She hung up the receiver and told Levanter his father’s condition remained unchanged. Then she dried herself and lay down on the bed, just inches away from him.
Levanter was aroused, and he was afraid to stand up because he would be embarrassed if she noticed. He did not move. Attempting to appear at ease, he reclined a bit, only to feel her thighs against his back. Without a word his mother reached for him, and without a word he responded.
She pulled his face to her neck, her shoulders, then her breasts. She held him at her nipples, then slid partially under him. As he began caressing her body with his tongue, she pushed herself farther under him and gripped his shoulders, pulling his body upward. He ceased to be aware of anything but his need for her and entered her, eager and abandoned.
Levanter and his mother remained lovers for years, although she continued to find women for him. They were together only in the morning. By sleeping in the nude and making love with him only when she had just awakened, his mother never undressed especially for him. She never allowed him to kiss her on the mouth and, despite her animated discussions of the sexual proclivities of other women, always insisted that he caress nothing but her breasts.
He never talked with his mother about their lovemaking. Her bed was like a silent, physical confessional: what happened between them there was never talked about.
Once Levanter left Eastern Europe, he could not return, and the authorities would not permit his mother to travel abroad. But when she had had several unsuccessful operations for cancer and all the doctors agreed that her end was imminent, she was allowed to meet her son in Switzerland. They had been separated for twenty years.
Levanter waited in the arrivals building and watched as the passengers came through immigration. He noticed a nurse and an airport steward pushing a wheelchair with a small, shriveled woman wearing an ill-fitting wig. This was not what he was expecting and he started to turn away when the woman raised a frail hand and waved at him.
He ran toward her. She embraced him and looked hard at his face. He kissed the hollow cheeks and loosely fleshed hands, trying not to cry. Her wig slid sideways. Levanter, pained to see that she was bald, held her closer. He commented on her perfume, and she was pleased that he recognized it after so many years. She whispered that she had met a beautiful young woman on the plane and had arranged for the three of them to meet for tea one day.
The day never came. The excitement of preparing for the journey, the stress of the trip itself, and the meeting with her son took all her remaining energy. On the second day in Switzerland, she collapsed. Her awareness waned and she began to fear that she would not regain it; she asked the doctor and nurse to let her spend her last moments alone with her son.
She gestured for him to lie down beside her, and he obeyed. The arm that reached toward him was covered with bluish patches around veins which had been pierced by repeated injections. Yet as she touched him, her face took on the indulgent transfixed expression that had been so familiar to him. She guided his hand through the opening in her robe and when he stroked her breasts, her eyes glazed over, as if her thoughts were miles away.
Just before Pauline left ValPina, Levanter invited her to visit the underground lake of St. Leonard. The lake had been discovered when a huge boulder was displaced by a rockslide in an earth tremor that shook the valley just after the war.
When they arrived at the narrow opening to the rectangular cavern, the custodian, a young man in a sheepskin coat, seemed surprised to see them. Although the fifty-foot-deep lake was a popular tourist attraction, visitors seldom came to St. Leonard in the winter because the cavern was too cold. He sold them tickets, and they followed him into the grotto, leaving the daylight behind.
The narrow walkway was lit by dim electric bulbs. They reached the edge of the lake, but could not see the far end, a thousand feet away. The custodian untied one of the three boats moored to a rock and steadied it as first Levanter and then Pauline stepped in and sat down.
Levanter started the boat moving with one powerful pull of the oars. They glided noiselessly into the shadowy space, breaking the still water and upsetting the reflection cast upon it by the bulbs attached to the rock roof. In seconds, the lights of the mooring site disappeared as Levanter rowed around a curving wall of rock. The cave opened before them, revealing massive walls of limestone, iron, and marble. Elsewhere, nature surrendered these raw materials to man, but here they seemed appropriated solely for nature’s own use. Levanter had the sense of intruding in the domain of an artist who worked hidden from the world.
A school of albino fish flashed in the translucent waters around the boat. The custodian had told them that salmon were brought in; after weeks of being deprived of natural light, the fish lost their orange coloring and turned chalk-white.
Levanter folded the oars, and the boat floated slowly. They were in the center of the cave, hardly moving. The light that reflected in the water seemed to be shining up from below the surface. Pauline’s shadowed face looked unfamiliar in the strange half-light.
“If the mountain above us collapsed and cut us off here —” she began. She waited for him to finish her thought.
Levanter said, “We would just wait here together until they came to blast away the rocks.”
“For how long?” she murmured.
“A few days, I guess. Maybe more. It would depend on how much rock fell over the entrance.”
“What would we do while we waited to be rescued?”
“Talk.”
“Talk about what?”
“About ourselves,” he told her. “Possibly for the last time.”
“Then this could be our last talk,” she said, huddling down in the boat, drawing her long fox coat tightly around her.
“It could,” he agreed. “Still, this cave has brought us close to each other.”
The fish darted from under the boat, their white bodies glittering in the faint light.
