Читать книгу Love In The Air - James Collins, Джеймс Коллинз - Страница 9

Peter arrived at the bookstore late. It was larger and more commercial than the venues where Jonathan had read in the past. The crowd was larger too, although its composition was the same: mostly postgraduate women who were mostly willowy, mostly with their dark hair loosely pulled back. One or two of them may have primped for this evening, which meant wearing new sandals and a discreet application of paint. It was June, so they were wearing filmy skirts or short skirts with tops that showed off their slender, downy arms; those who wore jeans looked really good in jeans and wore the same kinds of tops. There were also some older women in modish clothes but with heads of gray hair, coloring it being anathema to them. They kept up with the new books. A smattering of skinny, unkempt, unshaven young men lurked in the back, their sullen faces registering both envy and disgust. Later, at the bar downtown, they would snigger about how Speedwell truly did suck. There were no older males. Only Peter was wearing a suit.

At first glance, Jonathan himself might have seemed not very distinguishable from his rivals. His dark brown curls fell to his collar without discipline. He too had stubble. He wore a checked shirt over a T-shirt, just as they did. But there were differences. While Jonathan was on the tall side and certainly remained romantically thin, his outline was drawn with a thicker nib than that used for the others, for, unlike them, he had both been partaking of lobster ravioli at restaurants and spending hours each week at the gym. Jonathan’s hair, while tousled, was clean. His jeans were clean. He had clean hands and clean, trimmed fingernails. Indeed, he was certainly the only person in the room who ever received a manicure at the Waldorf-Astoria barbershop. His black shoes, seemingly unremarkable, were custom-made five-hole derbies, which of course he never wore two days in a row.

More than anything, though, what set Jonathan apart from the other young men in the room was his glorious beauty and the sweet light that surrounded him. Standing before the audience, Jonathan seemed like the most innocent creature of heaven, favoring this base world with a sojourn. His untended curls and blue eyes and fair skin with hints of pink all suggested a person of pure goodness. No snigger passed those delicate, crimson lips. What was most beautiful was that although he possessed such physical charms he appeared to have no knowledge of them. Artless and free! How painful it was then, considering all this, to realize that his work registered so acutely the harshness with which we so often repay love, the cruel deceptions that greet those who trust. Jonathan Speedwell, his readers knew, must feel all that very deeply. And yet, and yet, how much humor and strength were in his work! And in the man himself!

As Peter arrived, Jonathan was just finishing a story. Here is what he read:

It was cold. The sky was clear. Dogs growled and barked. The man next door kept three, tied up. A breeze, out of the south now, carried a faint, acrid odor from the plant. The rusty frame of a swing set, with no swings, stood near the fence. Typical Jake, to scavenge the frame and never find swings. At this time of year it was hard to believe that in a few months wildflowers would grow up around it. Dana tried to picture them, and to remember their names: pussytoes, Venus’s looking-glass, cocklebur. The sun rose higher in the bright azure sky. All of a sudden, Dana saw the crystals of frost on the grass glitter with reds and purples and yellows. It was as if the entire yard had been scattered with gemstones.

Dana shivered. She lit a cigarette. On the sofa in the double-wide, Jen was still asleep. Dana should wake her. Jen would say, “Mom, you’ve been smoking!” Dana would wait. She would finish her cigarette and she would wait awhile. This was something Jen didn’t have to know. There were so many things that she did.

Here Jonathan fell silent. He kept his head down, still staring at the book on the lectern. He tightened his lips. Then he looked up with a distracted, vulnerable expression. The inside tips of his eyebrows were raised, creating an ankh-shaped wrinkle in his brow. When the audience began to applaud, Jonathan lowered and raised his head again. Startled, pleased, humbled, embarrassed. Then he nodded his thanks, as a gray-haired woman stepped up to the lectern.

“Thank you, Jonathan. Thank you. That was just marvelous.” After a new crescendo, the applause died down. The woman spoke. “I’m sure many of you have questions for Jonathan. And goodness, the hour is drawing nigh, isn’t it? So I think, now, if Jonathan wouldn’t mind, we’ll open up the floor.”

“Certainly, Martha, thank you,” said Jonathan. A willowy young woman, but they were all willowy young women, raised her hand.

“Yes, right there,” said Jonathan.

“Hi, Jonathan,” she said. “Thanks. I’d just like to ask, what do you think about the environment?”

A question like this, both very heavy and inane, didn’t faze Jonathan for a second. “It’s incredibly important,” he replied in a solemn tone. “I get so angry when I think about what we’re doing to it. I wish my publisher would use recycled paper. There’s no reason that a tree should die for this.” He held up his book, prompting gentle, sympathetic laughter. “Well, they say that trees are one thing that are renewable. I try to do what I can. What I think is very important is … mindfulness … to have mindfulness about how we are treating our world. You know, there are poets who are known as nature poets, but to my mind, all writers are nature poets, and so have a special interest in protecting nature, and a special duty.” Applause.

There were a few more questions. “In your first novel, when Sam drowns in the drinking game, did that really happen?” “Where do you get the names for your characters?”

