Dear Money (21 page)

I turned away. Here was the brick wall that I had been speeding toward. I looked for an exit, but the escape I longed for was of a different sort.

We could have done things differently. We could have packed up, moved out, headed to the Vermont that Deals imagined as our answer, sent the kids to a good public school, bought ourselves a $300,000 house, watched the equity grow over time, continued writing, sculpting, affording our life on Theodor's commissions, on magazine assignments, on the occasional sale of a novel. We could have chosen simplicity, had a yard with a swing set, perhaps a garden we'd plant in the spring, harvest in the fall. We could have eliminated the high overhead: tuition, babysitters, housecleaners, offices, the ludicrous price tags for all the lessons, contributions, birthdays, the basic expense of trying to keep up in the city. There was an alternative. But being here, looking out over this sea of people, admiring the votives and the string quartet and the Egyptian motif, stepping lightly in the empty corridors of the Met, passing the mummies and their divine offerings, I understood unequivocally that I could not leave New York. I had been here for fifteen years. I would not be forced out. To leave now, to scale back, to compromise would be to live within a shadow of regret, of second-guessing, of exile.

The sinew of life is made of dreams, passion, hope—ethereal and misty as a veil, a scrim, the Milky Way, but strong threads all the same. Without that quality I'd have led a quiet, cautious life, a humble suburban life. Would I have dared to be a novelist? Would I have dared to defy my father? No, I would not be exiled. That was not the stuff that I was made of. A famous lecturer with pancreatic cancer said to his audience in the last speech he gave before his death that life's brick walls are there to show you just how ferocious your desire is to get what you want. I scanned the room for Win. I had come for Win and I wanted him now.

And then he was before me, smoking jacket and pale pink cravat, leaning in to greet me. "Ah, my protégée," he said and kissed my forehead. His embrace was solid and reassuring. He was just as I remembered: not one bit attractive but beguiling all the same, with his big brown eyes and confidence. He turned me around slowly in a proprietary way. "Smashing," he said. Beatrix became irrelevant, blotted from my mind. "I have missed you." An isolated moment, when the crowd faded away and it was just the two of us, just before my fall, if you could call it that. What is it that Socrates says to Adeimantus? There seem to be two causes for the deterioration of the arts—wealth and poverty. I felt finished, and the sensation dazzled me. I could change my life; I could become someone else. The pool simulating the Nile, surrounding the temple, sparkled with wishers' coins.

"Thank you for all the messages, the flowers," I said. I apologized for standing him up. I felt like a girl on a first date, uncertain what to say, awkward in that way, looking to Theodor, who was caught up with Emma and Deals.

"Have I won?" he asked.

I said nothing. He knew he had. There was nothing to say.

"It's your best," he said.

I looked at him blankly. He was talking about something that had fallen as if from a great height. I had watched it vanish and now, in this hall of echoes, I could no longer remember what it was that I had finally, gratefully let go of.

He regarded me for a moment. He understood everything. A man like Win didn't dwell or linger in emotional terrain. "I want you to meet the Radalpienos, Ralph and Pretty, my boss and his wife, our hosts," he said. Without bothering to wait for my reply, he linked his arm in mine and led me to the Radalpienos. She was quite simple actually, not especially pretty, in her sixties I guessed, a kind demeanor. Her arms glittered in serpentine spangles. Some ten years before, she had changed Win's life because she liked his smile, his banter. She had loved her power, feeling its strength. Ralph was about the same age, large, portly, thin silver hair. His tuxedo was one from fitter days. It seemed he had stuffed himself into it, or perhaps he'd just been hopeful.

"Ah, Ms. Palmer, we've heard about you," Ralph said, offering me his hand. No small talk, direct, but he offered no more. What had he heard? What had Win said?

"You're just as I pictured, given Win's description," Pretty said, looking me over. "He says you're a novelist. How brave."

"How do you make a living?" Ralph asked.

"He cuts to the chase," Pretty said. We were standing near the windows, snow coming down now, falling softly, gently into the glass. How I envied women like Pretty, for whom questions like the one Ralph asked were mere sport, of absolutely no significance or consequence.

"On her writing," Win answered and explained no more. Ralph too looked me over, as if I were a painting or a work of art, evaluating its worth.

