Читать книгу Tatiana and the Russian Wolves - Stephen Evans Jordan - Страница 12

I took a cab to Fred’s memorial service at a large funeral home out on California Street near Fiona’s. Somber chamber music was playing when I arrived; an usher directed me to a pew’s end seat. Looking around, I saw Fiona on the other side of the crowded, twilit room. I tried staring to get her attention, but she looked straight ahead as a man appeared at the podium and began remembering Fred with amusing anecdotes.

The remembering turned solemn with a poem by Anna Akhmatova, the Russian poetess. I had heard the poem before: it was about loved ones, their deaths, and ensuing emptiness. Translations seldom capture a poem’s soul, and I repeated the first verse to myself in Russian. In its original the poem was more affecting, and the internal rhymes worked better. I was working on the second verse when the speaker returned to his seat.

I tried listening to the next speaker while looking around and recognized several of Drew’s friends I’d met at his gallery receptions. In the front pew sat two men whose profiles resembled Fred’s. The older man I decided was Fred’s father, the younger his brother. More uncomfortable than grieved, they were witnessing the conclusion of Fred’s journey when he stepped out of the closet in small-town Wisconsin and kept going until he reached San Francisco. Arriving in the late ’70s, Fred was another fresh face in the sexual anarchy of the Castro’s bars and bathhouses.

Before Fred, Drew had collected lovers and tried refashioning them into the men they were incapable of becoming. Most were tall, more than a few were blond; some lasted longer than others. All of them fled until Drew found Fred, who would not be made over; and, having given Drew his unconditional love, he could offer nothing more. With time, Drew returned Fred’s love, and their bond provided Drew the stability that allowed his talents to flourish. I thought that Fred was somehow a surrogate for the parental affection Fiona had denied Drew.

Drew was approaching the lectern. Looking at my watch, the service had started a half hour ago, and I couldn’t remember much of it. Drew spoke about death, its liberation for the ill, and the sorrow for the survivors. But it wasn’t death he was addressing; it was suicide. I realized that I had avoided Fred’s service as I had my mother’s. Like my mother’s, Fred’s was a contrived ceremony memorializing self-destruction without benefit of church or clergy.

When the service ended, I stood up and saw Fiona leaving. The rain had let up, and Fiona was going down the front steps when I called to her.

“Alexander, you look terrible,” she replied. “You’re okay?”

“Jet lag and a night in the Denver airport,” I said after we hugged. “Was my mother’s service held here?”

“Yes, in one of the smaller chapels.”

“I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.”

“Neither could I,” Fiona said. “Sorry, I’m somewhat frantic. Drew’s hosting a reception at home, and I have last-second things to do. We’ll talk later. Oh, most of my family will be there. Nothing I can do about that.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Isn’t it though,” Fiona said. “Do you want a ride?”

“Thanks, but I’m going to walk and try to clear my thoughts.”

The mental picture most people have of the Golden Gate is looking west from downtown San Francisco through the bridge out to the Pacific. Fiona’s home was in the Sea Cliff neighborhood on the City’s northwest side overlooking the Pacific Ocean, and the bridge was to the northeast and downtown San Francisco to the south. Sea Cliff was an eclectic collection of stately homes: French châteaus, Tuscan palaces, and ’50s modern. The expensive neighborhood was one of San Francisco’s foggiest, and the mist secluded the homes into individual manors or, in Fiona’s case, a hacienda.

Zorro could have designed Fiona’s California-Spanish home and commissioned Rob Roy to decorate it with paintings of Scotland. The collection’s centerpiece, an original oil of a battle the Scots lost to the English over two hundred years ago, was displayed in the dining room. Drew called it “kilts and claymores”—the Scottish broadsword. The home and the paintings were a terrible mismatch, and I thought the collection had less to do with Fiona’s Scottish heritage and more to do with Drew. Fiona appreciated good art, and Drew could have purchased paintings she would have enjoyed; instead, the dreary collection belittled Drew’s talent and served as a testament to their relationship’s desolation.

