Cloud Atlas

  “I certainly am not” is Luisa’s crisp reply. “Are you?”

  Smoke senses she senses his gaze, refocuses his attention on the wife and agrees that, yes, there are redwoods not sixty minutes from here that were mature when Nebuchadnezzar was on his throne. Judith Rey stands on a footstool brought specially for the purpose and taps a silver spoon on a bottle of pink champagne until everyone is listening. “Ladies, gentlemen, and young people,” she declaims, “I am told dinner is served! But before we all begin, I’d like to say a few words about the wonderful work done by the Buenas Yerbas Cancer Society, and how they’ll use the moneys from our fund-raiser you are so generously supporting today.”

  Bill Smoke amuses a pair of children by producing a shiny gold Krugerrand from thin air. What I want from you, Luisa, is a killing of perfect intimacy. For a moment Bill Smoke wonders at the powers inside us that are not us.

  49

  The maids have cleared the dessert course, the air is pungent with coffee fumes, and an overfed Sunday drowsiness settles on the dining room. The eldest guests find nooks to snooze in. Luisa’s stepfather rounds up a group of contemporaries to see his collection of 1950s cars, the wives and mothers conduct maneuvers of allusion, the schoolchildren go outside to bicker in the leafy sunshine and around the pool. The Henderson triplets dominate the discourse at the matchmaking table. Each is as blue-eyed and gilded as his brothers, and Luisa doesn’t distinguish among them. “What would I do,” says one triplet, “if I was president? First, I’d aim to win the Cold War, not just aim not to lose it.”

  Another takes over. “I wouldn’t kowtow to Arabs whose ancestors parked camels on lucky patches of sand …”

  “… or to red gooks. I’d establish—I’m not afraid to say it—our country’s rightful—corporate—empire. Because if we don’t do it …”

  “… the Japs’ll steal the march. The corporation is the future. We need to let business run the country and establish a true meritocracy.”

  “Not choked by welfare, unions, ‘affirmative action’ for amputee transvestite colored homeless arachnophobes …”

  “A meritocracy of acumen. A culture that is not ashamed to acknowledge that wealth attracts power …”

  “… and that the wealthmakers—us—are rewarded. When a man aspires to power, I ask one simple question: ‘Does he think like a businessman?’ ”

  Luisa rolls her napkin into a compact ball. “I ask three simple questions. How did he get that power? How is he using it? And how can it be taken off the sonofabitch?”

  50

  Judith Rey finds Luisa watching an afternoon news report in her husband’s den. “ ‘Bull dyke,’ I heard Anton Henderson say, and if it wasn’t about you, Cookie, I don’t know—it’s not funny! Your … rebellion issues are getting worse. You complain about being lonely so I introduce you to nice young men, and you ‘bull-dyke’ them in your Spyglass voice.”

  “When did I ever complain about being lonely?”

  “Boys like the Hendersons don’t grow on trees, you know.”

  “Aphids grow on trees.”

  There is a knock on the door, and Bill Smoke peers in. “Mrs. Rey? Sorry to intrude, but I have to leave soon. Hand on heart, today was the most welcoming, best-organized fund-raiser I’ve ever attended.”

  Judith Rey’s hand flutters to her ear. “Most kind of you to say so …”

  “Herman Howitt, junior partner at Musgrove Wyeland, up from the Malibu office. I didn’t get the chance to introduce myself before that superb dinner—I was the last-minute booking this morning. My father passed away over ten years ago—God bless his soul, cancer—I don’t know how my mother and I would have gotten through it without the society’s help. When Olly mentioned your fund-raiser, just out of the blue, I had to call to see if I could replace any last-minute cancellations.”

  “We’re very glad you did, and welcome to Buenas Yerbas.” A little short, assesses Judith Rey, but muscular, well-salaried and probably on Luisa’s side of thirty-five. Junior partner sounds promising. “I hope Mrs. Howitt can join you next time?”

  Bill Smoke a.k.a. Herman Howitt does a mousy smile. “I’m sorry to say, the only Mrs. Howitt is my ma. So far.”

  “Now is that a fact,” responds Judith Rey.

  He peers at Luisa, who is not paying attention. “I admired your daughter’s principled stand downstairs. So many of our generation seem to lack a moral compass nowadays.”

  “I so agree. The sixties threw out the baby with the bathwater. Luisa’s departed father and myself separated some years ago, but we always aimed to instill a sense of right and wrong in our daughter. Luisa! Will you tear yourself away from the television set for just a moment, please, dear? Herman will be thinking—Luisa? Cookie, what is it?”

