Serena rose from the mattress and slowly came to Levanter. He felt powerless and defeated, teased by her nearness. The feeling grew stronger and his mood shifted. He saw himself knocking her off her feet with one blow of his head, gripping her by her hair, forcing her to the ground, and shoving himself into her, smashing her again and again onto the cement until her face turned into a pulpy mass. But he did not move. She seemed to know she had defeated him and she stepped away.
“What if I were to open a three-year trust which would support you in luxury on the condition that you spend at least six months of each year with me? Would you agree to such an arrangement?” he asked.
“I can earn as much money as I want, no strings attached,” she said. “You’d have to be a millionaire to buy me out.”
She turned and glanced at the sundial. “Don’t invest in your vice,” she said, after a moment’s reflection. “It’s a losing business. Of course, if you marry really rich, maybe then you can afford to own me.”
Another siren sounded in the distance. The spinning light on a police wrecker flashed behind the hedges.
She picked up her swimsuit and started to walk toward the house. He knew she was going to leave him for the last time. He made no move to stop her.
Levanter’s article on the role of chance in creative investment, first published in Investor’s Quarterly, had been condensed and reprinted by various newspapers and magazines. He received a number of responses from readers. One letter, on elegant stationery from the Hôtel Ritz in Paris, was sent by a Mrs. Mary-Jane Kirkland. The subject of his study interested her greatly, she wrote, and she referred to several innovative investors she had known. She collected privately published case studies and suggested that Levanter might like to peruse them in the library of her New York apartment. Mrs. Kirkland explained that she was not planning to return to New York for two more months, but she could instruct the guard to allow him to use her library.
Levanter was considering a follow-up to the article in Investor’s Quarterly and was anxious to review the case studies, which in many instances were otherwise inaccessible. He wrote to Mrs. Kirkland, thanking her for her invitation and accepting it.
Her apartment was in one of the oldest cooperative apartment houses on Park Avenue. The doorman looked Levanter over carefully, and the elevator operator waited until he identified himself to the armed guard at Mrs. Kirkland’s door.
The guard led Levanter into a white-marble hall with a wide, curving staircase and a crystal chandelier. They walked through a set of double doors into the library, a large room paneled in wood and lined with shelves of leather-bound books. A life-size portrait of an elderly gray-haired man hung above a marble fireplace.
“Who is that?” asked Levanter, pointing to the painting.
The guard stepped back and gave the portrait a respectful look. “That is Mr. William Tenet Kirkland,” he exclaimed, “founder of Kirkland Industries.” He appeared surprised that Levanter, a guest in the house, did not recognize it. “Mrs. Kirkland’s late husband,” he added. “A very fine gentleman.”
Levanter examined the portrait. “How old was he when he died?” he asked.
“Mr. Kirkland passed away two years ago, sir,” said the guard. “It was just days after his eighty-fourth birthday.” He opened the cabinet that contained the case studies Levanter had come to read and left the library, closing the door behind him.
Levanter settled in to work. The studies provided him with some valuable information and insight, and he returned every day for the next three weeks to pore over the firsthand reports, memoirs, and diaries of a wide range of investors and their associates. When Levanter was finished he wrote Mrs. Kirkland to tell her how much his new study would owe her, and he wired a bouquet of flowers to her in Paris.
About a month later, Mrs. Kirkland telephoned. She was back in New York, she said, and wanted him to know she was touched by the flowers and pleased that he had found her library helpful. She asked Levanter to come and have dinner with her. He said he would like to repay her generosity by inviting her out to dinner. Mrs. Kirkland suggested the following evening.
Levanter made a reservation at one of New York’s most expensive restaurants. He knew the service would be reliable and the food of the highest quality. He explained to the maître d’ that his guest would be an older lady, not in the best of health, who might be on a restricted diet, and asked that their table be in discreet proximity to the toilet.
He was afraid his own car might be too low for Mrs. Kirkland, so he hired an old-fashioned limousine, which would be easier for her to get in and out of.
