Life Among Giants (39 page)

“My cook is nervous,” Daniel said. “Really quite a wreck. You're much admired.” He patted the table emphatically, knock-knock, made me notice a heavy, bejeweled signet ring on his right hand.

I patted the table, too, clonk: Super Bowl rings. I said, “Well, if anyone, it would be our chef, Etienne LaRoque, who'd be the threat to your cook. I'm merely Mr. LaRoque's acolyte when it comes to the kitchen.”

“
Oik,
‘merely,' ” Sylphide said warmly.
Th
en, “So, Daniel has popped our question? Have you said yes?”

“No,” I said, making my decision. “But yes.” If she wanted to hand me power, I better well take it. “
Th
e answer is yes. Of course it's yes. Superfluous, since you'll live forever, but yes.”

“
Th
e whole arrangement to be confidential till the second of us is on the other side of the grass,” said Tancredi, liking me, knock-knock. “And of course subject to future amendment. We'll give you paperwork to take home to your lawyers—everything's all signed and witnessed on this end. Meanwhile, strictly hush-hush, particularly as regards any of the principals you might have contact with.”

“Emily can only stay an hour,” Sylphide said, that choreographer's smile.

And William led her in, Emily Bright herself, in a pretty print dress.

“Surprise!” she said.

Shocked, I fell into her embrace.

“I'm just thinking since you are both in town,” said Sylphide.

“Nice pajamas,” said Emily.

“I was cooking,” I said.

“She's speaking tonight,” said Tancredi. “At the Ninety-second Street Y.”

“Where's that?” I said, but the joke fell flat.
Th
e actual questions I had come to ask receded.

William seated us at the square table such that I was across from Emily but close to Sylphide, who hooked her ankle around mine. Dinner was terribly awkward but beautiful under candles in the dark-paneled room, simple portions of pan-grilled flounder, fava beans, fragrant rice, twice the amount for me as for Emily, twice as much for Emily as Sylphide, twice as much for Sylphide as for Tancredi, not too much in any case, a clever wreath of food at the center of each plate, a joy to the eye, a bit bland on the fork: still, I'd have to send compliments to the anxious chef.

I hadn't seen Emily for almost three months. She was dressed for her event, makeup for the cameras. Sylphide was silent, magisterial. Emily, still nervous in the presence of her mentor, nattered on about her tour down under. Sydney had been a bomb, Port Douglas refreshing: diving the Great Barrier Reef, encounter with a stingray. Daniel proposed a long string of toasts till it was time for Emily to go. We all stood. Kiss-kiss, kiss-kiss.

“I'll see you under the warplanes,” Emily told me right in front of our hosts, the new no-secrets Emily. “I can't wait to see those bomb-bay doors. Tomorrow afternoon? See you at the restaurant? Put me up a night or two? Ride in together Sunday?”

“Here's to the Westport Air Force,” Tancredi said, wry puzzlement.

William guided Emily back through the many rooms to the elevator.

“Okay, whoa,” I said.

Sylphide let the tiniest hint of a smile cross her face.

Tancredi excused himself, not another word, leaned back in his conveyance with a terse wave, clearly in pain. His aides wheeled him out efficiently.

“I
'M SORRY,” I
said, always apologizing for my tears.

“We're overwhelming you.”

“Of course, yes. I mean, why this? Why now?”

“You are someone who is caring about the High Side.”

“It's you I've cared about, let's be real. And you aren't going anywhere.”

She put a cool hand to my cheek. “And Emily Bright,” she said.

“And Emily, true. Very subtle, as your husband says. I hear I'm to be wed.” I reached for her hand, but it seemed her hair needed fixing.

Her gaze was the same as ever, frank, too steady, the green of her eyes still surprising. She said, “I am wanting to see you both more stable.”

Lightly, I said, “
Th
at's not up to you, Tenke.”

“Apparently it is, Lizano. Anyway, you will both be the richer for it.” She rose and floated to the sideboard, retrieved a little gold bust, clearly very heavy, plunked it down in front of me. “You recognize him?” she said.

I didn't.

