The Merchants of Zion (30 page)

“Don't play dumb.”

“You're so sensitive,” she said, smiling. “You know, the world doesn't revolve around you. James needs a friend, that's all.” She climbed back into the car and rolled down the window. “Call me some time this week.” She waved good-bye and drove off, leaving me to wait for the train alone. The echo of my rage struck me, distorted to shame and regret.

I checked my phone for the first time today. Mary had texted me. “I know it's been a while, but...” I deleted it without reading the rest. I pulled out my arch-nemesis, 
The Merchants of Zion
. There were only four chapters left to chronicle his Brian Anderson's brief, explosive relationship with Felicity al-Nour, and its fiery end. I was determined to finish it before I got back to New York.

Mary Sullivan
 shared 
Nancy Gardner
's comment.

Couldn't have said it better myself:

“I've seen some comments from people who think that Operation Empire Liberty has stalled out. For those of you grumbling from the sidelines, you really need to ask yourself: What am I doing right now to support the war effort? How am I ensuring that the world is safe for liberty and democracy? Do people really NEED to hear my thoughts, or am I just demoralizing the friends and loved ones of soldiers who are doing their best to keep me safe? And finally, would I say this to the face of someone serving their country, or am I just being an internet tough guy? Unless you've thought hard about and answered ALL of those questions, no one needs to hear from you and you're doing us all a favor by keeping your mouth shut.”

13 Comments

Anthony Costa:
 Mary, you know I don't usually post publicly, but this is ridiculous. I'm one-hundred percent behind our soldiers and support OEFL as strongly as anyone, but no one can deny that there have been serious strategic missteps these past few months. Frankly, I'm surprised you don't feel the same way. Yesterday, on The Cherry Tree, I saw...

...

13. Roof Party

The Felkins kept me on, with misgivings on the part of Robert and abject sympathy from Helen. Elly told me her father had asked if she thought I was a bad person, and she had said I was her favorite person in the world. One of the Expert's minions was taking over the bulk of Elly's summer tutoring, but the busy family still needed supplemental education, i.e. a babysitter, from time to time. As in every single day. The Expert was trying her hardest, I was sure, to undermine me, but without my supervision Elly's test scores dropped precipitously. She must have kept her mouth shut about our innovative pedagogical practices, and I continued to have as significant a part in her upbringing as I did before. Children are cleverer than we give them credit for.

I didn't call Ruth or see her the weekend after she abandoned me in Rockford, but the following week she texted me, unsolicited, that she would like to meet Elly, if that was okay with both myself and her. Elly agreed it was okay—as did I—and on Wednesday instead of taking her home after violin class we arranged a lunch rendezvous near City Hall Park.

On our ascent from the subway we were hit with the metallic grinding of the enormous pumps that kept southern Manhattan above water. They loomed over the not-insignificant skyline and looked like they belonged in some industrial hellhole, not the greenest, most technologically advanced city in the world. It had been years since I'd been down here and I'd forgotten how loud they were. No wonder all the offices had moved out, turning the tip of the island into an abandoned office park. City officials, knowing a good deal when they saw one, had consolidated their holdings and bought every building at above-market rates.

The restaurant was below street level and, thankfully, soundproofed, turning the unbearable racket into the dull beating of a hundred hearts. The name of the place was “Voyage à Versailles
”
 though the interior decorating was more East Coast clubhouse than baroque gilding and scenes of ladies swinging in gardens. The one large room had high ceilings. A massive, dimly lit chandelier hung in the center.

We arrived before Ruth, and a waiter who spoke with an affected French accent led us to an oversized, crescent booth upholstered with blue leather. He asked if we would like anything to drink. I'd take a coffee, please. Elly wanted a root beer.

I looked at the menu—forty dollar club sandwiches and a more expensive listing of seafood. I asked Elly to read the menu out loud. Her doing so prompting an annoyed glance from the waiter.

We'd been banished to the corner of the restaurant furthest from the door, like kids eating in the kitchen while the real party carried on a room over. Our fellow patrons were City Hall grifters in expensive suits and a pair of visibly drunk, Arab businessmen entertaining a multi-racial gaggle of girls both half their age and girth.

