"Yes." A tic built and he barely turned it into a cough.
"And now you've come to the rescue. The old place is pretty bunged up, Aster says. How bad is it?"
"Like somebody picked the building up and shook it like a cocktail shaker. It's going to take a lot of work to put it back together."
Royce murmured encouragingly. "And I'm sure you're doing a terrific job. Actually, Paulie, it's rather fortuitous that you're only an hour away. Your mother was so extravagant in her praise of your skills that I thought I'd call. To see if you'd like to do some work for me as well."
"What kind of work?"
"In my apartment here. I'd like the woodwork restored, refinished, the walls painted. Rather mundane compared to the baronial scale of Highwood, I suppose, but I need someone who can do top-quality work. I plan to be returning to the U.S. to live and I'd like to have the place in good shape."
"I've been kind of moving away from the contracting end of things—"
"Yes, so Aster told me. You're an educator now. But an unemployed educator, apparently. I would of course pay top dollar. And this is a lovely old building, Park at Eighty-sixth. I'm certain you could easily generate more work in the area. With a good reference from me, of course."
It was the kind of opportunity that five years ago Paul would have jumped at—breaking into the lucrative New York market for fine renovation, maintaining a steady group of wealthy clients. But things were different now. If he ever really wanted a career as a teacher, he'd have to commit himself to it, not be deflected by every other possibility that came his way. On the other hand, it couldn't hurt to have a source of income while he looked for the right job. The scenario Royce suggested could be ideal.
"I was hoping you and I could get together," Royce went on. "Meet for lunch here in the city, chew the proverbial fat about old times, then head over to the apartment." He cleared his throat. "One little problem though. We'd have to have our rendezvous rather soon."
"How soon? I'm in the middle of a big job here."
"I have to be heading out of the country in a few days. I was hoping to have completed arrangements for the work before I left. Can you meet me today? It's ten now—what about lunch? My treat. Short notice, I admit."
"I can't. I've got a lot to do before the weather closes in. I've got subcontractors—"
"But old Dempsey's up there with you, right?"
Paul's hand flew to his jacket zipper. "Yes."
"Well, no one knows the old place better than Dempsey. Have him steer your people for a few hours. It's only an hour to the city, cousin. It'd be worth your while."
The drive down was okay, the MG's handling enjoyable, and he felt more or less up to meeting Royce. But once he parked and found himself without the prop of a red, vintage British car, he felt out of place in upper midtown Manhattan. Chic storefronts, sleek limousines, resplendent hotel facades and elaborately uniformed doormen, long-legged women draped in furs, men checking wristwatches that cost more than Paul made in a year: He'd made choices in his life, and none of them had led him to pursue the bright promises here, the money, the battle for status.
Then in the mirrored pillars of Le Cirque, he caught sight of his own reflection—a rangy, moderately handsome fellow, with a too-open face, unruly brown hair, an old tweed jacket, a stride that was at once too loose and too anxious, one hand playing crazily at his jacket buttons. As far as the people in the world of Manhattan were concerned, he might as well be wearing manure-caked boots, denim coveralls, and a straw hat.
The maitre d' led him to a table against the back wall, beneath a trompe l'oeil mural depicting a Louis XV parlor, absurdly occupied by monkeys in period dress.
Royce stood to shake his hand. "Cousin! I'll be damned. Paulie Skoglund."
"Hello, Royce."
They looked each other over. Royce was several inches taller than Paul and broad across the shoulders of his European-cut jacket. With his dark hair swept back, his deep tan, his tailored clothes, the smoothness of his movements, he registered initially as a handsome man. But his face failed him. He had kept the outstanding features of his childhood, the too-broad forehead and wide-set eyes, which made his nose seem too narrow and his chin too delicate. Royce's forehead was now horizontally seamed with a single, deep crease, as if he suffered not from the many smaller worries that etched most men's faces but just one, consuming obsession. The skin above his left eye was bunched, a faint swelling of scar pushing down the eyebrow at the corner.
"You're staring at my scar. Considered rude in some circles, but acceptable among family and forgivable considering I didn't own it last time you saw me."