Everyone knew that Fiona and Drew didn’t get along, but in public, they implemented a truce. At the reception, they would transform themselves into a sophisticated mother and son by virtue of Drew’s captivating charm and Fiona’s acting ability when her family was present. And that afternoon, Fiona’s relatives would be out in full force; if Drew had AIDS, the implications for the Sinclair estate could be enormous.

The Sinclair fortune dated back to the Gold Rush when merchants like Leland Stanford made their initial capital by provisioning the miners and then went on to become tycoons. Three Sinclair brothers from Inverness started as teamsters and grocers. When the Gold Rush ended, the brothers and their descendants invested in California real estate. The extended Sinclair family was vast—direct descendants of the three brothers lived well; closer family had money for educations, distant relatives nothing. Fiona was the direct descendant of the oldest brother, Ian, and controlled the holding companies and trusts containing the fortune.

The crowd gathering at Fiona’s grew to over a hundred and included Drew’s friends, the haut monde of San Francisco’s gay community. I entered the cavernous living room when Robert de Montreville, one of Drew’s friends, stumbled into me. “Long time, no see,” he managed.

“Been in Moscow for several months on bank business.”

“Russia: an enigma, inside a puzzle, inside a condom,” Robert slurred. “Or a conundrum? Or something like that?”

“Something like that.”

“Oh my good gracious,” Robert said with a frown. “Have I offended the elegant Russian? What in the world got into me?”

“Sounds like a good deal of your inventory.”

Robert called himself a wine merchant and owned three wine/liquor stores in San Francisco’s upscale neighborhoods. He spoke Cajun and called it French; the t at the end of his first name was silent. I doubted if his original surname was the aristocratic-sounding de Montreville—not many of those types paddling around Louisiana’s swamps.

Speaking with the precision of the very drunk, Robert said, “Needed lashings of hundred-proof fortitude to make it through this afternoon.” He wobbled and didn’t notice when I took his arm. “Need some advice, financial. Tomorrow might be better.”

“I’m sure it will.”

Robert was leaning against me. I leaned against him to hold us up. I stepped back and put my arm around his waist as he stumbled backward. We made it to the foyer, where I sat him down and went to call a cab. I returned to watch Robert’s green Volvo station wagon lurch onto the street.

Behind me, Fred’s father and brother were clinging together like the early Christians before the lions were turned loose. Drew’s friends may have been too much. I extended my sympathies; they thanked me and said they were exhausted and would return to their motel by the airport. I told them that a cab was on the way; they waited outside even though it was sprinkling.

I joined the crowd around Drew, who was beguiling as ever. Friends and family jostled into his aura where the boring became clever, the unattractive appealing, and the dull unique. Drew broke free and took me aside. “You look dreadful.”

“Tired, that’s all. Spent the night in the Denver airport.”

“Sounds uncomfortable,” Drew said. “Still on for dinner this evening?” I nodded yes. “Let’s say eightish, at that Italian place on the corner of Fillmore and Chestnut. Now go get yourself a drink.”

“I was talking to Robert.”

“Sad story. Robert has AIDS and is determined to drink his stores dry.”

Another of Drew’s friends wedged between us, and I went over to Fiona, who was talking to a nephew. I stood across from her when a sleek woman stood next to me and made eye contact with a well-tailored man standing to Fiona’s left, facing me. The man looked familiar, and we smiled as he approached.

“Alex, how are you?” he asked, shaking my hand.

“All things considered, okay, I guess.”

He slapped me on the back. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

“It’s on the tip of my memory.”

“Townsend Morgan…people call me Townie, a cousin of Fiona’s, a distant cousin and way out of the money. So compared to the rest of this family, I’m a pretty nice guy.” He winked and made me laugh.

His unusual name brought it back. “Of course, you’re a client of Drew’s. You were at his receptions.”

