The Legacy (31 page)

“I don't know, Jean.
Duomo,
” he said thoughtfully, thinking that it sounded more reasonable in Italian. “It's a strange place, I grant you. Do you know, they began to build it in 1387, and it's not finished yet. I look at it, and I wonder how many good Catholics were murdered by war or otherwise since they put down the foundation stones. Ah well, you must not expect too much emotion from a failed Catholic.”

“I suppose we're all lost souls, more or less. Danny dropped his Catholicism the day we were married. When did you lose yours, Steve, or shouldn't I ask?”

“Ah, yes, why not? I'm quite tired, Jean. Suppose we make our way across the square and have a coffee?”

They made an impressive couple, walking slowly across the wide plaza, the tall, slender old man and the white-haired old lady, both of them so very straight and proper. When they took their places at a table on the sidewalk in front of one of the cafés and Stephan ordered for them, Jean reflected on the pleasure of traveling in Italy with someone whose Italian was so fluent.

“When I left the Church,” Stephan said, stirring his coffee. “Well, that was a long time ago.”

“You don't have to. When I'm too inquisitive, Stephan, you must learn to ignore me.”

“You're never too inquisitive, Jean.”

“Bless you.”

“In 1918, in a trench in France, we were ordered to attack. The first platoon never got out of the trench. They were cut down on the lip. I was in the second wave, and fifteen minutes later the war was over for me, and I was lying there with a hole in my belly big enough to put my fist in. That was when I left the Church.”

Jean nodded. “Try to understand, dear Stephan, that when I am very supercilious, I am simply evading something in myself.”

“As you said before, we are tourists.”

“How far can you stretch that? I keep thinking of Freddie. When it's your grandson, your own flesh and blood, it's very hard to be a tourist.”

“But you said he was all right, back on his feet, even playing ball again.”

“But inside — I don't know. I shall have to reserve judgment until I see him and speak to him. I pray that he will forget, but how does one forget such a thing?”

“We don't forget. We manage to live with it.”

“And once your fellow man has turned barbarian, how do you look at other people?”

“As a tourist, I suppose. It becomes a foreign country wherever you are, a kind of exile. Only —” He hesitated; his dark eyes clouded, turned inward. “Only, there's no place to go home to.”

Friends of Barbara Lavette sometimes remarked on the fact that through the years she had managed to maintain a polite if not effusive relationship with her brother Thomas. Those who idealized Barbara felt that she was incapable of hating anyone, but in this they were wrong. She had experienced a good deal of hatred, of burning fury, of lasting and deep-seated anger. Others, more cynical, commented that it was hard to break relations with a thousand million dollars, regardless of the character of the owner, and still others accepted the theory that rich families remain united because they are rich. In truth, Barbara pitied her brother, and since it is said that one never pities those one respects or loves, but uses pity as a substitute for guilt, it may well be that there was a deep-seated guilt in Barbara. “Because,” as she once told Dr. Albright, “I've had so much and he's had so little. I've been able to love and to feel and to weep when I had to, and he hasn't been able to do any of that, and I have a son who loves me and he has a son who hates him.”

Thus when Tom called and asked Barbara to lunch with him, explaining that he had something of great importance to discuss, she readily agreed. They met at the Mark Hopkins, after Barbara had demurred over his invitation to his private corporate dining room. Barbara was willing to maintain a social relationship, but for reasons she did not wholly understand, she was unwilling to set foot in the towering high-rise that was the international headquarters of the far-flung Lavette enterprises.

At fifty-two, Tom still had a fine head of hair, the blond locks turning silver at the edges. He had put on weight, but he was not fat, and his face remained unwrinkled. Handsome, beautifully tailored, his eyes clear gray, he displayed no trace of his dark, curly-haired, heavily muscled father. The genes had opted for what Barbara thought of as the ultimate WASP, the quintessential establishment figure, the new corporate lord whose power and influence reached to every corner of the earth. That was her own projection; in actuality, she sat facing a very troubled and unhappy man whose stomach gave him little peace. He pecked at his food without enthusiasm. “No, they don't think it's an ulcer. Nerves. If I knew as little about my business as they do about theirs, I'd retire. But I didn't bring you here to bore you with my digestive problems.”

