Lying on the Couch (27 page)

It was the end of a journey. Marshal thought, a journey that had begun in 1924 in the crowded, foul-smelling steerage class of a transatlantic barge that brought his parents, still children, from Southampton to Ellis Island. No, no, it started before that, in Prussina, a shtetl near the Polish-Russian border built of rickety wooden homes with earthen floors. In one of those homes his father had slept, as a child, in a small warm nook atop the large, clay-bricked oven that filled much of the common room.

How had they gotten from Prussina to Southampton, Marshal wondered? Overland? Boat? He had never asked them that. And it was too late now. His mother and father had turned to dust, side by side, long ago, in the tall grass of an Anacostia cemetery just outside Washington, D.C. There was only one survivor of that long journey who might still know—his mother's brother, Label, rocking

out his final years on the long, wooden porch of a urine-reeked Miami Beach nursing home with pink stucco walls. Time to phone Label.

The central rotunda, a graceful octagon, was rimmed by stately mahogany leather sofas and capped, ninety feet up, by a magnificent ceiling of translucent glass etched with a delicate floral pattern. The majordomo, clad in tuxedo and patent leathers, greeted Marshal with great deference and, upon hearing his name, nodded and directed him into the sitting room. There, at the far end, before an enormous fireplace, sat Peter Macondo.

The sitting room was huge—half of Prussina would probably have fit under the soaring ceiling supported by walls of gleaming oak alternating with scarlet satin panels of fleur-de-lys. And leather everywhere—Marshal quickly counted twelve long sofas and thirty massive chairs. On some of the chairs sat wizened, gray-haired, pinstriped men holding newspapers. Marshal had to peer closely to determine if they were still breathing. Twelve candelabra on one wall—that meant forty-eight in the room, each with three rows of bulbs, the innermost with five, the next with seven, the outermost with nine, a total of twenty-one bulbs, a grand total of . . . Marshal stopped multiplying as he noticed a pair of three-foot-tall metal bookends on one of the fireplaces, replicas of Michelangelo's bound slaves; in the center of the room stood a massive table piled high with newspapers, mostly financial, from around the world; along one wall a glass case containing an enormous porcelain bowl of the late eighteenth century with a plaque stating that it had been donated by a member and was Ching-te Cheng pottery. Its painted scenes depicted episodes from the novel Dream of the Red Chamber.

The real thing. Yes, this was the real thing. Marshal thought, as he approached Peter, who was on a sofa chatting amiably with another member—a tall, stately man wearing a red checkered jacket, a pink shirt, and a brightly flowered ascot. Marshal had never seen anyone dress like that—never seen anyone who could dress in clothes that clashed so shockingly and yet have the grace and dignity to pull it off.

"Ah, Marshal," said Peter, "good to see you. Let me introduce Roscoe Richardson. Roscoe's father was the best mayor San Francisco ever had. Roscoe, Dr. Marshal Streider, San Francisco's leading psychoanalyst. There's a rumor, Roscoe, that Dr. Streider has just been honored by having a university lecture series named after him."

17 i '^-^. Lying on the Couch

After a brief exchange of pleasantries, Peter led Marshal toward the dining room, then turned back for one last comment.

"Roscoe, I don't believe there's market room for another mainframe system, but I'm not entirely closed to it; if Cisco really decides to invest, I could be interested, too. Convince me and I'll convince my own investors. Please send the business plan to Zurich and I'll turn to it on Monday when I return to the office."

"Fine man," Peter said as they walked away. "Our fathers knew each other. And a great golfer. His home is right on the Cypress Point course. Interesting investment possibility but I wouldn't recommend it to you: these start-ups are such long shots. Very expensive to play the game—you hit only one start-up in twenty. Of course, when you do hit, they pay better, far better, than twenty to one. Incidentally, I hope I'm not presumptuous in calling you Marshal."

"No, of course not. First names. We're no longer in a professional relationship."

"You say you've never been to the Club before?"

"No," said Marshal. Walked by it. Admired it. Not a part of the grazing grounds of the medical community. I know almost nothing about the Club. What's the profile of its members? Mostly businessmen?"

