“I can let myself out. I know the place well.”
“Yes. And you were going to tell me the history of the house.”
“Perhaps another time. Or,” I suggested, “Mrs. Sutter can give you a more detailed history.” I extended my hand and said, “Thank you for tea, and for the use of the gatehouse.” I added, “If you change your mind, I understand.”
He took my hand, then put his other hand on my shoulder and turned me toward the doors, saying, “I insist on walking you out.”
Maybe he thought I was going to roll up a Persian carpet and take it with me, so I said, “As you wish.”
As we walked down the gallery, he handed me his card. “This is my personal card with my private number. Call me if I can be of any assistance.”
I thought about asking him to help me load up Elizabeth’s SUV tomorrow, but I didn’t think that was what he meant.
He pulled my calling card from his pocket, looked at it, and read, “Stanhope Hall. I assume this is an old card.” He made a joke and continued, “Or did you just have these printed in expectation of my agreeing to your request?”
I replied, “These are old cards. But rather than throw them out, I’ll make you an offer for the whole estate.”
He laughed. “Make your best offer. Everything has a price.”
Indeed, it does.
He asked me, “Do you have a cell phone?”
“Not yet.” I got nosy and asked him, “What sort of business are you in, Mr. Nasim?”
“Import and export.”
“Right.”
He said, “Please feel free to make use of the grounds.” He added, “Mrs. Sutter runs or takes long walks on the property.”
Good reason not to make use of the grounds.
He added, “I have maintained the English hedge maze.” He smiled and said, “One can become lost in there.”
“That’s the purpose.”
“Yes.” He asked, “Did your children play there?”
“They did.” He’d opened the subject of the estate grounds, so I asked him, bluntly, “Did you remove the statues from the love temple?”
“I’m afraid I did, Mr. Sutter.”
He didn’t offer any further information, and I didn’t want to be too provocative by asking what became of the statues.
He did say, however, “I, myself, didn’t find them offensive—they are simply examples of Western classical art of that pagan time. But I have guests here of my faith, and those statues might be offensive to them.”
I could have suggested bathrobes for the statues, or locking the temple door, but I let it drop.
He, however, did not let it drop, and informed me, “Mrs. Sutter understood.”
Apparently she’d become more sensitive to other cultures in the last decade. I said to him, “It’s your property.”
“Yes. In any case, as I said, feel free to use the grounds, including the tennis courts. I ask only that you dress somewhat modestly on my property. You can dress as you wish on your own property, of course.”
“Thank you.”
This subject brought back a memory of Mr. Frank Bellarosa and Mrs. Sutter, when Bellarosa made his first, unannounced visit to Stanhope Hall, while Susan and I were playing a game of mixed doubles on the estate’s tennis court with Jim and Sally Roosevelt. Our new neighbor brought us a gift of vegetable seedlings, and aside from interrupting our match, which was annoying enough, Bellarosa kept glancing at Susan’s bare legs.
Well, if only Mr. Nasim had owned the estate then, Susan would have been playing tennis in a full-length chador and veil, and Frank Bellarosa would have just dropped off the seedlings and left without a thought about screwing Susan. So maybe Amir Nasim had a point there about modest dress.
Anyway, I certainly didn’t want to run into Susan on the Stanhope acreage—though she and Mr. Nasim may have wanted that—but to be polite I said, “Thank you for your offer.” We reached the stairs, and I said, “I can find my way from here.”
“I need the exercise.”
We descended the wide, curving staircase together, and he said, apropos of the stair lighting, “I’ve seen these blackamoors in paintings, and as statues in museums and palaces all over Europe. But I’m not certain of their significance.”
“I have no idea.”
“I suppose there was a time in Europe when these people were slaves or servants.”
“Well, they don’t look like they own the place.”
“No, they do not.” He stopped abruptly about midway down the staircase, so I, too, stopped. He said to me, “Mr. Sutter, I quite understand.”
“Understand what, Mr. Nasim?”
“Your feelings, sir.”
I didn’t reply.
He continued, “Your feelings about me, about me being in this house, and about my culture, my money, my religion, and my country. And about your position in relation to all of that.”
I ran through several replies in my mind, then picked the best one and said, “Then we completely understand one another.”
“And I must say I don’t really blame you for how you feel.”
“I don’t care if you do or you don’t.”
“Of course. I understand that as well. But I want to tell you that the reason I’m here, and the reason I was in England, is that I am an exile, Mr. Sutter. Not a voluntary exile, as you were. But a political exile who would be arrested and executed if I returned to my country, which is now in the hands of the mullahs and the radicals. I was a very ardent and public supporter of the late Shah, and so I am a marked man. I have no country, Mr. Sutter, so unlike you, who can come home, I cannot go home. Unlike your wife, who has come home, I cannot simply fly to Iran and buy back my old house. In fact, I will probably never see my country again. So, Mr. Sutter, you and I have something in common—we both want me back where I came from, but that will not happen in my lifetime, nor yours.”
I had the feeling that this speech was rehearsed and given on the appropriate occasions, but I also thought it was probably true. Or partly true. I suppose I was now feeling a little less unkind toward Mr. Amir Nasim, but that didn’t change my situation or his.
