The Conspiracy Club (9 page)

Laurent led them up the muffled corridor. The air was warm, sweet with rosewater. The passageway terminated at massive double doors. Carved into the capstone were three letters in flowery script.

CCC

The year three hundred?

Something bygone and Soviet — was Arthur an unregenerate communist?

The thought amused Jeremy, but before he could speculate further, Laurent had thrown both doors open. He and Arthur flanked the doorway. Arthur’s long arm swooped theatrically. “After you, my friend.”

Jeremy stared out at a beautiful space. Four faces stared back at him.

A quartet of smiles.

A different silence — the sudden, percussive hush of conversation brought to a sharp halt. His nose filled with the aroma of roasted meat. His eyes accommodated to yet another quality of light: scores of chandelier bulbs dimmed low. Monumental chandelier, a riot of crystal swags and pendants and orbs.

The fleshy smell was delicious.

Jeremy stepped inside.

The room was over twenty feet high, wide as a chateau ballroom, long as a yacht. Like the corridor, the walls were wood — burled walnut the color of hot cocoa, incandesced by layers of polish, sectioned into octagonal panels and embroidered with boisserie. Where the massive chandelier wasn’t crystal it was sterling silver. The ceiling plaster was vaulted and embellished by swirls and medallions. A dozen paintings — pastoral scenes — were suspended from wires hooked over stout crown moldings.

Twin swinging doors backed the room, and Laurent disappeared through one of them. Between the doors, a baronial sideboard fitted with brass mounts hosted a centerpiece teeming with white orchids.

Under the chandelier was a mirror-polished, Chippendale mahogany dining table trimmed in vanilla satinwood. Long enough to accommodate twenty, but set for six.

Half a dozen mirrored place settings. One chair on each side of the table was empty.

Arthur motioned Jeremy to the left and took the facing chair on the right. “My friends, our guest, Dr. Carrier.”

A quartet of polite mumblings.

Three men, one woman. One of the men was black. He, like the other males, was dressed in a good suit and an eloquent necktie. The woman wore a white knit dress and a string of spectacular, purplish black pearls the size of concord grapes.

All four were elderly. By his very presence, Jeremy was lowering the median age significantly.

Where’s the children’s table?

He tried to take in as many details as possible without seeming rude. The paintings appeared French. All were housed in intricately carved frames and biased toward the saccharine: lush forests, honeyed sunlight, gamboling fauns, tender-breasted, vacant-eyed women captured in stunned repose.

Extra chairs, upholstered in raspberry silk, were positioned along the walls, as were a quartet of smaller sideboards. White marble columns supported exquisitely painted Chinese vases. Decorative tables expertly situated were festooned with marquetry; a glass étagère held jade carvings. Jeremy knew something about antiques; his long-suffering paternal grandmother spent much of her pension on a few quality Georgian pieces. These looked better than anything Gram had collected. What had happened to Gram’s pieces . . . ?

No one spoke. The old people kept smiling at him. He half expected a pat on the head. Smiling back, he continued to take in details. A bower of three dozen red roses adorned the table. The mirrored place settings were glass hectagons, bordered in platinum. Each hosted pure white bone china of a simple, graceful design, an assortment of heavy, sterling utensils, ruby-colored linen napkins slipped into gilded rings, cut-crystal glasses for water, red and white wines, and much taller, long-stemmed repoussé silver goblets with glass insets.

Six settings, five goblets.

To the right of Jeremy’s plate was a simple champagne flute — clunky, cheap, it could have come from a discount chain.

Membership had its privileges . . .

Arthur had begun to speak, was gesticulating for emphasis. “. . . indeed nice to infuse some new blood into our grayed gathering.”

Appreciative chuckles.

“Jeremy, let me introduce this band of miscreants.” Arthur indicated the farthest of the two people sitting on Jeremy’s side of the table. A white-bearded man with eyes so blue that even at a distance they sparked like gas jets. “Professor Norbert Levy.” Arthur named a prominent Eastern university.

Levy was ruddy, heavy in the jowls, with a full head of unruly, wavy hair. He wore a wide-lapeled, charcoal tweed suit, a tattersall button-down shirt, a butterscotch cravat tied in a beefy Windsor knot.

“Professor,” said Jeremy.

Levy saluted and grinned. “Professor emeritus. In plain talk, I’ve been put out to pasture.”

