Burning Down the House (17 page)

She sits upright, watches the day fade, a March light being absorbed into the room, the medical equipment, the paint on the walls, the sheets. It is as if the room is thirsty for light. Steve lies still, breathing loudly. On the other side of the barely open door feet hustle, doors open, conveyances are wheeled, voices lift and lower and laugh, occasionally. Once she turns around in her chair and glances out the window where birds are dipping and gliding over the molten river, a barge slides along, cars race along the veins of highway that line the water, helicopters—she has flown in them—lift off on this gray day. When she turns back around something about Steve seems changed: he is breathing slightly more heavily. He says: There is no mystery. Or: This is history. Or something that sounds like that. His fingers pat the bed. She stands up and touches his head, which feels the same. She looks over the various pulsing and beeping machines and they make no sense to her but nevertheless she feels that something is amiss. She pushes a button for a nurse. Should she leave the room and go searching? Then if someone comes there will be nobody to explain. Should she wait patiently for a nurse or doctor? Then what if they come too late?

She decides to brave the hallway. Fluorescent air and the feeling that the ceiling is pressing down on her head, that everyone is carrying the ceiling around on their heads. She rushes first to the nurse's station and finds a woman on the phone, a man filling out forms. No one has time for her. Her voice stretches into sounds but she is not entirely sure of what she is saying.

We need help in Mr. Zane's room, pointing.

What for?

Something isn't working.

What?

I'm not sure.

Someone will be there in a minute.

I don't think we have a minute.

Is he breathing?

Yes.

We have a minute.

So she is looking for the doctor. She notices that he usually arrives from one particular elevator and bizarrely she decides to stand in front of the elevator as if he will magically appear. This is unlike her, this reliance on magic. The doors open and out wheels a woman in a chair and an orderly leading what appears to be a parade of people who are not the people she needs. She returns to the nurse's station.

Can someone please come to the room?

Someone came to the room. There was no one there but him.

And how was he?

He was fine.

But he's not fine.

Miss, would you like a pill? Something to calm you down? You've been here a long time.

You're not a doctor.

Yes, I am a doctor.

Really?

Really, says the doctor.

Please come look at him again.

I looked. He's fine.

Did you check all the machines?

Everything is okay. Go back home. Get some sleep, the doctor says and trots off.

She stands alone in the hallway and the activity disperses around her, things pulled away by a tide. She feels like a castaway. She staggers or feels as though she staggers back to his room. On the way she evokes no recognition in the doctors, nurses, patients, whom she passes. She is apparently invisible.

Back in the room he is talking with his eyes closed; his words drifting from phrase to phrase. She could make out:

Anyone who is really serious about this country would fix this carried interest foolishness…Of course I didn't vote for a single one of them…Poppy, come home this instant and what is that article of nonclothing you have on…? Yes, it's true we really do not know much of anything. Can you believe it? Can you face it? The truth of how little we know? Our ignorance is vast like the ocean and what we understand is so tiny, so meager, it is not even a droplet of spit upon the waves…

His hands begin to arc and curve above the sheets, and his voice grows louder.

If I were a…

And the coughing starts again. A wrestling in his throat with mucus and saliva, a deep pulmonary argument raging in his chest. Neva scans all the machinery beside the bed, a flickering dashboard, and sees nothing she understands, nothing changed. A glance up the tube attached to the IV, where the clear liquid bobbles in the air, and she sees that it looks about the same as before, but of course there should be less of it, if it is dripping properly, if it is working, and now he is shaking as he coughs, she has pushed the button for the nurse but there is no way she is going to leave his side, and her arm reaches up, turns the bag of hanging water, untwists it from a position it has shifted into, perhaps earlier when the boys were there, moving around, knocking into things, and she gently tugs at the bag and she sees the liquid slide through the tube and the coughing subsides and she doesn't know for sure if she has saved him but he is looking up at her and through the heavy lids there is a gratitude that she has never before witnessed.

Jonathan does not come. A nurse arrives and checks things and sees that they are fine and leaves. The time passes and Neva waits in the chair while Steve sleeps and she gets a text from Jonathan saying to stay there, he is running late. Her heart is still pounding. She has not forgotten the terror, it has not left her body. When Steve is deeply asleep, nearly inert, she stands over him and checks that he is breathing. She puts her hand on his chest. She talks to him. In the darkening room she whispers her story to him and he has no choice but to listen. She says she is telling him now because she is afraid she may never have another chance and he is the only person to whom she can tell her story. It does not take long, the truth. When she is finished she says she thinks that he knew most of it already but the full confession had to come from her—not confession, really, because she knows that she hasn't done anything wrong, but nevertheless it feels like a confession.