"Sorry—it just seems that people and places from my past have been cropping up a lot lately."
Royce took his seat again, gesturing for Paul to do the same. "I'll spare you the embarrassment of asking. A car accident. I removed the windshield of my car by throwing myself through it, neatly taking the trim or molding or whatever you call it out with my forehead. Cut some nerves, leaving me with limited control of the left side of my face. Thus my charming, lopsided grin."
Royce probed Paul with his blue eyes, a subtle smile coming up his right cheek, anything but charming. He selected a roll from a linen-covered basket on the table, ripped it in half, buttered it. "Splendid way to begin a conversation. How about yourself? Any true gore stories before we eat?"
"Not yet," Paul said. "I find myself more or less intact."
"So far anyway, eh?" Royce laughed. He smiled as he tore into the roll with his teeth. With his butter knife, he gestured at the bread basket for Paul to join him, and Paul took a roll.
The pressure had been building since he'd set foot in the restaurant, and Paul felt it would be better to let the cat out of the bag: "Listen,
Royce, I've got a neurological problem. Sometimes I do odd things. I thought you should be forewarned."
"That's right—I vaguely remember." Royce looked at him, a new interest in his eyes. "Does this . . . condition . . . have a name?"
"Tourette's syndrome."
"Right. Oh, my. Well. Congrats—that's getting downright fashionable nowadays. Feel free to go blooie, if you must. I love a spectacle:"
He took another bite of his roll. "Funny thing, I just read in the in-flight magazine coming over that they think Mozart had Tourette's. You're in good company, anyway."
Paul buttered his roll, tasted it, found it excellent. Of course, Mozart. Would Mozart have composed if they'd had haloperidol back then? He allowed a tic to squeak out, a quick succession of jerks with his hand, ringing the bell.
"Fascinating," Royce said. "Well. Now that we've exchanged medical intimacies, I am absolutely dying to hear what it's hke at Highwood. I haven't clapped eyes on the place for twenty years, but I have very fond memories."
Paul gave him a summary, omitting the anomalies of the damage and any of the speculations he and Lia had come up with. As he spoke, he watched Royce's face. How much of his behavior was an act? At his most genuine, Royce had always seemed to be savoring some secret knowledge, preserving a disconcerting ambiguity.
"My, my," Royce said when Paul finished. "Well, hats off* to the culprit, for thoroughness at least. But you say the place is structurally intact? Walls still up, roof still on top, floor underneath?"
"Some of the interior walls have been broken open, but yes, it's structurally fine."
"And how exactly did you become involved? My dear mother simply called for a white knight, did she? Out of the blue?"
Paul reached for his glass. "More or less."
"And you simply dropped everything to come piece old Highwood together?"
"As I told you, I'm out of work. It was good timing for me." Before Royce could resume grilling him, Paul continued: "Speaking of Vivien calling, what prompted you to call Aster—out of the blue? None of us have heard from you in quite a while."
Royce's eyes moved away to scan the restaurant. He raised one finger, calling the waiter. "We should order. At this tim
e of day, it might take a little while, and I wouldn't want to keep you from your work." He took a sip of water. "Why did I call Aster? Frankly, this is my first extended stay in New York for several years. By this I mean that I'm here for a week, the first time it's been more than twenty-four hours for I don't know how long. I'm planning to move back. It's all made me feel nostalgic. Of course I thought of the Skoglunds and I found I had Aster's number. We had an awfully nice chat. Odd, isn't it? How one's past can suddenly exert such persuasive power over one's emotions. As you so eloquently pointed out."
"I had no idea we were such a sentimental family," Paul said. "There seems to be an epidemic of it among us just now, doesn't there?" There was a way to deal with these Hoffmanns, he decided. Keep them a touch off-balance themselves. Play a bit of their own game, the feints and bluffs and little provocations, all with a veneer of decorum.
Royce raised his glass and smiled. With his toast, he seemed to acknowledge Paul as an equal. Or at least a respectable opponent.
Paul ordered a grilled swordfish fillet, Royce an oyster plate. The fingers of Paul's left hand explored the underside of the table, ritualistically touching the supports, finding each screw, making rhythms and drawing geometric constellations.