“A baseball player I once knew,” said Levanter, “fell in love with a teen-age waitress in a small town where his team sometimes played. Soon the girl was in love with him too. Each time he came to town, they would lock themselves in his hotel room after the game and make love until they were exhausted. Some months later, he was bought by a major-league team and became a big star, playing only in large cities.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Pauline asked.
Levanter smiled. “This is how we get close to one another. Besides, you’re a performer, like him. In any case, the baseball player didn’t get back to that town for a year. When he looked for the waitress, he learned that she’d become a hooker. He went to the club she hung out at and asked her to come to his hotel room. She said she didn’t like him anymore and refused to go with him. He thought she was teasing, so he assured her that he wanted her then as much as he had always wanted her — it was simply the circumstances of his life that had changed. Again she said she wouldn’t go, and when he offered to pay her, she said no money would make her sleep with him again. This time he believed she meant it.”
The boat bumped against a rocky ledge. Levanter set it gliding again. Pauline’s attention was on him, but she said nothing.
“Later in the evening,” he went on, “the baseball player called the owner of the club. Using a made-up name, he claimed to be an old customer of hers and promised to pay double the regular price if she could be sent to his suite. He left the door unlocked and waited in the bathroom. When she knocked, he shouted for her to take the money from the dresser and make herself comfortable. Seconds later he ran out and locked the door. Once again he told her that he’d always loved her. She threw the money at him and started to dress. He put his arms around her. As she tried to struggle free, he reached into a drawer for his gun. She laughed at him. She died of two bullet wounds. After a short trial, he was acquitted.”
In the morning, Levanter drove to Aratus, a three-story chalet with several garages, a tennis court, and iron sculptures adorning acres of private park. T
he driveway appeared to have been swept and sanded recently, and everything about the chalet suggested constant care.
Levanter parked just outside the entrance to the grounds and waited. The ValPina postman pulled up to the house in his small car. He placed a stack of mail on the front doormat, rang the bell, and, without waiting for a response, drove away again. Levanter left his car and walked to the door with the confident stride of an expected visitor. At the door, he bent down as if to brush the snow off his boots and trousers, and, certain he could not be seen from any of the windows, he quickly perused the mail. He spotted a large manila envelope, looked at the return address, and deftly tucked it under his coat. Then, in case anyone in the house had seen him approach, he stepped far enough back to be visible and slapped his forehead as if he had just discovered that he was at the wrong house. As he was about to drive away, he saw the chalet door open. A black woman in a maid’s uniform picked up the mail and, without looking around, took it inside.
An hour later, Levanter telephoned Aratus. A butler answered and Levanter asked for Clarence Weston, Sr. It was a matter concerning Pacific and Central Enterprises, Inc., he said.
Weston came to the phone. Levanter introduced himself and asked for an appointment.
“What is it you want from me, Mr. Levanter?” asked Weston in the manner of a man accustomed to fending off requests.
Levanter was not deterred. “Some highly confidential information about Pacific and Central has leaked. I think you should know about it.”
“I know my company, Mr. Levanter. If something has leaked, it wasn’t confidential. If that’s all, then —” He was ready to hang up.
“It’s about the Monaco deal,” said Levanter. “And the results of the talks Rashid, Omani, and Young held in Lake Tahoe.”
Weston was silent.
“I’m sorry to have troubled you, Mr. Weston,” said Levanter, his tone indicating he too was now ready to end their conversation.
“Where are you calling from, Mr. Levanter?” Weston asked quickly.
Levanter gave the name of his hotel.
“My car will pick you up in twenty minutes.”
When Levanter arrived at the chalet, Weston was waiting for him in a large living room. Apparently in his sixties, he had gray hair and a ruddy complexion. As he gestured Levanter to the soft leather chair beside him, Weston’s bright eyes seemed to be making a careful assessment of his visitor. The black maid whom Levanter had seen picking up the mail now brought in coffee, cognac, and a plate of biscuits.
“What do you do, Mr. Levanter?” he asked.
“I do as I please.”
Weston laughed, displaying the unnatural whiteness of denture enamel. “Many men can say that. But how do you make a living?” He leaned forward.
“I have always been an investor,” said Levanter. “A self-employed idea man. A few times a year I come across an idea and try to sell it to people who might need it.”
Weston picked up a biscuit and bit at it delicately. “How do you get these ideas?” he asked, openly ironic.
“Any investor knows that ideas are traps,” said Levanter. “But only one who knows how to set the trap will make a catch.”
“And you, Mr. Levanter, decided that you knew how to set one for me — and figured you could make a killing. Is that so?” He did not wait for an answer. “Well, not yet, my friend. The Monaco deal is someone else’s trap. You couldn’t have come across it all by yourself. Someone must have helped you set me up or worked for you.” He leaned closer. His expression was hard, almost hostile. “Isn’t this simply blackmail, Mr. Levanter? You tell me who is selling the secrets of Pacific and Central and I pay you for the tip?” He looked into Levanter’s eyes. “How much?”
Levanter got up and walked across the room, the thick, furry carpet muting the sound of his steps. He stopped and gazed out of the large window. The snow glittered in the sun, its smooth, vast surface broken here and there by fox pawprints. Below, he could see the valley of Valais.