I said to him, “Thank you for your time.”
I continued alone down the stairs, but I sensed he was still there.
I walked across the stone floor, and my footsteps echoed in the cavernous foyer. The front door was bolted, so I unbolted it.
He called out to me, “Mr. Sutter.”
I turned and looked at him on the staircase.
He said to me, “I should tell you that there are some security issues here which have recently arisen and of which you should be aware.”
I didn’t reply.
He continued, “This is why I need the gatehouse and the guest cottage—to put my people in them. You understand?”
I understood that this was quite possibly a convenient lie—a ruse to make me tell Susan that Stanhope Hall was under imminent threat of attack by an Islamic hit squad. Actually, I didn’t think Susan would care as long as the assassins didn’t trample the flowerbeds.
Mr. Nasim, not getting any reaction from me, continued, “If you see anything suspicious or odd, please call me.”
“I certainly will. And you do the same. Good day.”
I left and closed the door behind me.
I descended the steps under the portico, got into my car, and drove off.
As I moved slowly down the tree-covered lane toward the gatehouse, I processed what Amir Nasim said about his security issues. I mean, really, how many political exiles get whacked around here? None, the last time I counted. Surely there were local ordinances prohibiting political assassination.
On the other hand, the world had changed since September 11 of last year. For one thing, there had been dozens of local residents killed in the Twin Towers, and there were people like Mr. Amir Nasim who were feeling some heat from their countries of origin, or from an irate and increasingly xenophobic population—or from the auth
orities. Or they were just feeling paranoid, which might be the case with Amir Nasim.
And then there was Mr. Anthony Bellarosa down the road. How odd, I thought, that Messrs. Bellarosa and Nasim, from opposite ends of the universe, had a similar problem, to wit: Old enemies were out to kill them. But maybe that was not coincidence; it was an occupational hazard when your occupation is living dangerously and pissing off the wrong people.
Enter John Sutter, who just dropped into town to take care of some business, and gets two offers for some fast money. I mean, this was really my lucky week—unless I got caught in the crossfire.
I approached the guest cottage, and I thought about stopping and ringing her bell. “Hello, Susan, I just stopped by to tell you that if you see a group of armed men in black ski masks running across your lawn, don’t be alarmed. They’re just here to kill Mr. Nasim.” And I should add, “If a Mr. Anthony Bellarosa comes by, don’t forget that you killed his father. And, oh, by the way, I have some nude photos of you, and photos of your dysfunctional family.”
I slowed down as I came abreast of her house, and I could actually see her through the front window of what was once my den. She was sitting where my desk used to be, and it looked as though she was multitasking on the phone and the computer, and probably eating yogurt and doing her nails at the same time.
I considered seizing the moment and stopping. I did need to speak to her about what Nasim said, and about Anthony, and a few less urgent matters. But I could do that by phone . . . I continued on to the gatehouse.
It was a dreary day, weather-wise and otherwise, but I could see some breaks in the clouds, and tomorrow was supposed to be sunny. Plus, I’d gotten my housing situation straightened out—if I didn’t mind Islamic commandos scaling the walls—and I’d completed my desk work, made my peace with Ethel, made a sort of date with Elizabeth, and turned down an offer from Anthony Bellarosa, which is what I should have done with his father ten years ago.
All in all, things were on the right track, and quite possibly I had a wonderful, bright future ahead of me.
And yet I had this sense of foreboding, this feeling that there were forces at work that I comprehended on one level, but dismissed on another, like black storm clouds at sea that circled the horizon around my boat as I sat becalmed under a sunny patch of sky.
I went into the gatehouse, got myself a beer, then went out through the kitchen and sat on a bench in Ethel’s Victory Garden.
I thought about the changes she had seen in her long life—her spring, her summer, her autumn, and now her cold, dark winter.
I knew she had many regrets, including a lost love, and this made me think of Susan.
As my late father once said to me, “It’s too late to change the past, but never too late to change the future.”
What I didn’t want at the end of the day were any old regrets; what I really needed now were some new regrets.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Saturday morning was sunny and cool. Good running weather.
I got into my sweats and began a jog along Grace Lane, heading south toward Bailey Arboretum, forty forested acres of a former estate, now a park, which I remembered was a good place to run.
I do some of my best thinking while running, and today’s first subject was my meeting with Elizabeth. I needed to tidy up the gatehouse, then drive into the village for some wine and whatever. Then I considered an agenda for my afternoon with her: legal matters first, followed by an inventory of everything in the house. After that, maybe a glass of wine. Maybe several glasses of wine. Maybe I should stop thinking about this.
I switched mental gears and gave some thought to my long-term plans. As I was going through an abundance of bad options, a black Cadillac Escalade passed me from behind. The vehicle slowed, made a tight U-turn, then headed toward me. As it got closer, I could see Tony behind the wheel.
I slowed my pace as the Cadillac drew abreast of me, then we both stopped, and the tinted rear window slid down. One of my bad options, Anthony Bellarosa, inquired, “Can I give you a lift?”