They talked some more about Highwood. At one point, recalling his weapon collection, Royce had to laugh. "I was a wretchedly morbid little bastard, wasn't I?"
"You mean you aren't anymore?"
"Oh yes, more so. It's just that I have more mature ways to express it now that I'm of age."
"Such as?"
"In a word, business. I can get a very satisfying sadistic thrill by sitting at tables with other like-minded individuals—major shareholders and CEOs—calculating ways to divest the unsuspecting masses, preferably in some other country, of their money or goods. There's enough intrigue and betrayal to make Machiavelli blush, because we all take great pleasure in being each other's allies one day and cutting each other's throats the next. And I can indulge my masochistic longings by joining some new committee or board and savoring the endless petty details, the tireless wrangling and infighting."
"Sounds terrific. What kind of businesses?" Royce was apparently narcissistic enough to enjoy talking about himself with little prompting.
"Oh, I own some percentage of various companies. Some I inherited, some I earned by my own perfidiousness. I employ myself at several and run errands on their behalf. The bulk of it is exporting consumer goods to Indonesia, Malaysia, the Philippines. Also importing raw materials from those places. It's all quite humdrum. I hope I'm not a disappointment to you—in the face of the rather exotic possibilities that the situation at Highwood suggests."
"Speaking of which," Paul said, trying to keep Royce talking, "do you have any idea who might have vandalized the place?"
"Haven't the slightest."
"What did you mean by 'exotic possibilities,' then?"
Again Royce seemed pleased by Paul's assertiveness. "Why should you particularly care who did it?"
"I'm curious. And I'm nervous about being there if whoever did it comes back. I'd also hke to do what I can to make sure it doesn't happen again the minute I finish." Paul kept the question alive with his eyes.
Royce sighed, the patient sigh of a martyred man. "My mother isn't known as an easy person to associate with. I imagine she has managed to make any number of enemies."
"Anyone specific come to mind?"
"Frankly, Paul, I haven't spoken to the old bitch in I don't know how many years. I've no idea whom she has antagonized in that time. Sorry."
Their food arrived, beautifully displayed on plates that continued the monkey motif. A warm cloud of scent rose from the swordfish and made Paul's mouth water. Royce probed his oysters with a tiny silver fork.
"Why do you hate her?"
Royce looked up at the chandeliered ceiling, as if the answer were up there, or were so vast it required a moment for him to capture the appropriate language. At last he brought his eyes down, squeezed lemon onto an oyster, brought the shell to his mouth, and sucked the puckered gray flesh into his mouth. He chewed rapturously for a moment, then swallowed. "These are splendid—you ought to try one. Vivien? I've always hated her. Why don't you just assume it's simply a habit that we both have grown accustomed to."
"You strike me as very similar people in a lot of ways."
Royce jabbed the air with his oyster fork as if catching the idea on its tines. "Yes, I'm sure that's it," he said, mimicking revelation.
"I just saw her, you know," Paul said. "In San Francisco. She said she'd had what she called Rimbaud's disease when you were a boy. She said maybe you'd caught it from her. Doesn't blame you for keeping a distance."
"Sounds like her. So, how is the old black widow?"
"I found her to be an . . . amazing woman. Very observant and intelligent. She is also a very lonely person."
"I take it I'm supposed to take pity, feel contrite, and go patch things up with her?" Royce smiled sourly at Paul, then chose another oyster. "Enough about me," he said with heavy irony. "Now let's talk about you. At least give us an outrageous tic or two. I've been waiting with bated breath. Can't you give the maitre d' the finger or some such?"
Paul smiled. He volunteered ordinary information about his life and about Mark and Aster and Kay.
"Lovely. And your sister—is she pretty? A man slayer?"
"Kay is pleasant and plump and looks every bit the suburban mother."
Royce got a wistful look in his eyes. "I always thought she would be a beauty. Had juvenile fantasies about her." "So I gather."
Royce looked at him, amused, and then patted his lips with his napkin. "Oh, so we've been talking about cousin Royce? I'm flattered. What else did we say?"
