29
The next day it rained. And it kept raining, right through the afternoon and into the turn of dusk. It rained so hard that the traffic slowed down on the New York streets, the headlights bouncing off the slick roads. The clouds rained down like they hadn’t rained for years, as if they wanted to get rid of all the collected water which was making their white froth heavy. Downspouts overflowed, drains choked and were smothered under the onslaught, and a million American pigeons hunched up against the windows of a thousand office blocks. Along the sidewalk, people hurried under awnings and into doorways, a sulky moon dozing in a gap between the clouds. At the Guggenheim Museum they were having a Roy Lichtenstein show, and in Central Park the drivers with their pony traps waited for customers under the dripping trees.
Emile Dwappa watched the rain with indifference. Standing across the street from Roberta Feldenchrist’s apartment block, he watched the comings and goings of the wealthy and their cars. He wondered, fleetingly, which car he would buy when he was rich, and decided that he would go for an English Jaguar. Class, he thought solemnly, was everything. Who wanted a BMW – the Brixton drug-runners’ car? Or some flashy pimp Cadillac? He didn’t want to be noticed, he wanted to be rich. And if nobody else noticed how rich he was, that was fine by him.
Glancing at his watch, he looked up at the penthouse apartment, its lights shining out into the driving rain. Even from street level, the place looked big. He wondered what it would be like to have so much space for yourself. Space up above the masses, away from the dog shit on the streets and the drains which crept down into the sewers below. He wondered then if he would like to live in New York and realised instantly how much he disliked the place. There was no sun, for one thing. Oh, it was raining at the moment, but the previous day it had been fine. And still no sun had got down into the crazy paving of the streets. And all the shadows, he thought, shaking his head. What was the point of walking among buildings so tall that you were always in half-darkness?
Turning his face upwards, he let the rain fall on his skin for a moment and moved into the shelter of a doorway. Roberta Feldenchrist was expecting him … the thought was amusing. One of the richest women on earth needed him. She wanted what he could give her. Only him … He had already worked out what he would charge her. She would baulk at the sum, of course, but she would pay. She had no choice. He thought of the cuttings he had read in the society pages, about how Ms Feldenchrist was giving a baby shower at the weekend for her adopted son
… It amused him to think of the expression ‘baby shower’. Sounded like they were going to drown the poor bastard.
Dwappa had done his research meticulously after his brother had tipped him the wink about Bobbie Feldenchrist. And now he had a very clear picture of a rich cow who had always got her own way – until Mother Nature had slowed up her progress. No amount of money could make a barren woman fertile again. The chemotherapy, he thought idly, had stopped the Feldenchrist line short. But Ms Feldenchrist wasn’t going to let fate, or nature, stand in her way. Even when her first attempt at adoption failed.
But that, he decided, was what you got for doing things the right way. Bureaucracy could topple the mightiest plans. Exhaling, Dwappa ducked out from the doorway and walked across the road, dodging a yellow cab and making for the entrance to the apartment block.
Immediately he was stopped by Reception.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I have an appointment with Ms Feldenchrist,’ he replied, his expression unperturbed.
‘Your name, sir?’
‘She’s expecting me. I’m her seven o’clock appointment.’
The porter hesitated, noting the man’s expensive suit and watch, then asked again. ‘Your name, sir?’
‘Please call the penthouse and tell Ms Feldenchrist her guest is here,’ he replied, holding the man’s stare. ‘I’ll take full responsibility.’
Moments later Emile Dwappa, with his expensive watch and $200 haircut, arrived at the penthouse, ringing the buzzer to be admitted from the escalator reception area into the apartment proper. Above his head a security camera trained its beady eye on him, the blinking of an alarm sensor flickering in a corner. He knew then that his image had been taken and that he would probably also be monitored inside the apartment. Obviously security for Ms Feldenchrist should anything go wrong. But then again, he reasoned, perhaps it would be turned off. After all, she wouldn’t want their meeting to become common knowledge.
Suddenly the door buzzed and he walked in.
‘You’re very punctual,’ a voice said behind him, and he turned to see Bobbie Feldenchrist walking towards him. She had that look only rich women have – an expression of languid arrogance. ‘Please, sit down.’
He did so, facing the windows and looking at the lights on the Chrysler building, thinking about how the remake of King Kong wasn’t as good as the original.
‘I suppose you don’t use your curtains?’ he said, disarming her with a smile.
‘No,’ Bobbie agreed, surprised at his elegant English accent and his expensive clothes. This was no thug off the streets. ‘It’s very good of you to come and talk to me, Mr …’
He had expected her to try and get his name and ignored the hint, moving on to the business in hand. ‘I believe I can help you. I hear you want to adopt a baby.’
She took a long breath, as though putting the reality into words was somehow intensely exhausting.
‘I do.’
‘I can make that happen for you, Ms Feldenchrist.’
Her hands wound around themselves tightly. ‘You know of a child?’
‘A baby boy, yes.’
A cry sounded in her throat and Bobbie glanced away for an instant. ‘Can you bring this child to me?’
‘Of course. In two days.’
Again she made a low sound in her throat, as though she could hardly hold on to her emotions. ‘Where is the child coming from?’
‘Africa.’
‘Where in Africa?’
‘That’s not important.’
She turned back to him to pursue the matter, then winced. His expression had closed off, his charm suspended. In his coldness he was warning her, more effectively than words, that he was in charge.
‘I would like to know something about the baby.’
‘I don’t think,’ he said, getting to his feet, ‘that we can do business after all.’
Gasping, she stood up, following him. He was making for the door and then paused, knowing her hopes would be raised when he didn’t leave at once. Slowly he began to walk around the room. One by one he stopped in front of the paintings, his face unreadable, his eyes curious. These were some of the famous Feldenchrist paintings. His research had told him about the Spanish masters in the Feldenchrist Collection and he remembered reading about the painting he was now looking at.
‘Is this a Goya?’
She nodded stiffly.
‘Creepy.’
‘My father liked it.’
‘Do you?’ he asked, smiling.
‘Yes, I do. I like most of the Spanish masters.’
‘Expensive taste,’ he replied, charming her again. ‘I didn’t think there were many of the Old Masters in private collections any more.’
‘Some.’
‘Like in the Feldenchrist Collection?’
She was trying to cover her impatience. After all, he wasn’t here to talk about art. ‘We have a good selection of works. My father collected all his life, and I carried on where he left off.’
‘You enjoy it?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘But it’s not the same as being a mother?’ He paused, staring at a Murillo drawing. ‘How much is this worth?’
‘I don’t think that’s any of your business—’ At once Bobbie checked her temper, horrified to see that he had taken offence and had moved to the door. ‘Please don’t leave! I’m sorry if I asked too many questions.’
‘You shouldn’t ask any,’ he replied, turning to her and noticing the fine lines around her eyes and the first slackening around the jaw. Time, he thought suddenly, was not on her side. ‘If we do business together, we have to trust each other. I have to trust you and you have to trust me.’