Mount Terminus (26 page)

*   *   *

After many long conversations between Bloom and Gottlieb about which finished version of
Mephisto's Affinity
was superior, Gottlieb never informed Bloom which cut he presented to Simon for distribution. He merely said he had chosen the right one, and then told Bloom to put it behind him. Better, he said, to leave the business to his brother, and move on to the next conceit. There was little enjoyment in dwelling on finished work, Gottlieb believed; because all one could find in the aftermath of creation were its flaws, he abandoned it as he would an unwanted child. He, therefore, never attended premieres at the theater, and he expected Bloom to follow his example. On the very day Gottlieb delivered the final cut of
Mephisto's Affinity
to Simon, he sat Bloom down in the library and said it was now time to consider their next scenario, before they grew too pleased with themselves for having accomplished their first undertaking together. Only this time he expected Bloom to choose the scenario himself. A choice easily made for Bloom, as he had long dreamed of transforming
Death, Forlorn
into a motion picture, and even before he had been properly introduced to Gottlieb, he knew he wanted to collaborate on it with him. That afternoon he walked Gottlieb down to the parlor, sat him in Jacob's chair and proceeded to show him the slides he had labored on in the dim light of Salazar's chamber. And when he had removed the last slide from the slot of the magic lantern, Gottlieb was so impressed by what he saw, he nodded his head, and then nodded it some more.

Are you saying yes? asked Bloom. We can work on this next?

Yes. Most definitely, yes. But first, I must pause and think awhile.

Why? asked Bloom.

Because, said Gottlieb, that is my prerogative. I must think of what to do with you.

With me?

Yes, you. Gottlieb whirled his skinny fingers about Bloom's chest. There's something missing in there. Something needed before we begin.

What?

I will tell you what. After I've paused and thought awhile!

*   *   *

For reasons Bloom assumed were related to business, and because Bloom himself had been busy on the set of
Mephisto's Affinity
, he hadn't spent any significant time with Simon since their peculiar conversation in Bloom's studio. When, by chance, they passed each other on the lot during the production, Simon would do little more than exchange pleasantries with Bloom. He remained guarded and distant and moody. Bloom pressed him on several occasions to visit the set, but Simon insisted Gottlieb wouldn't allow it. When Bloom suggested they instead eat a meal together, Simon prevaricated. Perhaps, he said, perhaps when you're through filming. And when the filming was through, when Bloom pressed his brother again, Simon lost his patience with him. Please, Joseph, not now. Just not right now, I beg you. In the weeks following, the morning music his brother chose was all requiems. Requiem after requiem hung like a pall of despair in the dry desert air. Mozart's
Requiem in D minor
; Berlioz's
Grande Messe des morts
; Verdi's and Dvořák's
Requiem
; Fauré's
Requiem in D minor
. What, Bloom asked Gus one morning, has gotten into him? And Gus said he didn't want to say, not right away. But then several more weeks passed, every morning now beginning with Simon pacing contemplatively on his porch to the heavy choral arrangements of Verdi's opera
Nabucco
. He played it all the way through and then started it again, at which time Gus approached Bloom and said, I need you to do something for me.

What?

I need you to walk back up to the estate and go out the gate. A car's waiting for you there. Get in it, he said, and do what the driver tells you to do.

What's this all about?

Divided loyalties. A clouded conscience.

I don't understand.

You want to know what's eating your brother, do what old Gus is telling you to do. I've made all the arrangements.

Where, Bloom asked, would he be going?

And Gus told him it would all become clear before the day was out.

Bloom did as Gus said. He walked up the hill and through the grove, down the drive and through the gate, where he found a black sedan idling. The driver was a man he had never seen before, a Negro with a handlebar mustache, young and lithe, dressed in a checked suit, his face narrow and serious. You Joseph? the man asked. Bloom nodded his head. Then get in. He pointed a thumb to the back. Bloom opened the door and took a seat, and off they drove. The driver looked up in his rearview mirror from time to time, but didn't say anything until they were parked in town, on Broadway, in front of the pavilioned sidewalk covering the entrance of the Hotel de Ville, a tall French Baroque pile whose tower rose up from the corner and appeared to be cinched at its neck, just below its onion dome, by a belt. Room five thirty-three, said the driver. That's where you go. He handed Bloom a key and an envelope. Gus says you should go straight on up and keep yourself there until it's time to leave.

When will that be?

Gus says you'll know. I'll be waiting outside when that time come.

