Inheritance (50 page)

Gutter, Paul thought. All his ambitions to do great photography, drowned in the clutter of making flattering pictures of peof^e who had an insatiable hunger for recognition, whether in a silver frame in their drawing rooms or in national and international magazines. He sat in his library, thinking about clutter, and the next day he asked his secretary to cancel all his photo sessions, saying he was ill.

It wasn't any one thing, he told himself that unexpectedly free day, and the days that followed. He walked in Central Park, drove to the Cloisters and sat for hours staring at medieval t£^stries that showed the struggles of armies and king-

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doms and made his own agonizing seem very small, and he wandered through the angled streets of Greenwich Village and SoHo and TriBeCa, watching the faces around him and wondering when he would have the guts to believe he could make ait from real people.

"I don*t believe in myself, whatever that means,'* he said gloomily, after a week of gloomy wandering around New York. He said it to Larry Gould, a friend from college, as they sat at lunch in Los Angeles, where he had gone to meet Emily. Paul and Larry had been roommates and partners in class projects, making films together that were raw and tentative, but that eventually led Larry to a phenomenally successful career in television commercials. He had been a scholarship student from three generations of Indiana steelwoiicers; by the time he was thirty, Gould Films was the top commercial studio in the country. "You probably know what it means," he replied to Paul as he sprawled in his chair on the outdoor terrace at La Chaumi^re. "All those philosophy courses in college about who we are and where we're going. Or have you forgotten themr

"I think I've forgotten everything except how to make prominent people happy." Paul touched a deep red bougainvil-lea on the vine beside dieir table. "I never get used to these in December. Most of them are fakes. The prominent people, that is, not the bougainvillea. Some of them appear in advertisements for homeless children or heart research and care a hell of a lot for what they're doing, but then there are all the rest, who don't give a damn but like to see themselves in glossy color. It's their little ego trips: national exposure to ^ow what good people they are, when the truth is diey don't lifr a finger or give a damn about the people they say their hearts bleed for."

"So what?" Larry watched the waiter serve their crabmeat salads. His sun-bleached hair was almost white, his long face was tanned and melancholy, reminding Paul of a basset hound wearing a blond wig. He looked lazily at Paul. "What do you care how people are separated from Uieir money? The dollars buy the same homes for orphans or heart research or whatever, whether somebody in an ad is faking compassion or not. What's to get excited about?"

Judith Michael

Paul shrugged. **I don't like frauds and liars. If it*s a decent cause, there ought to be decent ways to get money for it."

Larry sighed. "And presidents should always tell the truth, stockbrokers should be honest, and spouses should love each other. Manhattan addled your brain? Or you just want to revert to childhood and Uve happily ever after in your playpen?"

Paul gave a grunt of laughter. "Right. I'm an ass." He picked up his fork and toyed with his salad, pushing aside the crab legs framing it. "Fm sick of the whole scene, that's the problem. I'm not even sure how I got mixed up in it. A year ago I had visions of being a hell of a photographer, seeing the hidden faces we all keep from the world, the scenes behind every scene ... as if my photographs could be like a telescope, giving people a new view of the world, clearer, more intimate than the one they're used to ... I don't know if this makes sense to you or not."

"You know damn well it does. What do you think I do for a Uving?"

"Make conmiercials, my friend. That's hardly photography."

"Filmmaking doesn't use a camera?"

"It has sound and action; it doesn't have to rely on a single frozen moment in time. It doesn't even have the same goals."

"Oh, he knows it all, he does. You ever direct a film, my friend, outside of those half dozen we did in college?"

"No."

*Then you're making a lot of noise for somebody who doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about."

Paul smiled. "Could be. Maybe I'll tag along on your next job and learn something."

"Why don't you? In fact," Larry said casually, "I think you ought to come to work for me."

Paul raised an eyebrow. "Do I look that desperate?"