"Oh, for the life of an artist!" Pretty said.

"A pleasure," Ralph said, excusing themselves, as dinner had been announced.

I offered them my hand. "How kind of you to let me come," I said slowly, enunciating each word.

"Clever," Win said when they were gone.

"I was being appraised," I said.

"I saw you earlier. You're tired."

"Spying on me?"

A tap on the shoulder. Big kisses on either cheek. Lily Starr, alone, without her entourage and snapping paparazzi, in front of me, interrupted, "You're in a very serious conversation. Excuse me." She thrust her hand into Win's and introduced herself. "I'm Lily Starr," she said, showing all her nicely aligned teeth. "It's so amazing to see you here, India." She splayed her arm to take in the two of us.

"She's my date," Win said protectively.

"Intriguing," Lily said and offered me a private wink. "Well, have fun then. I'm here for work, alas. But you know how it is!" She waved her arms as if to shovel coal into a furnace. "Throw the artists in with the high rollers!" She fiddled with her curls, adjusted her dress at the chest. She was high on champagne, or her own good fortune. "Ah, if these were the only hazards! Wish me luck."

"Enjoy it," I said.

"I've got to," she said over her shoulder. "You know how it is," and she fluttered off. The room by now was packed, the temple looming above us all.

"Call me in the morning," Win said, and then he too was swallowed up by the crowd.

At our table, I sat between Emma and Will. Theodor sat across from me, next to Win, and the two men were between the Radalpienos. We settled into dinner and the ensuing auction. The auctioneer, a stub of a man with a belly and suspenders and the requisite handlebar mustache, stood before a movie screen that displayed in Technicolor the goods he offered. In the droll, cajoling manner of his trade he built a tower of figures, a Babel of another sort, conducted by so many bejeweled arms waving paddles. A chorus really. A finale to the evening. Gstaad, going, going, gone. Aspen. A private island in the Tuamotu archipelago. A tour of the Valley of the Kings. The world for sale before our wondrous eyes, followed by its treasures. A Kelly bag. Rejuvenating treatments at Exhale. A Harry Winston diamond. A Mikimoto pearl. A portrait by Sasha McDermott. All of it going, going, gone. "Thank you very much, sir!" More wine poured. The MC, tall, thin, the auctioneer's counterpart, encouraging all to drink, the MC, curator of the evening, lord of the fundraiser: "Drink and be reckless and forgive yourselves in the morning. This is all for a good cause. For the sake of
art.
"

I became finished with art—the giving of one's flesh to try to make something live, to achieve the truth, of having it follow me around like a shadow, to lunch, to dinner, to the food I'm chewing—not food but an idea, an idea that I might polish and revise as much as I like, but that in the end I would always despise because it would be untrue to the original conceit, the one I had pictured perfectly before beginning, the one that mimicked life unflinchingly. All these lovely people, with their present concerns of new homes and stoves and auctions, were free of that, of the sovereignty of art.

Outside, the late November snow draped the city in white and it was very cold. Theodor and I walked home through the midnight park, stopping now and again to admire the formations the snow made in the branches of the trees, the beauty in the design. He examined it closely for patterns. The snow came down heavily, wrapping us in a cocoon, alone, the park ours. A little drunk, flushed. I was eager, hungry. I loved that the park was ours, that it was white and clean and fresh, the blank slate.

Theodor held a branch for me and I peered at the miniature drifts of snow on it, snow making art of the barren branch. On the question of art, I thought, he does not fight with himself about the pursuit. That was the difference between us: I struggled while he did not.

"What a bunch of jokers this evening," I tried.

"You didn't have fun either?" Theodor asked, relief palpable on his handsome face. My nose pricked, my throat felt tight.

"Oh, please," I said. "They pronounced the
G
in Gstaad." I lied quite easily, my first betrayal. Guilt would come later.

Theodor let the branch go and it sprang up, throwing off the snow. And in the suddenness of the gesture, it was as though I too were set free.

"Let's agree not to go to one of those again," he said.

"Never," I concurred.

In the morning, I called Win.

Instant Messages

TO RALPH:
Got a minute?