Jonathan called on another young woman. “Hi,” she said. She was dark-skinned and slight, and she wore a thin, peasanty blouse. “I just wanted to ask, you seem to be able to write about women so well, from their point of view. I wonder if you would tell us something about that?”

“Oh, that’s kind of you, very kind.” Jonathan smiled thoughtfully. “Let me think. I don’t really know what to say.” In truth, Jonathan had been asked this question at every reading he had ever given and in every interview. “If I’m able to get into the heads of women I guess it’s because women have always seemed so much more interesting to me than men, frankly. Women are more powerful, and I’m interested in power. So maybe I’ve watched women more carefully.” Jonathan paused. He looked down and swallowed. He seemed to be collecting himself. Then he spoke.

“But … but I guess there’s a simple explanation. It’s not something I usually mention, but something about tonight …” The heads of loosely gathered hair canted forward. “You see … my mother died when I was quite young.” Jonathan paused again, remembering. “In the last memory I have of her, we were at the shore and we were playing in the waves, and she was holding me.” He fell silent. The room was silent. The salt water, the sun, the smell of his mother’s suntan lotion, the feel of her body against his, the thrilling surf—everyone in the room believed that they were sharing Jonathan’s recollected sensations. “So of course I’ve spent my whole life trying to get her back and a lot of time trying to get close to women, studying them, trying to figure them out.” He laughed. “Trying to get them to love me!” The audience laughed, then sighed, then applauded.

Jonathan signed books for a while, chatting with members of his public. They said things to him that they had obviously been rehearsing in their minds. “Thank you for telling the truth.” Bashful Jonathan would reply, “Please—no. Well … thanks.” Peter hovered outside the eddy of admirers. Finally Jonathan had given his last humble smile, the smile of a servant unworthy of his mistress’s praise, and turned so that his eyes lit upon Peter, which prompted a different kind of smile. He signaled Peter over with a nod. Jonathan stood up and they shook hands.

“Hello, my friend,” he said. “Thanks for coming.”

Peter looked at him for a second.

“When did you get so green?”

“Me?” Jonathan said. “Why, I’ve always been that way! You remember—I drove that guy’s hybrid once.” Then he began to chuckle. His eyes narrowed and he grinned, pleased with himself.

“How did you like the thing about my mother?”

“I thought it was asinine.”

Jonathan chuckled.

“Your mother lives on a golf course in South Carolina.”

“Oh, come on,” Jonathan said, “nobody’s going to write an exposé. Anyway, if I ever became famous enough for anyone to care, it would just cause a fuss about how I mythologized my past. That’s always good copy.” He laughed and shook his head. “Maybe I’ll try a dead little sister next time, ‘the bravest person I’ve ever known’ … Oh, Christ! Hold on a second.”

Two women were approaching, one in her forties, the other in her twenties, and Jonathan moved to greet them.

“Sasha! Allison!” Jonathan said. He embraced them both. “Thanks for being here. It makes it so much easier to get through these things.”

You were terrific, it went great, they told him. Jonathan made the introductions.

“Sasha Petrof, Allison Meeker, this is Russell Peters, one of my good friends. Russ, Sasha is my editor, the person who has almost convinced me to share her delusion that I can write. And Allison’s her assistant, and she’s—well, she’s the person I depend on for everything.”

Both women were very good-looking. Sasha was lean and tall, chicly dressed; Allison was shorter and more voluptuous, a quality that seemed to embarrass her, and dressed more like a kid, but expensively. They both carried the same costly bag (Sasha was married to a Wall Street guy and Allison was the daughter of a Wall Street guy). Peter shook hands with them. Sasha’s fingers were narrow and he could feel the bones and knuckles. The skin was moisturized, but a little rough nevertheless. Shaking Allison’s hand, in contrast, was more like grasping a ripe plum. Peter noticed how in chatting with Jonathan they both had the same coded look, a look that was intended to be understood by Jonathan but not the other person standing there.

Sasha addressed Peter. “Allison and I were talking before. We hadn’t known that Jonathan’s mother had died when he was so young. Is that something he’s ever really talked about?”

“No,” Peter said. “No, he never has.”

“Did you know?”

“If you had asked me, I would have told you Jonathan’s mother was living.”

“Really? Jonathan, you’re so private, not even your friends …?”

Jonathan glanced at Peter. “No, I don’t talk about it … well, the cancer. I’ll tell you about it sometime, Sasha. I’m not sure what came over me tonight.”

They chatted a little bit more about Jonathan’s publicity schedule. Then Sasha made a whoop. How could she have forgotten! The review in the paper! She had called Jonathan but hadn’t reached him.

“Oh, that,” Jonathan said bashfully. “I guess it was okay.”

“It was just terrific!” said Sasha. “Some wonderful things. Really insightful.”

“Just so long as there’s a money quote,” said Jonathan, skillfully making the cynical crack of a noncynic.

“Oh, there was! There was!” said Sasha, laughing. Allison, her lips moist, glowed with awe.

After some more talk, Jonathan said, “Well, we need to get downtown for dinner. I guess we should get going.”