All right, said Bloom. Thanks.

The driver tipped his hat.

Bloom exited the car and strode between two lines of potted palms into the hotel lobby. A tidy man with slick hair directed him to the elevator. Bloom told the operator the room number, and they rode up to the fifth floor, where Bloom stepped into a foyer papered in Art Nouveau birds of paradise. When the operator had pushed the gate shut and Bloom could see his head descend below the line of the floor, he turned around to find Room 533 directly behind him, and went inside.

It was a sizable sitting room with a view of the street, a desk, a sofa, several comfortable armchairs, a coffee table set with a plateful of finger sandwiches, a pitcher of lemonade, and a tall glass. Through open windows the noise of the street rumbled in. Bloom took a seat on the sofa and opened the envelope the driver had handed him. Inside was a note from Gus, a list of directions he should follow, the first of which was for Bloom to shut the windows. Bloom got up and swung them closed, and when he did, the room quieted for a moment, and then voices, playful and unencumbered, one a man's, the other a woman's, murmuring through a door adjoining the room next door. The second directive in Gus's note was for Bloom to eat his lunch, which Bloom did—he was rather hungry after his drive; he finished off the entire plate of sandwiches and drank through the pitcher of lemonade. And now, according to Gus's note, he was to wait until two o'clock, half an hour from the present. At that time he was to gather his courage and open the door to the adjoining room, just a crack, absolutely no more than that. If he stood still and quiet, Gus assured him, he would not be seen. Having read this third item on the list, Bloom, now feeling quite nervous about what he would discover next door, paced about the room, keeping an eye on the desk clock, occasionally stopping to look down onto the procession of traffic and hats moving through the thoroughfare below. At two o'clock, he heard the heavy gate of the elevator crash open, and he listened at the door leading to the hallway. There were footsteps and then voices directly on the other side, and Bloom could make them out quite clearly. It was Simon and Gus.

For Christ's sake, Gus, stop looking at me like that.

I know you got misgivings about this.

Of course I do.

Then why go through with it?

Because I can't see a way around it.

The kid'd give you the eyes in his head—he'd give you his heart—if you asked him.

You know it's not that simple.

What I know is you. You love that kid, and what you're about to do is gonna fill you with bile and regret. This is the way Sam would've handled it. You're better than that. Smarter than that.

Is that so?

Yeah, that's so.

Well, apparently, I'm not.

You don't know what you are yet. But, you do this, it's gonna become real clear, real fast. There's no coming back from something like this. I've seen men more golden than you changed inside by less devious acts.

There was a long silence after this. And then: I can't see the alternative, said Simon. I really can't.

Yeah, well, don't say I didn't warn you. I've grown real fond of the kid. Real fond.

I know, said Simon. So have I.

He doesn't deserve this from you. Not from his own brother.

But it's not just his welfare I have to take into account, is it?

Well, then. You know where I stand.

Another long silence passed, and then: Yeah, I know. I'm sorry, Gus. I really am.

Bloom could now hear Simon and Gus walk on, down the corridor, and Bloom followed the direction of their footsteps to the door Gus instructed him to open. He rested the weight of his hand on the knob and slowly turned, pulled it open a crack, and set his eye in the opening to discover Simon walking up to the foot of a bed, on which a thick, curvy woman with a mane of ginger hair straddled the hips of Gerald Stern, whose wrists and ankles were securely tied to the bedposts with neckerchiefs. Mr. Stern was so stunned to see Simon and Gus, he reacted in a manner Bloom couldn't imagine was typical, but what did he know? Stern neither called out in protest nor struggled to release himself. He merely lay there prostrate, half his face pressed into the down of his pillow, repeating to himself with his eyes squeezed shut, I should have known, I should have known, I should have known it was too good to be true … The young woman, whose back and hair appeared familiar to Bloom, shrugged her shoulders at the pitiful sight of him, and when Stern had finished berating himself, when there was nothing left in him but a few whimpers, she bent over and gave him a peck on the cheek. She whispered something in his ear and pecked him again, this time on his lips, as she removed what remained of his flaccid member from inside her. As she covered Stern with a blanket, Bloom recalled where he had become intimate with her form—she was one of the women Gus had delivered to his studio; she tucked his attorney in a bit, and walked to a screen standing in the corner of the room on which her clothes were draped.

Thank you, Miss Merriweather, said Simon.