TO WIN:
All the time in the world. I'm just sitting up here twiddling my thumbs. Do YOU have a minute? That's the question. The answer should be NO. Or did you knock back one too many last night with that lovely married woman with the exotic name? A belly dancer perhaps? Remind me where you found her.

TO RALPH:
I see you do have time to spare. Thought you'd like her. Actually, I'm writing to notify: we're moving forward with Pygmalion Ltd.

TO WIN:
So you ARE still drunk!

TO RALPH:
No, sir.

TO WIN:
Atta boy. I do like it when you remember to doff your cap to me.

TO RALPH:
Yes, sir. She's on board, sir. She called for a meeting. She's gonna be smashing. A tour de force, sir.

TO WIN:
I don't get it. Things too slow for you on the floor?

TO RALPH:
Good teams in the trenches, is all.

TO WIN:
How's Snake holding up?

TO RALPH:
We've got to let him run with it. But this is either the stupidest plan or the boldest. We'll see.

TO WIN:
It's only money. The trace is intriguing nonetheless. He's finding mean revert.

TO RALPH:
Some of the rolls are doing well late in the cycle, the usual bullshit. Maybe forgoing the upside will lock in the better ROE on the 30bln.

TO WIN:
There's an 80% chance of 50bp cut.

TO RALPH:
Then say a prayer.

TO WIN:
On the other score, I'm not a fan of the hi-jinx spilling over into the business. Why don't you stick to practical jokes, pushup competitions, hamburger-eating contests? And don't tell me you've outgrown them.

TO RALPH:
Too late, Ralph. I've gone long. She's already commandeering the trading floor, whipping the boys into shape.

TO WIN:
I'm ringing the bell here—once for myself: she's got nice tits. Pretty took note. By the way, she likes your little scheme.

TO RALPH:
Watch your hands, old man.

TO WIN:
It takes my being away a few weeks to forget what an incredible ass you are.

TO RALPH:
Sorry to hear Europe isn't panning out. But I told you it wouldn't. Archaic laws. The story remains here and it's getting big and the big here is gonna be eaten up over there. They'll be bringing a lot of dough here. The American dream is strong and well. You're paying attention to the sand states? Might be a problem in the end.

TO WIN:
That's why we pay you.

TO RALPH:
Three months. Three months and she'll be pricing pass-throughs with the best, six months she'll be making dough, eighteen she'll be trading with ease, after that the press'll take note, job offers.

TO WIN:
I repeat: eighteen months?

TO RALPH:
I'm talking big, Radalpieno. She'll have my training and the story. It's all about story, isn't it?

TO WIN:
I prefer sir.

TO RALPH:
Sir!

TO WIN:
Watch yourself, boy. If you're going to play Pygmalion on my dime, don't lose.

TO RALPH:
What is life but a series of inspired follies?
I've earned this folly.

TO WIN:
Fair enough. Since I lost the last one I'm allowed to call double or nothing. So, double or nothing, baby.

TO RALPH:
Now you're talking. Deal, sir.

TO WIN:
Don't forget she's married.

TO RALPH:
To an artist.

TO WIN:
Another form of flower girl?

TO RALPH:
And she is too. What rhymes with "pluck," Colonel Pickering?

TO WIN:
I'm ringing the bell. Full steam ahead!

I
DIDN'T TELL THEODOR
that I was seeing Win. I wanted to feel the sensation for myself, wanted to know how it informed the way I dressed, the choice of makeup, the coat I wore. I was on my way to Park Avenue and it felt like a bold adventure to an unfamiliar land. This was a lark, but the possibility of changing the course of one's own fate was a heady drug.

After the fundraiser at the Met, I had called Win and he'd invited me to come speak with him and Ralph Radalpieno. And now I was in a cab on my way to them, on the verge of a kind of affair. It was midmorning, the time when respectable people are at work, well into their third coffee, anticipating lunch, the break that issues them again into the world. The cab was driven by Akbar Ahmed from Pakistan. Nimble Akbar wove his car through the traffic, the buildings seeming to part for us beneath the heavy gray sky, becoming denser and taller, the light darkening as we entered the forest of midtown, until he pulled over to the curb beneath the glass tower that held the Bond & Bond Brothers investment house, the exterior adorned with reminders of Christmas: outsized poinsettias and wreaths with giant golden bows. A little sad, however, their time already up.