“Debra, the wife, was a client.” He motioned to the attractive woman who had stood next to me and was talking to Fiona. “Look, I’d like a word with Fiona…and you too.” Townie’s wife called him over. “Gotta hop. Little woman beckons. Ah, I’ll catch up after I’ve said hello to Fiona.”

I caught Fiona’s eye and motioned if she wanted a drink. She did, and I went to the bar and returned with a glass of wine, an austere California chardonnay in the French style, much like Fiona.

While Debra and Fiona discussed the opera season, Townie disengaged, guided me back to the bar, and asked, “I understand you’re a banker. I’ve got a proposition for Fiona: market rates, fully collateralized. Kind of a no-brainer with a few bells and whistles to keep it interesting, you know?” He patted my shoulder.

“I’m sorry, but what’s your line of business?”

“Construction…but branching out to real estate development.” Townie was a preppy in his fifties. He caught me looking at his tasseled cordovan loafers, and said, “Never one for bulldozing. Spend most of my time nailing the numbers and getting our projects in on time and on the money.”

“So you’re an engineer?”

“No, own the company, Morgan and Morgan. Been in the family for eons.” Giving himself the once-over, he said, “Hey, now you’ve got me worried. I mean, you think I look like an engineering geek?” His deep infectious laugh made me laugh again.

“No, not at all. I meant an engineer by training.”

“No, I went to school, back east.”

“Oh.”

“In Connecticut.”

“Yale?” I asked and thought he was going to tell me about Yale, but he didn’t. “Great school,” I added. Townie stood a little straighter. “As for Fiona’s business affairs, I’ve never had anything to do with them. Besides, I’m in international banking and don’t know much about real estate.”

Debra waved for Townie to rejoin her and Fiona. “Gotta scram,” Townie said. “Nice seeing you again. Hey, let’s get together. We’ll do lunch, my club. Have your person phone mine and set something up, after the New Year.”

“Sounds great,” I said.

I went to the French doors leading to the covered patio at the rear of the house and turned to watch Drew’s friends transform the occasion into a stylish cocktail party. It was wearing quite thin; a cigarette was irresistible. I eased open the doors, slipped outside, and was smoking behind a potted pine when I heard the doors open. Peeking around the tree, I saw Fiona.

A slim, attractive woman in her late fifties, Fiona took expensive care of herself. She was reserved and could be acerbic; if pushed, her volcanic temper erupted.

I flipped the cigarette away, stepped from behind the tree, and cleared my throat.

“Alexander, my God. What are you doing out here?”

“Getting some fresh air.” We hugged.

She backed away. “Smoking again? That’s the very worst thing you can do to yourself.”

“I know. Everyone smokes in Russia. I bummed one at a cocktail party and was right back on them. I’ll quit again, soon, promise. How are you holding up?”

“Well, how do you think?”

I stepped back and put my hands up.

“Sorry,” she said, “but I so loathe my relatives; they’re like wolves, packing together and tearing at me. And such ghoulish questions: ‘Drew looks fine, doesn’t he?’ ‘How’s Drew feeling?’ They want to know if Drew has AIDS, and I’ll be damned if I’ll tell them that he does.”

“Oh dear, I thought so.”

“Drew said that you and he are having dinner this evening.”

“He wants to settle some issues between us.”

“And those issues stem from that summer… that terrible, terrible summer when Tatiana…” Fiona went to the patio’s edge and stared at the rain. “What are you going to do?”

“Play it by ear and see how it goes.”

“I see,” Fiona said, facing me.

“The service seemed like they were celebrating Fred’s suicide.” Pointing inside, I added, “And now Drew and his friends in fact are. It’s macabre.”

“I know, I know,” Fiona said. “I knew it would upset you.”

“Fiona, I’m concerned about you too.”

“I know that too. Ridiculous as it may seem, for a while I thought Drew contracted AIDS to humiliate me one last time. But that was entirely self-centered, and I took your suggestion; Drew and I are going to the Tahoe house early next week to attempt a rapprochement. Drew will tell you this evening. I’ll be quite busy getting Drew settled and arranging for his care.” She came closer. “You’re more than upset?”

