Birds of Paradise: A Novel (8 page)

Now Felice and Emerson fall into a syncopation, they talk as if they’re catching up—rushing to fill in gaps—together watching the gradual, particulate shift of the light. Felice feels a wistful happiness: getting something that is not exactly what she’d expected. A sense of lowering the guard, of risking something, and of gently forgetting something important, though she couldn’t say exactly what.

Brian

I
T KEEPS COMING BACK: THIS MORNING’S FIGHT
with Avis. She’d become distraught over what she’d called his “coolness.” He’d merely used the usual gentle logic to discourage her from going to meet Felice. “Setting yourself up,” he’d chided. Avis had lapsed into such a bright, cold stare he wondered if she actually saw him at all. Later, he heard her crying through the bathroom door.

The Dixie Highway sun bounces hard off of car hoods and fills the interior of his SUV with the scent of footballs and shoe leather. And now this. It comes over him at unpredictable moments. A not unpleasant sensation, a bit like fainting: the sense that the solid matter of his body is spontaneously reverting to a gas, joining the fumes and exhaust contrails burning all around him.

Brian squeezes his eyes shut, but a blaring in his right ear jolts him. He swivels in time to see a wrathful face in a white ragtop convertible come too close to his passenger side. The driver thrusts out his finger; Brian catches a burst of some ferocious rap recording in the background (and those startling whiffs of old songs that pop up like snatches of perfume in a crowd).
“Fuck you asshole.”
Barely muted by the car window.
“Go the fuck back to Jersey.”
A girl cranes forward from the passenger side, hair long and dark as his daughter’s, snapping in the wind. He forces himself to slow down, eases to a creep along with the other drivers all glazed on their phones, and the young men, barefoot and shirtless on motorcycles. He makes it without further incident into the covered parking for the Ekers Building, but something seems to have shifted within his chest. He smooths his tie, notes Jerry Howard’s black BMW M6; Javier Mercado’s baby blue Jag convertible, and, on the other side of the cement pylon, the smart gray trunk of Esmeralda Muñoz’s Mercedes coupe. He tracks this private competition—prefers not to be first (though certainly not, say, the eighth) among the cars to slip into these privileged air-
conditioned spaces.

He leans on the side of the Benz as he climbs out, then slams the door shut. For some reason he thinks again of Avis crying in the shower. No. Not that.

The open-air marble walkway from the garage to the building: a spell of heavy air and brine, views of towering royal palms that line the walk. Rufus leans into the glass door, giving Brian that shrewd, evaluative glance, before dropping his eyes and mumbling to the floor, “G’mornin, Mr. Muir.” Rufus has been there for two years. For the first eight months, Brian stopped, smiled, and said, “Please, Rufus, just
Brian
.” For nearly sixteen years, Rufus’s predecessor, Pavel, used to smile and say in his dignified way, “Hello, Brian, how are you?” One day Pavel never showed up for work. There were a couple of lackadaisical temporary doormen. And then there was Rufus. After a while, Brian gave up on Rufus. Now, every morning, that beat of sourness, just as he enters the building and begins his day. One morning Esmeralda happened to arrive at the same time and as they walked in together (“G’mornin’ Mr. Muir, G’mornin’ Ms. Muñoz”) she picked up on Brian’s discomfort and said, “Why does it bother you? He’s just being respectful.”

Personal assistant to Jack Parkhurst, Esmeralda is nearly seven years older than Brian, from one of those cultures where everyone is so conscious of class and family and respect, etc. “Old World.”

He walks through the door that Rufus holds for him, neither man looking at the other. And there is the memory of Avis weeping again.
No.

The trick, he reminds himself, is to discipline the mind. It’s what one does during the toughest times that proves one’s mettle. Arguing before a zoning board, negotiating fees with county commissioners, placating citizen action committees. This is the true reason to work, he thinks: to train oneself. His son understood this almost intuitively. But his daughter. Spiraling disappointment. Across the lobby, Celia and Esmeralda are chattering in front of the elevators: they’ll be speaking Spanish, they’ll stop, politely, as he approaches, and ask in English, “And how are you, today?” At first he hangs back, not eager to talk to anyone this morning. But then he notices that Fernanda Cruz has come in from the Biscayne Boulevard entrance and, impulsively, quickens his step.

The elevator doors slip open. “Wait, wait,” he calls. He bounds across the lobby and into the elevator. “Going up? How is everyone this morning?”