I asked the waiter if we could move to a table closer to the windows. A flash of condescension, then a sycophantic smile, and he said “As you wish, monsieur.” He led us to a table equally distant from the door, but next to a window. I shook my head ruefully, explaining that we wanted to make sure the friend we were meeting saw us, and the only table that would do was over there, next to the entrance. Yes, that one. Right there. I thanked him profusely as we slid into the booth.

“Whaddya think, Ells Bells?”

“I like it. Do you?”

“A little snobby for my taste. Has a definite WASPy thing going on.”

“I don't like it either.”

“Don't change your opinion to make other people happy. You have to stick to your principles.”

The waiter brought our drinks. The booth was too low for Elly, and they didn't have booster seats, so she sat with her knees folded under her and sipped from her straw. The coffee was delicious. I wondered how much it cost. Wholesale, and after Voyage à Versailles's markup. At that moment I regretted being locked away from these halls of privilege. Working somewhere boring—as a lawyer under Mr. Felkins maybe—and living comfortably sounded like a good deal. Find a wife, raise some kids—bright ones like Elly—and watch them grow, for once doing work worth less than what I was paid, and indifferent to exploitation accumulating like mercury. It beat living as a borderline impoverished charity case, whose principled stand against materialism might be no more than so much rationalizing following rejection and failure.

Ruth thrived in this system, and I was just as cynical as she was. She'd decided to play the game, but I didn't know if I could if I wanted to. Unlike her, however, none of the gifts I was born with or skills I'd acquired seemed suited to understanding the mysterious corporate forces and bending their power towards my own end. The shadows of ill-defined futures danced just beyond perception, and I had no choice but to muddle as best I could. All people, even the most soulless office drone, probably felt the same.

The waiter came back and asked if we were ready to order. I reminded him our friend had yet to arrive and he left. I don't think he believed me; he thought we were sullying his fine establishment for kicks.

I tested Elly while we waited for Ruth, tossing out simple arithmetic for her to solve. My goal was to have her understand basic algebra before her birthday in September. If I said, “three-x equals nine, solve for x,” I wanted her to know what I meant. She could solve them if asked as a word problem, like, “If there are nine apples and they are divided into three equal groups, how many apples are in each group?” but the abstract idea of the variable eluded her.

Overall, her math skills were good, better than mine when I was her age. She could do multi-digit addition and subtraction in her head with little trouble and already knew her multiplication tables. Math and science were without a doubt her favorite subjects, and I could see her setting fire to fields of nerd hearts if she stuck with it into college.

Ruth was fifteen minutes late. I saw her legs first. Her tan business suit ended above her bare knees, and for a brief second it looked if she were descending the stairs naked. The waiter greeted her with a familiarity reserved for regulars and celebrities. He led her to an empty table, and I waited until the waiter was pulling out her seat before calling to her. When she saw us she smiled and walked over, leaving the waiter gripping the chair and looking perplexed. Ruth sat across from Elly and me, creating a three-toothed smile of a gulf between. She placed her phone on the table.

The waiter, obedient dog that he was, followed behind, asking if Mademoiselle would care for a drink. She browsed the cocktail menu and asked him for something citrusy, not too sweet. He dialed his sycophancy to eleven, assuring her he knew just the drink, and left for the bar.

“Hiiiiii,” Ruth said, her voice sugar-coated.

Elly retreated into a polite, I'm-talking-to-strangers stance. “Hello. I'm Elly.”

“I've heard 
soooo
 much about you. What were you two doing before this?” she asked me.

“Elly's taking violin lessons.”

“Oh really? That's exciting. You know, I used to play the violin. I miss it a lot.” Ruth reminisced about her days as a violinist, describing competitions she'd entered and the outfits she'd worn to them. When she asked Elly what her favorite subjects in school were, she nodded a little too eagerly as Elly talked about dinosaurs and volcanoes. I propped my chin with my hand, trying to hide my amusement. Ruth was trying too hard. She played boys like a virtuoso but had a tin-ear for how she sounded to an eight year old. I wondered if she felt the same way watching me talk to girls. Or adults.

