Life Among Giants (38 page)

“Poisoning by amatoxins is extremely serious, with a high fatality rate. It is doubly dangerous because the symptoms are delayed for as many as 24 hours after ingestion of the mushroom, by which time the toxins have been absorbed by the body.” And apparently there are various amatoxins, the very worst of which is a group called amanitins, “twenty times more lethal” than other amanita poisons, and they don't get cooked out, don't get destroyed by the human digestive tract.
Th
e concentration of these toxins “varies tremendously from individual mushroom to individual mushroom, but an average fatal dose is about two ounces (fresh weight) of
Amanita
phalloides.
”

I looked out my own window, followed my own train of thought, Emily's hand smoothing my jeans, smoothing, smoothing. And I'd return to that train of thought many late nights subsequent. But of course there was no practical way to poison Kaiser and Mr. Perdhomme. You'd simply get caught, end up in prison.

Emily's smoothing turned to kneading, nice hands, strong person. We'd be back in our lavender sheets before long, and after whatever kind of long second nap we engineered, there'd be dinner, something luscious the genius E.T. had invented for the beehive oven, no doubt, novel uses of oyster mushrooms and blue trumpets. I read:

Amanitin poisoning usually manifests itself in four stages: (1) a latency period of as many as 24 hours after ingestion, during which time the toxin is actively working on the liver and kidneys, but the victim experiences no discomfort; (2) a period of about one day characterized by violent vomiting, bloody diarrhea, and severe abdominal cramps; (3) a period of about one day during which the victim appears to be recovering (if hospitalized, the patient is sometimes released!); (4) a relapse, during which liver and kidney failure often leads to death.

I pictured Kaiser shitting out his innards, shitting, shitting. A slow and painful death, no known antidote, and no natural defense: kidneys can't eliminate amanitin from the body: “
Th
e pancreas, adrenal glands, heart, lungs, muscles, intestines, and brain may be damaged.”

Well, it was only a fantasy.

Emily looked over, proffered a long, intelligent, rather solipsistic gaze, a kitty-cat deigning to sit close. “Don't even think about it,” she said. I was startled for a blink or so, but of course she wasn't talking about punishing Kaiser and Perdhomme. Her hand grew busier yet under the great blue orchestra of mushrooms in my lap, and suddenly her wet mouth met mine, none of the old awkward bumping, even as I let the fat book of mushrooms fall to the floor.

“Get a room,” Jim said happily, the very guy who had provided us with one.

I was sad when the limo came for Emily the next day, sad beyond the moment, sad and not only tired, the whole weight of everything crashing in on me.

Ancestor Days were over.

PART FIVE

Bequest

22

My folks were born in 1929. Crash babies, my father said. Mom's family prospered a while, but by the time her memory woke, they were struggling, had to move to lesser quarters. A teen summer with an aunt on Lake Winnipesaukee convinced her that New England was the height of luxury and romance. She came east to see my father after they'd met at her best friend's wedding, all of twenty-one years old, just done with college. If you did the math, which Kate and I dearly loved to do, Mom was already pregnant by the time she arrived in Westport. What's more, she stayed. Nick wasn't one to do the right thing, but he was happy to marry Barb, the most beautiful and exciting girl he'd ever known, hilarious, athletic, almost as tall as he.
Th
e guy had a small stake from his father's death that would devolve to him when he turned twenty-one. He and his betrothed went house hunting in anticipation of the windfall, and for a lark they dressed up and told an agent at one of Westport's premiere Realtors that they were in the market for a fine estate, funds unlimited. Among the wondrous mansions they were shown was a place called the High Side, long empty, but lovingly maintained, and they were given a tour that ended abruptly when the head broker arrived and recognized Dad. Even then the old man had a reputation.

“But I do have a castle in your size,” the broker said. And he pointed across the pond.

Dad started at Concept Credit as a file clerk. Mom gave tennis lessons at the club, started her career as a ringer, clobbering everyone in their league, Kate always along. I was born in 1953, my folks only twenty-four years old.
Th
e High Side remained unsold till Dabney bought it when I was about four, anyway, I remember the excitement at our house—there were tennis courts over there and Mom pictured herself working on serves with the famous couple. Of course, the call never came.

Dad claimed he had a degree in economics from UCLA, climbed the ladder at Concept, not even fired when he was found out: a new hire in accounting would have been in his class and not only didn't remember him but investigated. Maybe Perdhomme liked a liar; anyway, Dad kept moving up and when the place changed its name to Dolus Investments, Dad was made a vice president, meaningless, but at home we celebrated all the same.

Mom never gave up her dream of the good life. And with Dad, the good life was always right around the corner.