When Jonathan finally arrives and releases her she is sitting in the chair again, upright, and nobody would know that she has told Steve anything or, in this case, everything. Steve is breathing; the room is dim; Neva is waiting; the liquid is dripping from the bag. But Jonathan has the feeling that his relationship with his father has changed because of this woman. For the first time, he senses her power. Perhaps it is the sight of his weakened father that hits him not unlike the way it hit Felix, only in this case the blow is followed by a reaction more like Roman's, a reaction based on strategy, shifts of weight, control. Jonathan's jealousy of Neva is not registered but subsumed, repressed and made utterly logical if entirely irrational. Feeling turns to fantasy in his mind and what was jealousy becomes, for him, a real injustice.

I'll take it from here, Jonathan says, taking out his phone and resting it on top of a piece of medical equipment. You go home. I've got this covered.

W
ITHIN TEN DAYS
Steve had returned home, a new man. His jacket hung slightly looser around his shoulders, and his hair had thinned, but otherwise he appeared healthier than before, having paid a visit to Patrizia's dermatologist and been given a chemical peel in order to look refreshed. He went to the office, gave specific instructions, lectured associates, closed deals, came home, had medically unsanctioned sex with his wife, and late at night spoke to Neva in his amber-colored study. He spoke with a strange urgency about his business, his properties, and his holdings around the world. In hushed tones he opened up to her about his office towers, malls, skyscrapers, housing developments, business contacts, political connections, both domestic and foreign, the ministers he knew in Europe, in Asia, the Near East, and beyond. The more he unburdened himself the more he seemed to trust her. The more he told her the more he revealed, his reflections unfolding like a mansion in a dream with rooms leading off of rooms, hallways ending in stairways that cascaded floor after floor after floor.

This was the House of Steve, a mental construct, a dynasty, a place, as much an idea as an enterprise, a vision that appeared in a darkroom on a negative and then burned the paper through, bleeding colors and light so lustrous, vivid, effulgent that a hologram of a house seemed to develop in reality, a 3-D rendering of an estate, a rambling mansion and outbuildings, a bright green glade, a stand of birches, blue meadows, a world of purple leafless trees in winter, bending boughs in summer, a small cemetery in the woods, a single grave, a soulful breathing in the swaying branches, sighing yellow fields and low hills, and, beyond, a ring of silver mountains reaching up to the sky. Shadows fast-forwarding across the steep cliffs. A gathering of clouds. A tremble at the top of the highest peak. Echoed, distantly, imperceptibly, by a shiver in the walls of the house.

I heard everything you said, he told her, leaning close.

What do you mean?

Everything you said to me in the hospital.

She closed her eyes, looked away. I didn't know if you were even conscious, she said.

I was conscious, he said. And I was listening.

So you know. She breathed deeply. I guess I wanted you to know.

The first time I met you I knew that you had been through a lot.

You said I seemed like I'd come from another world.

To other worlds, he said, and held her.

She hadn't realized until then how much she had wanted someone else to know her story. How much she had wanted him to know it.

She couldn't cry. She was so far past crying. But she let herself be held.

Now I know what your secret is, he said. And I will never, never forget it.

Once, when she had been in a desperate situation, she had placed her mind elsewhere and the question had come to her: What would one call a group of angels? A flock? No. A herd? No. A calamity, she'd thought. Because that's what would bring a congregation of angels together and that's what a large group of them would signify. Wings brushing wings. A thunderous rustle. A feathery gathering. Messy, sprawling clouds. She did not believe in angels but she believed that a collection of them would be called a calamity. A calamity of angels.

He talks to her for hours and hours in the middle of the night. He is passing on his wisdom, handing over his knowledge.

Money is a mystery, he tells her.

What does it mean? she asks.

The mystery is that there is no mystery, he says.

I'm not sure I believe that, she says.

Believe it, he says. And you will understand, sadly, practically everything there is that we can know.

But there's so much more, she says to him.