The waiter came back with Ruth's drink, a concoction of rainbow swirls with a lemon wedge. She ordered a dozen oysters on the half-shell and a plate of paté for the table. For herself, a salad with grilled tuna. I picked a hamburger, the cheapest item on the menu, and Elly asked if they served pizza. The waiter laughed good-naturedly—with Ruth's addition to our party his demeanor had changed completely. He apologized: no, they didn't. She wanted a grilled cheese instead. It wasn't on the menu, but he'd see what the chef could arrange.

Ruth sipped her cocktail. “It's yummy. You want to try?”

“I'm good. How was your day with James in Rockford?” I asked.

“Oh you know,” she said. “He didn't feel well, so we sat around all day. He took me out to dinner.”

“Yeah? Somewhere nice?”

“No.” She laughed. “There aren't any nice places in that town. We ate at some tacky chain. It was thoughtful of him.”

James had sworn up and down to me that he'd changed his mind and not made a move, but I didn't believe him. I thought he'd probably done something, been rejected, and conveniently forgotten about it.

“Was it, like, a date?”

“Not really.”

“When'd you leave?”

“Oh I don't remember. The next morning, I think.” Her phone chirped. She began typing. Elly was watching us, following the conversation like a tennis match.

I kept steering the conversation back to James and Rockford, but Ruth refused to follow the thread and talked to Elly, who responded politely to her questions, but without enthusiasm. Children dislike being treated as such, and I've always found the best way into their minds is by showing sincere interest in what they have to say. Pretty much the same strategy for engaging with people in general. But Ruth underestimated her and talked on a simple, superficial level that ended up sounding condescending. Similar to the way she often spoke to me. Detached, kind, and willing to file away any comments with unsettling implications as the product of a child's ignorance. Elly asked Ruth if she had to lie to people for her job and she laughed it off, not bothering to answer.

The waiter returned with the oysters and paté, smiling broadly at Ruth.

“Eat up,” she said.

“I dunno if Elly should be...”

“She'll be fine. Cliff's so uptight, isn't he?” Elly thought her comment was funny and Ruth basked in the hard-won approval. She was nothing if not persistent.

“So you do it like this,” I instructed Elly. I picked up the shell with one hand and lifted it to my lips. Elly copied me, using both hands to hold it steady. I tipped the shell back slightly and the oyster slid into my mouth. It was cold, slimy, and satisfying. Ruth ate hers as well. The oyster disappeared into Elly's mouth with a loud slurp and her face twisted in disgust. She spit it out on the table and looked at me at me apologetically.

“No worries, Ells Bells. They're not for everybody.”

“It was icky,” she said. I grabbed a cloth napkin, folded artfully beside my silverware, and cleaned it up.

“At least you tried something new,” Ruth said.

Elly devoured the paté, to my surprise, declaring it her new favorite food. Ruth shushed me when I worried about toxins trapped in the liver. When the Expert lectured me, Elly sensed the amorphous hostility between us and became uncomfortable, but she enjoyed Ruth and mine's more amicable sparring. The tension with the Expert was the air before a storm, charged with static and heavy. With Ruth it was more like an underground cable—the electricity was present, but well-hidden.

We received our entrées. Elly got her grilled cheese—melted gruyere on a French baguette. She loved it.

“She's got good taste,” Ruth said.

“And expensive. The real question is: do you like it more than pepperoni pizza?”

“No way!” she giggled.

“Do you remember when we got oysters in Brooklyn?” Ruth asked.

“Yeah. Right before we graduated.”

“And we went to that cute little park on the waterfront?”

“I remember.”

“Was it a date?” Elly asked. The table with the businessmen and their girls erupted with laughter, and for a split-second I worried it was directed at me. I glanced over my shoulder—a skinny blond had climbed on the table and was leaning down and tickling one of the men's chin.

I protested that it wasn't, but Ruth said, “Yeah, I think it was.”

“Did you guys kiss?”

“No, I don't kiss gross boys.” She scrunched up her face and Elly clapped her hands.