“When are you going back to California?” he asked Weston.
Weston looked impatient. “If you don’t know that, Levanter, your insiders didn’t tell you much,” he said sternly. “Now, what’s your answer?”
“You are still the chairman of the board and chief executive officer of the company, aren’t you?” Levanter asked. “I want to be sure I’m talking to the right man.”
“That’s what the corporate letterhead shows,” answered Weston. “But for some time now I have been performing my duties from here, by remote control, you might say. A self-imposed semiretirement of sorts.”
“How come?”
“Age. Some arthritis. To save remaining energy.” His smile looked forced. “It’s a multibillion-dollar company, Levanter. Thousands of employees. Shareholders. As long as I’m here they can’t keep track of the state of my health. No one bothers me. You’re the first.” He chuckled.
Levanter pointed out the window at the extensive grounds. “And all this is yours?”
Weston nodded. “It sure is. But don’t be too impressed,” he added quickly. “It’s just twenty-five acres. The Arab next door owns four times as much land, and he’s building eight separate villas on it — one for each of his wives.”
Levanter returned to his chair. “If I were to tell you how I obtained a detailed account of the Monaco deal and those talks in Lake Tahoe, what would you do?”
Weston became animated. “I would fire the person who allowed the information to get out. I would teach the bastard a lesson he’d never forget.”
“Why?”
“Why? This is a publicly owned corporation. A leak like this could have serious consequences.” He stopped.
Levanter spoke. “Yes, it could. It could force the resignation of your top men, a loss of confidence in Washington and on Wall Street. The company’s stock would plummet, millions of shareholders would lose their savings. And all this as you sit here in the comfort of your mountain estate, enjoying the fortune that you have accumulated over the years. Meanwhile, many of the investors, contractors and subcontractors, and dozens of companies that depend on your conglomerate would go out of business.”
Weston rose from his chair, his face flushed. “Now wait a minute.” He raised his voice. “I owe nothing to anyone.”
“Now you wait,” Levanter countered. “I’m the one who discovered the man responsible for the leak.”
“How much do you want to name him?”
“I haven’t said that what I know is for sale, or that I intend to reveal it to anyone else,” said Levanter. “But if another man came to you with what I know, how much would you pay him for telling you how he got the information?”
Weston sat down. “Is this bastard at Pacific and Central the only one responsible for the leak?”
“As far as I know, he is,” said Levanter with conviction.
“And he can be stopped?”
“He can. Very easily.”
Weston picked up a pencil and wrote something on a small pad. He tore off the slip of paper and passed it to Levanter.
Levanter glanced at it. “Are you sure you’re not too generous?” he asked.
“You don’t have the check yet,” said Weston with a laugh.
Levanter stood up and walked out to the hall. He took the envelope from his coat and went back to the living room and handed it to Weston. “Here it is, all intact,” he said. “And the addressee is the bastard whose negligence allowed me to obtain it.”
Weston looked at the name. His face turned red as he anxiously emptied the envelope. “What do you mean ‘negligence’?” he demanded.
“I picked up the envelope outside your door this morning.”
“How did you know this would be in today’s mail?” Weston asked.
“I didn’t. But I’m sure you receive something like this almost every day. I assume you do only the unimportant transactions by phone since it is likely to be tapped, and certainly you don’t trust messengers. Anyway, ho
w do you know I haven’t been picking up and resealing your mail for weeks?”
Weston was angry. “Stealing mail is against the law. I can have you arrested.”
“You can,” said Levanter. “But is what I’ve done worse than Monaco?”
Weston did not respond. He had turned his attention away from Levanter and begun to sort through the papers.
“Well, everything is in order,” Weston said as he slipped them back into the envelope. “You haven’t made any copies?” he asked.
“What for? I’m a small investor,” said Levanter. “That’s what I’ll always be.”
Weston got up again and paced for a moment. “Wait here,” he ordered and left the room with the manila envelope. He came back a few minutes later. “This is for you,” he said, handing Levanter a check.
“You don’t have to,” said Levanter.
“I know I don’t,” said Weston.
Levanter looked at the check. The amount was twice the figure Weston had written on the paper. “Why?” Levanter asked.
“You could get twice as much from any of our competitors,” said Weston. “Besides, you’ve just given Pacific and Central an idea. These days new ideas are tough to come by.”
Levanter stood at the cable-car window, pretending to enjoy the view but in fact reveling in the admiring glances of the other skiers. Not every one of the hundred or so people in the car could have noticed his modish ski suit, American racing boots, and Japanese-made skis, but he knew he looked striking. He always selected his apparel and equipment with an eye to creating this effect, as did many of the fashionable skiers who came to ValPina. The attire was, after all, a part of the sport itself. Levanter was paying little attention to the babble of French, Italian, Swiss, English, and German until, over the cacophony, he distinctly heard the sound of Russian. He looked across the car and spotted a man and two women in city clothes who contrasted markedly with the colorful, animated skiers around them. They had the drab appearance and repressed bearing of Soviet officialdom.