by Evan Dara
But tell me, Mr. Cowan. Who’s at home … ?
Who is the proprietor of this SRO hotel—?
—Where every step is a step away, and all motion motion toward exile, with each word another inch from Eden—
—And where we become as gases, no more than heat-bearing gases, breezing streaming puffing into any arena opened to—
—And success is just sickness misspelled – and history a game of telephone – a slow-step game of cellular telephone – through the capacitors and resistors of bodies – running and shunting – through nerve splays and shuttered perceptions and inchoate preferences – such sad, slow, corruptible processing – but who, who will refuse the bell? – who, finally, will turn off the cell phone? – clanging and ringing in its form-shaped cradle – talking to itself, and then answering – converting sea swirls into service roads, trefoils into runoff waters, trustful tableside afternoons into angle-working and vertical architecture – packing and posing the vitrines in the global Potemkin village – and all the while, blindly, proudly, bearing along history’s alchemy-in-reverse – its hurtle, its rush and thunder – as it continues and pursues and purchases the endarkenment, the spark-lit, endlessly gathering surrender – the full-accepted roiling and hurtling toward – and all intentions, all hushed alternatives – heaped to a firewall, neutralized, facilitating – and crowned with highest grades in the mandatory course in futility – then certified by the cult of instinct – here in your permanent Panobservatorium, field of precision and insistent discipline – harried by tracer rounds, by a tracking shot continuing, racking, never diverging – and the whole great meliorist dream harnessed and converted – switched to rationalizing endpoints that are inconceivable yet altogether inescapable – there where the howls are items on the ledger – there where some unseen hand is beckoning us, with one finger – and we stand cowering and defenseless against the number fetishists – the resurgent crypto-Positivists – in an evening ever-deepening – a darkness welcoming – where softness is opportunity – and comity is opportunity – and kindness is – … – knowing, full-scale arguing – that language is the money of mind – a system of abstractions that becomes a medium of exchange that warps and falsifies everything it touches—
—And so, Mr. Cowan. I hope it is clear. By now, here, sitting in the Cartesian theater, so snug and warm, shouldn’t we be concerned not with the spectator, but with the projectionist … ?
Again: Do I make myself clear?
—A bird-screech accompanying his arrival, Dardan pushed open the dense silver door and entered. He strode over to Lincoln, bade him stay seated, offered his hand. Then sat on the facing deep-cushioned chair …
Sorry, Dardan said. Sorry I’m late. I had a deposition over in Bucktown, and – and no more taking your time with my stuff, OK?
—So, Dardan said. We got something. We got something here …
He leaned across the low table to the couch where Lincoln was sitting. Lincoln, likewise, leaned forward. This time, Dardan gave him a document – a real document, not a photocopy, not a photocopy stapled into a folder – a lined, purplish card with official-looking insignias and lined-off areas and boxes for checkmarks. Lincoln looked, and amid the hard black lines and straight-ruled spaces his eyes went to the wavery twirls of a signature, near bottom—
—He made out, rising from the signing line, a blood-blue V, soft and tapering; and, after, a C, also soft, issue of an elegant hand. After the caps there were only ripples – illegible, tossaway trills, rumbling just above, and also below, the stark, printed line. Recognizably her handwriting …
From around ’92, Dardan said. It’s an agreement card, a contract, with Chicago G&E, to get a discount on electricity for the home. It was a program they had for a few years, to help out people in a couple of disfavored neighborhoods. This card, with this color, was used in Ward 71, same neighborhood as we knew, Lawndale/Little Village, and with that number there in the upper left we can reduce where she lived to around forty, forty-five buildings. So this is good, Mr. Selwyn. This is very good. My son really came through …
Dardan closed the folder, slid it on the table. He nudged forward in his chair, took a softer tone. You know, Mr. Selwyn, we have affiliates, he said. Official, unofficial, what have you. In different places, in all sorts of different places. And so I was wondering about your mother and genever. I was wondering if you’d care to speak about—
—I am sorry if this seems intru-, Dardan continued. No. Overly aggressive. But in a certain sense, that’s what you’re paying us for. Mr. Selwyn, to help my clients, to do the best work for them I can, I pursue every path available. Even if some of the paths are not available to my clients themselves. So we did poke around in Europe – we did – just to see what we could find. To see what might be of use to you. Things that you might not even be aware of. Things you wouldn’t be aware of. Nothing indiscreet, standard procedure, industry-wide. Hey. We’re here to serve. To produce results. And good God, we will …
So, your mom. We understand that your father takes the situation in stride, that he’s OK with things as they are. For him there’s no problem. But your mom. Her—
—Yes. Of course. No bearing on your aunt’s case—
—Certainly not. You don’t need to say anything. Private matters are your business—
—Exactly. Let me be clear about this: We are not interested in getting everything you have.