At Mrs. Kirkland’s apartment, a maid ushered him into a vast living room. The furniture was upholstered in brocades and velvets, drawings and paintings hung on the walls, and glittering objects were displayed on every table. Levanter felt as if he had stepped into a museum. He was awed by these riches and by the thought that they served as simple decorations in someone’s home.
As he waited for Mrs. Kirkland, he rebuked himself for not having telephoned her just before he arrived, to be certain that she was well enough to go out this evening.
A woman dressed in a tweed skirt and jacket came into the room. Judging by her age and her manner, he guessed that she was a secretary to Mrs. Kirkland.
“Good evening, Mr. Levanter,” she said, extending her hand. She seemed to be looking him over. Afraid he was not dressed properly, Levanter shifted uneasily, then shook her hand.
“It just occurred to me that I should have called Mrs. Kirkland to confirm our date,” he stammered. “It would be perfectly understandable if she were somewhat tired after her trip. It mustn’t be easy to travel at her age.”
The woman smiled. “It’s very considerate of you, Mr. Levanter,” she said. “In fact, Mrs. Kirkland wanted me to come down to see you. I’m with Mrs. Kirkland. My name is Miss Saxon, Madeleine Saxon,” she continued. “Mrs. Kirkland is still eager to meet you, and she hopes to mobilize herself. Unfortunately, at her age —” She spread her arms in resignation.
“I do understand,” said Levanter.
Miss Saxon offered him a drink, and they sat down. There was a pleasant softness to her looks.
“If you don’t mind, Mr. Levanter,” she said, “Mrs. Kirkland suggested that you and I go on ahead to the restaurant, and the minute she feels better her driver will bring her there to join us.”
“I’d be delighted,” murmured Levanter. “The reservation can easily be changed to three.” He named the restaurant and mentioned that he had made special arrangements for their table.
Miss Saxon seemed impressed. “It’s very considerate of you to be so concerned,” she said. “In fact, Mrs. Kirkland is not sufficiently conscious of how old she is.”
“Is she disabled?” asked Levanter.
The woman hesitated. “She has been restricted for years, particularly when she was married to such a powerful man.” She paused. “Then, after Mr. Kirkland’s death, she became a bit secluded.”
“I can imagine,” said Levanter. “Were they close?”
“Very close.”
Miss Saxon stood up, ready to leave. Levanter followed her. Outside, she complimented him once again on his thoughtfulness in providing a special limousine. Mrs. Kirkland, she said, would not have thought to order such a comfortable car for herself.
In the restaurant, Madeleine — as she had asked him to call her — reassured Levanter that Mrs. Kirkland would enjoy the restaurant’s subdued atmosphere. After apéritifs, she said she was anxious to find out how Mrs. Kirkland was and went to the phone. When she returned, she told Levanter that Mrs. Kirkland regretted not being able to join them that evening but hoped to see Levanter very soon.
During dinner, Madeleine told him she had been born in the Midwest, an only child. Her father had died when she was six and she had to work her way through college. She studied foreign languages, stenography, and small-business administration, and found a job with the Kirklands.
More than twelve years had passed since then. In spite of obvious limitations imposed on her life by the nature of her work, they had been rewarding years, she said. She always had enough free time to pursue her interests and learned a great deal about herself and about the world of industry and power. Even though she now suddenly found herself nearly middle-aged, she felt no remorse for the years that had passed her by so quickly.
She gave Levanter a fascinating sketch of William Kirkland and his achievement: the creation, during his lifetime, of the fourth largest industrial conglomerate in the country. She had admired the man from the day she met him, she said. It was William Kirkland who, in a mere sixty years, built a small one-man investment outfit into a billion-dollar financial empire and took on the most powerful adversaries — a handful of Presidents, countless Congressional committees, and the whole financial industry.