“He is August Bournonville, of course.
Th
e father of the Danish Royal Ballet.
Th
e grandfather of modern ballet.
Th
e great innovator,
ja?
He is dead a hundred years and more.
Th
is is my wedding gift from Dabney, dead twenty.”

I hefted the little thing, ten or fifteen pounds of dense gold: back before the Reagan years you could own the stuff only if it were in the form of art—Dabney had been investing, no doubt. Mr. Bournonville was beautifully done, whatever the intent, a wise-looking fellow with a blunt nose, those spherical scoops classical sculptors employed to indicate the irises of a subject's eyes, the whole thing polished and gleaming in the candlelight. Was she giving him to me? I
tunk
ed the great man on the table, turned him so he wouldn't stare. She pulled a chair close beside mine and sat such that our knees interlocked, whiff of jasmine. I put a hand on her leg—why not?—wanted very badly to kiss her. But that was not being offered: in fact the nostalgia had faded from her face.

She patted the bust. “
Th
is little man is gone missing at some point after Dabney is dead. All those crowds in my hallways all the time. I know it is after his death because for several weeks I am holding that heavy lump, trying to keep my Dabney close. And it did not work, no, and after a time I am putting it back in its place on the half-table in the High Side foyer. Under the big mirror,
ja?
And I only notice it is gone a year later, just disappeared. Desmond was donderstruck, that's what he was saying, the foyer being his domain, and each thing in it.”

“
Th
understruck, you mean. Poor Desmond.”

“He's very sick.
Ja,
donderstruck. You—always correcting me.”

We sat a moment in silence. My hand was on her thigh. I didn't know how to move it. At length I said, “You're saying Mr. Bournonville was stolen and then he came back?”

“It comes back,
ja.
In the form of a gift from
Th
ierry Perdhomme.”

“What?” I said, emotion escalating. “Perdhomme?
Th
ierry Perd
homme? What are you saying?”

She was a hundred elegant leaps ahead of me.
Th
en I remembered: Dad. Kate had once told me that he'd pocketed some trinket at the High Side when they'd collected her paintings, yes—whoa—her image of his coat weighted by whatever it was, the clonking into things: Kate had not led me to picture anything like this, however, so heavy, so clearly valuable. I felt a chill, all the blood draining out of me, turned to look for the moon in the big window. Just the East River out there, the moon having risen out of sight but lighting bright waves and roiling eddies of foam. I'd heard that bodies could get stuck at the bottom, held by weeds and debris in strong currents, only emerge after years. Fire engines in the near distance. Lights on the bridges, several spans in view. I felt a fury building. Bournonville proved her connection to Perdhomme, that's all, though she didn't understand how much I knew.
Th
e gold was bait. As was all this talk of her estate, when here she was healthy and hale. She wanted me thinking of her riches, wanted me greedy. I had to harden myself, forge ahead. I pushed my seat back, erased our contact.

Suddenly, absurd timing, the whole staff came hustling in, efficient clatter, a clunky-looking apple compote nestled in a kind of whole-grain shortcake, perfect ball of vanilla ice cream adjacent.
Th
e plates were square and cobalt blue. I thought of Kate, all Kate's theories, saw Mom and Dad all tangled in one another dead, saw that hopeless pot of mums spiraling toward the fleeing car.
Th
e bust was a threat, standing there amid the food. Sylphide knew more than I thought, too.

Th
e servers trotted out as they had trotted in.

Overheated but playing it cool, I said, “Tenke, quit messing with me. Let's talk straight. You know Perdhomme. You're friendly with Perdhomme. What was he doing at the High Side last month?”

“I invited him,” she said unruffled.

“You just say it like that?”

“Of course. Keeping close our common enemy.”

I studied the steaming compote, stabbed it with my fork, forced myself to look at her, couldn't keep her eye. She knew what I was thinking. She knew what she was about.
Th
e whole evening was a sham.
Th
e light right there, the exact spot she'd chosen to sit—it made her shirt transparent, showed her breasts plainly.
Th
e wine on top of the bourbon had made me dizzy. Jasmine seemed suddenly to have filled the air. I pushed back in my chair, ready to stand and flee.