—Helluva watch you got there, by the way. Really nice, you know, understated.
—I didn’t know he played squash. I mean, did you know he played squash? I—
—Well, yeah. Sure, I … He said he wanted to take lessons—
—He’s been playing for some time—
—Hey: who knows if the Lakers’ll take a second championship, I was saying to Rodge. I mean, Jeez: they’re up against the 76ers. Ain’t exactly much competition …
And Rodge agreed. We were standing at the counter – I was behind, hello working stiff, watching Rodge make his way down the GeniSoy shake I’d poured him – and it was slow. Hey: it was a Wednesday afternoon, so nothing new in the lack of bodies. And it also happened to be a nice nice sunny day, really springy, so tell me who’s gonna pass up prime outdoor time to come to South Ellis Avenue and go down into the darks of sweatland. Still, around 3:15 Lincoln walks in the door, in his super-duper business suit and all, carrying a seriously nice Slazenger sports bag, and he checks his rez and asks for towels and a key to a locker. I do it, he takes it, he flips me a fiver, and then he’s off, changing …
And in a few minutes I hear him in court 4. No talking, no chatting, just him lobbing the ball, warming up. Slow at first, the racquet-wheeze then the rock-thud of the ball hitting the wall. Between, the slap of his sneaks. And I’m waiting for someone to join him but no one does, and the guy just keeps on hitting. Wants the exercise, I suppose. So he goes, hitting more and more, harder and harder, really knocking the ball around good: sing to the wall, and whack back. Sing to the wall, and whack back. Good shooting, good strong shots, the guy really finds his rhythm. Occasionally an unk off the telltale, but only rarely. Just solid, steady stuff: Sing to the wall, and whack back. Sing to the wall, and whack back. The guy is really giving himself a workout …
And a workout it is indeed. Because the guy just keeps going, OK?, shooting minute after minute, just like going, right? Shot after shot – after shot after shot – Lincoln’s down there putting together a very strong string, stroking like the best of them. Sometimes the tempo dips but in general it’s an amazing sequence, power-play to the max: Sing to the wall, and sing to the wall and his performance is really impressive. I mean, he’s hitting like the next Jonny Power, slamming and going for like twenty, twenty-five minutes, as if he’s like locked in this dead heat with him self and boy is this guy in flow, in serious flow, the guy ain’t in there at all, and I’m hearing this and I’m listening to it and it’s like I’m witnessing a miracle here. Just this amazing output, this killer concentrati
on and intensity and strength when it stops, finally it stops, stops dead …
And then, then there’s no sound at all – after the last rollaway of the ball – but beyond that: nothing. No moving, no racquet-scooping the ball up, no pacing – nothing. Guy must have really knocked himself out. Because for the rest of the hour, for the thirty, thirty-five minutes that remained, he just stayed there, down there, inside the court. Without a single peep. I mean, after a while I was tempted to go down and check, see what’s up. But hey: it’s his right, he paid for the time. I suppose he sat down, because I didn’t hear any more footwork, but who knew what the guy was doing. I mean, I didn’t know what he was doing.