No bigs, said the young woman, then with a twist of her wrist, added, A part's a part. When she'd finished dressing, she presented Gus with the open mouth of her handbag, into which Bloom saw Gus deposit a fat roll of cash. Don't be too hard on the old boy, Simon. He's a soft touch. She blew a kiss in Stern's direction, and off she went.

Mr. Stern? said Simon as the door shut behind Miss Merriweather. Please, Mr. Stern. This'll go much faster if you'll just open your eyes and look at me.

Stern lifted one lid and proceeded to focus his attention on the ceiling.

Over here, Mr. Stern.

Stern now turned his head, and with as much dignity as a man could rally in his position, sniffed a few times and said, What can I do for you, Mr. Reuben?

I don't want to be here, said Simon. In fact, it's the last place I want to be.

Then why
are
you here?

Well, said Simon with a sympathetic grin, it appears that, not unlike you at the moment, I'm caught in a bind. Before I get to that, however—he said with less levity—let me tell you what it is I have on you. Simon, who was carrying a briefcase, opened its clasps and pulled from it two large envelopes. From the first, he removed a collection of photographs. As you can see, said Simon as he sorted through the images—slowly, so that Stern could fully appreciate to what extent his assignations had been documented—some friends of mine have been keeping an eye on you and the lovely Miss Merriweather.

So I see.

It's my understanding you've been married for nearly twenty-five years, Mr. Stern.

Yes.

I also happen to know you have two daughters about the age of Miss Merriweather: Mildred and Hannah, is it?

That's right.

They've recently married well, I hear. A double wedding it was. To two young men whose parents are longtime clients?

The top of Stern's head turned a bright shade of crimson. Yes, he said.

You are a member of the Jonathan Club. You attend shul regularly at the B'nai Brith Synagogue on Ninth and Spring. I know you to be a philanthropist with your various Hebrew charities. All in all, a well-respected man about town.

I like to think so, said Stern with his mouth turned down and his eyes returned to the fine woodwork of the ceiling.

I presume you'd like to keep it that way.

Yes, said Stern, I would.

In which case, you wouldn't want it getting out you've been caught up in a tryst with a young woman who allows herself to be filmed doing the sort of unspeakable acts the two of you have gotten up to, said Simon as he sorted through the photos once again and presented one of particular interest. A woman, Simon added, who, I should probably mention, has been up before the court on charges of indecency and promoting the sale of pornographic material.

Stern's lower lip began to quiver and Bloom could see a tear now run out the corner of his eye.

Right, said Simon. Now, I'm going to be straight with you, Mr. Stern. I'm going to tell you something I trust we can keep between us?

Yes, said Stern, gathering himself. Yes, of course.

What's happening today between the two of us? It's the act of a desperate man. At the moment, you might think yourself the desperate man, but I can assure you I am that man. As I know you're well aware, I've been helping the water authority finance the construction of the Concord Reservoir and the Pacheta Lake Aqueduct.

Yes, I'm aware.

Well, said Simon. And on he went to reveal to Stern the complications he had been concealing from Bloom these past several years. Simon explained to Stern that had everything gone according to plan, all of his investments would have been safe and secure. He fully expected there to be a struggle, but he never expected the farmers and the ranchers to turn into such a steely resistance. They had been dynamiting key junctures of the waterway and taking hostages. Making a real mess of things, said Simon. Just the other day, he told Stern, they destroyed hundreds of yards of piping in three separate locations and kidnapped a member of the water authority out of his bed. They drove him to a remote part of the Mojave and abandoned him there with a small jug of water and a pencil and paper to write a farewell note to his family. For three days the poor man walked westward, only just barely returning with his life. Simon thought, however foolishly, the waterworks would be finished by now, that he'd be well into the construction of his real estate development. The farmers and the ranchers had managed to set his plans back a year, a year at the very least, perhaps longer, and, to the chagrin of the fastidious and dogged Hal Dershowitz, Simon was reminded daily to what extent he had overextended himself. More was going out than coming in, Dershowitz was telling him more often than he'd like to hear. Which had left Simon in quite a predicament. Simon was sure Stern would appreciate that he couldn't readily go to the bank and open a line of credit, as his interests were tied to the public interest, and, like Stern, Simon had an appearance to uphold. If he announced to the world that he was on the verge of ruin without first parting with assets he held dear, How, he asked Stern, would that look? How could he rationalize not selling off his theaters, his studio, the very property he hoped to develop and keep the public's trust? How would that look? he asked Stern.