“How are you, Brian?” Celia asks, a sweet glance from the corner of her eyes.

“Hey Brian.” Fernanda gives that little wave.

He nods at both of them, glancing at Fernanda—new manager of the Investor Relations division. She’s been using one of the offices down the hall from Brian—a corridor nicknamed “the bullpen”—while her own wing is being remodeled.

For eighteen years, Brian had looked down that hall into Hal Irvington’s office as Irvington sat hunched, forehead lowered to his interlocking fingers, his mournful gaze locked on
The Wall St. Journal Investor’s Edition
. Then, for a year it stood empty. One day Brian looked up, expecting the usual darkened window, instead discovering this lily of a shoulder, this lightly downturned mouth, a fringe of lashes. Every day for the past two weeks, Brian has looked up from his screen, eyes ticking to the right, down the hall, to see Fernanda Cruz’s white shoulder delineated from her neck by a dark curtain of hair, the first three knuckles of her right hand resting on her telephone set, all set off by the modernist glint of the swooping office window.

She’s been at Parkhurst, Irvington & Benstock for five or six months and Brian finds he’s forming a steadfast affection. She waves at him on her way in or out of the office, a clipped, girlish gesture. It’s what sets her apart from the usual parade of brazen Miami beauties: that wave. She seems sweet and retiring—a throwback to some earlier ideal. Now Celia and Esmeralda stand side by side, backs against the elevator wall like sentries, while Fernanda stands close to the door, near the buttons; her hair spills forward, partially obscuring the side of her face.

Brian says to the general assembly, “Could boil an egg out there—just wave it through the air.”

Celia and Fernanda laugh deferentially. Esmeralda adjusts her coral button earrings, slides her finger along the curve of her ear. Her smile deepens but doesn’t quite touch her eyes. He notices her glance tick from Fernanda back to him again, an icy glimmering. “How is that new office working out for you, darling?” she asks her.

Fernanda flicks her hair back across her shoulders. Her face brightens. “It’s weird over there. Must be three times the size of my regular office. It’s like a cave.”

A cave! Brian studies the laces in his shoes.

“It’s a little lonely,” she adds. “Up there.”

“You know you can always come talk to me,” he blurts. Brian catches a look between Celia and Esmeralda. He glances at Fernanda then; the elevator light touches her hair: gossamer strands of blue light on black hair. He thinks of how he used to slide his fingers along the nape of Avis’s neck, warm hair slipping between his fingers. He picks up some familiar strand of honeysuckle. Then Fernanda sniffles and rubs under her nose, the roseate tinge of the rim of her nostrils, with the back of one knuckle.

The elevator button for 28 flashes, the doors swipe open.
“Ciao, chica,”
Celia says to Fernanda. “And Brian—” Esmeralda’s voice drops. “Take care of yourself.”

He smiles from the upper reaches of the elevator. As soon as the doors wisp shut, he says to Fernanda, “Really—I’m always down the hall. Anytime.” Anytime what? He falters, uncertain if he’s finished the sentence.

“You’re kind.” She smiles. “I just like to complain for the ladies.” Now he laughs, though he isn’t sure what she means.

The doors open on 32. She whisks off the elevator ahead of him. A blade of calf appearing in the slit of her coal-colored skirt. Brian follows her out, then hangs back, unwilling to follow her all the way to their wing.

Lately it requires more energy and concentration for Brian to face his lineup of client meetings and phone-ins, and the obligatory weekly rendezvous on the links at the Doral or over drinks at the Highland or poker—that eternal round of scotch, cigars, and playing cards—at Old Benstock’s manse on Santa Maria Street by the golf course. Everything takes more energy these days. Brian decides Fernanda has enough of a head start. He’s walking toward the bullpen when there’s the whoosh of the executive restroom door: Javier Mercado, PI&B’s sales czar, as he laughingly refers to himself, appears before Brian, shooting his white cuffs. “There he is.” His teeth are startling against his deep tan. “There’s my man! What’re you doing right now? You got a minute. C’mon, bud.” He slaps one hand on top of Brian’s lightly padded shoulder and steers him around. “Walk with me a little, yeah? I wanna ask you something.”

Brian looks longingly over his shoulder, the sanctuary of his desk.

“
V
á
mos!
No problema
—I know you’re busy, man. We’re all busy until we’re dead, right?”