—But at the, I mean – I mean the deviled eggs – they – and Jake Gitler in his two-toned – and Honey Blake—
—And Passo Nondi talking about the wainscoting that—
—And Estelle Natale just observing, like she always does, occasionally glancing up from her Vanity Fair—
—And the view of the sunset sky, you know from up on the roof of the B. Leader building, it was getting so radiant and orange-purple and nice, with a great warm breeze, the smiling servants—
—The alligator, crème-fraiche and Friesland cucumber petit-fours—
—And Annie Arenberg was talking about how some kooks were protesting to save Timothy McVeigh, and L. C. Paroubeck was going on about that crazy murder thing with the king of Nepal and his own son, and then I heard, over in a corner, standing by the little half-wall before the drop-off, Lincoln was chatting with Jim Baum and Antonia Harks, and he was saying But of course there is no history, there is only biography, and then he sipped his burgundy, and I thought, you know, I thought: That is so true—
—He’s European, you know—
—And Paul Whittinger and Randolph Stern, they sipped their drinks and agreed—
—As did Marly Jessel, saying But someone’s still got to write the biographies—
—And then, later, I happened to see him again, Lincoln, he was talking with Randolph Stern and Marieke Jongers, and I heard him say he was getting interested in Mahayana Buddhism—
—And Marieke told him that Jenni Manoukian – that’s Jenni, our host – that she’s a Buddhist, and that she had a small shrine off her bedroom upstairs that Lincoln could visit if he—
—I admire him for that, for being into Kabbalah, some day I’m—
—Hey, it seems to work for him, God bless the guy, like at the reception when I saw him standing by the podium, and everyone holding their glass up to him, new Chair of the Chicagoland Education Boosters, and him just beaming, just radiant, all inner calm—
—And when Wanda Maystottle went over to speak to him, to thank him for his work on behalf of Akers House, and she posed for the Trib picture and said, in that great Savannah accent, What a nahss young man. So charming and fresh. Even his hands are so handsome – before she pulled his cheek to hers for the pic—
—You know, it must have been a reflection of spiritual growth, of the interest he developed in mysticism, because around this time he became more modest in his demeanor, in his entire bearing. It was remarkable, this outward shift, clearly the product of a rich inner blooming.
—What can I say – he did become a little more understated. That is true. After a point, the way he dressed, there was no more of that mix-and-matchy, all that tutti-frutti stuff. By then he didn’t need it.
—And it was also big-spirited of him, truly, to hire that new house-girl, to take on someone like that. Really big-hearted of the guy to give a chance to someone handicapped, deaf. I admired him for that.
—There was lots going on with him. No denying it. One Thursday night at the Pavilion, when he was being introduced as new chief fundraiser for the Chicago Democrats, and this guy Peter Hurler gave a speech welcoming him, it was … Well … What can I say? It was—
—And like he’s twisting and slinking through all the junk and all the cars parked in marginally licit spots in the alley behind the Rookery Building, back where Cooney’s has its delivery docks, on his way to the HipHopLite reception, dressed Armani, and his cell sounds …
He unpockets, he opens, he does Yes …
And it’s like Hello, Mr. Selwyn … ? Mr. Selwyn, it’s Hank. With Anderson, Alyria? Sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you, but I couldn’t find out anything before I went on vacation, and my assistant just seemed to mess up here, and I’m sorry. But as soon as I got back I jumped on this again, and I found out you can’t leave a note to sign for your package, I’m sorry to say. Yeah, I got the information, and the package comes from France, and the French thing is that the package has to be delivered into your hands, we have to see you sign the slip. That’s what I’m told, yeah. That’s the security they use. Sorry to say …
But I got permission from the sender to keep trying, normally we’d have to send it back after so long with no collection, so I’ll have it on the truck again ASAP. And let me see. It’s from someone in France called Gene … Gene Dallas, yeah, I’m in touch with the router in London – that’s our contact there, who we use in Europe, and I’ll have it out to you as soon as—
