Mikalo's Flame (13 page)

Richardson was giving her the choice to
remain at Macfarlane and be reviled, her reputation tattered and
torn. Or go out into the big, bad world of New York law and, if she
was lucky, find work at a lower tier law firm for less money and
less prestige, ending her career with a dark cloud hanging over
her.

“May I go now?” she asked, her voice
small.

“Please,” Richardson said with a smile. “Take
the rest of the day off, if you like. Get some rest.”

And then he said the three words every older
woman who’s climbed the ladder of success dreads hearing. Three
words signaling the knives were out and the end was near.

“You look tired.”

She bristled, her back going up.

And then she stood, turned to me, nodded,
turned to Richardson, nodded, and then walked to the door, opened
it, and stepped out.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

“I’m sorry about this,” I said.

“You should have come to me earlier,” he
said. “Before it got out of hand.”

I nodded.

“Again, I’m sorry,” I said, standing. “And
thank you, Mr. Richardson.”

“Rainier,” he said with a smile, correcting
me. “Call me Rainier.”

“Of course, Rainier. I should get back to
work.”

“No, no,” he quickly said reaching into his
desk. “I need you to go talk to the Byzans. Smooth things over.
Make sure everything’s okay and that they understand you’re the one
to speak with from here on out. You and no one else.”

He handed me a card with a Fifth Avenue
address.

“Sure,” I said. “No problem.”

I stopped.

“Well, there is one problem.”

“Which is?” he asked.

“You know Mikalo Delis and I are close.”

He nodded.

“I’ve recently learned the Byzans are making
a play for one of Mikalo’s businesses. One of his father’s first
businesses, in fact. One with a great deal of sentimental
value.”

Richardson waved it away.

“No,” he said. “They’re not.”

“I’m sorry. They’re not?”

“No, not with us, they’re not,” he said.

“No doubt Byzan will clear that up when you
speak with him. Now go. He’s expecting you.”

The card in hand, I left, carefully closing
the door behind me and walking down the hall.

Turning the corner to my office, I glanced
toward the elevators and stopped.

Abby and Marcus stood in the elevators
glaring at me, a security guard in tow.

The doors closed with a ding.

I stood at the window watching the trees of
Central Park sway in the breeze.

Although winter had stripped them bare, there
was an odd, timeless beauty to their bodies, these thick, woody
trunks rooted in the earth, the branches of their arms lifted,
always reaching to the sky.

“Please, Miss Grace.”

I turned to find Mr. Byzan waiting with two
cups of tea.

“Thank you,” I said, taking the thin cup, its
rim discolored from years of use, the handle flaking and
chipped.

“If you would?” he then asked as he politely
directed me to the small sofa plunked in the middle of the
room.

“Of course.”

I sat, balancing the cup as I sipped.

“Delicious,” I said, prompting a smile of
relief from the old, rumpled man.

In truth, it was weak and a bit too hot. But
his happiness at what he perceived as my pleasure, my gratitude,
made this little lie a bit easier to swallow, unlike the tea.

“You must forgive the house,” he then
said.

Save for the couch we sat on and an old TV
perched on a small table nearby, the room had nothing in it.

A huge apartment worth millions of dollars
sitting a block or two from the museum on Fifth Avenue with an
incomparable view of the Park out the windows and there was nothing
but an old couch and an even older table cradling an old TV.

Even down the long hallways and into the
small kitchen, there was a sense of continued emptiness and dust
and footsteps that echoed when you walked.

Unbeknownst to those wandering by several
stories below, the often envied apartments lining that stretch of
Fifth Avenue from 59th Street all the way up into the 80s and 90s
were usually a haphazard puzzle of large rooms giving way to many
small rooms, the stringent rules of the co-ops that ruled them with
an iron fist placing more of a premium on maintaining the
historical status quo than the comfort of those with pockets deep
enough to get past the doorman.

Not that any of that seemed to matter to Mr.
Byzan.