“It's a family prerogative,” Barbara acknowledged. He was being human and rather humble.

“You don't have such problems?”

“I'm disgustingly healthy. Do you get any exercise, Tom?”

“Enough of that. I want to talk about Frederick. Have you seen him?”

“I had dinner there last week.”

“How did you find him?”

“Very well — physically, I mean. In good health. But different. If you remember the way he was ——”

“I don't remember,” Tom interrupted. “I haven't seen him for seven years.”

“I'm sorry. Well, he's a brilliant boy, A average, Phi Beta Kappa, all sorts of honors, not easy at Princeton, as you well know. He used to be a bit flip about it — not insolent, yet not given to hiding his light under a bushel. He'd hold forth on just about any subject under the sun, and not superficially either. It could be a very distinct pain in the neck; I remember once, at dinner, his delivering himself of a lecture on the ancient Sumerians. Of course, Eloise worships the ground he walks on, and no one wants to hurt her by saying, Oh, Freddie, please shut up.”

“Sounds damned spoiled to me.”

“Oh, no. That was years ago. But since that wretched business in the South, he's changed a great deal. Very quiet and very little to say. You must understand, Tom, that aside from that awful thing that was done to him, he had to witness two boys whom he loved put to death in the most horrible and bestial manner.”

“Why in God's name did he go down there?”

“Because he had to, I suppose. I can understand that. You do things that you have to do — when you're young and when you're like Freddie.”

“Well, I'm damned if I understand it. What did those kids die for? What did they change?”

“Tom,” she said gently, “no one sets out to die. It happens. Perhaps it changes something. We can only say thank God he's all right.”

“Well — yes. Of course.” He was silent for a minute or so, toying with his food, tasting the wine. Then he said suddenly, explosively, “Damnit, Bobby, I haven't seen him for seven years! That's not right! He's my only child. Here I've built this damned empire with a net worth of over a billion dollars — I am fifty-two years old. A man thinks about that. What happens to it?”

“I don't know, Tom. I've not given much thought to that.”

“What does he want to do with himself, now that he's out of school?”

“Tom, you know the situation out there at Higate.”

“I'm afraid I don't. I've never been there. I've never considered the Levys as part of my family,” he said coldly.

“Come on, Tom. They were part of the family before either of us was born. It was Levy and Lavette that we inherited. No, I'm sorry. We must not squabble. Anyway, when Jake Levy bought Higate, back in 1918, it was a kind of ruined, worthless place. Today, it's one of the great wineries of California. It's what they call a very serious and highly respected label, and up there in Napa, wine is not a business, it's a religion. I've listened to the kids, Freddie and his brother, Joshua, and my son, Sam, sit around and talk endlessly about wine. You wouldn't believe it. So when you ask what Freddie intends to do with himself, I don't think he's ever seriously considered anything apart from Higate. Jake Levy is sixty-five and he still supervises the place, but Adam actually runs the business. Freddie, they tell me, has worked out an entirely new approach, using stainless steel vats ——”

“Bobby, he can't waste his life out in the boondocks, making wine! He's a Lavette. He's my son.”

“Tom, he's lived there. It's his life.”

“I want to see him, talk to him.”

“I think you should.”

“He wouldn't come. He's washed me out of his life. I don't exist for him.”

“Have you tried?”

“No.” He shook his head unhappily. “I can't do it, I can't face that kind of rejection. Bobby, I don't even know what he looks like.”

“He looks much the way you did thirty years ago. If I were you, Tom, I'd try. I don't know how the boy would react. I don't think he knows himself. I'd do it gently. I wouldn't throw any challenges at him.”

Back in his office, Tom dictated a letter, made changes, dictated it a second time, and then tore that copy up and wrote a third letter by hand. “My dear son,” he wrote. “It's been many years since we have seen each other. When I heard of that terrible occurrence in Mississippi I realized how strong my feelings for you were. I want very much to see you again. If it is possible for you to spend an hour or two with me, either here or over lunch, I would be most grateful. You can call me at the above number or drop me a note or stop by any time that is convenient for you. I will welcome a meeting with affection and gratitude.” He signed it, “Thomas Lavette.” He would have liked to have put, “Your loving father,” but there his courage failed him. He addressed the envelope himself, that no one else might read it, and he went out to the corridor and dropped it into the mail chute himself.