“Yes, I’d better run home,” said Sasha. “You were great, Jonathan. Really great. We’ll talk.” She embraced him and gave him an all but undetectable extra squeeze.

“Bye, Jonathan,” said Allison. “You were great.” She embraced him and gave him an all but undetectable extra squeeze.

In the cab downtown, Jonathan leaned his head against the seat and let out a sigh of exhaustion. He started talking. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to be screwing both your editor and her assistant? Christ, it’s complicated. Allison … God … Allison. She has this way of lifting her legs up and putting her heels on your back and sort of massaging it with them. The thing about Allison—God. She’s young and not that experienced, but it’s the enthusiasm. The zest. She just loves it. Though, of course, in the hands of the master … She’s such a kid, unsure, and I so dig that, you know?”

Peter, actually, didn’t know.

“But then when Sasha is tough and businesslike it’s also one of the most exciting things. ‘No, Tom, I will not give him a two-book contract!’ I remember once we were, uh, in conference and she was running late. She had herself completely put back together in about two minutes and was all business. I just wanted to grab her and start all over again. I love the way her hands feel, sort of corrugated.”

The cab proceeded down Park Avenue South, with its disturbingly narrow “parks.”

“But, you know, there have been some real close calls, with both of them. And it’s not only that. I have to remember which one I’ve said what to, and when all three of us are together, there’s the chance that somebody is going to make a slip. I mean, usually it’s only two people out of three, but here it’s all of us! Then when I call for Sasha I get Allison, and of course I’ve got to give her some of the old okeydoke. ‘Oh God, Allison, you are so beautiful.’ And then she switches me to Sasha, and immediately I’ve got to go through it with her. ‘Oh, God, Sasha, I just can’t stop thinking about you, I think it’s the backs of your knees …” Jonathan looked over at Peter with a leer. “All true by the way,” he said before continuing. “Then back to Allison to make the appointment, and I have to hope she won’t be mooning when Sasha brings her something to type or some damn thing.” He shook his head wearily. “Yep, it’s hard. Especially with Mags, too, you know, that chick from the fancy soup place? Old Maggie Mae. Catholic girls. Jesus. There’s nothing like seeing the crucifix bouncing around their collarbone. Sometimes she clenches it in her teeth.”

All the while that Jonathan spoke, Peter had been staring at a tear in the back of the taxi’s front seat. It was vaguely K-shaped and had been covered with dark red tape, a shade lighter than the rubbery purplish seat back itself. The edges of the tape were gummy and dirty. The cab, making the usual sudden starts and stops, jounced Peter around, but he kept staring at this cicatrix. His brow and lips and nose and chin were all shut up like a drawstring pouch. He really had no thoughts about what he was hearing, or rather his many thoughts formed an undifferentiated, scowling black cloud in his mind. It was all disgusting and infuriating. This was not because, in general, Peter was puritanical about such activities as Jonathan described. Over the years, he had listened to his friend’s accounts again and again, and while they were often repellent, Peter could not help but find it fun and exciting to hear them, and to admire Jonathan in the way that all men, in truth, admire another’s promiscuity.

For some time, though, Peter’s reaction had been more judgmental when Jonathan talked like this. “I don’t suppose,” he said finally, “that the fact that you’re married makes it any more complicated.”

Jonathan said nothing for a moment and then looked over at Peter with a kind, condescending expression. “Ah, Peter,” he said. “When you’re older, you’ll understand these things better.”

Peter continued to study the ill-repaired gash.

“Don’t sweat it, old sport,” Jonathan said, putting his hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Nothing’s going to happen. Nobody’s going to get hurt.” He laughed. “I’m going to be sent to hell, is all.”

Peter and Jonathan entered the restaurant. It was small and crowded, with stark décor and very large windows.

“You are the first to arrive,” the maître d’ said. “Would you like to sit at the bar, or shall I escort you to your table?”

They went to the table and ordered drinks, a martini for Jonathan and a beer for Peter. Jonathan asked for the wine list, and as he studied it he made a running commentary. Sipping his beer, Peter began to undergo the physiological changes that he always experienced when he was anticipating the appearance of Jonathan’s wife: his heart began to pound, his arteries throbbed, he felt pressure in the hollows of his hands, he swallowed several times, his stomach did flips. He imagined that he would feel the same way just before his first skydiving lesson. What was ridiculous was that he had been in this situation a thousand times, so it made no sense to still have these reactions.

“Incredible,” Jonathan was muttering, “two hundred bucks for that piece of crap.” In restaurants like this, he always ordered the cheapest wine, and it gave him a nice feeling of satisfaction to see what the suckers were buying. As Jonathan spoke, Peter was looking toward the door. He could see the maître d’s back, partially obscured, and the top quarter of the door. The door opened, and Peter caught a glimpse of blond hair. His heart leapt into his throat. She had arrived. He could see the maître d’ lean forward to talk to her, and nod, and then turn and lead her toward the table. As she walked behind the maître d’, Peter saw a part of her face, her shoulder, her arm.

“Here you are, miss,” the maître d’ said, stepping aside. “Gentlemen, the other member of your party has arrived.”

