Jonathan Franzen - Strong Motion - A Novel

“We’re into rush hour. They just cleared an inbound Sweeting-Aldren jet and there’s another one behind it. They should have their own little airline.”

The plane went up and down. The engine droned.

“Three minutes, you’ll be on the ground. A day like this will do it to almost anybody.”

Through one eye Renée glimpsed the runway spreading out in front of them. She didn’t open her eyes again until they’d taxied to a stop. “Check this out,” Kevin said, nodding at the hangar. Two men in suits, one of them wearing a hard hat, were standing just inside the entry.

“You didn’t believe me, did you?”

“Wait wait wait.” She was rewinding the camera.

“I’m not seeing this. I’m slowly getting out the door.”

Head down, she reloaded and fired twenty shots at nothing. The men were now standing on the apron. When she climbed out, one of them looked inside the plane and the other led her into the hangar.

“You’ve got to let her sit down,” Kevin said. “She’s very sick.”

She leaned mutely against a wall in a corridor while, behind her, her shoulder bag was searched. In the coffee shop she was allowed to slump into a booth that had a long, thin smear of ketchup running across the table. The man in the hard hat was holding her bag on his lap; his face was red and ingrown and astonished, a cervix with beady eyes. He remained silent for the entire interview, tirelessly assessing her breasts and shoulders.

The other man had a tonsure, thick straight hair the color of pencil lead bunching onto his shirt collar, and an eagle’s smart brow. He turned her IDs over in his fingers. “Renée Seitchek, 7 Pleasant Avenue, Somerville. Harvard University.” He pinned her with a look. “Renée, we hear you photographed some facilities. We’re frankly dying to know what moved you to photograph those particular facilities.”

“Can I have a glass of water?”

“Tummy upset? Maybe a little Sprite for that. Bruce?” He waved a hand at the counter, and Bruce rose. “But go on.”

“I’m a photographer.”

“A photographer! What kinds of things you enjoy taking pictures of, Renée?”

“Interesting, beautiful. things.”

“Ah. Art photographer. That’s fascinating.” Her interrogator gazed at her admiringly. “But you know, I can’t resist asking you, what’s so beautiful about an industrial facility? You want to try and explain that to me? Being as it runs more or less counter to our prejudices.”

“Who are you?” Renée said.

“Rod Logan, Process Security Manager, Sweeting-Aldren Industries. My assistant Bruce Feschting. We made a special little trip over here to meet you, Renée. Oh, and would you look at that. Bruce outdoes himself again. Sprite and water and a napkin. Apropos of which, Renée, you might want to give your chin a teeny wipe.”

A party of men in hard-soled shoes marched through the coffee shop, exchanging salutations with Logan and Feschting. Briefcases swung as they headed out the parking-side door.

“But these art photographs,” Logan said. “What’s the market like? You have a wealthy patron? A lot of corporations buying art these days.”

“It’s just for me.”

“Just for you! You don’t mind if I ask what brought you to these particular facilities, do you?”

“I saw them from the road.”

“Just driving by, eh? Was there anything in particular that struck you as interesting and beautiful about our facilities?”

“No. Just the whole thing. How it looked.”

“Gosh, if the world doesn’t have a way of throwing you for a loop sometimes.” Logan shook his head. “Just totally for a loop. You know, somewhere I’m sure there’s an Earth where a Harvard girl really does go to the airport closest to us and flies by in broad daylight in a well-marked plane and really does want to take pictures for the sheer joy it brings her. Infinite universe, infinity of worlds. But you see, which world am I really in? This one? Or maybe more like this one?” He chopped the air with his hands, suggesting galaxies in motion. “But listen, Renée. I’m a reasonable man. And legally, legally, I can’t really prevent you from snapping away to your little heart’s content. Were you aware of that? That I can’t legally prevent you? But you see, I’m holding your camera on my lap now, and Bruce is holding the other roll of film that was in your purse—”

“It’s unexposed.”

“Is it unexposed, Bruce? Yes, so it seems. So you’ll be happy to sell us that one for ten dollars. And as far as what’s in the camera, speaking practically, I’d like to offer you free processing and printing, and we’ll send it to you at your Somerville address. I frankly can’t think of a more amicable arrangement. Because you see, Renée, we take our trade secrets very seriously, and we have armed guards on our property and a million-dollar cash reserve specifically earmarked for prosecuting industrial spies to the fullest extent of the law, so why don’t you let me have these printed and sent to you at our expense? Does that sound reasonable, Bruce?”

“They’re private,” Renée said.

“Ah, they’re private, yes. But as a practical matter, in terms of who has the camera on his lap, I’d have to say your only other alternative would be to allow me to open the camera and expose the entire film to light.”

She clutched her head wretchedly. “Go ahead. Just leave me alone.”

“You’re sure?” Logan said, already opening the camera.

A new contingent of executives had entered the coffee shop. Feschting stood up awkwardly and stepped out of the booth. “Mr. Tabscott,” he said. “Mr. Stoorhuys.”

“Hey, Dave, Dick.” Logan nodded at the newcomers, his hands full of film.

“Rod, Bruce, where you in from?”

“In from nowhere. Got a little episode here.”

Tabscott left the coffee shop, but Stoorhuys stopped and leaned over the booth, his jacket bunching at the elbows, five inches of shirt cuff showing. He bowed his head, but he was looking at Renée, sideways. His lips curled away from his teeth.

“This is Renée Seitchek,” Logan said. “Our latest flyby. Art photographer. Harvard Geophysics student. Greenness of gills due to violent airsickness.”

Lips agape, Stoorhuys studied her more closely. “Mr. Logan explained our sensitivity?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll see to it you’re reimbursed for your film.”

She nodded, eyes cast down.

“She enjoys photographing beautiful and interesting things,” Logan remarked.

“She’s a beautiful and interesting thing herself,” Stoorhuys said with patent insincerity. He appeared to have lost interest. His lanky fingers squeezed Logan’s shoulder. “Take it easy.”

“Will do, Dave.”

Moments later she was left alone in the booth. She drank her water, put her head down, filled her lungs. A twenty-dollar bill was lying near her ear. Suddenly a paper bag landed on the table. She jumped.

“Here’s your barf,” Kevin said.

She took a handful of napkins when she left the coffee shop. She drove for twenty minutes and finally stopped in a Shawmut Bank parking lot. Crouching behind a dumpster like a raccoon, she tore open the airsickness bag and recovered the film canister from beneath the contents of her stomach. Highway lights flashed in her eyes as she cast a furtive glance over her shoulder.

It was becoming apparent that she wouldn’t be able to see the pictures before she met with Melanie. She doubted they’d show much in any case. If Sweeting-Aldren maintained a pumping station near its main installation, it was almost certainly hidden in a shed. She drove back to Cambridge, returned the car, and stayed in Widener Library until the closing bells rang.