, well, you see, I’m having some friends to visit for the weekend, and—it was a-spur-of-the-moment idea—I thought I’d invite her along. And she agreed. So that’s very nice.” He took another sip of coffee. The delicate cup and saucer looked incongruous in such a large hand; he looked as if he could crush them. He looked, frankly, as if he could crush Peter, too. His personal manner was not menacing, not at all, but on account of his size, virility, kingly ease, and position in the world, he sent out waves of power that buffeted Peter, practically knocking him out of his seat. But it was all effortless; Arthur was not trying to be domineering any more than would a lion in repose.
“So, then, it occurred to me that I really don’t know Holly very well and that it might make sense to find out a little more about her. And I thought you might help me in this regard, if you didn’t mind?” He smiled at Peter, but didn’t wait for a response. “You see, I have developed a … a … fondness for Holly, and I want the weekend to go well. I think it would be awfully helpful if I knew her likes and dislikes, what her favorite books are, for example, her favorite movies. You see, dammit, I haven’t been to a movie in fifteen years. Does she have any particular interests? Does she shoot?” Arthur’s expression became dreamy. “I’d like to know everything about her … all her joys and sorrows …” He stared off for a moment, then recollected himself and looked back at Peter with embarrassment.
“Well, old man, that’s where you come in. How about it? Do you think you could help?”
Peter put on the calmest and most obliging expression he could manage, but inside, all was turmoil. Of course, he said to himself, of course I am up here on the seventy-seventh floor of the Beeche Building in Arthur Beeche’s office talking to Arthur Beeche about a woman. And, of course, that woman would be Holly. Sure. Nothing more natural. It gave him vertigo. Then there was the question of what he should do. If Arthur Beeche thought that Peter was going to give him the keys to Holly’s heart, he had another thing coming. But Arthur Beeche wasn’t someone whose request you could simply refuse. The seconds ticked away as Arthur leaned toward Peter expectantly, emitting his great potent blasts.
Peter tried to think of his options. It was tempting to send Arthur down the completely wrong path: “Make sure that when you’re with other people you comment on her tits. ‘Hey, everybody, check out Holly. What a rack!’ She loves that kind of bawdiness!” A little too obvious. Then Peter had an idea, a way he could give Arthur some serious advice without telling him anything at all. If only he would fall for it.
“Well, Arthur, I certainly understand the position you’re in. And, of course, I will help you, but not in exactly the way you have asked.”
Arthur’s expression darkened. “All right,” he said. “Go on.”
Still trying to maintain his air of calm, Peter took a sip of coffee, savoring it. Then he settled himself in his seat and cleared his throat. “Yes, Arthur,” he said, “it’s true. I could tell you a great deal about Holly. I could inform you on all the matters you have raised. I could tell you whether she likes to dance, if she prefers tennis to golf, what she eats for breakfast, how many pillows she sleeps with, and who among her father, mother, and sister is at any particular moment driving her most crazy. I could tell you what disappoints her in a friend and I could tell you how many subway fares she buys at a time.”
“If you spend enough,” Arthur said, “the discount can amount to something. The weekly card isn’t a good value in comparison, I don’t believe.”
“I agree,” said Peter. “But now, Arthur, what if I did tell you who Holly’s favorite writer is? What would you do? Arrange for her to ‘discover’ you while reading one of his or her books? Or maybe you would have someone buy a complete set of first editions and install them in the library before she arrives. Do you think that, unless you really did know and love that writer, you would last thirty seconds in a conversation with Holly before she would know you were faking it? Then where you would be?
“Alternatively, think about what it would be like to let her teach you about some book she loves. Wonder, discovery. The point is, part of the fun is learning things about each other, finding the places where you share a border and the others where you are separated by a sea. If you force that process, it’ll never come out right. You can’t climb a mountain with someone if you start three hundred feet above her. You can’t enjoy a meal together if you are eating cheese and she’s still having soup. You’ll never learn the material if you get the test answers ahead of time.”
Arthur furrowed his brow and pursed his lips and thought for a moment. “There may be something in what you say.” He thought a moment longer, and his expression brightened. “Yes,” he said, nodding, “I think you well may be right. I think that is the right approach.”
Peter decided to go for broke. “Arthur,” he said, “if I had only one piece of advice for you, it would be this: just be yourself”
Arthur looked off and took this in, murmuring “Be yourself, be yourself …” Then he turned back to Peter. “Thank you, Peter,” he said. “You’re right. It wasn’t exactly what I was expecting, but it’s usually the unexpected answer to a question that is the most helpful. Thank you very much.”
Peter smiled back at him seraphically. “Not at all,” he said.
On Monday morning Peter got a call from Holly. He asked her how the weekend was, and she told him that she had had an enjoyable time. They had gone to an island in the St. Lawrence Seaway that the Beeches owned and where, a hundred years ago, they had built an enormous camp. It was cold but very beautiful at this time of year, and there were huge roaring fireplaces and delicious food—roast capons and pies. There had been eight other guests. A mix—professor, socialite, old school chum.
“But, Peter,” Holly said. “The real reason I’m calling is to ask you what you wanted to talk about. What’s going on?”
So Peter told her all about Charlotte.
“Oh, Peter!” Holly said. “I’m so sorry! If I’d known that’s what you were going through, I never would have gone away! How are you doing?”
Peter told her that he was doing fine, really. In fact, he admired Charlotte for taking such risks, offending her family and giving up her nice, unexceptionable life, to go after the man of her dreams. Admittedl
y—ha-ha-ha—not the man of everyone’s dreams. It was courageous. They would have been decently happy, he said, but he and Charlotte had never really been right for each other. They spent a while discussing various aspects of the situation—what a drag to have to tell people and put up with their nosy sympathy—with Holly saying again and again that he should please ask her if there was anything she could do. Peter imagined the pitying expression she must have been wearing as she said this, and how beautiful she must have looked, her jade eyes glistening behind tears.
“Well, Peter, I am sad,” she said. “You may be right. It really may be for the best. But when people who were together aren’t anymore, it’s sad.” She was quiet for a moment and then laughed. “But you’re taking it so well, I don’t want to bum you out!”
“No,” Peter said, “it is sad. A lot of emotion and commitment, and it didn’t work out, and maybe Charlotte has missed ten years of being happy. But all’s well that ends well.”
“Yes.”
“Or at least, all’s well that ends.”
Holly laughed mirthlessly. “Yeah,” she agreed, “for most things in life, that’s probably true.”
They talked a bit more, and then Holly said, “Well, here’s something that’s good news. You’ve really impressed your boss.”
“What do you mean?”
“He told me about the conversation you and he had on Friday before the trip. You know, he was really very nervous. ‘Be yourself’! I laughed out loud when I heard that, and it embarrassed him. Apparently, no one had ever told him that before. But, you know, it really is true, and he didn’t try to put on anything, and I’m sure he would never have been as likable if he had. And, yes, it was fun to discover things about each other, just as you’d said! Do you know that the first time he invited his wife out, he took her to an auction of early firearms, a very important auction. It turned that she didn’t care very much for harquebuses, and I had to confess that neither did I. But if he had known that ahead of time, we never would have had a conversation about them, which was highly entertaining. I don’t know, it’s funny, for someone who’s so stiff and so important, he actually loves to just chat, and he’s sweet. I think he has a very tender heart. I like him.
Love In the Air Page 35