"More than you should. Out here in the West we believe in happiness. I think you can find happiness in making films. Now listen." He leaned forward, the flippancy gone from his voice. "That speech you gave about hidden faces, and scenes behind the scenes—shit, Paul, that's what we all dreamed of in college. Right? You with your photos and me with films. But then I got the idea that life would be more fun if I got

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rich. And I was right. You know all about that; you were already there when you were in your cradle. But somewhere along the way to getting rich, I lost sight of all the wonderful films Vd wanted to make so I could give people a telescope to see the world in a new and intimate way. Are you following me?"

There was a pause. "You want to start another company."

"You got it." Slowly, giving Paul time to think, Larry buttered a chunk of French bread. "I think you need something new, and I know you're what I need: somebody with plenty of time and plenty of money, somebody who doesn't have to earn a living and can work like hell on a project because he loves it, not because he's praying it will maJce money—because usually it won't."

"Could I have a vague idea of what we're talking about?" Paul asked.

Larry chuckled. "Documentaries. I want to form a company to make brilliant documentaries about hidden faces and scenes behind scenes, and I want you to run it."

"You're dreaming, friend. I don't know the first thing about films, as you yourself pointed out. You can't start another company and put an amateur in charge. Unless— " A thought struck him. "Unless you're looking for an investor to fund it."

Larry nodded. *That, too. But I'd take you without money, because I think you're damn good. We'd make the first film together. That's a benefit of success: I can take a leave from my company. You wouldn't be an amateur for long; I've watched you in action, and I know how fast you learn." He sat back. "Remember how we talked in college? We had the same ideas, the same dreams. Only you had too much money; you weren't ever forced to see if those dreams could really woric. Now here you are, bored and weary and feeling old, looking for something new. Something different. If you don't mind hard work and taking orders—and I don't fart around, you know; when I give orders my assistants jump—then I don't mind dragging you around for a while. Look, damn it, you have vision, my friend, and the world is pretty fucking short of vision these days. I want you with me, money or no. If you want a job, you've got it." He paused a fraction of an instant. **Of course, the money would help.'

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♦♦

Judith Michael

Paul burst into laughter. "How much?"

"A couple hundred thousand ought to do for a start. But it wouldn't be an investment, Paul; it would be more like a grant; you wouldn't get it back. These films don't make money. They might make you famous, but that doesn't pay the rent."

Paul toyed with one of the crab legs on his plate. Unexpectedly, he recalled another plate, in another restaurant, with red shells lying beside white meat. You're the only woman I know who can crack open a lobster without turning her plate into a disaster area. Wonderful fingers; you'd make a good magician. Or a pickpocket.

"—subject matter," Larry was saying. "It would be a joint decision once we— '*

Paul shoved his plate aside. Something new, he tfaougfat, something different but not so different it's completely foreign. Something I can be proud of. Emily won't mind living here; she can live anywhere and still get work. And we'll be better off away from that danmed merry-go-roimd we've been on, with no time to ourselves, no time to find out what it is we've got together. I owe it to her to make the best marriage we can, and I owe myself a life I can be satisfied with. And if I do all that, and do it well, there won't be any room for the past.

He finished his coffee. "Sorry, Larry, I didn't hear that"

"I said we'll choose the subject matter of the films together. I just happen to have a few story proposals in my pocket, but anything you want to add we'll talk about; I'm open to anything as long as it's controversial and visual and, of course, brilliant."

And so, because of high society in Manhattan and a crab salad in Los Angeles, Paul Janssen became a documentary filmmaker.

That week, while he and Emily were in Los Angeles, they bought a house in Bel Air, high above the city; lawyers began drawing up the p^)ers that would make Gould-Janssen ^x)-ductions a reali^; and two weeks later woric was already under way on tla& company's first outline when Paul flew to Boston for his cousin Allison's wedding to Ben Gardn^ and found the family waiting in the terminal at Logan Airport

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"Quite a reception," he said as his mother kissed him. "But I gather it's for Allison and Ben."

"Mainly," said Thomas, putting his arm aroimd his son. "But we came early to meet you."

Paul counted his relatives, including some cousins he had not seen in years. "Eleven. It looks like a show of force."