Like many who came from meager beginnings and
made their fortunes through hard work and sacrifice, this small,
rumpled man with the manners of a prince was surprisingly frugal
and wonderfully approachable.

I doubt he cared that the kitchen was small
and hadn’t been updated since the 1950s or that the wood floors
beneath our feet creaked when we walked.

He gave a small smile and sat back, blowing
on his tea before taking a small sip.

“I am so happy to have you here,” he then
said, his eyes twinkling. “And, please, I apologize for my Mara.
The other night at the restaurant. Without her mother, she is, how
you say, more than a bit crazy. And with the drink?”

He pushed the thought away and looked around
the room.

“You have a lovely apartment,” I said.

“It is empty, I think.”

“There’s a lot you can do with it,” I said as
I looked toward the windows and the blue sky beyond.

“No, no,” he quickly answered. “This is not a
place where I will spend much of my time. I miss my home in Prague.
And Paris. And London.

“This here,” he said. “This is for Mara. It
is what she wanted. The address I will give her. But the fancy
apartment? Everything new and shiny?”

He shrugged.

“If this is something she wants, she will buy
it with her money.

“But with the difficulty she has in the
hotels ...”

His voice trailed off.

Ah, yes. I’d forgotten about the stories of
her wild parties, her name blacklisted in four- and five-star
hotels around the world.

Destroyed rooms, beds set on fire, holes
punched through walls, mirrors shattered.

An infamous tabloid photo of her dressed in
couture, champagne bottle in hand, as she squatted, urinating on a
priceless Persian rug.

Always with Papa Byzan to apologize and pay
and promise she’ll never come back again. Ever.

The real estate buying spree they’d been on
recently, a spree that was throwing them into serious debt, was
making more sense.

“Well,” he continued after a lengthy pause.
“In the end, I think this is perhaps easier and will cost less
money in the long run.”

“No apology is necessary,” I then said.

He looked at me, momentarily confused.

“About the restaurant,” I added.

He nodded, suddenly remembering.

“It’s sweet of you to apologize, but, really,
it isn’t necessary.”

“Mikalo and you, this is a relationship?” he
asked.

I smiled.

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

He laughed.

“Another apology from me to you, I am
afraid,” he then said, wiping his eyes. “I am like an old woman
with my questions.”

He sighed.

“My nose is long,” he continued, “and I
sometimes poke it into these places it does not belong.”

“No, no, that’s okay. I know you’ve known him
for a very long time. Of course you’d have an interest.”

“Ah,” he said. “Yes, I knew his father. And I
was familiar with his mother.

“In fact, and Mikalo may not know this, but
my father almost married his mother’s mother.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. A very long time ago. They came so
close, and loved each other, I know, or at least I’ve heard, and
then, who knows? It wasn’t to be. The Byzans and the Delis, they
were almost one family.”

He laughed again. A small laugh that lit up
his face, his eyes disappearing into the folds as his mouth opened,
his teeth surprisingly perfect and white and strong.

Sitting back, he sighed another sigh and
sipped his tea.

“You are here to apologize for the Firm,
yes?” he then asked.

“Yes --” I began.

He interrupted me.

“There is no need. It has been said that the
young man with the bad suits and his mother, that woman who looks
like she bites lemons, it is promised they will no longer be an
issue.

“This is enough for me,” he then said before
he bent forward and put the tea on the floor next to his feet.

I was trying not to laugh. Abby a woman who
looks like she’s just bit a lemon? And her being Marcus’
mother?

He certainly had a wonderful way of putting
things.

“But there is one more condition,” he
continued. “One thing I insist on and that is important if we, if
you and I, are to continue this work.”

“I’m listening.”

He turned and watched me.

“You do not call me ‘Mr. Byzan’. You must
call me by my name.”

I breathed a sigh of relief.

“And you may call me by mine,” I said in
return.

He stood, indicating it was time to go.

Reaching forward, he took the tea from me as
he held out his hand to help me from the couch.

