The Executor (25 page)

“She thought it was.”

“You have no idea, do you.” He sounded weary; his face softened to match. It was a command performance. “She made my life hell.”

“I suppose she smacked you around.”

“She did.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“She—”

“And even if I did, it’s got nothing to do with me, or the house, or the money.”

“I’m broke.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

“That doesn’t mean anything to you?”

“It means you should have spent what she gave you a little more prudently.”

“Why are you doing this to me? What did I ever do to you?”

“What am I doing, Eric.”

“You’re taking everything.”

“I’m not taking anything. She gave it to me. And frankly, after what you tried to do, coming back here and asking for handouts is unbelievable.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“You know what you did.”

“No,” he said. “I don’t know.”

“Then that’s your problem.”

Silence.

“Stay warm,” I said. I started to close the door.

He said, “How’s the writing coming.”

I shut the door and bolted it.

 

 

HOW WAS IT COMING? Not well, of course, not that afternoon or the next. I had three pages of a new outline, which I was rereading when the phone rang. I let it go a dozen times. It stopped. There was a brief silence. Then it began to ring again. I closed my computer and went to the kitchen.

“Hello?”

Silence.

I hung up.

I started back down the hall to my office.

The phone rang.

I returned to the kitchen.

“Eric?”

Silence.

“Go to hell,” I said and hung up.

When it happened a third time, I disconnected the receiver.

This went on for the next several days. I had to credit him with tenacity: no sooner would I plug the phone back in than it would begin to ring. I rarely picked up, and when I did there was nothing on the other end. It was hard to understand what he hoped to achieve; my failure to finish didn’t entitle him to anything. I suppose spite was motivation enough.

I called the phone company. Someone in Bangalore told me that it was impossible to block a specific caller, suggesting rather that I get a new, unlisted number. I did, and immediately the calls stopped.

In their place, however, came something far more unsettling. I began to have the feeling that I was being watched.

How I knew this, I can’t say. I never saw Eric, or anyone else, for that matter. Tiny, niggling, liable to crop up at the most unlikely moments—when I was in the shower, or standing at the counter with the jeweler while he appraised the contents of Alma’s vanity—the sensation would not leave me. I went around the house closing the shades, restoring the sepulchral atmosphere that she had maintained. Still I felt it: a quivering, invisible eye. I went to the post office to mail the doctor her gifts, and as I stepped out onto the sidewalk, I felt it again. Like a madman I spun in place, arms flying, nearly knocking over a bicyclist. There was nobody, nothing wrong, but I walked home briskly, then faster, it could be behind me, hovering, jellylike, bloodshot, obscene, all-seeing, all-knowing, and I was sprinting, my new shoes sliding on the sidewalk. Before I went inside I checked the perimeter of the house, and once in the kitchen I poured myself a tall drink. Feelings ought to mean nothing in the face of facts. I gave myself a shake, drank again, and set about to cook for my party.

I DIDN’T KNOW what to call it. Christmas was still ten days away. Drew said who cared, as long as there was booze. I spent the evening running around, refilling glasses, thanking people for their housewarming gifts, making light conversation, and agreeing that yes, it had been far too long since I’d seen anybody.

“Sounds like you found your soulmate,” they said when I described Alma.

I smiled.

“It must have been wonderful to have someone like that in your life.”

It was.

“You
made
this cake?”

Indeed I had.

Yasmina never showed, and as the clock ran down, and the other guests—whom I considered filler—began to trickle out, I wrote the entire evening off.

“I told you,” said Drew on his way out. “Classy.”

Dejected, I went into the kitchen, turned on the radio, rolled up my sleeves, and plunged my arms into hot, soapy water. Terrible idea, this party. I felt annoyed at Drew for talking me into it. As I scrubbed hard at dried jam, it occurred to me that he might not have invited Yasmina at all, taking it upon himself to liberate me. I crushed the sponge; suds ran down my wrist and onto the floor. No more socializing, then. I would retreat into privacy and get the job done, then take my fortune and start a new life, one that had nothing to do with Harvard or any of these people.... So immersed in self-pity was I that I almost missed the doorbell. Expecting someone come back for forgotten mittens, I dried my hands and went to the entry hall. It was Yasmina.

Silence.

“Can I come in?” she said. “It’s kind of cold.”

I took her coat and led her to the kitchen, where I cut her a piece of
Sachertorte.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Do I get to meet Pete?”

“He’s in New York.”

“Another time, then.”

She nodded. “Nice shoes.”

“They’re oxblood,” I said.

“What happened to your loafers?”

“I threw them out.”

“Well, Joseph Geist. I never.”

I watched her chew. “I didn’t think you were coming.”

“Yeah, well. Neither did I.” She licked whipped cream from her thumb. “I hear you’re landed gentry now.”

“So it seems.”

“Congratulations.”

I nodded.

“So,” she said. “Do I get a tour or what?”

 

 

“HER FATHER MADE THIS VIOLIN.”

“Wow. Really?”

“He was an instrument maker.”

“It’s beautiful.... Why do you have all the curtains closed? Isn’t it kind of dark?”

“It’s nighttime.”

“Still ... See? Much better.”

I dragged the curtain back into place. “I like it better this way.”

“You would.”

In the office, she spotted my manuscript, piled sloppily and bristling with useless tape flags. “Are you writing again?”

