Wrapping his broad smooth fingers around the beveled mouth of his glass, Goldman took a drink of water. He dried his lips with a linen napkin and continued:
“Goldman's Law says that ultimately economics always prevails over politics. When government becomes the major impediment to economic progress, sooner or later government has to change. Let me be more specific. We are now for all practical purposes out of buildable land.”
Leaning back, Goldman spread his fingers and began slowly tapping them together.
“Economic expansion now depends on our ability to convince government to allow private development of some small part of the public lands it controls.”
Goldman glanced one last time around the table, nodded once, then picked up his knife and fork and began to eat. He did not speak again until dessert was served.
“The company, as you probably know,”he began, shoving aside the chocolate mousse after only one bite, “owns a very substantial tract of land near Arcadia, immediately adjacent to the national redwood park. I have begun three-way negotiations to trade it for a much smaller parcel of state park land just north of here, which would, according to our estimates, provide enough space to meet the development requirements for the next twenty years. We would of course want each of you to be involved in the project from the very beginning, from planning to completion.”
Turning up his soft hands, Goldman raised his head, waiting for the first question.
Thomas Malreaux, thirty-six years old, the founder and head of a software company worth more, at least on paper, than all but a handful of the corporations included in the S&P 500, spoke up. “Lawrence, you said you had begun negotiations. How long do you think it might be before you actually know?”
Only someone who had known him for a very long time, someone who had learned to detect the almost invisible signs of his displeasure, would have noticed the slight twinge that formed at the corner of Lawrence Goldman's mouth. Paula, who had visited so often that her presence went practically unnoticed, caught it right away. Thomas Malreaux, on the other hand, assumed that what for just an instant had flashed across the old man's face was nothing more than the abbreviated beginnings of a smile.
“The federal government, as you might imagine, is eager to increase the size of its holdings,”explained Goldman, peering at his guest through half-closed eyes. “The state government, on the other hand, is not quite so eager to release the land we want.”
With a derisive laugh, Malreaux wagged his head. “The government can't even add right. They're going to get— what?—ten, twenty times more land in this deal, and they can't even figure that out!”
With his hands under the table, Goldman slowly arched his eyebrows.
“Size is of course not always the sole measure of value,”he remarked dryly. “But beyond that, there is the political problem always faced when you deal with two governments, a problem compounded in this instance by the fact those two governments are controlled by two different political parties.”
He let his eye linger a moment longer on the young Mr. Malreaux, and then, turning his attention to his other guests, explained, “In the past, as you know, I have done what I could for Augustus Marshall. But, given the choice we have now, I'm throwing my support to Jeremy Fullerton. I hope all of you can do the same.”
He looked around the table, a benevolent smile on his face. Then, with the same deliberate ambiguity with which he had so often wrapped a threat inside a promise, he added:
“It will make all the difference in the world if you do.”
He let everyone contemplate for a moment the meaning of what he had just said, before he laughed good-naturedly and exclaimed, “And it isn't because the senator had the great good sense to hire my daughter.”
Goldman looked directly across the table to Ariella.
“Though the fact she writes most of his speeches gives me some reason to hope that he will at least say all the right things.”
After the last guest had gone and Christopher Borden had said good night, Paula joined Ariella and her father in his study. The long flight back from France and the long evening of disciplined affability had taken their toll. Ariella sank into a square brown leather chair at the side of her father's desk. She began to unfasten her earrings. With his back to them, Goldman ran his hand along the bookshelf behind the desk.
“Here it is,”he said, pulling out a slim volume. “You should read this,”he remarked, turning to his daughter. “Aldous Huxley:
Brave New World.
”
Sitting down, Goldman crossed his legs and opened the book. A wry smile curved across his wide mouth, stretched down at the corners, and turned into a look of almost amused disdain. He shook his head and then, glancing up, closed the book and nodded once.
“You really should read it,”he said as he set it down on the desk. “It goes a long way toward explaining all this.”
