By Nightfall (22 page)

Svenka answers the door. She is a wide-faced, surprised-looking woman in her early thirties, something stretched about her (not surgically produced); some hint of a curse hurled into her bassinet
(The child will grow too big for her skin).
If this were the nineteenth-century English manor house it aspires to resemble, Svenka would be the housekeeper, but this being twenty-first-century America she is called the . . . what? . . . concierge or something, anyway, she runs the place, oversees the staff (three in the off seasons, seven in summer), knows how to have decent flowers delivered in Darfur, can arrange for a helicopter into the city on twenty minutes’ notice. She’s got an MBA, she earns real money doing this. She confided once to Peter that she proved to be too domestic for her management consultant job (“alvays airports and hotels, no life”), insists she does not consider this job in any way less than that one; and yet because the Potters consider their staff to be “part of the family,” because they approve of marriages to “nice local girls,” Svenka is willing (or compelled to be willing) to answer the door if she happens to be closest to it when somebody arrives. At other such houses, the Svenkas and Ivans and Grishas (they tend to be well-educated Eastern Europeans) would never deign to answer the door. A maid would do it.

“Helloo, Peter,” she says, grinning with what Peter once thought was lasciviousness but which, as he has come to realize, is actually a sense of complicity, because Svenka knows that although Peter gets picked up by Gus at the station, although he’s invited to dinner parties, he is in fact a servant, just as she is.

“Hello, Svenka. This is Ethan.”

“Hellloo, Ethan. Do come in.”

The foyer of the Potter house, like the rest of the Potter house, is a perfect imitation of itself. What the foyer most immediately offers is a low, black-lacquered Chinese cabinet. Peter doesn’t know Chinese antiquities but you don’t need formal training to see that this thing is ancient, this thing is from some revered dynasty or other and was 240 grand minimum. It supports a pair of chunky French candelabra, brass or bronze, early twentieth century, patinaed to a rich brown-black, and an unornamented Roseville ceramic vase, cream-colored, full always of flowers from Carole’s garden—big blowsy white gardenias, just now. And so, the house announces itself: eclectic but fiendishly edited, prosperous but not ornate, gilt-free, beautiful in a way that will probably charm you if you’re ignorant about furniture and art but will dazzle and humble you if you know your shit.

As Svenka leads them into the living room, Peter glances surreptitiously at Mizzy, to see how he’s taking it, but there’s nothing much on Mizzy’s face at all, and it occurs to Peter that Mizzy may in fact feel a certain sense of homecoming here—it’s probably been a long time since that threshold was crossed by anyone as exquisite and well-made as the objects within.

Still, he wonders: Is Mizzy impressed by all this quiet splendor, or put off by it? It would, of course, speak more compellingly of Mizzy’s character if he was put off (I mean really, sure, it’s beautiful, they’re passing the foyer Ryman now, one of the Potters’ true prizes, almost heart-stoppingly perfect to the left of the Chinese cabinet, but still, but yet, the preciousness of everything, the exhausting preciousness . . . ), though Peter hopes Mizzy is impressed, at least a little—Mizzy, this is my world, I deal routinely with people who’ve got this much money and power, and if it interests you even a little then you’re interested in me as well; whereas if you think it’s all even slightly ridiculous . . . hm, do I have to be ridiculous along with it? It’s just business, after all. I can still cavort on a moonshone lane. I can still dance to the pipes.

And then: the Potters’ living room.

It’s a great room, and it should properly be entered to a flourish of trumpets, maybe Bach—anyway something small but perfect and imperishable in the way of Bach. The whole
house
is perfect, and ever so slightly creepy because of that, save for this, the living room, which is so magnificent it transcends its own pretensions, with its wall of French doors that open onto the square of grass bordered by a rose thicket (the views of Long Island Sound are elsewhere), as if nature itself (okay, the
better
parts of nature) were a series of rooms not unlike the one you’re standing in—outdoor rooms with viridian carpets and ceiling clouds by Michelangelo and blossoming dark green rustling walls. And then, of course, on this side of the glass-paned doors the garden is answered by twin Jean-Michel Frank sofas upholstered in pewter-colored velvet on either side of a Diego Giacometti table that really should be in a museum; by spindly lamps and massive lamps and a clouded old wood-framed mirror (no gold, gold is forbidden here) propped on, not hung over, the austere limestone mantle top; and on the one windowless wall the Big Kahuna, the Agnes Martin, presiding over the room like the visiting god it is, satisfied, it would seem, by these offerings of sofas and tables created by geniuses, by these stacks of books and this gaggle of glass-eyed wooden saints and these Japanese vases full of roses (yellow for the living room) and these shelves full of various collections (Deco pottery, carved wooden Dogon figures, old cast-iron banks) and this enormous ebony bowl filled, just now, with persimmons. In this room, even in daylight, there is a sense of candles flickering just outside your range of vision. There is (for real, it’s a spray) the scent of lavender.