"Morale boosters," Thomas said. "Your Aunt Leni thought it was necessary, since Felix is less than enthusiastic."

"Felix," said Paul, looking for him.

"He's making a telephone call," Leni said. She hugged Paul. "I'm so glad you'll be here for a few days; we'll have a chance to talk. When does Emily arrive?"

"In three days. Four at the most."

"Where is she?" Patricia asked.

"Scottsdale. A spring feature for Vogue. She's been there for two weeks; she's almost finished."

"On time, I see," Felix said, returning from the pay telephone. He took charge of the family. "We'll wait in the airline lounge; I told Allison to meet us there when they get through customs." Shepherding them down the corridor, he seemed to Paul to be nervous and even vaguely alarmed.

"Bad news on the telephone?" Paul asked casually.

"Of course not." The answer was automatic. "Some confusion at the office; this is a transition time for us, and it's difficult to get people to follow orders."

^Transitionr

"Everything changes," Felix replied obscurely. *Those who don't realize that and act on it fall by the wayside." He stopped beside an unmarked door and pressed a tiny, almost invisible doorbell. The door swung open, and he led the way inside, to a far comer where upholstered chairs were grouped around a table shaped like an airplane wing. "Drinks?" he asked, and relayed his family's requests to one of the retired stewardesses who staffed the airline club.

"I didn't quite follow that," said Paul as the others began to talk among themselves. "Do you mean you're changing the way the company operates?"

"We're getting rid of dead wood," Felix said. "Old properties, old people, stale staff. We'll end up leaner and more efficient, and bigger than ever."

Judith Michael

Paul took the drink being offered him. "How many are you laying off?"

"Twenty percent overall, including—"

"Twenty!"

"—natural attrition. Why not twenty, if it makes us more efficient? Your stock will go up when our balance sheets show it."

"How many of those people are longtime employees?"

Felix shrugged. "We've been in a rapid expansion program; we have to cut overhead. Some people always get caught by progress."

"I heard about the expansion," Paul said musingly, recalling letters from his parents. "You're tearing down the old buildings? Or renovating them?"

"I told you: we're getting rid of them; the lots are too small for what I want to build, and I won't be saddled with a style of building that may have mesmerized my father but doesn't impress me. We sold off the Chicago hotel a year ago, and I've had queries on the ones in New York and D.C. That only leaves Philadelphia and a couple more in Memphis and Fort Worth that the company picked up somewhere, God knows where; I've already got an offer on them. And we've been building steadily; I'm projecting ten new hotels in the next five years."

"Impressive," Paul murmured, hearing the defiance in Felix's voice and tying it to the other things he had heard: transition . . . leaner . . . twenty percent . . . cut overhead . . . rapid expansion. He wondered if they were in for stormy times. He had a lot of money at stake; his income depended mainly on the trust Owen had established when he was bom, and a good part of it was stock in Salinger Hotels Incorporated.

The door to the club opened and, in a rush, Alhson was with them, kissing Felix and Leni, reaching for Paul. He had time to see her radiant smile before she was in his arms and they were holding each other tightly. "Welcome home," Paul said softly, and as the others pressed around them they smiled together and became part of the crush. But Leni stood apart, frozen, her gaze fixed on the man who had followed AUison through the door and stood apart: tall, golden blond, with

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classic features and blue eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses. His mouth was hard; his gaze flicked rapidly over the circle around Allison. "Judd," she breathed. His eyes met her stunned look and held it. Allison, standing within Paul's arm, held out her hand, and Ben came and took it, shaking hands with Paul with the other. Then he turned to Leni and took her hand between his. **At last," he said. 'I'm so glad to meet you. Allison's kept us as a surprise for each other for a long time."

"Yes,** Leni said. She was ensnared in memories and could not speak.

Ben frowned, then he smoothed it away. "Allison didn't want us to meet earlier. I went along with that, so the responsibility is mine, too, but I hope you won't hold it against us. She said her father wasn't happy about us, but I hope you'll wish us joy."