“All this?”asked Ariella wearily as she removed her other earring.
Goldman turned away from her to stare out the window at the dark impenetrable night.
“The world run by engineers. That's what has happened, of course. Those people tonight—engineers. They don't build bridges anymore, they build computers; but it's the same mentality. They see everything in such simple, rigid terms. They go from point to point, making everything smaller, faster, more repetitive. There is no depth, no nuance, no understanding, nothing like a comprehensive view of things—just that same, deadly addiction to making everything a numeric function. They talk about improving the overall level of intelligence— the social IQ, some of them call it—by connecting everyone with everyone else. They're not smart enough to see that as what 'society' supposedly knows goes up, what an individual understands goes down. In this 'new economy' of theirs, everyone will become a specialist who knows more and more about less and less. It is going to be one great ant heap, everyone working together to produce astonishing efficiencies, and everyone will be essentially the same. There won't be any individuals anymore. There won't be anyone interesting, much less unique. There will be a great, all-embracing sameness, all the more oppressive because no will feel in any way oppressed.”
For a few moments, he stared in silence. Then, as if he had only now become aware of her presence, he swung his head around to Paula, who was sitting on a davenport next to the fireplace on the other side of the room.
“I hope you had a nice evening,”he said warmly.
Paula started to respond, but Goldman's eyes swept past her and settled on his daughter.
“And such astonishing greed!”he marveled. His mouth grew hard, a crafty, cynical expression on it. “It almost makes it too easy, doesn't it?”
“They haven't had money long enough to understand it,”remarked Ariella shrewdly and, Paula thought, a little impatiently. “They know only how to count it.”
Goldman nodded. “Yes, precisely.”
He moved his chair until he faced Ariella directly. “Now, tell me all about our future governor and would-be president.”
Ariella was so tired she could barely keep her head up. “What would you like to know?”she asked, her voice a dreary monotone as she reached down to remove her shoes.
“Well, I really don't have much interest in what kind of lover he is,”said Goldman sharply. “Unless, of course, that's the only thing you care to talk about!”
With her shoes in one hand and her earrings in the other, Ariella got to her feet. “I didn't deserve that,”she said, her eyes flashing.
He apologized immediately. “Yes, you're right—you didn't. Please,”he went on, gesturing toward the empty chair, “stay just a while longer.”
Her annoyance at the way he had spoken to her was still evident as she rather reluctantly sat down on the edge of the chair.
“There isn't much to tell. You were right. Jeremy is running for governor because he wants to take the nomination away from the president in two years. He thinks that if he waits until the president finishes a second term, the vice president will get the nomination. You were right: He wants to beat an incumbent governor so he can turn right around and use the momentum to beat an incumbent president.”
Watching her as she again rose from the chair, Goldman nodded. “He never struck me as the kind of man willing to wait for anything. Tell me,”he asked as Ariella started to turn away, “will he leave his wife for you?”
Ariella looked back at him, her chin raised high. On the side of her mouth was that same slight twitch Paula had observed on Lawrence Goldman's face earlier at dinner.
“It wouldn't be the first time someone left his wife for me, would it?”
Ariella took a step toward the door, then stopped and came back. Bending down, she kissed him on the forehead.
“It's late. I'm dead tired. I'm going to bed. You should be going yourself.”
Goldman got to his feet and patted her on the arm. “I have to make a call to New York, then I thought I'd read for a while.”He pointed toward a hardbound book with a brightly colored jacket. On the cover was a drawing of the Golden Gate Bridge. “Another book about San Francisco,”he said with a sigh. “I read them all,”he explained, glancing across at Paula as if she had just entered the room. “I don't know why. They never get it right.”
Ariella looked at the clock on the corner of her father's desk.
“You're calling New York at this hour? It's quarter past four there,”she said, thinking he must have reversed the time difference.
“Yes, it really can't wait.”
Picking up the receiver, he began to dial. His eyes moved from his daughter to Paula and back again.