"Mostly old San Francisco money. Conservative. Most are coupon clippers, hanging on to inherited wealth. Roscoe's an exception—that's why I like him. At seventy-one he's still a high flyer. Let's see . . . what else? All male, mostly WASPs, politically incorrect—I first raised objections ten years ago, but things move slowly around here, especially after lunch. See what I mean?" Peter subtly gestured toward chairs on which two tweeded octogenarians snoozed, still clutching for dear life their copies of the London Financial Times.

As they arrived at the dining room, Peter addressed the major-domo, "Emil, we're ready. Any chance for some of that salmon en croute today? // est toujours delicieux."

"I believe I can persuade the chef to prepare some especially for you, Mr. Macondo."

"Emil, I remember how wonderful it was at the Cercle Union Interalliee in Paris." Peter then whispered to Emil, "Tell my secret to no one French, but I prefer the preparation here."

Peter continued to chat animatedly with Emil. Marshal did not hear the conversation because he was staggered by the magnificence of the dining room, including a mammoth porcelain bowl holding

Lying on the Couch ^ ^ 7 3

the mother of all Japanese flower arrangements—glorious cymbid-ium orchids cascading down a scarlet-leafed maple branch. If only my wife could see that, Marshal thought. They paid someone plenty for that arrangement—that might be a way for her to turn her little hobby into something useful.

"Peter," Marshal said after Emil had seated them, "you're in San Francisco so rarely. You keep a continuously active membership in this club and in Zurich and Paris also?"

"No, no, no," said Peter, smiling at Marshal's naivete. "At that rate lunch here would cost around five thousand a sandwich. All these clubs—the Circolo dell'Unione in Milan, the Atheneum in London, the Cosmos Club in Washington, the Cercle Union Interal-liee in Paris, the Pacific Union in San Francisco, the Baur au Lac in Zurich—they're all in a network: membership in one club grants privileges in all. Actually, that's how I know Emil: he used to work at the Cercle Union Interalliee in Paris." Peter lifted his menu. "So, Marshal, start with a drink?"

"Just some Calistoga water. I've still got four patients to see."

Peter ordered a Dubonnet and soda and, when the drinks arrived, held up his glass. "To you, and to the Marshal Streider lecture series."

Marshal flushed. He had been so overwhelmed by the Club that he had forgotten to thank Peter.

"Peter, the endowed lectureship—what an honor. I meant to thank you first thing, but I've been preoccupied with my last patient."

"Your last patient? That surprises me. Somehow I had the feeling that, when patients exit, they never reenter the therapist's mind until they arrive for their next hour."

"It would be best that way. But—and this is a trade secret—even the most disciplined analysts carry patients around and have silent conversations with some between sessions."

"At no extra fee!"

"Ah, alas, no. Only lawyers charge for thinking time."

"Interesting, interesting! You may possibly be talking for all therapists. Marshal, but I have a hunch you're talking about yourself. I've often wondered why I've gotten so little from other therapists. Maybe it's because you're more dedicated—maybe your patients mean more to you."

The salmon en croute arrived, but Peter ignored it while he pro-

I 7 4 ^ Lying on the Couch

ceeded to relate how Adriana, too, had been greatly dissatisfied with her previous therapists.

"In fact, Marshal," he continued, "that's one of the two things I wanted to discuss with you today. Adriana would like very much to work with you for a few sessions: she's got to iron out some things in her relationship with her father, especially now that he may not have long to live."

Marshal, a close observer of class differences, had long known that the upper class deliberately delayed taking the first mouthful of food; in fact, the older the wealth, the longer the delay before the first forkful. Marshal did his best to pause along with Peter. He, too, ignored the salmon, sipped his Calistoga, listened intently, nodded, and assured Peter that he would be glad to see Adriana in brief therapy.

Finally, Marshal could stand it no longer. He dug in. He was glad he had followed Peter's recommendation of the salmon. It was delicious. The delicate buttered crust crackled and melted in his mouth; the salmon needed no chewing—with the slightest pressure of tongue on palate, the rosemary-laced flakes separated and, on a bed of warm, creamy butter, glided gently down his throat. The hell with cholesterol. Marshal thought, feeling positively wicked.

Peter, for the first time, looked at his food, almost surprised to see it there. He took one hearty bite, then lay down his fork and resumed speaking.