She was wearing a pale green sundress; the color brought out her green eyes. Her long brown arms were bare, and she had her hair pinned up, exposing all of her long brown neck. She was not necessarily the most stunning woman in the restaurant; she was not someone who would cause a stir just by walking in. But she was so pretty. Her reddish blond hair was thick and sleek, although exhibiting a little frizz on this muggy June night. The green eyes were large and set far apart and her jawbone made a beautiful curve from her ear to her chin; her nose had a delicate little knob at the tip. She was on the tall side and nicely formed, slender without noticeable hips (unless one made a point of noticing them), with fine shoulders, wide, level, smooth, rounded. Her collarbones looked like arrow shafts.

She was smiling and she looked flushed and bright-eyed from having hurried to arrive without being too late, and from the pleasure of seeing them both.

“Hello, boys,” she said.

Jonathan and Peter stood up.

“Hello, luv,” said Jonathan. They hugged and kissed, more than just a token public peck.

“Hi, Holly!”

She gave Peter a kiss on the cheek, and in returning it Peter had to put his hands on her bare shoulders.

As they settled into their seats, Holly apologized for being late (“It took me longer to get ready than I expected”; she and Jonathan exchanged conjugal looks, mock sheepishness on her part, mock exasperation on his), and she told Peter that it was so nice to see him but that she was so sorry Charlotte couldn’t come.

“She was really sorry to miss you both,” Peter said.

“Well, say hello to her for me, will you?” said Holly. She ordered a glass of wine. “Oh, Peter, weren’t you supposed to be giving some kind of presentation today?”

“Did I mention that?”

“Yes, I think so, when we were arranging dinner. I think you said that tonight would be good because you’d be done with that, or something.”

“Oh.”

“So how did it go?”

“I killed,” Peter said.

“Really! That’s great!”

“It wasn’t a big deal at all.”

“I’m glad it went so well,” Holly said. “Jonathan, did you hear? Peter killed.”

“Yes, I heard. Congratulations, Peter. What was it all about? Debentures?” Jonathan thought it was funny just to say the word “debentures.”

“Oh, it was nothing worth talking about.” Peter shook his head dismissively.

“Okay,” said Holly, looking at Peter with a tiny frown.

“And how was the play?” Peter asked. Holly taught eighth- and ninth-grade Classics at a private girls’ school, and she had helped with the eighth-grade play, which had been performed that night.

“It was wonderful!” Holly said. “The girls were great. They were so funny! The boys too. And boy, let me tell you, there is nothing quite as intense as a thirteen-year-old Hermia who really is in love with her Lysander.”

The girls had performed A Midsummer Night’s Dream with students from an all-boys’ school. As the rehearsals progressed, complicated romantic dramas had, of course, arisen among members of the cast.

“Well,” said Holly, nodding at Jonathan, “and how about Anton Pavlovich here? Did you see the review?”

“Oh God,” Peter said. “Charlotte read only part of it to me. Don’t tell me it made that comparison.”

“It did. And I have to live with him.”

“Please” said Jonathan, “you know me. Unworthy as I am to receive such praise, I accept it with the deepest humility and gratitude.”

Holly asked about the reading. It went well, they told her.

“So we all have something to celebrate,” she said, and they talked some more. Then the waiter came over and started describing the specials, ingredient by ingredient, and at about the third appetizer (“fava beans …”) Peter’s mind began to wander. It drifted back … back … back to that fateful night three years before …

After he graduated from college, Jonathan lived in a one-bedroom apartment far downtown, but then his stepfather died (as Jonathans father had before him) and his mother inherited an apartment in a hotel on the Upper East Side. She and her husband had used it only on visits to the city but she decided to keep it—more accurately, Jonathan convinced her to keep it—as an investment. While it appreciated, it only made sense for someone to live there—Jonathan, say. He could not afford the monthly maintenance, so she handled that as well as the room service charges, which the hotel simply sent her as a matter of course. The apartment consisted of a bedroom, a library, a dining room, a sitting room, and a kitchen (which saw little use). Meanwhile, Jonathan kept his old place to use as an office (and it didn’t hurt his social life to have some geographical diversity). It was from these precincts that his tales of human struggle issued forth.

One day Jonathan called Peter and said that he was having a few people over that night and that Peter should come. It was an invitation Peter readily accepted, for the people Jonathan had over were usually women whom Peter found very attractive; of course they were pretty, but they were also either smart or a little tragic or rich or minor geniuses at something or other—or all of these. Beautiful, taken-seriously painters who came into a vast fortune as infants when their parents were murdered, these were Jonathan’s specialty. Moreover, at Jonathan’s, a fume of amorousness always hung in the air, and, so, well, who knows?

“Sure,” Peter said. “What time?”

“Around ten or whenever.”

“What can I bring?”

“Just your fascinating self, that’ll be fine.”

Peter asked who was going to be there and Jonathan mentioned a few names. “Oh, yeah,” he said, “and this girl I met at a campus thing.” A prestigious university had invited Jonathan to spend a term in residence. “We’ve kind of been hanging out a lot together up there.”

“Uh-huh.”