A
POSTCARD FROM
New Zealand caught RuAngela's attention, and she brought it to me in the kitchen at Firfisle, where once again I was fulminating about Perdhomme. And Kaiser, always Kaiser. Etienne humored me at the edges of my diatribe, but at the center, he was solidly with me: we were going ahead with Kate's DNA plan.
Th
e trick was how to get our quarry to the restaurant, and once we got them there, how to get the tissue samples and store them according to the FBI's “Best Practices” manual for forensic genetics.
Th
e conversations went from earnest to hilarious to hopeless to enraged, in dizzying bursts. Kate was calling daily with ideas, and even Jack was more or less on board, reading up on the legalities, making fresh contacts at the D.A.'s office in Danbury. But it all seemed unlikely at best, a dangerous tilting at windmills: we were such amateurs, didn't even know enough to know what we needed to know.

“New Zealand,” I said, finally flipping the card to see Emily's heavily back-slanted hand, no greeting, no sign-off:

I'll be in New York for the
gala di diva
and then for a full month after, and I expect you to be my fucking boyfriend the whole fucking time!

Sylphide, by contrast, had communicated nothing at all. Perhaps she thought it unnecessary—the publicity around her grand retrospective was unavoidable, great excitement in the land. I didn't know what I wanted. It's not like we'd had any but the most formal contact in the five years since our poolhouse party, Daniel Tancredi always looming.

Pondering over all that one afternoon, rubbing the stone in my pocket, staring out the high window over my station in the Firfisle kitchen (October light slanting in over the whitecaps of the sound, not a sail in sight, just the familiar lighthouse out there, one container ship tall and distant), I was startled when a knock came at the delivery door, sharp little raps, certainly not Olulenu, who only gave a blunt kick or two.

Dr. Chun. No notice of any kind, not a phone call, not a golden note, not a whiff of jasmine, not so much as a friendly smile. “You come with,” he said. “You must.”

“Oh, I must?” said I.

I introduced the good doctor to E.T., these two skinny guys who wouldn't shake hands staring at one another. Dr. Chun liked RuAngela, though, practically licked her dress, took her hand and kissed it.

“I refuse to be shanghaied,” I said haughty.

“Slow night anyway,” E.T. replied deadpan.

“Crucial,” Dr. Chun said, a very difficult word his thoughtless employer had stuck him with. He tried again: “Crucial.”

I saw Dr. Chun to the door, pushed him out into the bright sunlight. “One hour ride,” he begged. “I bring you back. Not late.”

I just closed the door in his face.

Etienne stood there, his best Santoku knife poised.

“I think you should go,” RuAngela said, quick thinker. “Play along.”

“Get some answers,” Etienne said.

“Answers to what?” I said, afraid.

“How death feels, mon.
Th
ey going to take you out.”

“Oh, stop,” said RuAngela. “
Th
is is just the break we need.”

T
H
E NEW BUTLER,
William, was deferential but not overly friendly, left me to sit alone in a plush parlor by a tumbled pile of coffee-table books. My heart hadn't stopped pounding: once and for all, what had Perdhomme and Kaiser been doing in Westport? My thoughts went
noir:
I'd grill her like a portabella mushroom over wind-fired charcoal, sauce her like a quince in wine. I flipped through an enormous picture book called
Th
e Vision of Sylphide,
each photo more moving than the last, decades of her work as she grew from gamine to dancer to choreographer, her increasingly calm face not always beautiful to the camera, not in any traditional way.
Th
e next book in the pile was
Th
e Great Castles of Europe.
Tancredi owned a few old palaces, I knew, was revered for his restorations and conservation, and not only his money.
Th
e bottom book was called
Miami Dolphins:
Th
e Decade of Greatness,
a couple of photos of me in there, I knew. I'd always wondered who bought books like that, didn't crack it.

Shortly, Tancredi himself appeared. “Old man!” he said. He, of course, was the old man, well into his eighties, older than Dr. Chun and more frail, dressed smartly in yachtsman's blue jacket and Topsiders, bright brown eyes, that aura of power and competence, that sense that he wanted you in his court and knew how to get you there.

He shook my hand, firm grip fading, said, “We see your restaurant business is coming along smashing.”

“Smashing,” I said. “And going on five years.”

“
Th
at many,” he said, a thoroughly appealing man. He bid me follow, led me to a decorative elevator gate, and then upwards three stories and through a cozy maze of library rooms and offices, finally back to a reading alcove with tall windows overlooking the East River, a city glory of winking lights and coursing estuarine currents and bridges and contrails in the sunset sky.
Th
e houseman trotted in behind us, handed me a bourbon on ice, left us to the view.

Still in chef's togs, towel still in the waist of my pants, I said, “
Th
is is a magnificent house.”

“Oh, turds,” Tancredi said, upper-crusty English tones perching atop his indistinct Swiss-German accent. His skin was mottled, his eyes bright and brown behind bifocals, thick white hair combed long back over his skull. His son, a financial writer, had written an op-ed piece for the
Times
about him the previous June: “Best father in the world.”