Until his last days, William Kirkland remained youthful and determined, Madeleine explained. When he knew that uremia was ending his life, he summoned all the directors to his apartment for a regular board meeting. None of them suspected how ill their board chairman and chief executive officer was. He had had special ventilating equipment installed; silently, the air in their meeting room was purified before any of the directors, corporate secretaries, or stenographers could detect the odors that emanated from his diseased body. Minutes before he called the meeting to order, William Kirkland had received his last blood transfusion. An expert make-up man had overlaid the yellow-tinted skin on his face and hands with the natural-looking tones of a Florida tan. When William Kirkland entered the room and greeted his board, no one would have questioned his ability to make binding decisions.
In the cordial and healthy atmosphere of the meeting, she said, William Kirkland admitted with regret that he was finally ready to give in to age. He resigned his official function and passed the stewardship of his company to the men he had chosen so carefully, and the directors unanimously approved his appointments. The meeting ended as it had begun, on a note of optimism. Still cheerful, William Kirkland had escorted his directors to the door. But before they had reached their suburban homes, the memory of his firm handshake still fresh in their minds, William Kirkland had died in his bed, with his wife at his side.
As long as William Kirkland was alive, Mrs. Kirkland’s life revolved completely around him. She entertained his associates, his political friends, and often his staff and their families. She had to be ready to leave New York at an hour’s notice to accompany him to any of their numerous homes — on Long Island, in Florida, the Caribbean, Beverly Hills, London, and Paris — traveling in Kirkland’s yacht, Nostromo, anchored at Palm Beach with its crew of seventeen, or The Night Flight, his four-engine transatlantic turboprop, fitted out like a small apartment, kept in a hangar in New York.
William Kirkland’s last will made Mary-Jane Kirkland one of the major beneficiaries of his estate, Madeleine said. The estate and its trustees were to pay for all the households, the plane and the boat, maintenance and insurance for all their art collections, as well as Mrs. Kirkland’s personal expenses, regardless of where and how they were incurred. However, when she died, she could make no bequests other than her most personal belongings. Thus Mary-Jane Kirkland could never forget that, even though he was gone, it was William Kirkland who held the reins of her existence.
Levanter regretted that he had not known the personal history of William Kirkland when he wrote his initial article for Investor’s Quarterly.
The waiter brought the check.
“As I was imposed on you, may I at least share the cost?” asked Madeleine.
“Where were you when I dined here a few years ago and needed such an offer?” Levanter asked, chuckling. He paid the waiter, then stood up and held her chair.
It was still warm when they left the restaurant. Levanter dismissed the limousine and they began to stroll.
“What happened at that restaurant a few years ago?” Madeleine asked.
“Soon after I arrived in America,” Levanter said, “I received a fellowship for my studies — about two hundred dollars a month, for a year. I had been parking cars until then, so this was quite a break, a lot of money. To celebrate my good luck, I made a date with a girl I’d just met. She lived right over there,” he said, pointing to an old brownstone. “When I picked her up, it was pouring and there wasn’t a bus or even a taxi in sight. We huddled under my umbrella and dashed across the street to that restaurant. I thought it was a perfect place, small, intimate, unobtrusive — and French.”
Madeleine smiled at him. “It is all that,” she said.
“We were seated at a corner banquette and, after drinks, were handed menus. For some reason — possibly to be closer to my date — I looked at her menu with her, leaving mine unopened. No prices were listed on her menu, and I thought that so unassuming a restaurant had to be inexpensive as well, possibly offering a fixed-price dinner. We ordered hors d’oeuvres, soup, main course, wine, salad and cheese, dessert, coffee and cognac.”
“Sounds lovely,” said Madeleine.