Jonathan paused for a moment before continuing. “I’ve got to say, she’s, well, she’s kind of fantastic, actually.”

“She is.”

“Yeah, she is.”

“So what’s her name?”

“Holly.”

Holly.

Peter reacted with a start. His heart began to pound and he flushed. Four years before he had sat next to a girl named Holly on a long airline flight and had fallen deeply in love with her; he had lost her phone number and had never seen her again, but he had thought about her hourly ever since. But what were the chances that Jonathan’s Holly and Peter’s Holly were the same person? He wanted to ask Jonathan more about her. But it was crazy. There were a million Hollys in the world.

Jonathan’s apartment was already crowded when Peter arrived. How glossy everyone always looked at parties there, how loud and vibrant was the cacophonous talk. Peter got a drink and chatted with some people, and then he looked around for Jonathan. He found him easily, for he was sitting on the sofa in the living room. A young woman sat next to him, and she and Jonathan were holding hands. It was the young woman whom Peter had met on the plane. She looked almost exactly the same, except that her hair was shorter. The sight of her stunned Peter, knocking the wind out of him.

He needed a moment to recover, but Jonathan had seen him and waved him over. The introduction. Exclamations. We’ve met before! You have? Yes, years ago on a plane. How amazing! Holly was excited and very friendly, but Peter felt nothing but despair, for she gave no indication that she had spent every waking moment since their parting thinking about him. She was wearing a rather low-cut silk blouse and extremely narrow black pants with a faint chalk stripe. She looked fantastic.

Peter and Holly told Jonathan their story. They had bonded over Thomas Mann, of all things! Then their narrative petered out.

“Well, so,” Jonathan asked, “you never saw each other after that?”

Peter took Jonathan’s question to be a challenge. Of course, any halfway competent male who flew across the continent sitting next to a young woman like Holly would have managed to get her phone number. Peter felt compelled to stake his own claim to Holly, to show Jonathan that he had not failed in this respect, and to make sure Holly knew what had happened, whether she cared or not. True, in achieving these aims, he would make himself look idiotic, but that was not too high a price to pay.

“Actually,” he said, “we were going to see each other again. Holly wrote her number on a piece of paper, and we were going to have dinner.” To identify the piece of paper would be to give Jonathan too intimate a detail, Peter thought. “But … uh … well …” He paused, turning red. “Well, I actually lost the piece of paper.”

“You lost it!” said Holly. She put her hand on Peter’s arm. “You lost it! I always assumed that you just blew me off!”

“Oh no!” Peter said. In his solipsism, it had never occurred to him that Holly might have been hurt. “I lost the number. I know, it was a fairly idiotic thing to do. I was at my hotel, and it was gone. I looked everywhere,” Peter said, “but somehow or other, the thing just disappeared.”

“How kind of too bad,” Holly said. Her tone and expression reflected a touch of spontaneous warmth toward him that had thus far been lacking.

“I sure thought so!” said Peter.

“I bet you did!” said Jonathan.

They all laughed a little.

Jonathan had been observing the others closely. Now he smiled at both with affection. “What a close call for me!” he said. “If it had been different, then, well, who knows what might have happened? And maybe we would all be sitting here together, but it would all be … different.” His tone was mild, sweet, humorous, even a wee bit vulnerable. “I’m pretty lucky that Peter chose that moment to be fairly idiotic. It might be hard to believe, Holly, but that was actually out of character for him.”

Holly laughed and squeezed Jonathan’s hand. No spoilsport, Peter laughed too. He and Holly exchanged a glance, and then some other guests approached, and the party’s momentum swept them all away. For the rest of the night, Peter sought out Holly, trying to have a private moment with her, but for some reason this opportunity was always denied him.

One evening shortly after Peter had met Holly again, he received some further information about her attitude toward the Lost Phone Number. Holly was out and Peter was having a drink in Jonathan’s apartment before going to dinner. Waiting for a call from some other friends, Peter watched a hockey game and Jonathan corrected a proof.

“Hey,” Jonathan said, without looking up from the page, “did you know that Holly really got a crush on you that time when you sat next to each other on the plane?”

Trying to remain as cool as possible, Peter took a sip of his beer and continued to watch the Devils’ power play. “Really?” he said.

“Yeah,” said Jonathan. He scrawled a couple of words in the margin and continued to work as he talked. “Yeah. We were talking about it, and that’s what she told me. So naturally it got me concerned and I said, ‘So what about now?’ She laughed. She said, ‘You’re jealous over somebody I sat next to on a plane years ago? Are you crazy?’ I guess it did sound pretty silly. Oh hell!” Jonathan drummed his pencil on the paper and then made an erasure. “Anyway, she told me not to worry. ‘You know how those things go,’ she said, ‘you meet somebody someplace with some kind of forced intimacy and you think there’s been some magic, and then two days later you’ve forgotten all about them.’ It’s interesting. That’s really true, don’t you think?” He whispered aloud a few words of his text and made a change. “Well, also she said that, you know, you’re such a nice guy that she bet you felt bad about not calling, but actually it was a relief that you didn’t. She had gotten so wrapped up in the baby, you can imagine, and there was the whole scene with her father and her sister, and then her mother coming. She didn’t know what she would have done if you had.” He crossed out a couple of words. “So anyway, phew. I wouldn’t want to have had to shoot you.” He teethed on his pencil, reclined in his chair, and held the proof up, frowning at it.