“No, just tired.”

“I hope that’s all. I have a favor to ask.”

A knock on the French doors interrupted Fiona. A lady leaned out. “Oh, Fiona, didn’t mean to interrupt, but we have wonderful news: Jim Junior has been accepted early to Whitman College, up in Washington…Walla Walla. Big Jim and I have to go over the financial arrangements with you. Anyway, we won’t leave until we’ve talked.” Big Jim waved to Fiona.

Fiona waved back. “Cousins from Sunnyvale. The trusts pay for their offspring’s education.” Her expression turned wistful. “Times like this, I think of Tatiana; she knew I had money and didn’t care, unlike most everyone else in my life.” Then she looked into the living room. “If I could walk away from that mob, I’d be a happy woman.” Attempting a smile, she asked, “Do you remember how we met?”

“You took French lessons?” My mother had tutored Cal students in French and Russian.

“I didn’t need French lessons,” Fiona sputtered. She had been raised with a nanny from Brittany and spoke fluent French with a Breton accent.

“I was trying for some levity. We met at a hamburger joint around here.”

“It was a Sunday,” Fiona said. “Exhausted and miserable after one of these horrid family gatherings, I walked over to Nick’s for a cup of coffee. I sat at the counter next to you and Tatiana. You both looked so European and had come from the Russian church a few blocks away. You ordered hamburgers and milkshakes in terrible English and went back to the imaginary house you and Tatiana were building in southern France: the garden, the design, colors—all of it.”

“Back then, cheeseburgers and shakes made coming here almost bearable.”

“While I was eavesdropping, I realized that the house was imaginary and said in French that the kitchen should have a view of the sea. You asked if I had more ideas, and the three of us sat there working on the house for the longest time. Time flew like it always did around Tatiana. We walked back here for tea, and I drove you home to Berkeley. Tatiana and I talked every day after that. She never asked for anything.” Fiona dried her eyes. “It was my idea that she tutor French and Russian. I got her organized—not easy with her.” She was about to cry.

“Fiona, that favor you asked?”

She took a deep breath. “Townie Morgan wants me to look at a deal. Actually, it’s Chip’s. Chip, his son, is floating around here somewhere. Anyway, Townie’s company has been around for ages, but I don’t know anything about his business, or how he manages it. He banks at Universal; I’d like you to check around and see what you can find out.”

“Of course, happy to do so.”

Fiona winced when she heard the French doors open. Big Jim, his wife, and Jim Junior approached. “We’ll keep in touch,” Fiona said.

I took her arm. “I’d like to talk to you, away from these interruptions.”

“Of course, of course, when I’m less frazzled, when I get back from Tahoe.”

Big Jim guided Fiona into the living room with Jim Junior and wife following.

Fiona was right about my mother; she had never asked for Fiona’s influence or money. Nor had I. However, when I graduated from college during Vietnam, my draft board wanted to see me; and Fiona told me to apply to a National Guard artillery unit in Oakland. Back then the Guard was a safe haven and impossible to get into, but the artillery unit took me. After the Guard, Fiona suggested that I send my resume to Universal Bank. The bank usually hired MBAs but made an exception in my case. When I became a bank officer, Fiona decided that my renting an apartment was a waste of money and loaned me the money to purchase a two-flat building in the Marina. Unlike her family, I never asked; then again, I never had to.

It was getting dark; the drizzle had turned to an earnest rain. I saw the lights of a freighter heading out of the Golden Gate. On the ship’s bridge, two officers were looking through binoculars at their course; another two were at the charts that would guide them home. An officer turned south and pointed his binoculars in my direction. I waved and was surprised when he waved back.

No one noticed as I slipped out past Fiona and Big Jim’s family, avoided the crowd around Drew, and found my raincoat and umbrella. I walked up to California Street and whistled down a cab.