Levanter nodded. “It was lovely. It was still pouring outside, the restaurant felt warm and cozy, I liked the girl. We had another cognac. A perfect evening.” He laughed. “Then the waiter slipped the check on the table. I glanced at it and called him back to tell him that he must have accidentally given us the check for the table for eight across the room. He apologized and removed the check. The maître d’ came over and asked us most courteously whether we had enjoyed our dinner. We told him we had. Smiling, he handed me our check, assuring me that he had gone over it carefully. I looked at it: the total was the same as before. I pondered aloud that perhaps, as it was a French restaurant, the amount was given in French francs and you had to divide by about five to get the price in dollars. The maître d’ laughed. Everything in his restaurant was French, he said, except the figures on the check. I still didn’t understand how dinner for two could cost almost as much as I had to live on for a month. The maître d’ politely informed me that his little restaurant was justly known to be not only one of the very best in this country but also — because of its insistence on French excellence — one of the most expensive. My date and I had about thirty dollars between us.”
Madeleine laughed. “Poor you! How did you pay for your dinner?”
“The maître d’ took me aside and he agreed on a ten-month installment plan. It was my first lesson in the relativity of riches in America,” said Levanter.
They had walked to the East River. A three-masted schooner glided slowly toward the South Street Seaport, its lights flickering against the far shore. On the boat’s afterdeck, a solitary figure played a guitar, and its faint sound carried across the water. Madeleine and Levanter leaned against the balustrade. Below, the first waves made by the sailboat lapped against the embankment.
“Over the years, the Kirklands’ way of life has become mine,” said Madeleine. “If I weren’t with Mrs. Kirkland, I would be on my own and I would have to learn such a lesson myself.”
“Have you ever thought of having children? Of marrying?” asked Levanter.
“I have. But I’m not brave enough to have a child without a husband. And I’m reluctant to marry. The men I know are always afraid that after my life with the Kirklands I would never be satisfied living on an ordinary income. Or, if they’re rich, they think I’ve been contaminated by exposure to Mr. Kirkland’s wealth and would sell myself to anybody just for the money.” She paused. “There have also been other men, young, handsome, bright, who pretended to be in love with me. But they really only wanted to gain access to Mrs. Kirkland’s bed and, after Mr. Kirkland’s death, to marry her.”
The schooner seemed out of place, a relic of another world. Levanter found himself thinking of the millions of people who had never cut across ocean waves on a luxurious liner. The world of such experience was as foreign to them as the world of Mary-Jane Kirkland was to him. For a moment he felt bitter as he viewed the woman standing next to him.
How arbitrary it was that sheer chance had allowed Madeleine Saxon into the world of the rich, while so many others who strove all their lives to enter it wouldn’t ever catch so much as a glimpse of it.
“In your letter to Mrs. Kirkland, you mentioned your love of the Alps,” said Madeleine. “I’ve never been there.”
“I thought you traveled everywhere with the Kirklands,” said Levanter.
“I did,” she said. “But Bill Kirkland would never go anyplace except on business, and Mary-Jane didn’t want to travel without him. She has never been to the Greek islands or the south of Italy or Spain — dozens of other countries.”
The subject seemed to make her uneasy. She appeared dispirited, defenseless. Suddenly, he felt tender toward her and gently took her by the arm. She did not stiffen. They started to walk crosstown and soon were west of Fifth Avenue.
“That’s my apartment,” said Levanter, pointing across the street toward his terrace, “where I live and work.”
“How large is it?” she asked.
“Two rooms, a kitchen and bath,” said Levanter. He imagined Madeleine’s quarters in the Kirkland houses and felt slightly embarrassed that his were so small.
Madeleine was puzzled. “Two rooms? But if you work there, where do you sleep?” she asked earnestly.
Her surprise was authentic and Levanter couldn’t help laughing. “You’ve been with Mrs. Kirkland for too long!” he said. “If you were a Russian actress, I would ask you to come upstairs and see my photographs, as a pretext to get you up to my apartment.”
“What pretext would you find for me?” she asked, challenging.
“To come have a drink. To learn how a lonely bachelor can work, live, and entertain a lady all in two rooms.” He smiled.
She took his arm. “A perfect pretext,” she said as they crossed the street.
In his apartment, she admired how economically he had used the space. He pointed out the Amerykanka, his convertible sofa, which he kept in his office room as a souvenir, and told her about the predicament that the prospect of opening it had once presented. He jokingly wondered how she would react.