This account had the unmistakable ring of truth, although Peter wished desperately that he could convince himself Jonathan was making it all up. But why would he bother? He had Holly. Also, Peter couldn’t remember a time when Jonathan had lied to him. Indeed, Jonathan had his own code of honor and rarely outright lied to any of his friends, not even to the women he was involved with; it was almost a principle, and it was part of the game, to juggle them without resorting to sheer mendacity.

She laughed. Really nothing Jonathan had said had surprised Peter. Still, he felt heartsick. The Devils’ pusillanimous line had barely managed to get off a shot before the two sides evened up. Peter drank again from his beer and continued staring at the TV “Oh, yeah,” he said, “we had a lot of fun talking on that flight. Holly’s great.”

Peter saw very little of Jonathan and Holly over the following several weeks. She was getting a master’s degree in Classics at the university where Jonathan had his fellowship, and he virtually moved in with her as she finished. When they came to the city, Jonathan did not include Peter in their activities. Uncharacteristically, Jonathan rarely came to the city by himself, and he seemed to be devoting all his attention (within reason) to Holly alone. This time, it seemed to be serious. Holly had a thesis topic she was quite excited about (Horace, “authority”), but did she really want to be an academic? Jonathan was urging her to move to New York, and when Holly learned about a last-minute opening at an excellent girls’ school she applied and was hired. After a summer of travel, she and Jonathan established themselves in his apartment. Having seen Holly so rarely, Peter had not had much chance to return to the subject of their first meeting, and as time passed it felt more and more as if it would be awkward and strange to bring it up.

The thing between Jonathan and Holly was serious. After living together for a while, they were married. Peter and Holly had become quite good friends, but they never discussed their first meeting again. Peter had watched and waited—foolishly, he knew—and then he’d given up.

Peter had eaten his appetizer without taking any notice of it; he could not have told anyone what it was. Holly was saying something to him, but he hadn’t answered.

“Peter?”

“Oh sorry. What was it you said?”

“You seem to be a million miles away. Thinking about the big day?” Holly said this with the smile of a female friend who is indulgent of a man’s dread of his own wedding.

“Oh, no, actually. But I should be. There’s a crisis about the cheese.”

“Oh God!” Holly cried. “How horrible! I suppose Charlotte and her mother are treating it like the Algerian civil war.”

“Basically, yeah. Torture, assassination, the whole bit.”

“I guess I was lucky. My mother sat back and sort of vaguely watched everything happen. ‘That sounds lovely, dear’ was all she ever said. The only problem was that she easily could have forgotten the date and set off that day to buy a butterfly collection, or something else she had suddenly decided was a necessity.”

“She certainly looked beautiful,” Peter said.

“Well, she couldn’t help that.” Holly looked at Peter sympathetically “I hope your nerves hold out for the next couple of weeks.”

“Me, too.”

Holly turned to Jonathan. “And as for you, you know your job, right? You do for Peter what he did for you: make sure he shows up.”

“Don’t worry about that,” said Jonathan. “He’ll show up. Even if it’s at gunpoint.”

The following morning Mac McClernand’s secretary called Peter to say that Mr. McClernand would like to see him “ay-sap.” After hanging up Peter stared at the phone. Maybe he should just resign right then and there. He could have a new job in a day! But … but … Beeche was where he wanted to work and he had come pretty far, and if he quit, Thropp would win. Peter had told his father about the situation, and he had laughed. “A boss who’s a son-of-a-bitch, a real son-of-a-bitch!” he had said. “Welcome to the club.” Peter’s father had begun his career working for an industrial pipe manufacturer, and he had risen fairly high in the company that had bought the company that had bought that one. He was canny and levelheaded about these things, and he advised Peter not to quit or to go at Thropp directly, but to figure out whose team he wanted to be on and do everything he could to convince that person that he was indispensable to him or her and that he or she had to steal him away from Thropp. Otherwise, he should sit tight. Some employers value loyalty, and this trial would pass. That was all very sound, but didn’t it reflect an old-fashioned corporate mentality that ill suited today’s buccaneering, fast-paced securities industry, where patience and loyalty lasted only as long as it took for the bonus check to clear? Actually, at Beeche patience and loyalty were often well rewarded, and the culture discouraged self-serving intrigue, although the firm still had its Thropps. It was a class operation, as people liked to say. So, okay, he’d overcome other challenges, it was just a matter of bearing down, enduring this one and learning as much from it as he could.