"Good. Adriana needs you. I'm very relieved. She'll phone this afternoon. Here's her card. If the two of you can't make phone contact, she'd appreciate your phoning her to leave an appointment time for next week. Any time you have free: she'll work her schedule around you. Also, Marshal—and I've cleared this with Adriana—I'd like to pay for Adriana's hours. This will cover five sessions." He handed Marshal an envelope containing ten hundred-dollar bills. "I can't tell you how grateful I am that you'll see Adriana. And of course this adds impetus to my desire to repay my debt to you."

Marshal's interest was piqued. He had supposed that the endowed lecture series signaled that his window of opportunity had closed forever. Fate, it seemed, had decided to tempt him once again. But he knew his professionalism would prevail: "Earlier you spoke of two issues you wanted to discuss. One was my seeing Adriana in therapy. Is your continuing feeling of indebtedness the second issue.''"

Lying on the Couch ^ ^ 7 5

Peter nodded.

"Peter, you've got to let this go. Or else—and this is a major threat—I'm going to have to suggest you delay your trip for three or four years so we can resolve this in analysis. Let me repeat: there is no outstanding debt. You contracted for my services. I charged an appropriate fee. You paid that fee. You even paid more than my fee. Remember? And then you were gracious and generous enough to endow a lectureship in my name. There never was an outstanding debt. And, even if there were, your gift clearly settled it. More than settled it: 1 feel indebted to yow!"

"Marshal, you taught me to be true to myself and to express my feelings openly. So I'm going to do just that. Humor me for a couple of minutes. Just hear me out. Five minutes. Okay?"

"Five minutes. And then we bury it forever. Agreed?"

Peter nodded. With a smile Marshal took off his watch and placed it between them.

Peter picked up Marshal's watch, studied it intently for a moment, returned it to the table, and began.

"First thing: let me clear the air about something. I'd feel like a fraud if I let you think that the university bequest was really a gift to you. The truth is I make a moderately sized gift to the university almost every year. Four years ago I endowed the very chair in economics that my father holds. So I would have made the gift anyway. All I did differently was earmark it for your lecture series.

"Second thing: I understand entirely your feelings about gifts, and I respect them. However, I have a suggestion that you may find acceptable. How much time left?"

"Three minutes and counting," Marshal grinned.

"I haven't told you much about my business life, but what I do primarily is buy and sell companies. I'm an expert in pricing companies—I did it for Citicorp for several years before striking out on my own. I guess I've been involved in the purchase of over two hundred companies over the years.

"I've recently identified a Dutch company that is so amazingly underpriced and with such powerful profit potential that I've purchased it for myself—perhaps I'm being selfish, but my new partnership is not yet complete. We're raising two hundred fifty million. The opportunity to purchase this company is brief and, I'll be honest, it's too good to share."

Despite himself. Marshal was intrigued. "So?"

176 ■" -- Lying on the Couch

"Wait, let me finish. This company, Rucksen, is the world's second leading manufacturer of bicycle helmets, with fourteen percent of the market. Sales were good last year—twenty-three million—but I am certain I can quadruple that in two years. Here's why. The largest share of the market—twenty-six percent—is held by Solvag, a Finnish company, and it just so happens that my consortium owns controlling interest in Solvag! And I own controlling interest in the consortium. Now Solvag's main product is motorcycle helmets, and that division is far more profitable than the bicycle helmet division. My plans are to streamline Solvag by merging it with an Austrian motorcycle helmet company that I'm bidding on now. When that happens, I'll discontinue Solvag bicycle helmets and convert their plant into full motorcycle-helmet capacity. Meanwhile I'll have stepped up Rucksen production capacity and positioned it to move right into the gap left by Solvag. You see the beauty of this, Marshal?"

Marshal nodded. Indeed he did. Insider beauty. And he also saw the futility of his pathetic attempts to time the stock market or to buy a stock with the worthless crumbs of information that made their way down to outsiders.

"Here's what I propose." Peter glanced at the watch. "A couple more minutes. Hear me out." But Marshal had forgotten all about the five-minute limit.

"I leveraged the purchase of Rucksen and need put up only nine million cash. I expect to go public with Rucksen in approximately twenty-two months and have very good reasons to expect more than five hundred percent return. Solvag's departure from the field will leave them with no powerful competitors—which of course no one knows but me, so you must keep this confidential. Also I have information—I can't reveal the source, even to you—of legislation making bicycle helmets mandatory for minors that will be introduced imminently in three European countries.