“I take it my guys are here,” Peter says.

“Yes, they’re putting the urn up now.”

Peter can tell she disapproves—something tight happens around her chin. Does she dislike the Groff urn, or art in general? Or, okay, remember—you, Peter, are the one who tried (unsuccessfully, as it turns out) to sell her boss a ball of tar and hair for a small fortune. Svenka, can I really blame you?

“I’ll tell Carole you’re here,” she says, and withdraws.

“Nice room,” Mizzy says, after she’s gone. He’s not being ironic, is he? No. Peter has probably lived too long among fluent speakers of irony.

“The Potters are very good at what they do.”

“What do they do, exactly?”

“Well, really, their main job as far as anyone can tell is being the Potters. The money comes from washers and dryers, but Carole and her husband don’t have anything to do with that. They just, you know. Get the checks.”

Carole enters (oh, God, she didn’t hear that, did she?), with a ritualized air of slightly rushed apology. This, Peter has learned, is one of the customs. She is never immediately available, even if the visitor in question has arrived at precisely the appointed hour. The visitor is always ushered in by Svenka or some other member of the family, and made to wait, briefly, in this spectacular room, for Carole to appear. (How much of his life does Peter spend waiting for someone to make an entrance?) In Carole’s case this is done, as far as Peter can tell, for several reasons. There’s the simple element of theater—and now, the lady of the house! And it must be made apparent that Carole is busy, that she is with some difficulty making time for even the most anticipated of guests.

“Hello, Peter, sorry, I was out watching your men put up the urn.”

Carole is a pale, freckled, blinking woman who seems always to have something small and wonderful in her mouth, a round pebble from the Himalayas, a pearl, that makes it ever so slightly difficult for her to speak clearly but conveys, at the same time, that she has gratefully sacrificed precise diction for the tiny precious object that resides on the back of her tongue. She is prone (she’s wearing one now) to white, rather frilly blouses, vaguely reminiscent of Barbara Stanwyck, which is not exactly the sartorial inclination you’d expect of someone who has this art, these sofas.

Peter gives her his hand. “I’m glad they got it here. What do you think?”

“I like it. I think I might like it a great deal.”

Bingo.

“Carole, this is my brother-in-law, Ethan. He’s thinking of entering the family business, God help him.”

“Nice to meet you, Ethan. Thanks for coming.”

Carole would, with just this queenly feigned sincerity, thank anyone for coming, up to and including the shah of Iran. It is what one does.

Mizzy says, “Hope you don’t mind. I’m just tagging along, really.”

“And Peter,” Carole says, “wanted you to meet one of the last living Americans who buys the occasional work of art. This is what one looks like.”

She does a quick turn, showing herself in her entirety. She can be charming, no denying it. What’s she got on her feet, some kind of green rubber miniboots, must be her gardening shoes.

“Ta-da,” Mizzy says, and he and Carole have themselves a short laugh, which Peter joins in on a moment too late. Mizzy remains, as far as Peter can tell, unintimidated by anyone. Carole may be the queen of her realm, but Mizzy is a prince in his own country, which, though currently a bit impoverished, has a rich, distinguished, and noble history.

“Would you like something to drink?” Carole says. “Coffee, tea, some sparkling water?”

Peter says, “How about a little later? I can’t wait to see how the Groff looks in the garden.”

“A man with a mission.” Does she sneak Mizzy a conspiratorial wink? “Let’s go, then.”

She leads them back out the front door, across the cobblestoned drive to the far side of the house, toward the English garden, speaking to Mizzy and not Peter as they go. Is she being hostessy, or is she dazzled? Both, probably.