Okay! All right! Let’s do it! With his confidence and optimism renewed by this self-administered pregame pep talk, Peter set off to find McClernand’s office. This was more difficult than he’d expected, even taking into account the size of the Beeche Building. He went up and down and up again in a couple of elevator banks until he finally reached the wing and floor that he thought were the right ones. Stepping out of the elevator, Peter found that there was no security desk or departmental receptionist, just a pair of glass doors at one end of a vestibule. He approached them and saw that the device that read identification cards had a yellowing, handwritten sign over it: OUT OF ORDER PLEAS CALL SECURITY. He noticed that one door was open a crack, and he tried it; it swung open easily—its lock and latch were broken. He walked along a corridor and in one office saw desks and chairs stacked up. In another, computer monitors lay strewn on the floor.

Peter followed the office numbers until he found the right one. The door was open, and he peered inside and saw a woman with her head bent over her desk; he knocked, and the woman looked up, saying, “Oh! It’s you! We’ve been expecting you! Please come in!”

Peter entered and the woman quickly rose to greet him. She was full-figured and in her fifties, with brassy red hair, black eyebrows, and one discolored front tooth. She made every utterance with great enthusiasm.

“You’re Mr. Russell, aren’t you?!”

“That’s right.”

“I’m Sheila, Mr. McClernand’s secretary!”

“How do you do, Sheila?”

They shook hands.

“Very nice to meet you! I’m so glad you’re here! Now, just have a seat, and I’ll tell Mr. McClernand!”

Peter sat. He had noticed that she had been working on a crossword puzzle and now he saw that well-worn books of crosswords and brainteasers were piled on her desk.

“Mr. McClernand?! Mr. Russell is here to see you!” A pause. “Yes, sir! I’ll tell him!” Sheila hung up the phone. “He’ll be with you in just a few minutes!” She smiled brightly at Peter, as if she had delivered the most exciting news. And then she returned to her crossword.

Peter waited. The only sounds came from the occasional scratch of Sheila’s pencil and the white hum of the air handlers. Time passed. No one popped his head in the door to have a word with Mac. The phone did not ring, and no lights shone to indicate that any lines were engaged. Sheila’s pencil made a skittering noise, like a small reptile running across the sand. After what seemed like a long time, the door to the inner office did suddenly open, very loudly, and, preceded by a waft of “masculine” scent, there appeared Mac McClernand.

“Well, well!” he said, smiling broadly and holding out his hand. “Peter Russell! Sorry to keep you waiting. Got hung up on a couple of things.” He cocked his head toward the ceiling with a smirk. “Sixty-eight. You know how it is.” Sixty-eight was a floor where some of the biggest big shots had their offices.

Peter rose and shook McClernand’s hand.

“How do you do?” he said.

“Fine, fine. I’ll just be one more minute.” McClernand spoke sharply to Sheila. “Sheila, did we get that packet out?”

Sheila had not been listening.

“Sheila, did we get that packet out?”

Sheila heard this time and looked up with an expression of shock and bewilderment. “The packet …?” she said. “The pack—? Oh! The packet! Yes, sir! It’s being messengered!”

“Good,” McClernand said. “And you’ve moved my breakfast with Erlanger to Wednesday, right?”

“Yes, sir! All taken care of!”

“Okay! Well, Peter, please, come on in.”

McClernand put his hand on Peter’s back and guided him through the door, then turned to Sheila. “Move my five o’clock back to five-thirty,” he said. “Oh—and hold my calls.”

Mac McClernand was in his sixties. He had an egg-shaped body, and his pants, held up by suspenders, rode at the latitude of greatest circumference. Freckles covered his hands and face, and his flesh tone was taupe. His furzelike hair seemed to hover above his scalp, and Peter could not determine whether that was because of its natural buoyancy, or because it was a comb-over, or because it was fake.

They had sat, and McClernand was leaning far back in his desk chair and looking at Peter so that his chin and jaw disappeared in folds of flesh. His hands were clasped, except for his index fingers, which were extended together; studying Peter, he tapped his mouth with their tips.

“So. Peter,” he said finally. “I guess we’re going to do a little work together.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I hear good things about you. You’ve made quite a name for yourself.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Of course, they only send me the best.” McClernand laughed, baring his grayish teeth. Presently his laugh turned into a phlegmy, wheezing, racking cough. He covered his mouth with a handkerchief and bent over, coughing so long and hard that his face turned red and his eyes teared.

Peter half rose from his seat. “Are you okay?”

“Fine, fine,” McClernand said in a stage whisper. After a moment or two he brought the eruptions under control, took a gulp from a glass of water, and wiped his brow and eyes.

“Harrumm. Harrumrummrum. Damn allergies. So where were we? Oh yes. Yes, I’ve been told damn good things about you.”

“I’m certainly glad to hear that.”

McClernand smiled a bit devilishly.

“But,” he said, “but … I guess maybe you took a knock with that new idea of yours.”

“It was very preliminary.”

Holding up his hand, McClernand knit his brow and pursed his lips and nodded. “Oh, I know, I know. It was very preliminary, just something to kick around. Of course.” He chuckled and shook his head. “But still, I guess they figured it wouldn’t do you any harm to buddy up with an old bastard who’s seen a thing or two in his time, eh?”

“Yes.”

As he looked at Peter, McClernand’s expression softened, becoming almost paternal. He nodded his head slowly. “You know,” he said, “you remind me of myself when I was just coming along.”

Oh God! Peter almost blurted out. “Really?”