“You could say that.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Thanks ... Look: the pattern on his hat matches the pattern in the trees.”

She let out a little squeal.

“You like,” I said.

“I love. This is so my style.”

“I know,” I said.

“Every time I go home to do wedding stuff, my mom wants to drag me around to open houses. All these Persian palaces.” She shuddered. “You know.
Pillars.”

I smiled faintly.

“Well,” she said, “it’s pretty fantastic. Gloomy and haunted—perfect for you. Although I hope you’ll take my advice and let some light in.”

“There’s one more thing you have to see.”

“She left you a car.”

“Better.”

 

 

YASMINA’S REACTION to the library made me aware of something I’d forgotten about her: her earnestness, the child inside the sophisticate. It had been a long time since I had seen her so rapt, oohing and aahing as she touched everything with her delicate fingers.

“Oh my God,” she kept saying. “Oh my God. Joseph. This is crazy. I mean, do you even realize how crazy this is?”

“I’ve been here long enough that it seems normal.”

“It isn’t. Oh my God. Is that a real Tiffany?” She bent to inspect the lamp. “Do you have any idea what this is worth? Oh my God. What else is here?”

I showed her some of the first editions. For a moment she remained gauzy-eyed. Then, businesslike: “You should hire an appraiser.”

“I’m not selling anything.”

“You should still know what it’s worth. For insurance purposes.” She stood before the wall of photographs. “That’s her? With the ribbons?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my God, she was so pretty. Look at that dress. Did she own a horse?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me. Her family was well-off.”

“Uh,
yeah.
And. Oh. Of course.” She picked up half-Nietzsche. “I knew you’d find a way to ruin a perfectly lovely room.”

“Alma liked it there. It was her idea.”

“Oh, I don’t believe that.”

“She said so.”

She put the bookend back. “When are you going to learn that women say all kinds of things.”

I smiled.

“You must miss her,” she said.

I nodded. “I wish you’d met her.”

“I would have liked that.”

Silence. She greened.

“What’s wrong?”

She shook her head, moved across the room.

“Mina.” The nickname came out unthinkingly, and I braced myself for the blowback. None came.

“This is a beautiful carpet,” she said. She crouched to run her hand over it. “It’s probably worth a fortune. What happens if there’s a fire? Have you ever considered that?”

“I—”

“You need to learn about these things. You have to take care of what you have.”

“Yasmina. What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, all right? Stop it. Nothing’s the matter. I’m stressed.”

“About.”

“Lots of things. Weddings are stressful.” She stood up and headed toward an armchair, then reconsidered, sitting cross-legged on the floor, dipping her fingers into the thick pile. “It really is a nice carpet. Believe me, I can tell.”

I said nothing.

She said, “It’s all who wants this, who wants that. Who won’t eat this, who’ll only eat that. My mom—oh my God. And his mom is even worse. Put the two of them together ...” She mimed an explosion.

Silence.

“Tell me,” I said.

“You don’t want to know.”

“I do.” I paused. “Tell me.”

Silence.

“All right,” she said.

Among the gory details were: an argument over whose family rabbi would preside; the bridesmaid controversy (Pedram’s sisters refused to wear the strapless dress Yasmina had picked out); the lingering question of the main, chicken or beef or a duet.

“It sounds crazy when I talk about it,” she said.

“No.”

“It does. It is crazy. It’s
insane
. I want a nice wedding, too, but I haven’t even had my second fitting and already everything’s out of control. I don’t care who you are. There is no reason in the world to get this invested in a single day.”

“I take it you’ve set a date.”

“June twenty-third.”

“That’s sooner than you expected.”

She nodded.

“Well,” I said. “I hope it all works out.”

“Could you be less convincing.”

“There’s always Las Vegas.”

“You don’t get it, do you. It’s a community event. It has nothing to do with me. And Pedram loves the idea of a big wedding. He’s like the craziest of all. Groomzilla. Do people say that? They should.”

“Sure,” I said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“All I said was, ‘Sure.’ ”

“Don’t get high and mighty.”

“Mina—”

“Like you knew all along this would happen to me.”

“I never said that. I never even thought it.”

“You did.”

“All I want is for you to be happy,” I said.

“Well I’m not,” she said. “There you go. I’m not happy. Happy now?”

“I—”

“I can’t deal with it anymore. Them or any of it. I want to get on a plane. Oh, shit. I need a tissue, please.”

I fetched the box from the nailhead table and knelt before her.

“This is so embarrassing.”

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

She laughed, wiped her eyes. “Okay.” With a second tissue she enfolded the first. “My parents have already put down seventy thousand dollars in deposits. I don’t even want to know what it’ll cost by the time it’s over. The guest list is over three hundred so far, and that’s just our side.... I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I can do.”

“It’s your life.”

“It’s not. It’s mine, and his, and my parents‘, and his parents’, and grandparents.... Everyone is pouring everything they have into this. It’s like the highlight of my mother’s existence. I can’t do anything about it now.”

“You always have a choice,” I said.

“You’re doing it again.”

“What.”

“Talking in aphorisms.”

“This is your wedding. It’s marriage. It’s not a pair of shoes.”

She shook her head. “I wish I could send you to talk to them.”

“I will if you want me to. Give me the number.”

“They’ll just yell at you in Farsi. ‘Who eez dees? Vhot are you dooing?”’ She laughed wetly. “Anyway. At least one of us is happy.”