Unlike many developers who contract out to other specialists, PI&B is so vast their staff includes architects, landscapers, surveyors, as well as a legal department, which Brian heads, and a wing of sales agents—Javier’s domain—to move units once the condos go up. At times it seems to Brian that he and Javier are very nearly adversaries. Most of Brian’s legal colleagues wouldn’t be caught dead consorting with real estate agents. As the last man on the “development food chain”—as Parkhurst dubs it—Javier is all about sales, speed, and profit. Brian presides over the beginnings of things—talking to environmental engineers, zoning boards, and county commissioners, patiently sifting through contracts, moving slowly, scanning the horizon for problems. It was well after law school that he heard corporate lawyers referred to as
the handmaidens of the deal
.

Javier cries at the partners’ obscene jokes, always has cash for big tips. Brian keeps to himself, but Javier spins legends about his
compa
ñ
ero
’s oracular, “Vulcan-like” powers of reason. “See that dude?” Javier says to buyers, tipping a thumb at Brian, “Dude is like CIA, ice-cold intelligentsia.” He himself spends afternoons schmoozing poolside at the Biltmore while Brian logs hours in meetings with the regional planning councils, their Blackberries and legal pads lining the tables. Now Javier drops his voice to a private, closing-the-deal tone: “What about that little Fernanda? You check her out?”

A project manager at Lennar—her previous employer—had regaled Brian and Javier one afternoon with a string of rumors about Fernanda. Brian knew how it was: executives entertained themselves: private fantasies spun into whispered allegations. He tries to act amused, but now he feels defensive about Fernanda and ends up overdoing it, wagging his head. “Heh-eh-eh . . .” Trailing off, he tries for a hapless shrug. His shoulders feel heavy. “She’s something all right.”

Hap Avery and Dean Hayes burst out of Accounting talking intensely about a Heat game. Avery salutes Brian and Javier and says, “Hey.” Hayes nods. “Hello, Jav.” He brings his palms together and bows slightly. “Counselor.”

Javier and Brian stop speaking until they’re well beyond the others. Javier stops Brian just as they reach the glass door to the East Wing. “So . . . what? You’re really not interested in her? Or you just don’t go for that Jewish thing?” Jack Parkhurst once said that he’d hired Brian as much for his “moral compass” as for his research acumen: a comment Javier never tires of kidding him about.

His fingers loosen in his pockets. “She’s Jewish?”

“You know—Juban. Fernanda Levy Cruz? What do you think?” He peers through the glass door marking off the land of the bullpen. “That cute little fixed nose. That Russki hair.”

Another flash of annoyance. Proprietary, indignant, he says, “How’s Odalis doing?”

Javier gives Brian an immense smile. “My wife? What, are you kidding? I’m not going to actually
do
anything.” He pulls the glass door open and heads in, Brian close behind him. “Besides,” he says, clearly aiming for Fernanda’s office, “that’s there and this is
here
.”

Brian falls back, dwindles to a halt. He rubs the inner corners of his eyes: his pupils feel soft—is that possible? A sign of heart disease? There’s a diffuse ache in the center of his chest left over from the morning commute. He opens his office door: even the back of his hand looks old.

A stack of invitations and contractual materials are heaped on his desk. Brian’s desk is a piece of smoky green glass with one drawer adorned by a coral-shaped handle
.
Each morning, Hector places mail on the corner of Brian’s desk beside the screen, its wafer of light. Brian sits down with his coffee and releases a preliminary daily sigh that signals his immersion in contract review. This is the moment he craves: the vitality of his body stirring, his imagination focused on problems and solutions. He feels hints of the time when he met Avis and fell into a sublime entrancement. He bent over her bedraggled Economics 102 text in the tutoring center and the airy scent of her hair, the dented lower lip of her smile, turned him aphasic: all higher thought abandoned him. She passed her final somehow, then agreed to dinner with him.

Brian checks voice mail: there’s the usual barrage from his ambitious associate Tony Malio giving Brian the rundown on development locations and the status of new project plans. “The Little Haiti Corps people are back again—blowing hot air. Just rescheduled our sitdown with them—again. Probably looking to leverage more buyout. Keep you posted.” Brian jots “Little Haiti,” then shakes open the paper, but his attention keeps floating over the top of the page. Peering down the hall, he spots the patent leather gleam of Javier’s head as he arches over Fernanda’s desk. It’s hard to see through the sliding blebs of reflections in the glass wall—the curve in the glass imparting a whimsy to passersby—but it appears that Fernanda tilts her head—into laughter?