  The anchorman intones: “Police confirmed the twelve killed on a Learjet accident over the Allegheny Mountains this morning included Seaboard Power CEO Alberto Grimaldi, America’s highest-paid executive. Preliminary reports from FAA investigators suggest an explosion triggered by a defect in the fuel system. Wreckage is strewn over several square miles …”

  “Luisa, Cookie?” Judith Rey kneels by her daughter, who stares aghast at pictures of twisted airplane pieces on a mountainside.

  “How … appalling!” Bill Smoke savors a complex dish, all of whose ingredients even he, the chef, can’t list. “Did you know any of those poor souls, Miss Rey?”

  51

  Monday morning. The Spyglass newsroom swarms with rumors. One has it the magazine is bust; another, that Kenneth P. Ogilvy, its owner, will auction it off; the bank is giving a fresh transfusion; the bank is pulling the plug. Luisa hasn’t informed anyone that she survived a murder attempt twenty-four hours ago. She doesn’t want to involve her mother or Grelsch, and except for her bruising, it is all increasingly unreal.

  Luisa does feel grief over the death of Isaac Sachs, a man she hardly knew. She is also afraid but focuses on work. Her father told her how war photographers refer to an immunity from fear bestowed by the camera lens; this morning it makes perfect sense. If Bill Smoke knew about Isaac Sachs’s defection, his death makes sense—but who wanted Alberto Grimaldi taken down at the same time? The staff writers gravitate into Dom Grelsch’s office as usual for the ten o’clock meeting. Ten-fifteen comes around.

  “Grelsch wasn’t this late even when his first wife gave birth,” says Nancy O’Hagan, polishing her nails. “Ogilvy’s got him screwed into an instrument of torture.”

  Roland Jakes gouges wax from his ear with a pencil. “I met the drummer who’d done the actual drumming on the Monkees’ hits. He was banging on about tantric sex—I thank you. His favorite position is, uh, called ‘the Plumber.’ You stay in all day but nobody comes.”

  Silence.

  “Jeez, just trying to lighten the vibes.”

  Grelsch arrives and wastes no time. “Spyglass is being sold. We’ll learn later today who’ll survive the sacrificial cull.”

  Jerry Nussbaum loops his thumbs through his belt. “Sudden.”

  “Damn sudden. Negotiations began late last week.” Grelsch simmers. “By this morning it was a done deal.”

  “Must have been, uh, one helluvan offer,” angles Jakes.

  “Ask KPO that.”

  “Who’s the buyer?” asks Luisa.

  “Press announcement later today.”

  “Come on, Dom,” wheedles O’Hagan.

  “I said, there’ll be a press announcement later today.”

  Jakes rolls a cigarette. “Seems like our mystery buyer, uh, really wants Spyglass, and uh, if it ain’t broken, don’t fix it.”

  Nussbaum snorts. “Who says our mystery buyer doesn’t think we’re broken? When Allied News bought Nouveau last year, they even fired the window cleaners.”

  “So.” O’Hagan clicks her compact shut. “My cruise up the Nile is off again. Back to my sister-in-law’s in Chicago for Christmas. Her brats and the frozen-beef capital of the world. What a difference a day makes.”

&
nbsp; 52

  For months, Joe Napier realizes, looking at the coordinated artwork in vice CEO William Wiley’s anteroom, he has been sidelined. Loyalties snaked out of sight, and power was tapped from the known ducts. That was fine by me, Napier thinks, only a year and a half to go. He hears footsteps and feels a draft. But downing an airplane with twelve men onboard isn’t security, it’s multiple homicide. Who gave the order? Was Bill Smoke working for Wiley? Could it just be an aviation accident? They happen. All I understand is that not understanding is dangerous. Napier berates himself for warning off Luisa Rey yesterday, a stupid risk that achieved a big nothing.

  William Wiley’s secretary appears at the door. “Mr. Wiley will see you now, Mr. Napier.”

  Napier is surprised to see Fay Li in the office. The setting demands an exchange of smiles. William Wiley’s “Joe! How are ya?” is as vigorous as his handshake.

  “A sad morning, Mr. Wiley,” replies Napier, taking the seat but refusing the cigarette. “I still can’t take it in about Mr. Grimaldi.” I never liked you. I never saw what you were for.

  “None sadder. Alberto can be succeeded, but never replaced.”

