So when was this place built? Dex said. Before the Civil War, right?
1818, I said.
Were there slaves here?
We’re pretty sure. They didn’t keep such careful records. We’ve never been able to find any record of the slaves themselves, but we did find some old architectural drawings of an outbuilding back by the orchard, with bunks in it and an outhouse nearby. It only makes sense as slave quarters.
Can we see it?
The outbuilding? It was torn down in 1866.
Oh. Well, naturally, Dex said; he seemed disappointed.
I walked them through the cherry orchard, with its brick footpaths and ornate iron benches, some more than a century old. I showed them the child-sized topiary maze the original owner had introduced to spoil his granddaughter, who died of tuberculosis in 1889. I mentioned his relation, admittedly a distant one, to Thomas Jefferson; I even threw in a quote from Jefferson’s famous essay on the beauty of Virginia. Somewhere in there, I heard the unmistakable throaty sound of Mal’s little Triumph turning off the main road and speeding up the driveway. Mostly to give him a few minutes to get settled, I called their attention again to the Blue Ridge Mountains, naming the ones whose names I was sure of, and in truth it’s rarely clear enough to get as beautiful a view of them as we had that day. Dex and Molly were politely awed.
That was the end of their tour. I walked behind them up the stairs to the third floor, and as I did I saw Dex put his arm around her, saw him whisper something she didn’t respond to and then kiss her on the top of her head. Colette, Mal’s assistant, was just closing the door to Mal’s office behind her; she saw me and nodded discreetly.
You can go on in and see Mal now, I said. Where are you staying, by the way?
The Courtyard Marriott, Dex said.
I know it well. Listen, I’ll come by when you’re done with Mal and walk you back out to your car.
Molly was standing like a dog outside Mal’s closed door, her back to me. She couldn’t wait to get away.
Oh, that’s nice of you, Dex said, but I’m sure we can –
I insist. You’d be surprised how easy it is to get lost in here.
Colette opened the door and ushered them in. A few seconds later she reemerged, pulled the door shut, and looked quizzically at me still standing there in the middle of the hall.
Buzz me when they’re done, would you? I said.
BACK IN MY office downstairs, the last of the initial shock wore off, and the truth is, I found myself feeling a little angry. I’m not talking about residual anger, anger over what she did to me ten years ago: ten years ago is ten years ago, and however all that might have fucked me up at the time, I’m well over it. We were kids then. I’m talking more about wondering where she got off acting so petrified.
I mean, what do you suppose she thought I’d do? Scream at her, throw her out, make a huge scene? She knows me better than that.
Of course maybe on some level it was gratifying too, let’s be honest; after all, the worst, most humiliating part of any failed love affair is the suspicion that maybe it never meant as much to the other person as it did to you. So if I still had the power to upset her, just the very sight of me, I can’t pretend that didn’t mean something. But still, to act afraid of me, to the point where she wouldn’t look at me or speak to me, that’s just over the top. She owes me more.
HALF AN HOUR passed before Colette summoned me upstairs.
Mal’s ready for you, she said when she saw me.
From her desk I could see that Mal’s office door was standing open.
Where are they? I said.
They left about ten minutes ago. I offered to buzz you but they said they could show themselves out.
In a state of disbelief, I walked into Mal’s office. He was in a lively mood. He sat on the front of his desk, in a white tennis shirt and jeans, his black hair still blown back from his recreational drive. John, John, he said. What news?
So you just saw Dexter Kilkenny and his, and his assistant?
I did. He’s kind of a character, isn’t he?
They cleared out of here awfully quickly. You guys didn’t get into any sort of …
God, no. Just talked about movies. He still wants to make a documentary about Palladio.
You told him no?
Just like I told him no two months ago. He’s a very single-minded guy. I told him to take a drive on Route 20, just get out to where the farmland starts, take in the beauty of the place. What a day! You get maybe ten days like this in a year.
Did he say he’d do that?
I don’t think he even heard me. You know he actually brought release forms for me to sign? The self-confidence of the guy! You have to respect that. I’m tempted to let him try it.
Are you?
Mal stopped bouncing his feet and looked at me; something in my voice, I suppose. Not really, no, he said quietly. The artists would never go for it in a million years. No upside for us in doing it anyway. Why, what did you think of him?
I had the strongest urge, right then, to tell Mal the whole story. But I didn’t.
I don’t know, I said instead. There’s something about him. Not that I think he should make a movie about us. But he’s young and very talented and he’s got a certain focus, doesn’t he? Maybe we should try to keep him around for a while, see if we have anything for him. I know Elaine needs some help. She asked me about directors just the other day.
Mal smiled fondly at me. Always on the job, he said. Where are they staying?
The Courtyard Marriott.
Christ. Okay, well, let’s at least call them up and invite them to stay over here for a few more days. We have room for them, right?
THAT WAS THE first lie I ever told him. In my defense, it was entirely spontaneous. I simply can not believe that she could run into me like that and then just leave town again without a word to me, as if all the history there is between us, everything that connects us, just plain didn’t exist at all. I have no plans to demand some big explanation from her. I have no plans at all. To me it’s more like a matter of simple courtesy.
I had Colette make the call. Well, Dex said, I don’t see how we can say no.
BUT ALL THAT was ancillary to what my meeting with Mal today was really about. I told him about the call I’d had from the President’s people, and also about the trial next month of the two guys from CultureTrust, the ones arrested for defacing our artwork in a gallery out in Spokane. In retrospect it was a mistake to tell him the two things at once, because he seemed to forget all about the first matter as soon as he heard about the second one. I should have seen that coming. It’s resistance, rather than the promise of reward, that always gets Mal going.
I don’t get it, he said. These are, what, activists of some sort?
College professors, I said. I mean, there’s a group of them, but these two particular guys are a couple of middle-aged professors from Eastern Washington University.
What’s their objection, exactly? To me, I mean?
I was at a loss as to how to answer that one in a way that wouldn’t rile him up further.
Maybe you should go out there, Mal said.
Out to Spokane?
Well, yeah.
And do what?
Mal held his hands apart. Do what you do, he said, smiling confidently, having disposed of the matter now in his mind. You’re the fixer.
LIES RAMIFY; I didn’t need another lesson in that. But they also raise the level of your alertness in a way, put you in more electric contact with your surroundings. Elaine and I went out to dinner that night at Il Cantinori. All her excitement over what she’s working on, the thing she won’t tell me about — all I know is it has something to do with Jack Kerouac, because On the Road has been sitting on the windowsill next to her side of the bed for the last three weeks — was sublimated into her eating; she went through her saltimbocca and started in on my risotto Milanese before I was halfway through it.