She could be urgent herself: “Lizard, listen.
Th
e bust, it is important. I got a telegram from
Th
ierry, congratulations on this or that,
ja?
David, sit—please listen. He is been a major donor at the NYCB. Very condescending, as if the money is making the art. He is having a business proposition for me. I am ignoring him for several months.”

Th
e fairy and the griffin slipped in looking frightened (the mood in the room was palpable, no doubt), dropped off coffees and small snifters. I let myself fall back into my chair, smelled the cognac, like poison. Sylphide watched her people closely as they did their work, watched after them as wordlessly they scuttled out. “Oh, Lizano, don't be mad,” she begged. She'd said the same once before in exactly the same voice, but riding me all around the secret corners of her late husband's poolhouse lair.

“But I
am
mad,” I said. “I'm very mad.” I slammed a fist on the enormous table, couldn't help it, shouted: “You sent Perdhomme and Kaiser to my restaurant!”

Sylphide was not intimidated. She only looked unhappy, hurt that I'd doubt her. And older; she looked older. She watched me, increasingly pained. Her shirt was a theater scrim, her little sweet breasts young as ever and plainly visible, familiar still, a trick. I gulped cognac, tried to gather my wits, picked up my fork, took a bite of the compote—burning hot.

My dancer patted at my knee. “Perdhomme and . . . who?” she said.

I puffed a breath. “Kaiser,” I said, marginally calmer.

“Kaiser.”

“Yes, Kaiser.
Th
e man who shot my parents. You sent him to my restaurant.”

Th
e look on her face! A kind of delight!

I heard once again everything Kate had been saying for years.

Th
e dancer didn't want to lose me: “Oh, Firfisle.
Th
ierry Perdhomme is our common enemy.
Th
is bust? He's thinking it makes me trust him—this priceless bust. And his note is saying, oh, Your husband give me this many years ago, and I thought I should return it to you in his honor, poof-poof. But, dear Lizard, I had that bust in my hands
after
Dabney died—I took it into my bed. It was my only comfort.”

“Some comfort,” I said, all I could think to say.

Th
e dancer's chin quivered. She leaned at me. “
Th
ierry is stepping on his own ankle. I am trusting him, always liking his gifts, always accepting his help, lots of help, financial advice, financial services, forgive me, I was stupid, taxes and hedges and this and so, but now he is handing me my own stolen property. And he is not realizing I see right through him. And then everything, Lizano-mine, it all is coming clear. And tonight even more.”

“You're lying.”

“Firfisle, no!” She rose and flurried out of the room, left me to darkest thoughts. Next she'd lead Perdhomme in, and Kaiser. I steeled myself. I'd kill them all. I slugged at the cognac.
Th
e gold bust would make a nice weapon. I didn't want to inherit anything. I had not come to New York to gain the High Side, nor to serve as anyone's trustee, nor to be married off. I'd come at the great choreographer's bidding, but I'd come for my own reasons, as she would soon see. I'd shake her till she told the truth, told me where the killers were.

Th
en again, I was a fine one to talk. I knew who had taken that bust. Kate had chastised him, so she'd told me, but Dad had taken it anyway, taken it that night they liberated Kate's paintings (really hers!), a little proprietary gesture, a fillip of entitlement, just his style: the rules were for someone else. Poor Desmond, he'd had no reason to be donderstruck: the bust had been taken during those few weeks when he was off the job after the courts had stepped in and frozen the dancer's accounts, left her to her own devices. A small thing in the midst of big disasters, no wonder it wasn't noticed missing for a year. Probably my father had told Perdhomme the dense lump of gold had been a gift to him from Dabney, a straight-out lie that Perdhomme adopted for himself. Nicholas Hochmeyer had always made much of connections like that, no matter how tenuous. A gift from Dabney—please take it Mr. Perdhomme, take it for my debts, or whatever it was that had been going on. And the evil man took it, hoarded it, saw a use for it beyond troy ounces, made his own little lie, which depended from Dad's. Or was all this just more of the dancer's stagecraft? No bust that size was solid gold. My chest constricted. I clenched my hands. I thought to go find William, make him lead me out, no confidence I could do it on my own.