Arthur said, “Norbert built their engineering department from scratch.”

“More like I scratched a few backs,” said Levy.

The woman sitting between the engineer and Jeremy placed a hand on her breast. The black pearls clinked. “A sudden paradigm shift to modesty, Norbert? I don’t know if my heart can take the shock.”

“Anything to keep you awake, Tina,” said Norbert Levy.

Arthur said, “Her eminence, Judge Tina Balleron, formerly of the superior court.”

“And now
of
the golf course,” said the woman in a smoky voice. She had the paper-bag complexion and dangerously freckled hands to back up the assertion of eighteen holes a day, was lean and strong-boned, with short wavy hair dyed champagne blond. She wore no jewelry other than the pearls, but they were enough. She’d probably been a stunner a few decades ago. Even now, sagging, wattled skin failed to obscure the determined line of her jaw. She murmured rather than spoke, and Jeremy found that surprisingly seductive. Her eyes were clear, dark, amused.

“Superior court,” said Professor Emeritus Norbert Levy. “The question is, superior to what? Is there an inferior court, dear?”

Judge Tina Balleron made a low, throaty sound. “Given the quality of attorneys nowadays, I’d say there are plenty.”

Arthur shifted his glance to his side of the table, eyed the man farthest down. “Edgar Marquis.”

No professional designation; as if the name said it all.

Marquis appeared to be the oldest of the group — well into his eighties. Shrunken and hairless with blue-veined, papery skin, he seemed nearly devoured by his clothing. His face sat low on his shoulders, pitched forward, as if deprived of the support provided by a neck. His upper lip protruded like that of a turtle’s beak. The suit was a black silk shadow stripe. Satin-covered buttons trimmed the sleeves. Jeremy had only seen those on tuxedos. Marquis’s shirt was pearl gray, his skinny tie the cheerful red of oxygenated blood. An old dandy, Edgar Marquis.

He also appeared to be asleep, and Jeremy began to glance away. Then Marquis crooked a crescent of skin where his eyebrows should’ve been and winked.

“Edgar,” said Tina Balleron, “was a rare example of coherence and judgment at the aptly named Foggy Bottom.”

“The State Department,” said Arthur, as if explaining to a schoolchild.

Everyone smiled again, including Marquis. Not amusement —
let’s-get-comfortable
smiles. All of them working at amiable.

They’re treating me,
thought Jeremy,
with the edgy reverence reserved for a bright but unpredictable offspring.

As if I’m some kind of prize.

Edgar Marquis shifted in his chair. “Dr. Carrier,” he said in a shockingly resonant voice, “I’m no longer bound to be diplomatic, so forgive me if I occasionally lapse into reality.”

“As long as it’s occasional,” said Jeremy, aiming for banter. Wanting Marquis — wanting all of them — to feel at ease.

Marquis said, “Definitely, sir. Anything more than occasional reality would be oppressive.”

“Words to live by,” said Tina Balleron, tapping her silver goblet with long, curving nails.

The man next to her — the black man — said, “The occasional brush with reality would be a step upward for Mr. Average Citizen.” He faced Jeremy: “Harry Maynard. Obviously, I’m slated for last. Back of the table, too.
Hmmph.
Apparently, some things never change.”

“Tsk, tsk,” said Norbert Levy, beard splitting in a grin.

Edgar Marquis said, “A matter of social import has intruded upon our little conclave. Shall we establish a committee of inquiry?”

“What else?” said Harry Maynard. “I appoint myself de facto chairman. You’re all guilty as charged. Feel thoroughly chastened.”

“Guilty of what?” said Levy.

“Take your pick.”

Edgar Marquis said, “All in favor, say aye.”

Laughter, all around.

“There you go,” said Judge Balleron. “Participatory democracy at its finest. Now, behave yourself, Harry, and we’ll get to you in good time.”

Maynard wagged a finger. “Life’s too short for good behavior.” He turned back to Jeremy, “Your training will do you well, here. Pleased to meet you, kid.”

Large and bulky in a navy suit, baby blue shirt and teal blue tie, he was probably the youngest — midsixties or so. His complexion was a couple of shades lighter than the walnut paneling. Iron-filing hair was cropped short, and his toothbrush mustache was precisely as wide as his mouth.

Arthur said, “Last and never least is the inestimable Harrison Maynard. He lives in a world of his own.”

Tina Balleron said, “Harry writes books.”

