Park knew a response was expected, but he didn’t have one. The complexities of growing up around his father not being a topic he was inclined to discuss with strangers under the best of circumstances.
Parsifal K. Afronzo Senior closed the copy of Who’s Who with a slight thump.
“Am I right that he was passed over for the 9/11 commission?”
Other complexities aside, Park had been raised in an atmosphere of scrupulous politesse, and he was almost relieved to be asked a question he could answer.
“No. He was asked.”
Afronzo Senior was at the bookshelves that covered the wall next to the wet bar.
“He declined?”
“Yes.”
Afronzo slipped the copy of Who’s Who onto the shelf.
“I’d think a man dedicated to public service would have jumped at that particular assignment.”
Park remembered the conversation he’d had with his father regarding the commission.
“He said they only asked him because they knew he would say no. And he didn’t want to disappoint them.”
Afronzo’s chuckle quickly turned to a cough.
“Excuse me. As much as I appreciated his book and enjoyed the brief conversation I had with him, I wouldn’t have expected him to have much of a sense of humor.”
Park shook his head.
“He didn’t.”
The rich man rubbed the back of his thick neck.
“When I was a boy, my father kept a copy of Who’s Who on the back of the toilet for bathroom reading. He said that when he was the same age it had been corn husks in a outhouse. Back in the old country that was. Said if you crumpled them enough they weren’t that rough at all. Said he kept the Who’s Who in the can in case an emergency should arise.”
He chuckled again.
“I don’t expect that sort of humor would have sailed in your house.”
Park shook his head again.
“No, sir, it would not.”
Afronzo rested a hand on the bar.
“Though this is not a regular drinking hour for me, I don’t believe I’ll have a chance of getting back asleep if I don’t have something.”
He went around the bar.
“I’m having cognac. Would you care for one?”
Again Park shook his head.
“No thank you, sir.”
Afronzo took a bottle of Pierre Ferrand Abel from under the bar and poured two fingers into a snifter.
“You are a very polite young man, Officer. A childhood in diplomacy seems to have served you.”
“Serious crimes are being committed within your company, sir.”
Afronzo placed the cork at the mouth of the bottle, settling it with a light slap of his palm.
“At the time I met your father, he told me that he thought the business I was conducting in Israel would likely put American citizens at risk. American workers I planned to hire and bring over. He told me that he opposed my proposal and had spoken out against it with his counterpart in our embassy in Israel. He was, as I said, very cordial, but also very direct.”
He took a small sip of his drink.
“It seems his son inherited that directness along with his good manners.”
He came from behind the bar and sat in the Colonial chair.
“Would you care to sit, Haas?”
“No, thank you, sir.”
Afronzo looked at the young man still standing just inside the door of the guest cottage den, the same spot he’d been delivered to a few minutes before.
“I was told that you might be sleepless. That you might either be unaware of your condition or in denial. But looking at you, I don’t believe that you are sleepless. I’ve seen a lot of them. Close up. From here, you just look very tired to me.”
He gestured at a couch that matched his chair.
“You’re just about out on your feet, Haas. Sit down.”
Against his will, Park rubbed his eyes. He nodded. And he sat down.
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome. And by the way, I don’t get called ‘sir’ much. Mostly I go by ‘Senior’ these days. If you don’t mind.”
Park knew there was a distinction between the wealthy and the rich. He had grown up with wealth. While there had been abundance and quality in his upbringing, security was always viewed as the greatest benefit of the wealth his father had inherited, carefully tended, and added to. Never a threat that the cupboard might someday be bare. New clothes every school year. No fear of the wolf. Also weekend trips to Boston, D.C., and New York for dinner, concerts, or theater. Tastes of his mother. And his father’s sailboat, a 1969 Dufour Arpege 30. College funds for the children. Assurance of a secure old age should the fates not intervene. A life not so far removed from the general that they lost sight of just how great their blessings were and, as Park’s father often pointed out, how great the responsibilities that came with that wealth.
The rich were another matter. The amount of money required to elevate someone to that level provided a great deal of insulation. In conversation with rich schoolmates, Park could sense in them a confusion as to why everyone didn’t do the things they did, value what they valued, eat and consume what they ate and consumed. An implicit question they silently asked whenever subjects of want and need might come up: Why doesn’t everyone just live like this? As though these things were a matter of choice. As these classmates aged and gained experience, they began to affect a posture of ironic self-awareness. They knew they were rich, they knew most everyone else wasn’t, they knew it was unfair, but at least they cared that it was unfair, not. The final flourish was meant to indicate that of course they cared, but they cared in their own deeply personal way. Park thought that it indicated the opposite. The ability to make the joke only revealed the isolation in which they were sequestered by their money.
As usual, he aspired to make no judgments and made them nonetheless.
But Afronzo Senior was something else again. Beyond rich, he had ascended to superrich. And scaled yet higher to become a market force. In the post-SLP economy, Afronzo-New Day, holders of the DR33M3R patent, sat at the table with oil, water, power, telecommunications, health care, and munitions. They were at the foot of the table, but demand for their product was limited only by the rate at which SLP infected and killed. Based on current trends, the overall potential market might shrink, but market share would swell. DR33M3R was a reliable grower. And Afronzo-New Day’s voice at the table demanded attention.
As the personification and will of A-ND, Senior had become something other. More so than even his son, he was existing at another level of consciousness. Park suspected that it was difficult for him to focus within a one-to-one environment. The most alarming implication of that suspicion being the thought that whatever it was Park was digging into had drawn the man’s personal attention. Attention that implied that some part of what Park believed about the world frozen under a surface of lies must be true. Attention that promised only a bad ending, as much as it did hope.
Park wished for only one thing in that moment: that his father would open the door of the cottage just behind the main house of the Afronzo estate, that he would walk in, wearing his brass-buttoned navy blue suit, assess the situation, and tell his son that he should leave the room and go play while the adults talked over some business.
He looked at the door. It did not open. He remembered his father speaking on the topic of diplomacy as practiced in countries where monarchies still reigned.
Speak truth to power. Always. Kings and potentates will be coddled, don’t let it be by you. Speak truth to power and your voice will be heard. If it is disregarded, as is likely, still you will sleep better at night. And you will have done humanity some service. Which will comfort you when you are dismissed early from your post.
Park recalled that speech and the other memory it brought to mind: Rose and his father meeting for the first time.
Senior swished the cognac at the bottom of his glass.