I wish, he says, looking at the golden reflection of the sunrise hitting the buildings across the park. I wish.

You see, he was saying, what I have achieved is the pinnacle of capitalism. An accumulation beyond anyone's wildest dreams. But I stayed away from buying and selling people: not politicians, not women, not anyone. Did other people do that and did I benefit? I suppose so. But now we have crossed a threshold in the world and what was democracy has become a buyer's market. People did not realize that if you let certain principles slide—due process, separation of powers, the rights of individuals—that the very fabric of democracy could wither. We took for granted that the Constitution could withstand practically anything, but it cannot. The mid-twentieth century was a golden age and we squandered it, as humans squander every golden age. People thought our ideals were safe. People thought they could have leeway, impose some positions over others, cut corners, ignore principles in the interests of ideals, skirt around the Constitution. But that is a utopian fantasy. Or a dangerous inconsistency. Or both. And the idea that some opinions matter more than others is the antithesis of democracy. Democracy requires a level of detachment that perhaps we are not capable of anymore. An ability to put reason above emotion, to have great passions but not let them hold sway over the agreed-upon structure. I'm just an old oligarch and I probably sound ridiculous to you but I have never been more serious. Money is not speech but we have declared it to be speech. Tell me, when I speak, do coins fall from my mouth? Money is not speech; it is power, plain and simple. Speech is freedom. They are not the same thing.

Was he the personification of evil or a wise man? Could anyone be all one or the other? Did it save his soul that he had drawn a line in the sand? Did it absolve him of a history of domination? He had his ideals but his history had a life of its own. His history had lit a path that continued to burn in his wake, a degenerate ribbon of fire wriggling across deserts, over mountains, igniting the ocean, easily mistaken for a strand of moonlight strewn in sequins from the shore to the horizon.

You should get some sleep, she said.

I don't need to sleep, he told her.

He nodded off at dawn on the couch, his enormous frame rising and falling with each struggling, risk-taking breath. Rising and falling, like an empire.

At the same moment the sun rose, pink and bloody, an ethereal cocktail, in Manhattan, Jonathan's plane landed in Istanbul. Midday and the lines were long at the airport, men in T-shirts and shorts, women in burkas and glittery eye makeup, tourists and children and travelers and the sweating, teeming crowd of pilgrims snaking their way through customs. Jonathan breezed past through the Turkish Air Elite travelers' check-in and arrived at the Four Seasons Bosphorus by three. Horrific traffic meant it took him two hours to get to the hotel, the city out the window an intricate mosaic of disparate images fit together by his brain in starts between texts and phone calls to his local contacts. Women silhouetted against an orangey-white sky, standing by the water like large black birds. A playground where children hung upside down from red and blue climbing bars, an ornate art nouveau façade behind them butting up against a modern apartment house. Crowded narrow streets with no lights, no direction, cars meeting each other face-to-face, backing up, sliding onto the sidewalk, the cursing, affectionately irritated sound of drivers and pedestrians arguing, directing, explaining, forgiving, cursing again. The avenues lined with shops, mosques, trendy restaurants, old cafés, spilling toward the water, everything moving toward the water, where the breezy, contemporary atmosphere intersected with the ancient rolling river. Wide vistas with the Asian side of the city spreading out like a fairy-tale kingdom complete with sultans' palaces and candy-colored wooden houses sound-tracked by the throbbing music of Euro pop competing with the call to prayer.

Jonathan's room had a terrace facing the water, and even he was moved momentarily by the spacious undulating waves above which seemed to hover the gods of Homer—he remembered them from reading the
Odyssey
in school; he had been impressed by Odysseus's cleverness—Poseidon, in his athletic yoga pose holding a spear, poised on the river like a surfer. Now it was late afternoon and jagged gashes of sunlight were ripping through the water, an Olympian fleet of burning torches alighting, and in the distance vessels idled, merchant ships and oil barges waiting to be steered by expert pilots around the Golden Horn. This was where it all began, he thought. And this is where it's happening now. Jonathan pulled a new shirt out of his suitcase and bit off the tag. He had a dinner reservation at the most fashionable restaurant in the city.