  Napier permits himself one question under the guise of small talk. “How long will the board leave it before discussing a new appointment?”

  “We’re meeting this afternoon. Alberto wouldn’t want us to drift without a helmsman for longer than necessary. You know, his respect for you, personally, was … well …”

  “Devout,” suggests Fay Li.

  You have come up in the world, Mister Li.

  “Precisely! Exactly! Devout.”

  “Mr. Grimaldi was a great guy.”

  “He sure was, Joe, he sure was.” Wiley turns to Fay Li. “Fay. Let’s tell Joe about the package we’re offering.”

  “In recognition of your exemplary record, Mr. Wiley is proposing to set you free early. You’ll receive full pay for the eighteen months still on your contract, your bonus—then your index-linked pension will kick in.”

  Walk the plank! Napier makes a “wow” expression. Bill Smoke is behind this. Wow fits both the retirement offer and Napier’s sense of the seismic shift in his role from insider to liability. “This is … unexpected.”

  “Must be, Joe,” says Wiley but adds nothing. The telephone rings. “No,” snaps Wiley into the mouthpiece, “Mr. Reagan can wait his turn. I’m busy.”

  Napier has decided by the time Wiley hangs up. A golden chance to exit a bloodstained stage. He plays an old retainer speechless with gratitude. “Fay. Mr. Wiley. I don’t know how to thank you.”

  William Wiley peers like a jokey coyote. “By accepting?”

  “Of course I accept!”

  Wiley and Fay Li are all congratulations. “You understand, of course,” Wiley continues, “with a post as delicate as Security, we need for the change to come into force when you leave this room.”

  Jesus, you people don’t waste a second, do you?

  Fay Li adds, “I’ll have your effects shipped on, plus paperwork. I know you won’t be offended by an escort to the mainland. Mr. Wiley has to be seen to respect protocol.”

  “No offense, Fay.” Napier smiles, cursing her. “I wrote our protocol.” Napier, keep your .38 strapped to your calf until you’re off Swannekke, and for a long time after.

  53

  The music in the Lost Chord Music Store subsumes all thoughts of Spyglass, Sixsmith, Sachs, and Grimaldi. The sound is pristine, riverlike, spectral, hypnotic … intimately familiar. Luisa stands, entranced, as if living in a stream of time. “I know this music,” she tells the store clerk, who eventually asks if she’s okay. “What the hell is it?”

  “I’m sorry, it’s a customer order, not for sale. I shouldn’t really be playing it.”

  “Oh.” First things first. “I phoned last week. My name’s Rey, Luisa Rey. You said you could find an obscure recording for me by Robert Frobisher, Cloud Atlas Sextet. But forget that for a moment. I have to own this music too. I have to. You know what it’s like. What is it?”

  The clerk presents his wrists for imaginary handcuffs. “Cloud Atlas Sextet by Robert Frobisher. I listened to it to make sure it’s not scratched. Oh, I lie. I listened to it because I’m a slave to curiosity. Not exactly Delius, is it? Why companies won’t finance recordings of gems like this, it’s criminal. Your record is in the mintest condition, I’m happy to report.”

  “Where have I heard it before?”

  The young man shrugs. “Can’t be more than a handful in North America.”

  “But I know it. I’m telling you I know it.”

  54

  Nancy O’Hagan is speaking excitedly on her phone when Luisa returns to the office. “Shirl? Shirl! It’s Nancy. Listen, we may yet spend Christmas in the shadow of the Sphinx. The new owner is Trans Vision Inc.”—she raises her voice—“Trans Vision Inc…. Me neither, but”—O’Hagan lowers her voice—”I’ve just seen KPO, yeah, the old boss, he’s on the new board. But listen up, what I’m calling to say is, my job’s safe!” She gives Luisa a frenetic nod. “Uh-huh, almost no jobs are being axed, so phone Janine and tell her she’s spending Christmas alone with her abominable little snowmen.”

  “Luisa,” Grelsch calls from his doorway, “Mr. Ogilvy’ll see you now.”

  K. P. Ogilvy occupies Dom Grelsch’s temperamental chair, exiling the editor to a plastic stacking seat. In the flesh, Spyglass’s proprietor reminds Luisa of a steel engraving. Of a Wild West judge. “There’s no nice way to say this,” he begins, “so I’ll just say it the blunt way. You’re fired. Orders of the new owner.”