"What do you think? She's my sister."
"Oh, Paul! Are you going to defend your sister's honor? Aren't you a little late? I don't know what she told you, but let me give you my perspective. Frankly, your sister was a little hussy. She tripped me and hit the ground before I did."
When Paul started to object, Royce reached across the table and pinned his wrist with one large hand, gripping it with surprising strength. His eyes burned into Paul's, deadly serious. "The thing is, Paul, the real thing is this: Truth is subjective. It's what I say it is for me. For your sister, it's what she says it is. I'll make it whatever suits me, for whatever convoluted reasons, whether I know it or admit it or not. So will Kay. And all you'll be doing, when you decide which of us you believe, is more of the same.'" Royce let go of Paul's wrist, and the sudden flush on his face began to recede. "Something to keep in mind when the past comes back to visit us with its little moods and revelations." He tugged the cuffs of his shirt, glanced sharply at Paul, and went back to his oysters.
Paul said nothing for a moment. Apart from his investment in Kay's truthfulness, he had to agree with Royce. It was one of the big ugly scaries that you had to face sooner or later: The world is a dreamscape, where things change shape, where everything is subject to interpretation and no interpretation lasts. He'd have resented Royce's outburst if he didn't feel, for the first time, that Royce was revealing something he truly cared about, something he'd had to struggle with.
"I'll take it into consideration," Paul said. His wrist tingled unpleasantly from the strange soft-hard grip of Royce's hand. Willing his pulse to slow, he turned his attention back to his meal. The swordfish was excellent, with a delicate, peppery crust and white flesh that melted like butter in his mouth. He ate the last of it slowly, determined to savor his lunch despite the company.
32
THE ELEVATOR DOOR OPENED directly into Royce's foyer and they stepped out.
"So this is my New York sanctum," Royce said. He took off his overcoat and hung it in a closet, then led Paul down a hallway with a high ceiling, agreeably lit by skylights. "Bought it, oh, ten years ago, only stay here when I'm in town. Only seven rooms, but I find it rather pleasant for a small place."
The hall gave way to other ro
oms: a large L-shaped living room, a formal dining room, a kitchen.
"I'm going to visit the W.C. Feel free to wander around." Royce disappeared down the short hallway, and Paul went into the living room.
It was a huge room, sparsely but impeccably decorated: white walls, floors a fine parquet of white oak covered with superb Navajo rugs. Sleek hardwood furniture stood in clusters, brightly colored abstract canvases hung on the walls. Asian and African masks and weapons hung here and there, crisply isolated against the spacious walls. On two sides of the room, a row of windows and a pair of French doors opened onto a terrace with potted shrubs, white wrought-iron furniture and arbor, and a fine view of Central Park.
Paul inspected several rooms and after a few minutes returned to the living room, where he paused in front of a pair of short swords with notched blades, thinking over what he'd seen. Wainscoting, walls, paneled ceilings: The place was in pristine shape. It didn't need any work.
Royce appeared at his side. "Philippine headhunters' knives," he said with satisfaction. "That half-moon notch is just about the diameter of an average neck. I got them from my father, who got them from their makers. Who knows how many necks these have severed?" He ran his thumb along one edge. "Funny—now headhunting is a term we use for hiring away another company's executives. Done a bit of it myself."
Royce took him on a tour of the apartment, then led him to the kitchen, where he started water in a teapot on a stove situated in a central island. The spacious counters were white marble, scattered with kitchen gadgets in white plastic and chrome. Royce took a chair at a table near the windows and began spooning ground coffee into a French plunger coffeemaker.
"Here's the thing, cousin. I'd like you to do the work. I need to be away, and you'd be welcome to stay here while you worked on it. Good area, close to the museums and whatnot. I'd imagine it might be a relief from the long Vermont winter."
"I'm sure it would be," Paul said. "But I'm not sure how long Highwood will take. Depending on Vivien's plans, the restoration up there may take the rest of the winter." This seemed to capture Royce's interest. Paul's fingers began moving, playing tunes on the underside of the table.