“Either of you remember the name of that company our good friend Malreaux owns?”
With his hand over the receiver, he thanked Paula when she told him and then said good night to them both. Both elbows on the desk, Lawrence Goldman stared straight ahead.
“Hello, Herbert. This is Lawrence. Sorry to call so late,”he said, talking slowly, never changing the tone or the pitch of his voice.
With Paula right behind her, Ariella made her way to the doorway and then waited to hear what her father was planning to do. He was quite explicit.
“Start the usual rumors: bad management, falling demand, worse-than-expected earnings. Start selling what we have of it, and then, when the price is as far down as it is going to go, buy enough so we have a position sufficient to force out Thomas Malreaux.”
The guest room where Paula stayed was right next to Ariella's bedroom. They said good night at the door and Ariella reminded her that they were scheduled to ride at eight the next morning. Paula woke up before six and, unable to get back to sleep, decided to go into the kitchen and have coffee. Throwing on a robe, she stepped out of her room and began to make her way down the hallway. As she passed the other guest bedroom, the one where Christopher Borden was staying, the door opened and Ariella, wearing nothing but a silk nightgown, was suddenly standing right in front of her. Startled, Ariella's expression seemed to change from one of fear and embarrassment to one of defiance and contempt. Without a word, she swept past Paula and disappeared into her own room down the hall. It had all happened so quickly that for a moment Paula had to wonder if she had seen her there at all or whether it had not been a trick of her own early morning imagination.
Marissa poured into my glass the last few drops of wine left in the bottle.
“Paula was never judgmental. She knew that Ariella had been having an affair with Jeremy Fullerton; but she thought that was because Ariella was in love with him. She also thought Ariella loved her; perhaps not as much as she, Paula, loved Ariella, but enough,”said Marissa with a melancholy smile. “But when she saw Ariella coming out of Christopher Borden's bedroom—when she knew Ariella had been sleeping with a man she had only just met—she knew she was doing it because her father needed Borden's help; then everything changed. Paula was not just hurt; she was angry, angry at herself. She should have known from the beginning that no one had any value to the Goldmans except as a means to whatever they wanted to have.”
Marissa stared out the windows at the lights of the city, silhouetted on the dark waters of the bay.
“Paula was supposed to meet Ariella at the stables to go riding,”she said presently. “Instead, she packed her bag and left. She hasn't talked to Ariella since.”
I helped Marissa clear the table and straighten the kitchen. As she put the last glass away, she turned to me.
“That's enough about Lawrence Goldman and his daughter. Let's talk about something more interesting. Let's talk about you and me.”
A mirthful, teasing smile crossed her mouth.
“You can stay here tonight—if you want. I'd like it if you did.”
I
f I had been born less of a coward, or if I had learned to control the sometimes irrational workings of my mind, it might not have taken quite so long to recover from the fear that had seized upon me the moment Andrei Bogdonovitch was blown to bits in that explosion and fire. I had checked out of the St. Francis Hotel and had become the household guest of my cousin; I traveled by different routes and at different times; I studied the faces of the strangers I passed in the crowd on the chance I might have seen them somewhere before. I was as careful as I knew how to be, and yet, despite all my precautions, despite the absence of even a single tangible fact to suggest that I was in any more danger now than I had been before the death of that strange, enigmatic Russian, I could not escape the feeling that something was not quite right. Whenever I looked over my shoulder, at the people on the sidewalk behind me or the people packed in the courtroom every day at trial, I had the uncanny sense that someone was not only watching me but knew that at that very moment I was thinking of him.
Clarence Haliburton was near the end of his opening statement, but instead of thinking ahead to what I was going to tell the jury, I sat with my chair at an angle to the counsel table, searching the faces of the crowd.
“And when you've heard all the evidence,”I heard the district attorney droning on in the background, “I'm sure you'll agree that the People have met their burden and that the guilt of the defendant, Jamaal Washington, has been proven beyond a reasonable doubt.”