—And by then the trays were just winging from the kitchen – Pammy must have heard people grousing about the air conditioning, that it was a little low – with just the most delish little finger-thingies, little round Stilton puffs that were just so mmmm, and these huge shrimp batter-fries that were even better. And Charles Hayes was talking to Yolanda Falls, and there was really good music – Pammy got DJ Spooky and DJ Bart el-B., they were spinning just the best remix of My Love Don’t Cost a Thing – and Missie Gaylord was chatting with Shandra Infante and Conrad Ringel was telling Auran and Lincoln about some business he’d …
Oh yeah, he took me up and down, Conrad was saying. I recently had a situation with an employee at my warehouse in Broadview … no, actually, it had to do with a billing clerk at the distribution center. But I couldn’t get anything back. Listen, I heard he’s sued every six months. But there’s no way to prove anything. No one can make the charges stick. It cost me eighteen grand in legal fees. The way he works, he makes all his representations verbally, and the accusations mean nothing unless you can back your claims up with something tangible – which he makes sure isn’t there. And then he also hides behind confidentiality laws. Don’t get me wrong: he never tells you anything that’ll hurt you, he just doesn’t do his job. It’s all hot air, and what Dardan does is feed his clients just enough to keep them coming back, to grease them into the next billing cycle. It’s even better if there’s really nothing there, nothing to be found. He can make that go on indefinitely—
—Out and down the stairs, and into the elevator, and spurting out the door onto the sidewalk, and the early rush-hour traffic is fierce, Well Street’s starting to knit and clot, exhaust spumes are rasping the afternoon heat and Lincoln huffs and Lincoln tangles and he takes out his cell and hits the button that gets Jim, his assistant at the Taylor Center. And he says Jim and he says Wait and he says Hold on – hold on a minute, and he says Jim, here, take this, take this down, take down this routing number, 667-4415-6 FR, you got that?, now call, call Anderson, Alyria about a package, about a delivery—
—And he stomps, he paces-walks in little head-down circles, he—
—But it’s OK, you know, it’s OK. I mean, I trust him—
—I mean I think Michael Snade was a little out of line to make so much about it in the Sun-Times—
—Like Lincoln, I mean, how – how could he—?
—I saw it. Yeah, I saw Mark Blazer’s thing on WGN. And so what, you know. So what. So Lincoln went out with Bibi’s sister. They danced at The Conditional Regard. Big deal. She’s legal, there’s no problem. Happens all the—
—The fact that he denies it – that’s—
—Who cares—?
—That she actually went out and bought him – that she bought him a Peugeot—!
—Oh she’s always doing ridiculous—
—Lincoln says he’s never been with her!
—Of course he does. Naturally. He’s got to say—
—He said he only met her once, two months ago, at a—
—And then like Marla Metzger’s saying like how Lincoln’s just the most generous lover, how he’s like just like a dream—
—Just like gentle but also filled with adventure and he sensed it, he sensed exactly what I, it was like telepathy—
—OK … ?
—And then I—
—Come on. Really: it’s time to put this to bed. A spokesman for Lincoln – a close associate, I read – came out and said they had proof that Lincoln was at a fundraiser for Mercyworks Occupational Hospital on the night he was supposed to have been with Marla, and that he was taken home by limousine at 2:15 AM and dropped at his door. They have witnesses. They have receipts.
—And this associate, as the Trib said – this associate would know.
—And might this associate have been—
—Someone told me it was Auran, OK?, and she—
—OK? Come on—
—Listen: everyone knows how these things go, OK? I mean, all these people, eventually they all just decide to put these unfortunate things behind them, just to forget all about it. It’s not worth it! The whole thing was nothing, and nothing it should stay. Even Marla Metzger, the other day at the Four Seasons, even she wasn’t talking about it any more, when she was introducing her line of perfumes—
—And then, at the Burnham – what was it, one week later? – when Lincoln had the reception to launch Selwyn Consultants, he didn’t say a word either. Not one word—
—It was already—
—I tell you, he was in good form that night – all that night. He was talking about his big new plans, really ambitious, about his strategy to be a catalyst for business – that was how he saw his company, that was the catchphrase – and about how he and his associates had already received inquiries from 35 Blue Chips all over Chicago, and about how they already had meetings scheduled well into August.