“Used to,” said Maynard. To Jeremy: “Trashy stuff. Pseudononymous trashy stuff. Great fun. I’ve mined the mother lode of estrogen.”

Tina Balleron said, “Harrison is a past practitioner of what used to be termed The Romance Novel. Countless women know him as Amanda Fontaine or Chatelaine DuMont or Barbara Kingsman or some other such vanillish alias. He’s a master of the crushed bodice. God only knows how you did your research, Harry.”

“Looking and listening,” said Maynard.

“So you say,” said the judge. “I think you’ve been a fly on too many walls.”

Harrison Maynard smiled. “One does what one needs to do.” His eyes shifted to the rear of the dining room. The right door had swung open, and Laurent emerged pushing a cart on wheels. The monkey-faced man had changed to a starched white serving jacket. On the cart were six silver domes. Behind him marched a woman his size and age, wearing a black shirtwaist dress and toting a magnum of wine. Her dark hair was drawn back in a bun. Her skin was the color of clotted cream, and her eyes were toasted almonds — tilted by the faintest trace of epicanthus.

Eurasian, Jeremy decided. As she drew near, their eyes met across the table. She smiled shyly and stopped at Edgar Marquis’s seat.

“At last, food,” said the ancient diplomat. “I’m wasting away.”

Jeremy looked at Marquis’s shriveled frame and wondered how much of that was jest. Laurent let the cart come to rest at Tina Balleron’s right.

“Smells delish,” said Marquis. “Alas, ladies first.”

“Ladies deserve to be first,” said the judge.

Marquis groaned. “It’s times like these, dear, that one understands those poor wretches who opt for sex-change surgery.”

“Wine, sir?” said the Eurasian servingwoman.

Marquis looked up at her. “Genevieve, fill my cup to the brim.”

G
enevieve poured a white wine, and Laurent served a first course of fish mousse quenelles in a peppery reduction with citrus overtones.

Edgar Marquis tasted, licked his lips, pronounced, “Pike.”

“Pike and turbot,” said Arthur Chess.

“Scallops and lobster roe in the sauce,” added Norbert Levy.

Tina Balleron said, “Enough speculation,” and pressed a buzzer at her feet. Moments later, Laurent emerged.

“Madame?”

“Composition, sir?”

“Whitefish, turbot, and gar.”

“Gar,” said Edgar Marquis, “is basically pike.”

“I,” said Harrison Maynard, “am basically
Homo sapiens
.”

Tina Balleron said, “The sauce, Laurent?”

“King crab, crawfish, lemon grass, a splash of anisette, ground pepper, just a touch of grapefruit zest.”

“Delicious. Thank you.” As Laurent left, the judge raised her wineglass and the others followed suit.

No toast; a moment of silence, then crystal rims touched lips.

Edgar Marquis sipped faster than the others, and Genevieve was there, as if by magic, to refill his glass. The wine was pale and crisp, with a lemony nuance that harmonized with the delicate mousse.

The quenelle was so light it dissolved on Jeremy’s tongue. He found himself eating too quickly, made a conscious effort to slow down.

Take discreet bites. Chew inconspicuously but energetically. A young gentleman doesn’t gulp.

A young gentleman doesn’t tell anyone when upperclassmen creep into his bunk at night . . .

Jeremy drained his wineglass. Almost immediately, his head began to swim. He’d had breakfast but no lunch, and the fish mousse was substantial as crepe. The wine had gone to his head.

Laurent emerged again with a basket of flatbreads and slices of softer baked goods. Jeremy selected olive bread and something studded with sesame seeds. A few seeds rolled onto his tie. He flicked them off, unreasonably embarrassed.

No one had noticed. No one was paying attention to him, period.

Everyone concentrating on eating.

He’d seen that before in old people. Knowing time was short and every pleasure needed to be savored?

Jeremy’s forkful of buttery fish paused midair as he observed his companions. Listened to the clink of tines against china, the barely audible samba of determined mastication.

So single-minded. As if this could be their last meal.

Will I be that way,
he wondered,
when the passage of time hits me hard?

Arthur Chess had labeled the group “our grayed little assemblage,” but as Jeremy looked around the table, he saw alertness, self-satisfaction, self-sustainment. Were these people looking back on lives well lived?

A blessing . . . then he thought of Jocelyn, never afforded the luxury of a gradual fade.