She says to Mizzy, “I’m sure Peter told you. I lacked the courage for the last piece I bought from him. I hope he’s planning on introducing you to someone a little braver than I.”

Peter says, “It has nothing to do with courage. The Krim was wrong for you, that’s all.”

“The Krim,” she tells Mizzy, “gave our friends’ miniature schnauzer an actual fit of epilepsy. I can’t get a reputation for upsetting the local dogs.”

“I see the boys have already got it crated up,” Peter says.

“Those boys are good at what they do. You’ve got yourself a fine crew.”

Carole, those boys are art murderers. After today, you’ll never see them again.

“I have a great staff. I hardly do anything anymore.”

“Groff is new to you, right?”

“Yeah. He’s not actually officially one of my artists yet. We’re trying each other out.”

Never lie to these people. They hate, above all, being deceived by the help.

They turn a corner, and there it is. The English garden, as opposed to the trimmed and topiaried French garden outside the living room, is faux wild, as the English have traditionally preferred their gardens to be. The intended effect is that one simply discovered this modest tract of lavender and lilac, and added only the straight graveled path that leads to the circular, stone-ringed pond. On the far side of the pond, Tyler and Branch are jimmying the urn so that it’s centered on its low steel pedestal.

Yes. It looks amazing here.

Smart to have timed the delivery for late afternoon light. The bronze couldn’t be more burnished and green-gold than it is right now. And the shape—its balance of the classical and the cartoonish—is exactly right for this carefully “overgrown” garden, with its knee-high exotic grasses and its scatters of flowering herbs. The urn stands like Narcissus at the edge of the pond, reflected on the water’s pale green surface in a way that emphasizes its quirky but powerful symmetry, the peculiar romantic rightness of its two oversize, ear-shaped handles.

“Nice,” Peter says. “You think?”

“I do,” Carole answers.

“You’ve looked at it up close?”

“Oh, my, yes. It made me blush, and I don’t think I’ve blushed since, oh, sometime in the mideighties.”

“I hope the schnauzer can’t read,” Peter says.

That gets a laugh. Okay, time to admit that he’s feeling the tiniest bit jealous of Mizzy. How could he not feel, at least a little, like an old hack, some Willy Loman–esque figure?

Carole says, “It’s going to be fun translating choice bits for the Chens.”

I love you, Carole, for being, well, yourself. How many residents of Greenwich are this game?

Tyler and Branch are bearded and boho-clad (thank you, Tyler, for not wearing your Eat the Rich T-shirt), which is probably titillating to Carole, who would, of course, have no way of knowing how furious they both are to find themselves installing what they think of as a million-dollar piece of shit. And (of course) they’re on good behavior after the slashing incident. Peter strides up to them as if they’re the best of friends.

“Looks good, guys,” he says. They are, at the moment, edging it a centimeter to the right, so that its base is precisely centered on the square steel column.

It’s decoration, is what it is. Banish that thought.

Tyler just grunts. He surely knows he’s on his way out of this particular job, and surely believes he’ll be better off without it (mightn’t he have gone home to his girlfriend the night before last and said something like “I’ve got to find another gig, next time I’m afraid I’ll cut Peter fucking Harris and not just his crappy art”?). Branch, however, is all smile and howdy, no reason to suspect he’s any happier than Tyler (Branch makes rather Krim-like constructions out of scrap lumber and broken bits of mirror, he doesn’t seem to know or care that beauty is making a comeback), but he doesn’t want to lose his job.

Carole and Mizzy come and stand beside Peter. Carole says to Tyler and Branch, “Would you boys like some coffee and a snack when you’re finished?”

“Can’t,” Tyler answers. “We’ve gotta get right back on the road.”

“Thanks, though,” beams Branch. Odds are, he’s pissed at Tyler, too.
Thanks for being rude to a rich old lady who buys art, motherfucker.

“So,” Peter says. “If you think you like it, live with it for a while, show it to the Chens, show it to some schnauzers, and we’ll talk.”

No pressure, not even a little.

“All right,” Carole says, “but I feel pretty sure. You know me, I’m not prone to indecision. I had doubts about the Krim from the beginning.”

“Please, please tell me I didn’t push you into it.”