An hour in traffic later he arrived at a tall hotel and rode an elevator to the top floor. The restaurant was new and entirely wrapped in windows that seemed to gape at the sprawling metropolis which was just beginning to twinkle at this hour, its fingers of land reaching out into the green sea, its minarets pointing up to smoky-lavender clouds. The businessman whom Jonathan was meeting was already seated at a thick wooden table set for four. Jonathan joined him and they began drinking raki. A waiter leaned forward proffering a menu. The cuisine was Norwegian-Turkish fusion. The food sounded incomprehensible to Jonathan but he did not want to appear unsophisticated. He looked up. The waiter was pausing for him.

I'll have this, Jonathan said. And sliding his finger to point at an item that came on the side with the dish he had ordered, he asked, What is that?

That? That's birdshit. Birdshit paste.

Ah.

The business associate ordered.

As the waiter took the menus he said, It's pistachio. The birdshit is pistachio.

Okay. Jonathan took another sip of raki. Good.

The man was named Suleyman. He helped foreign real estate developers connect with the friendliest people in government for assistance in acquiring contracts, permits, and construction crews. He picked up a large envelope that had been resting on his plate and held it in his hands. He opened the envelope and took out several oversize pages of blueprints and plans. There was an elaborate scheme for two shopping malls connected by gardens. In the drawings the gardens were populated with walnut trees and partridges and landscaped walkways. The figures in the plans were illustrated in purple ink with beautiful clothes, and the exteriors of the malls were hammered steel and decorated with alien-looking animals, and the entryways to the malls consisted of arches designed with colorful and intricate mosaics.

Suleyman examined the pages and looked at Jonathan. He looked again at the plans. The families strolled along past flowering bushes and silvery fountains.

You want to build this? he said.

Yes, it's a spectacular mall. Very elegant. Jonathan pointed to the walnut trees.

You can't build this.

Jonathan looked at him. I can't do it?

No, I'm afraid not.

Jonathan patted his lips with a napkin and looked around the restaurant. Huh, he said. I thought if anything could get built around here it would be a gorgeous property like this.

You're crazy. Why would you want to build this?

What do you mean?

Suleyman spread his hands out across the plans. I just mean that this is so involved, so grand, it will take years to build. Why would you want to make something so complicated?

I can't believe you're asking that. It's modeled on Topkapı Palace, your city's great historical site. It's a magnificent design. You think I'm crazy?

No, I didn't mean it literally. But you could make something simpler.

Are you going to get me the permits to build this or not?

I can't. It has to be modified.

Jonathan looked this way and that.

We have the contracts. What would it take to get the permits and the crew?

I'm not doing it. It's an endless project that will never happen. I have some responsibility to my city. We have to build things that can actually get made. This would cost many, many millions.

I have many, many millions.

I'm sure you do but we don't need unfinished projects all over the place. Half-built buildings. Skeletons of skyscrapers haunting this city.

Suleyman pointed out the window to one teetering structure, all scaffolding, an orange crane moping idly beside it. There were others like it all over Istanbul.

I'm sorry you feel that way, said Jonathan. I need to use the restroom. I'll be back in a minute.

When Jonathan returned another man had arrived, and this was a minister in the current regime. He wore thick glasses. Jonathan sat down and began folding the plans and sliding them back into their envelope. The minister leaned forward and looked closely at Jonathan's face.

Suleyman tells me you have an unrealistic plan.

Depends on what your idea of reality is.

Our idea of reality is the real one, the minister said.

Jonathan continued to put his plans away. You call this meeting real? I was told I could get permits.

I never promised him a permit, Suleyman said. I told him the plans were subject to consideration.

What do you have to say? said the minister. Will you modify the plans?

Why do you care if it takes a long time to build? We are willing to put hundreds of millions into it.

If it doesn't get built we get blamed. The government is cracking down. People are resigning, being fired, going to jail.

So what do you want me to do? Make something cheap and ugly?

The minister laughed. Suleyman laughed.

Of course not, said the minister. We just want you to alter the plans a bit.

You won't give me the permits unless I build something blockish and unattractive? Something inexpensive and expedient?

We didn't say that.

I think you did.

Don't put words in our mouth.

Jonathan looked from one man to the other. I didn't put them there.

Jonathan left the plans half in and half out of the envelope. He reached down with his right hand to his gleaming black leather briefcase and took out a smaller envelope, a very thick one. He placed it in the center of the table. Then he reached into his bag again and took out two boxes wrapped in paper and tied with tags that said
PATEK PHILIPPE
on them.