Jane Mendelsohn - Burning Down the House

Steve looked up from the documents.

What is it that you want from me?

Warren spoke first: We were unhappy about the hotel situation. The way you handled it. Our boss was upset.

Well, we can’t have that, Steve said.

Warren smiled. Wolf did not.

I’m glad you agree, said Warren.

I mean he’ll have to get over it, Steve said. He should try meditation.

Now neither of them smiled.

Let’s not be glib, Mr. Zane.

I’m deeply serious.

So are we.

He should try channeling his anger into something else because I will not be his victim and his punching bag.

There was a tense silence.

We want you to let us back. In hotels, in malls, in the places we want to be. It will be contained and controlled, but we want access to your property without retribution. You can have a piece.

Don’t be disgusting, Steve said.

He looked away. His face in heavy folds, drapery on a statue, his jacket hanging. His stature undiminished but his power lessened, softened, stone beaten back by water, by wind.

Wolf spoke for the first time in this encounter. This is what greases the wheels of industry today, he said. This is the way of the world.

That’s not the truth, Steve rumbled, shuffling papers on his desk.

You can believe in whatever truth you want to believe in, said Warren, but he’s right. This is the only way.

No, it isn’t, Steve said.

Don’t fool yourself, Wolf said.

I am not a fool! Steve bellowed.

There was a long silence.

It’s just an expression, Warren said, startled.

Wolf was unruffled. We have the power now, he explained. Don’t make yourself crazy.

Steve glanced across the room at Neva, her back to the wall. A tear slid down her face. So this is what is behind everything, her eyes said. She was like a crying statue, looking on at the suffering of the world and seeing all of it, through it, behind the workings and machinery to the very skeleton and cells into the horror of the slavery and sacrifice she had endured, and so many others were enduring. There was beauty, she vaguely remembered it, but right now all she saw was the horror. She was surprised by her own surprise. It made her realize that she had hoped there was a place free from suffering, a world built on hard work and honesty and life. She might believe that again but she did not right now. All she could see now was that even Steve’s world was founded on this awful truth. Is there no end to this? she thought. And in her chest she felt a hollow heaviness, a contradiction, a pain, and also gratitude that she could still feel pain. I am a river, she reminded herself. I can carry this, she said in her mind. I am looking at the truth and I can hold it. I am Neva. I am a river. I am strong. I carry children. I am Neva and I am witnessing the truth.

—

They sat for a long time without speaking. Wolf and Warren had left and Neva walked slightly toward Steve. He stumbled forward. They sat down, both facing the window.

There will never be another chance like that again, he said. But it wasn’t a real chance.

Neva put her hand to his face and made him turn to her.

And what now? she said.

Steve didn’t answer.

They’ll be after you whatever you do.

Let them come.

We could say yes and then trap them somehow, turn them in again.

They can destroy me with those documents.

Nothing can destroy you.

They’ll do it now or later. I should prepare. Save the family, and you.

Please don’t give up. We can fight this.

He held her hand.

The best we can do is wait for another chance, he said.

I thought you said that another chance like this would never come.

I meant for me. Maybe there will be a chance for you.

It was only then that it occurred to him: How had they gotten those documents? Who could possibly have given them access?

Someone knocked. Neva stood up, wiped her face, straightened her skirt, and opened the door. It was Jonathan. He was holding some papers for his father to sign.

Not now, said Neva.

—

Jonathan recalled the first time he had seen her. The airstrip, lush trees, the British countryside.

—

These are important.

He isn’t feeling well, she said.

Well, then I should see him.

He says he can’t see anyone.

What about you?

She wasn’t sure what to say. She stood in the doorway. He studied her.

And from the other side of the door:

She isn’t anyone, Steve yelled.

A WOMAN TOOK their jackets and Alix snooped after her, looking into the enormous closet, a room really, lined with hooks. On the hooks were baseball caps layered three or more deep. All teams, all colors, a preponderance of black caps. A billionaire’s mudroom. He could wear a different cap every day. Alix pictured him grabbing a fresh cap as he sauntered out of his townhouse, into a waiting car or perhaps for a stroll with one of his dogs a couple of blocks away in Central Park, his unlined face shaded beneath the brim. Or did he have someone else pick out his hat for him? She had been in so many houses like this, but she never entirely understood the inhabitants or felt a part of this world. She preferred apartment dwelling, and little help. She was a hermit, in a way, and too many objects and servants made her uncomfortable.

She followed Ian from the ground floor up a curving staircase, swept along by the flow of people. Ian rushed ahead; he’d meant to be there earlier but she had been late to meet him at the theater, and he wanted to get to the performers upstairs to run over a few things. Alix felt nervous on his behalf. These fancy benefits in private homes. Special previews for the heavy donors. Creating buzz, building interest, giving an inside peek. An easy audience, but still. Everything had to go smoothly, perfectly. Or what? What would actually happen, she wondered. Would the god of disappointed benefactors spoil the show? Would tomatoes rain down from the 1940s French light fixtures? What was at stake, really? Was she sensible to question the value of these events, or was she being haughty? Did she not understand because she had never had to work for a living? But she did work, she had been working on her monograph on medieval art for fifteen years, and she lived modestly, could afford a room for baseball caps but chose not to have one. Did this make her better? Or was she a phony? Should she live in a double-wide house and collect art? Someone had to support artists. Of course she did support artists. Hadn’t she supported Ian for years until he could support himself? Didn’t she give? In fact, hadn’t she paid to attend this fund-raiser? Of course she had. The rich people needed the artists and the artists needed the rich people. They were all connected. No one was pure. Everyone was complicit. Some fortunes were built on a crime, but most weren’t. Money was neither good nor evil; only people were.

The champagne was excellent. Her thoughts were bubbling. Her vision the teensiest bit pixilated. Was that a Picasso? Why yes it was. And over there, did she recognize a de Kooning? So many powerful images in one room it felt a bit like a boxing ring. She was punched from every side by muscular, perspective-wrenching paintings, manly agonies assaulting her wherever she turned. This was like being in a poorly hung museum. Too many masterpieces on one floor. She decided to keep heading upstairs.

In the library more-contemporary works mingled with objects and books. A Guston drawing, a Marden print, an Agnes Martin, yes! A woman artist, finally. She could be happy here. A Lisa Yuskavage painting. Well, now, she might just sit down. As she entered the room farther she noticed that in the corner sat a woman reading, wearing a long Fortuny silk gown, looking not the least bit overdressed or out of place. She sported significant jewelry on her bare arms and around her neck, interesting, complicated, yet elegant arrangements of metals and stones. Her face, on closer inspection, was shockingly asymmetrical. She was sexy and unsexy. It turned out, after she and Alix had struck up a conversation, that she was also the woman of the house, the billionaire’s wife. Alix vaguely recognized her, an actress in a former life and now a mother, a philanthropist, a supporter of the arts. But not musicals. She detested musicals. That’s why she was hiding out in the library. Zinging piano music leaped and kicked its way up the stairs, seeming to illustrate her point. Alix confessed that she didn’t much care for musicals either, but that she was there to cheer on a friend. She said goodbye to the woman, Genevieve was her name, and went back to the parlor floor for the presentation.