  Luisa watches the news bounce off her. No, it can’t compare to being driven off a bridge into the sea in semidarkness. Grelsch can’t meet her eye. “I’ve got a contract.”

  “Who hasn’t? You’re fired.”

  “Am I the only staff writer to incur your new masters’ displeasure?”

  “So it would seem.” K. P. Ogilvy’s jaw flinches once.

  “I think it’s fair to ask, ‘Why me?’ ”

  “Owners hire, fire, and say what’s fair. When a buyer offers a rescue package of the bounty that Trans Vision offered, one doesn’t nitpick.”

  “ ‘A Picked Nit.’ Can I have that on my gold watch?”

  Dom Grelsch squirms. “Mr. Ogilvy, I think Luisa’s entitled to some kind of an explanation.”

  “Then she can go ask Trans Vision. Perhaps her face doesn’t fit their vision of Spyglass. Too radical. Too feminist. Too dry. Too pushy.”

  He’s trying to make a smokescreen. “I’d like to ask Trans Vision a number of things. Where’s their head office?”

  “Out east somewhere. But I doubt anyone’ll see you.”

  “Out east somewhere. Who are your new fellow board members?”

  “You’re being fired, not taking down an affidavit.”

  “Just one more question, Mr. Ogilvy. For three magical years of unstinting service, just answer this—what’s the overlap between Trans Vision and Seaboard Power?”

  Dom Grelsch’s own curiosity is sharp. Ogilvy hesitates a fraction, then blusters, “I’ve got a lot of work to get through. You’ll be paid until the end of the month, no need to come in. Thank you and good-bye.”

  Where there’s bluster, thinks Luisa, there’s duplicity.

  55

  YOU ARE NOW LEAVING SWANNEKKE COUNTY, HOME OF THE SURF, HOME OF THE ATOM, DON’T STAY AWAY TOO LONG!

  Life’s okay. Joe Napier shifts his Jeep into cruise control. Life’s good. Seaboard Power, his working life, Margo Roker, and Luisa Rey recede into his past at eighty miles per hour. Life’s great. Two hours to his log cabin in the Santo Cristo mountains. He could catch catfish for supper if he’s not too tired by the drive. He checks his mirror: a silver Chrysler has been sitting a hundred yards behind him for a mile or two, but now it overtakes and vanishes into the distance. Relax, Napier tells himself, you’ve gotten away. Something in his Jeep is rattling. The afternoon reaches its three o’clock golden age. The freeway runs
alongside the river for mile after mile, slowly climbing. Upcountry’s gotten uglier in the last thirty years, but show me a place that hasn’t. Either side, housing developments colonize the bulldozer-leveled shelves. Getting out took me all my life. Buenas Yerbas dwindles to a bristling smudge in Napier’s rearview mirror. You can’t stop Lester’s daughter playing Wonder Woman. You gave it your best shot. Let her go. She ain’t a kid. He sifts the radio waves, but it’s all men singing like women and women singing like men, until he finds a hokey country station playing “Everybody’s Talkin’.” Milly was the musical half of his marriage. Napier revisits the first evening he saw her: she was playing fiddle for Wild Oakum Hokum and His Cowgirls in the Sand. The glances musicians exchange, when music is effortless, that was what he wanted from Milly, that intimacy. Luisa Rey is too a kid. Napier turns off at exit eighteen and takes the old gold miners’ road up toward Copperline. That rattling isn’t getting any better. Fall is licking the mountain woods up here. The road follows a gorge under ancient pines to where the sun goes down.

  He’s here, all of a sudden, unable to recall a single thought from the last three-quarters of an hour. Napier pulls over at the grocery store, kills the engine, and swings out of his Jeep. Hear that rushing? The Lost River. It reminds him Copperline isn’t Buenas Yerbas, and he unlocks his Jeep again. The store owner greets his customer by name, delivers six months’ gossip in as many minutes, and asks if Napier’s on vacation for the whole week.

  “I’m on permanent vacation now. I was offered early”—he’s never used the word on himself before—”retirement. Took it like a shot.”

  The store owner’s gaze is all-seeing. “Celebration at Duane’s tonight? Or commiseration at Duane’s tomorrow?”

  “Make it Friday. Celebration, mostly. I want to spend my first week of freedom resting in my cabin, not poleaxed under Duane’s tables.” Napier pays for his groceries and leaves, suddenly hungry to be alone. The Jeep’s tires crunch the stony track. Its headlights illuminate the primeval forest in bright, sweeping moments.