“And this is?” he asked.

“What?”

“Your name,” he explained. “The one I am to
call you by.”

“Ronan,” I said.

We walked to the door.

“I am Radek,” he said.

“It’s nice to meet you, Radek.”

Another small smile.

“Ronan,” he said to himself.

He stopped.

“Can you give me a moment?” he then
asked.

“Of course.”

Quickly leaving, he turned a corner and
padded his way down a hallway.

I looked toward the main room again. The
sagging couch and small TV. The large windows framed in simple
sheets of white. Fantasized for one brief moment how stunning it
would look with a bit of love and care and a deep cleaning. A top
to bottom renovation. The happy sound of children.

I shook my head, wondering where
that
came from.

His footsteps echoed down the hall as he made
his way back, turning the corner and standing before me, his eyes
shining.

“Ronan is a unique name,” he said as he held
a silver framed photograph out to me.

Taking the heavy silver from him, I saw an
older black and white picture. A beautiful woman with dark hair
sitting in the arms of a strikingly handsome man.

“I recognize that smile,” I said, aware I was
looking at a very young Radek and, I assumed, his wife.

“Yes, it is me. A many years ago me. And this
is my wife, Ronish.”

“She’s beautiful.”

He took the photo from me, holding it in his
hands and gazing at it.

“She is. She was.”

“May I ask ...?” I began.

“Cancer. Quick. Sudden.”

Looking up at me, he offered a slight
grin.

“Not even money can beat death,” he then
said. “But she and I, there were forty years. Forty years I will
not forget.”

He suddenly laughed.

“Do you know what she used to say?” he then
asked.

I shook my head, joining him with a
smile.

“When we were young and new, she used to say
that when I was old and grey, my eyes would still dance. That is
what she looked forward to. What she could never lose, she would
say. My eyes dancing when I smiled or laughed.

“She would say ‘You are handsome now, yes,
but when you are old and not so handsome, I will see you, this
handsome you, in the happiness of your eyes.’

“And she was right, of course. No matter how
much of an old man I become, my eyes, they give me away.”

“That’s beautiful,” I said, fighting the lump
in my throat.

“This Mikalo,” he then said, carefully. “He
is good. And I think his eyes, too, they will dance when he is old
and grey. If there is a chance to be there and dance with him, my
new friend, then, yes, that would be a good thing. A very good
thing.”

We moved to the door.

“Ah,” he said. “Do you know what would be
better than that?”

The door opened and I stood in the hall,
politely waiting for him to continue.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“For me to dance with you,” he answered. “At
your wedding.”

And, again, he laughed, his eyes dancing.

Despite the bright sun, the air outside still
held the chill of winter, Spring still several weeks away.

I shoved my hands in my pockets as I turned
south and began walking down Fifth.

I could try and hail a cab now, but my
chances of finding one were better down toward 72nd. Besides, a
walk sounded good.

There was something quite sweet about Mr.
Byzan. Radek. I didn’t know if it was the fact that he had ended up
being very sweet kind of surprised me. Or if it was his easy
laughter and quick smile. Or perhaps how he spoke so lovingly of
his wife, the silver framed photo held gently in his wrinkled
hands.

I wonder how Mikalo would look when he was
Radek’s age? Handsome, of course. Still. Probably a curly mane of
silver hair. A quick smile. A bit of a tummy, probably.

Well, he did like to eat.

Smiling, I thought of him polishing off his
burger in four bites and then inhaling my french fries.

Yeah, that appetite would eventually catch up
with him.

And I didn’t care.

I loved him. I really did.

And somewhere in there, somewhere in my
heart, was the fervent hope that I would be there to grow older
with him. That I would spend my life being with him, day after day,
week by week, month by month, year after year after year.

It was a hope that was so fervent, so dear, a
hope so treasured, that I refused to admit it existed. Ignored it.
Wouldn’t visit it, or wrap myself in it, or give it life by
breathing my dreams into it.