Jonathan Franzen - Strong Motion - A Novel

“No, in fact, nothing would please me more.”

“Perfect for the two of us, then.”

“You’re smiling, and you’re right: what does a professional woman care about jewelry?” Melanie’s own wrist jewelry jingled as she raised her glass. She drank with an actressy angling of her body and twisting of her hand. “But you see I’m just a silly housewife. I have no particularly noble deeds to my credit. And at my age it’s possible to feel as if all one has ever done in life is bring unhappiness to the world. Perhaps you can’t really imagine that unless you’ve had children, but—”

“I can imagine it.”

“I believe you, Renée. I believe you can. Perhaps you can also imagine how it feels to realize that your own children consider you a selfish person, and that there’s nothing you can do to change this. They may be quite, quite wrong about you. They are quite wrong about you. But the fact remains that they’re convinced that you’re a selfish old witch, and this hurts you so terribly that you can’t even explain to them why they’re wrong.”

All that was left of Renée’s drink was ice and pink water. “You know I know your son, don’t you?”

“You—? Oh yes, of course. I was very irritated with him that particular day. I was irritated that he’d invited people inside, with the house in such a state, although in hindsight I suppose it was all for the best.” Melanie stroked her glass, appearing more and more to speak to herself. “Because there are things I want to say — things I must say — to someone. And if I could only relieve certain anxieties I have — if you could only give me a little advice, or comfort, so we could get that out of the way — I’d want more than anything to spend time with you. I want to make someone happy. And you in particular, I don’t even know why.”

“What advice?”

“We don’t need to discuss that yet.”

Renée leaned forward confidentially. There was a new, wild light in her face, as if great ironies were dawning on her. “I think we should discuss it right now. Then it’s all over with, right?”

Melanie was about to speak but then she noticed Renée’s empty glass and attracted the waiter’s attention. When the fresh drink came, she watched Renée sip her way deeply into it.

“I own a house,” she said huskily, “that I can’t insure against earthquake damage and can’t get more than eighty percent of its January value for. Should I sell now and invest the money elsewhere at ten percent? Or are prices going to bounce back up in less than two years? That’s my first question. I also, because of the stupidity and stubbornness of my father, own three hundred thousand shares of a company whose stock has lost a quarter of its value since the first of April, largely because of the threat of earthquakes. I’m about to get control of those shares and I want to know, do I cut my losses, or are the earthquakes going to stop? And there you have it. I’ve told you more about myself than anyone but my attorney knows. Is that clear? I’ve opened my heart, Renée, and it’s in your hands. You can judge for yourself whether I’m simply desperate or whether I’m trusting you because I feel an affinity between us.” With sudden briskness, she took her half glasses from her purse. She scowled at her menu for exactly three seconds before asking Renée, whose menu appeared to be in Arabic, what she thought she was going to have. She was inclining towards the red snapper and the house salad. How did that sound?

“I need to read the menu,” Renée said.

Melanie tossed hers aside and gazed at a far corner of the dining room. Finally Renée gave up trying to make sense of the entries. She drank off the remainder of her Campari and soda. “What makes you think I have any advice for you? You read the paper. I read the paper.”

“I don’t give a hoot what’s in the paper,” said Melanie. “Why not?”

“Because everyone can read it. It’s automatically worthless as investment information. The markets are depressed now because of all the uncertainty in the papers. They say there probably won’t be any more major earthquakes. But they also say there might very well be.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Don’t you see? Probabilities don’t do me any good. I have to make a decision.”

“I know. I understand. But why don’t you assume there’s a fifty percent chance of further earthquakes, and sell fifty percent of your stock? Or do twenty percent, if you think there’s a twenty percent chance.”

“No! No!” Melanie bounced vehemently on her banquette. “You’re not following me. I’m saying that I have already lost one quarter of what I had three months ago, before I could do a thing about it. I’m saying that I will not lose any more, I will not , I will not . If I sell fifty percent of that stock and it rebounds to its March level, I’ll have suffered a pure loss on that fifty percent.”

“But you couldn’t do anything about that,” Renée said in a reasonable voice. “So why don’t you just decide that what you inherited is only as much as you have when you get control of it. That’s what you’re starting with, and you can sell it all, and that’s what you got. It still must be a lot, right?”

Melanie closed her eyes. “This is what I go through with my attorney. This is what my husband tells me. I was hoping that a woman might be able to understand why I refuse, I refuse to be told that this is all I get. This isn’t greed, Renée. It’s a matter of not being stupid. If I have to make the wrong decision, I at least want it to be on someone else’s recommendation. Because I simply could not live having to blame myself.”

“Blame your father,” Renée ventured.

“If only that would help. I can blame him for putting me in this position, but I’m still the one in this position.”

“Larry Axelrod? At MIT. I can put you in touch with him.” Melanie leaned forward, shaking her head and smiling at Renée’s innocence. “Don’t you see? Every investor in Boston is going to him or other people like him. They’ve already had their impact on the market. I don’t get any edge by taking their advice, and what’s more, I don’t believe them. I don’t think they can tell the truth, because they know that all the markets are listening. That’s why they say fifty percent this, fifty percent that.”

“So you think that because I don’t know anything about New England earthquakes I’m the perfect person to ask.”

“Yes.”

“That’s very rational of you.”

“I’m glad you think so. You see, because among other things, I’ve noticed that of all the institutions in Boston, Harvard is the only one not saying anything about the earthquakes. And I have to wonder why that is.”

“Nobody’s doing local studies right now. We do mainly theory, also global studies and research with global networks.”

“And you, as an intelligent seismologist, are unable to look at the work being done locally and come to any independent conclusions?”

“I can come to conclusions. But I don’t see why you think they’re worth more than Larry Axelrod’s.”

“Renée, I’ve spent half my life among academics, and I’ve seen these Larry Axelrods on television. I know a special mind when I see one. There’s no point in telling me not to trust you, because I’m not going to listen to you. I’m going to trust you, and you’re going to tell me how I can repay you. Because I do intend to repay you.”

Melanie had put her purse on her lap and rested her hand on the catch. Renée had been expecting this. “You want to know whether to sell the house, and whether to sell the stock. Two simple answers.”