I walked across the road to the open window and saw that Anthony was alone in the back seat. He was dressed in black slacks and a tasteful tan sports jacket, and I didn’t see a violin case, so I concluded he was on some sort of legitimate errand. He asked again, “You want a lift?”
I replied, “No. I’m running.”
Tony was out of the car, and he reached past me and opened the door as Anthony slid over. Tony said, “Go ’head.”
I think I’ve seen this in the movies, and I always wondered why the idiot got into the car instead of making a scene, running and screaming for the police.
I glanced up and down Grace Lane, which was, as usual, nearly deserted.
Anthony patted the leather seat beside him and repeated his invitation. “Come on. I want to talk to you.”
I thought I’d made it clear that we had nothing to discuss, but I didn’t want him to think I was frightened, which I was not, or rude, which I do well with my peers, but not that well with the socially inept, like Anthony. And then there was the Susan problem, which I might be making too much of, but I wouldn’t want to make a mistake on that. So I slid into the back seat, and Tony shut the door, then got behind the wheel, did another U-turn, and off we drove.
Anthony said to me, “Hey, no hard feelings about the other night. Right?”
“What happened the other night?”
“Look, I understand where you’re coming from. Okay? But what happened in the past should stay in the past.”
“Since when?”
“I mean, it had nothing to do with me. So—”
“Your father screwing my wife has nothing to do with you. My wife murdering your father has something to do with you and her.”
“Maybe. But I’m talking about you and me.”
“There is no you and me.”
“There could be.”
“There can’t be.”
“Did you think about my offer?”
“What offer?”
“I’ll make it a hundred and fifty.”
“It was two.”
“See? You thought about it.”
“You got me,” I admitted. “And now you see I’m not that smart.”
“You’re plenty smart.”
“Make it a hundred, and we can talk.”
He laughed.
Were we having fun, or what?
Anthony nodded toward Tony, then said to me, “Let’s save this for later.” He asked me, “So, what do you think of my paving job?”
“I miss the potholes.”
“Yeah? I’ll rip it up.”
We left Grace Lane and were passing Bailey Arboretum, so I said, “You can let me off here.”
“I want to show you something first. In Oyster Bay. This might interest you. I was going to bring it up the other night, but you ran off.” He added, “I’ll drop you off here on the way back.”
End of discussion. I should have been royally pissed off about what amounted to a kidnapping, but it was a friendly kidnapping, and if I was honest with myself, I’d say I was an accomplice.
And on the subject of my prior voluntary involvement with the mob, Anthony was starting to remind me of his father. Frank never took no for an answer, especially when he thought he was doing you a great favor that you were too stupid to understand. Frank, of course, never failed to do himself a favor at the same time. Or, at the very least, he’d remind you of the favor he did for you and ask for a payback. I’ve been down this road, literally and figuratively, so Anthony was not tempting a virgin. In fact, the tricks and lessons I’d learned from the father were not doing the son any good.
We turned east toward Oyster Bay. Tony, being a good wheelman and bodyguard, was paying a lot of attention to his rearview mirror. I couldn’t help thinking about the tollbooth hit scene in The Godfather—which actually took place not too far from here—and I thought, It’s the car in front of you that you need to watch, stupid.
/> Anyway, Anthony, wanting to keep the conversation away from business and from me thinking I was being taken for a one-way ride, said, “Hey, I spoke to my mother this morning. She wants to see you.”
“Next time I’m in Brooklyn.”
“Better yet, she’s coming for Sunday dinner. You’re invited.”
“Thank you, but—”
“She comes early—like, after church. I send a car for her.”
“That’s nice.”
“Then she cooks all day. She brings her own food from Brooklyn, and she takes over the kitchen, and Megan is like, ‘Do I need this shit?’ Madonna. What’s with these women?”
“If you find out Sunday, let me know.”
“Yeah. Right. But if we have other company, then it’s usually okay. Hey, one time Megan wants to cook an Irish meal, and my mother comes in and says to me, ‘It smells like she’s boiling a goat in there.’” He laughed at the happy family memory, then continued, “And Megan drinks too much vino and hardly eats, and the kids aren’t used to real Italian food—they think canned spaghetti and pizza bagels are Italian food. But she cooks a hell of a meal. My mother. The smells remind me of Sundays when I was a kid in Brooklyn . . . it’s like I’m home again.”
I had no idea why he was telling me this, except, I suppose, to show me he was a regular guy, with regular problems, and that he had a mother.
Apropos of that, he asked me, “Did you ever eat at the house?”
I replied, “I did not.” But Susan did. I added, “Your mother always sent food over.”
Tony, eavesdropping, said, “Yeah. Me and Lenny or Vinnie was always taking food over to your place.”
I didn’t reply, but this would have been a good time to remind Tony that his departed boss could not have been screwing my wife without the knowledge, assistance, and cover stories of him and the aforementioned two goombahs. Well, I couldn’t blame them, and two of them were dead anyway. Three, if you count Frank. Four, if Susan got whacked, and five if I leaned forward and snapped Tony’s neck.
I looked out the side window. We were passing through a stretch of remaining estates, most of which were hidden behind old walls or thick trees, but now and then I could see a familiar mansion or a treed allée behind a set of wrought-iron gates.