“Yes, yes indeed,” McClernand said. He beamed at Peter. He made a mumbly-grumbly noise. Then he clapped his hands, rubbed them together, and said, “Okay, then. Let’s get to work.”

He swiveled in his chair and lifted an object off a shelf. Then, holding it with care between his hands, he gently set it down on his desk. He adjusted it fussily so that it was parallel to the desk’s edge. Then he took his hands away slowly, as if it were carefully balanced. He had been mumbly-grumbling throughout this operation, but now, leaning back in his chair, he stopped and sighed. He gestured to the object with an open hand, smiling. “Peter,” he said, “what do you see in front of you?”

It was a breakfast-cereal box.

Peter was unsure of what to say. There didn’t seem to be many alternatives. “A breakfast-cereal box?”

“Ha!” McClernand said. “Not a wrong answer. But not the right one either. Look again. Tell me what you see.”

What Peter saw was a breakfast-cereal box.

“I … I don’t know,” he said. He smiled. He was a good sport! “I give up!” he said brightly.

McClernand nodded. “I’ll tell you what that is,” he said. And then he leaned forward, fixed his eyes on Peter, and said in a low voice, “It’s money.” Then he leaned back in his chair again, still looking at Peter but now with his former devilish grin.

Money. Right. Yet there was nothing to do but carry on. “Money?” Peter asked. “How so?”

“Pick up the box and tell me what it says on the top flap.”

Peter picked up the box. “‘May fight heart disease.’”

“No! Not that! Further over on the side.”

“Well, there’s a thing here. It says that the company will give your school ten cents for every one of these coupons you send in.”

“Very good,” said McClernand. He stood up and began to pace behind his desk. “I suppose I would be correct in saying that in many cases you can send the cereal manufacturer some box tops and receive a toy in return, wouldn’t I?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. Peter, let’s think a little about that coupon. It’s just a piece of paper, isn’t it? Now, what—”

“Cardboard, actually.”

“All right, cardboard,” McClernand said with a look of annoyance. “Now, what happens when you send this piece of cardboard to the cereal manufacturer? The manufacturer gives something of value to you, or rather, in certain cases, to a third party as directed by you. Are you with me so far?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Tell me, the piece of paper—or rather, cardboard—does it have any intrinsic value?”

“No.”

“But it represents a claim on an asset, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what does that sound like?” McClernand, still pacing, was taking great pleasure in this use of the Socratic method.

“A stock certificate, a bond, any security, really.”

“Bingo!” McClernand said. “Just think, Peter, there are millions upon millions of boxes of cereal sitting in kitchen cupboards or closets or on kitchen counters at this very moment, each one with a top—a top that is not doing anything for anybody. People don’t want to bother to redeem their box tops. They don’t want the toy, or they don’t care enough about their school.

“What if those very same box tops could be sold for cash? Eh? Do you see where I’m going? If someone could sell a ten-cent box top for five cents, and a school could buy it for five cents and redeem it for ten cents, wouldn’t everyone come out ahead? Or if you needed twelve box tops for a toy, you could buy them for cash, rather than spending the money to buy the extra cereal boxes. You see, don’t you?

“But first, there has to be a box-top market. To create that market somebody has to act as an intermediary. And do you know who that’s going to be? Beeche and Company. And then, once the market is launched and flourishing, the paper will begin to trade on its own, as an investment or speculation. Think of the volume! With the firm taking a little bit on either side, the profits will be phenomenal!

“Of course, there are all sorts of challenges and uncertainties—the Internet auction people; taxes; regs; there’s an option aspect, since most cereal box tops expire; and so forth. But that’s where you come in, laddie.” McClernand smiled at Peter with pride and affection. Then his expression slowly changed to one of mystical transport.

“So,” he said quietly, “that’s the idea. But we aren’t stopping there. No. No. We aren’t stopping there.”

Peter had had a feeling that they weren’t stopping there. The worst thing about all this, he thought, was that he must have sounded just like McClernand to everyone at Thropp’s meeting. Maybe they did belong together.

“It won’t be long,” McClernand was saying, “before banks start to accept cereal box tops for deposit and to make loans accordingly. Securities firms will allow you to write checks based on your holdings. The same way people used discounted paper in the past as money, they’ll start using box tops. You know what will happen, don’t you?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “The Fed isn’t going to stand back and lose control of the money supply. So they’ll want to step in.” McClernand smiled quiveringly at Peter and continued in almost a whisper.

“It’s only a matter of time before the dollar goes completely in the tank. Everybody knows that the euro is a piece of crap. So you see? You see? The world is going to need a new reserve currency. Gold?” He let out a braying laugh and exclaimed, “Gold? Pathetic! No. No! The cereal box top!”

Then his voice grew soft again and even more intense. “All this time, while we are making a market in them, we are slowly accumulating and accumulating and accumulating, so when it all comes together, who will have amassed holdings of cereal box tops that are greater than even those of the United States government? Us, Peter, us! Beeche and Company!” McClernand closed his eyes for a moment of silent meditation, then popped them open with a big grin. “Quite a play, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” said Peter.