The reply came three days later. “I'll be in San Francisco on August 12th,” Fred wrote. “I can stop by at your office at four o'clock.” It was signed, simply, “Frederick Lavette.”

On the twelfth, Thomas Lavette sat in his office waiting. He had cleared the afternoon, no appointments, no calls, no interruptions. He was nervous, apprehensive, a bit frightened. Suddenly, he had become aware of the size and fittings of his office. He felt that the huge nonobjective paintings on the walls were too large, too garish, the furniture tasteless, the immense mahogany spread of his desk pretentious and ridiculous. Even the magnificent view from the windows, a view of the whole shimmering surface of San Francisco Bay and the hills beyond, troubled him, and he would have exchanged it gladly for a shadowed wall of buildings. Yet, knowing nothing about his son, why was he presuming what he would like or dislike? Or was he simply concluding that Fred would adopt an adversary position to everything he chose or liked or favored?

At four o'clock, almost to the minute, his secretary buzzed him and informed him that Mr. Lavette was here.

“Well, bring him in. I told you that. I told you not to keep him waiting.”

He got up immediately and walked around the desk. He'd be damned if he'd greet him from behind that enormous desk. There would be barriers enough. He stood motionless as the door opened and Fred entered. Barbara had mentioned an image of himself thirty years ago, but in truth, he had no image of himself thirty years ago. This was a stranger, this slender, tall, light-haired young man, blue blazer, gray flannel trousers, white shirt, Princeton tie, orange and black — did that portend a suggestion of a connection — a reaching out? — the handsome face gravely noncommittal.

Tom offered his hand and his son took it, the grip firm but not lingering.

“Thank you for coming,” Tom said. Fred nodded. “Can I offer you something, coffee, a cocktail?”

“No thank you, sir.”

“Will you sit down?” Tom asked, nodding at one of the easy chairs.

“I'd like to look at the view for a moment — if you don't mind?”

“Of course.”

Fred walked over to the huge window. “It's overwhelming — almost as good as the Top of the Mark. I don't think I could get anything done in a room like this. I'd just stand here and stare out of the window.”

“That's why I sit with my back to it.”

“Yes, that figures.” He turned and studied his father. His memory was of a man, whereas Tom's memory was of a boy. The boy was gone; the man was still there. “I can understand why you wanted to see me,” Fred said, “and in your place, I would want to. The childish anger I had, the feeling that you had used my mother badly and hurt her — well, I can handle that. But there's nevertheless a tremendous gulf between us, and I'm not sure I can ever lessen the width of that gulf.”

Tom nodded.

“I had to say this.”

“I understand. I would like to hope that in time it might be otherwise, but I understand your feelings and I can respect them. I meant what I said before. I am grateful to you for agreeing to come here. Please sit down.” Tom picked up a cigarette box. “Do you smoke?”

“Only pot, and I've rather put that aside since coming of age.”

Tom smiled, thinking that all things considered, he liked the boy. At least he was straightforward and blunt. You didn't have to wonder what he was thinking.

“I'm sure,” Tom said, “that you know something about this monster which we have created and which we euphemistically call GCS. We spread into a dozen different industries, and we're very large, wealthy, and successful, for whatever that is worth. I don't think I have to stress the fact that I had a very deep desire to see my son. You may not think of yourself in those terms, but I do. You're my only issue, as they say, and whatever your feelings about me are, GCS is a fact apart. I mean it exists as an entity, apart from both of us. Well —” He paused, struggling to find appropriate words. Fred watched him silently, impassive, waiting. “Let me put it this way. You've finished school and you're stepping into the world. You face a choice of careers. I think that puts you in a fortunate position.” Tom shook his head, provoked at himself. “Let me try to be as straightforward as you have been with me. I want you here. I want you in the business. I want an opportunity to work with you and train you to take it over some day. It's no small thing. We are the most powerful conglomerate in California, and with the Fortune Five Hundred, we rank in the top twenty-five.”