He said, “Dabney Stryker-Stewart bought it, you understand, his uncommon eye, seldom single talents to make a great man. I'd say on a guess he's realized a 10,000 percent return on investment, if only by proxy, given death. Ah, bourbon. I remember bourbon!” He put a long, speckled hand on my arm, pulled my drink up under his nose, sniffed voluptuously. And down to business: “Tenke finds you trustworthy, and aside from myself and one or two of the staff, that is a rare regard. I'm getting older, as you can see, and struggling with bladder cancer, as you cannot, and won't be around for many more full moons.”

He gestured toward the huge bank of windows in the dim room. Across the shimmer of Queens sure enough rose a quavering and burgeoning hump of light on the horizon. It took only perhaps three minutes for the full moon to find its way completely into the belabored New York City sky, fat and orange and marked with craters.

“Whoa,” I said.

“Nice effect, no? I've used it before, the moon. You simply check the calendar, make your invitations accordingly. Is there such a word as auspicion?”

“
Th
ere is now. Kind of suspicion mixed with luck?”

“Hm,” said Tancredi.

We watched the moon in its splendor rise higher.

At length, my host spoke again, very quietly, more effortfully: “We apologize for short notice. Tenke is fond of surprises, you probably know. She's also superstitious. Silliness, of course. In any case, she's decided she's going to die
with
me, that our fates are intertwined. Ludicrous. Just another perimenopausal storm, no doubt. But still, the superstition, hormonal or otherwise, leads us to practical concerns. What I'm getting at, moon and all, is that we'd like you to be executor of Sylphide's estate.”

I just stood there with my eyebrows stuck high, full of the misapprehension that he was telling me that Sylphide was dying, that Sylphide could not be there to see me. If I'd tried to speak it would have been a wail.

Oblivious, Tancredi struggled on: “Her estate is very, very large, I suppose I needn't say.
Th
e portion of my own estate that postdates our wedding is to be included.
Th
e primary financial beneficiary of the combined will is the Tenke
Th
orvald Foundation for the Arts, of which you'd become director, handsomely compensated, little to do. After that, the American Ballet
Th
eatre. Also the Royal Ballet of London. A couple of other major outfits. Dabney's foundation is next, Children of War, but you would know all about them. Well, then. Chin up, sir!”

Tancredi dug in his pocket for a handkerchief, handed it to me, fine linen, crisply ironed, too fine to blow one's nose in. But I did, and the old man carried on: “Tenke's Dance Company will be funded with an endowment, as will the Emily Bright Experience. You are acquainted with Emily. A very difficult person, in my estimation, but high marks for form! Finally, you yourself are a beneficiary, to receive the High Side property and furnishings, excluding certain art works. Also funds for its upkeep in perpetuity, including staff. With the catch that it's to be held in trust until you are wed. Yes, till you are married.
Th
ere's no cash disbursement but you will be paid as executor, and too generously, from my point of view, some sort of percentage of the estate. Your sister is a lesser beneficiary, dating back to Dabney's will and last testament, but she'll receive a considerable sum, as well, and certain paintings in the Stryker-Stewart collection, quite beyond those he bought expressly for her, as well as Dabney's musical instruments and other memorabilia. All quite valuable, as you might imagine.”

“I hardly know what to say,” I blurted.

No particular judgment in Tancredi's eyes, in fact a flood of warmth: “Oh, that's to be expected. It's we in this case who must know what to say. You heard the part about being wed. Tenke insisted on it, I wasn't for it, more silly girlish stuff from the middle-aged broad. No doubt she's selected your bride, as well.” He pressed a button on the arm of his chair and quickly the butler was back, also two nurses.

Th
e butler, William, took charge of me, another elevator ride, two more stories up to an intimate dining room, same view as the library but higher and wider, a large dining table set at the far end for four. I was left to stand, looking out at the risen moon, more whitely familiar, now, less shimmery, smaller, barely a feature in amongst all the bright lights of the far-flung city.

I struggled to recall my mission: Perdhomme, Kaiser, the two of them visiting the High Side, subsequently visiting Restaurant Firfisle, the obvious threat.

Shortly, Sylphide made her entrance, the exhausted Tancredi seated in a wheelchair now, she in a silk shirt and blue jeans and forty-seven, I had to remind myself, pertly erect, cheery, graceful as always, practically glowing, merely herself, utterly detached from any string of years, her hair still blond. She wasn't dying at all—in fact, she filled the room with life. “Lizard,” she said. We kiss-kissed cheeks, said pleasantries, took our seats, the houseman opening a noble old bottle of
Châteauneuf-du-Pape,
old-school red wine, offering me the cork, then a taste. Over which I lingered, feeling myself very much onstage. A young woman like a fairy, no presence at all, handed us napkins, another more like a griffin showed her bad teeth in a queer-lipped smile and offered flaky rolls.