The Chrysanthemum Palace

~ ~ ~

THE NIGHT PROVED A TONIC all around. On Sunday morning, Thad and Clea looked clear-eyed, luminous, and light of heart. I hadn’t fully digested Miriam’s cliffhanger about the twins being together that ill-fated day in Capri; my plan was to visit the Herrick Library and see what I could dig up. I wanted to hold a bit of fragile yellow newsprint in my hand, something the Internet couldn’t allow.

But first, let me backtrack: we officially got busted.

See, everyone was supposed to hook up at Shutters around noon. The Dynamic Duo awakened early, fled the Chateau, and swung by Clea’s to grab a swimsuit. When there was no sign of Miriam at the hotel, they naturally decided to kill time by dropping over to harass me; as they pulled up, Meerkat was just leaving. They clucked their tongues and said “Aha!” in grandly sophomoric pseudo-revelation.

Our pal had hired a driver, and I wasn’t sure that was a good sign. Miriam wanted to run the Mustang over to Shutters to pick up a suit of her own but Thad insisted we take the Town Car on a “pit stop” then continue to the Colony. Clea was gung ho. She’d never been to my parents’ beach house.

We piled into the Lincoln and, after a few minutes of ribbing on their part and half-assed blushing on ours, settled in for the short ride.

My father bought the place twenty years ago and since then had acquired the adjoining properties (his modus operandi, as by now you know). The structure had endured a multitude of upgrades and add-ons in the Richard Meier mausoleum style—“ad mauseum,” as Gita liked to say, otherwise cattily known as the School of Swiss Sanitoria. “Perfect,” she noted wryly, “for your parents’ mutual invalidism.” The sand castle was a suitable showcase for Perry’s outsized art and ego. I had pretty much left the nest by the time they moved in, and while I’m certain to have secretly — all right, maybe not so secretly — coveted the general idea of a $15 million weekend getaway, I was glad to note that for all its meticulous minimalism, in the end, like an aesthetic black (OK, white) hole, the dwelling consumed itself, and everything in near orbit. When I finally visited — already in Berkeley and on the outs with Perry (Mom was inadvertently tarred with that brush) — I realized for the first time just how much money my father had accumulated through the years. My outlandish disdain was tempered by the fact that Gita loved the beach: sun and sea were therapeutic and rejuvenative. If that’s what money could buy, the house had been worth every penny.

Mars (short for Morris), the longtime, fortyish-looking sixty-something majordomo, greeted us at the door. Dad was having a massage and Mom was still asleep. Though just half an hour early, I fitfully asked if my parents had remembered about brunch. Mars smiled like a mandarin. Everything would be ready — he was cooking the food himself — around noon. He suggested we take a stroll on the beach.

It was a spectacular morning. Jerky breezes snappily rearranged our hair and we chased each other around while rich, healthy dogs — locals — leaped and barked. Since our covers had been pulled, Miriam and I dared the occasional intimacy yet when Clea caught my eye, I reflexively dropped my lover’s hand with whatever casualness I could muster. (It was silly but Meerkat seemed mildly amused.) Thad gazed at the horizon with a kind of pilgrim’s poignant hopefulness, like someone with a fatal disease on the eve of sailing away for a last-ditch cure. Clea spent a fair amount of time watching him, not just monitoring moods but fixated on his essence as an anthropologist upon a totem. He completed her in a way — I was going to use “ennobled,” the word I invoked for Morgana on Black Jack’s extirpation — but that wasn’t wholly true, not in either case. He did lend a kind of gravitas: she’d finally met someone whose anchoring to this earth was more tenuous than her own. While Clea always yearned for flight, she had voluntarily grounded herself for this man — a lovely sacrifice. Though I’ll never be certain, I think she must have already known she was pregnant.

Another thing that touched me was how sweetly anxious Clea was to see my parents again, this time in the company of her man. I’m sure she thought it legitimizing, making her more respectable to the world. If I’d had my wedding fantasies, I can only imagine what her feverish brain drummed up. She probably saw herself back at the Vineyard, fumigating ghosts of that haunted cliffhouse with a sage-burnt ceremony of sacred union. If that termagant Morgana were to deny permission, she knew the Colony would be readily offered (one helluva backup plan) and they’d be hitched without a hitch, vows exchanged in Chanel gown and bare feet over unnumbered grains of sand — which actually made today a kind of holy reconnoitering.

As we returned, the masseuse was leaving, an enormous folded leather table tucked under her arm with the ease of a yoga mat. Gita waved to us from the kitchen. Perry appeared, groggily post-shiatsu, with the newly arrived Captain Laughton and his (much) younger partner in tow. Dad gave all a generous greeting, with particular attention paid to Mr. Michelet, the informal guest of honor. As we entered the living room, Nick Sultan and his wife materialized at the front gate. Perry announced to Mars that “the door may now be bolted.” Apart from the help, there were ten of us.

While I hadn’t expected it, the addition of a few friendly couples was a relief. They leeched some pressure off. Of course it didn’t hurt that the captain’s fey, charming friend was slightly in awe of Thad, and not just for his film and stage work — he praised his novels and had the good sense not to bring up Jack. Whether or not he was sincere, he’d definitely done his homework, for which I was grateful.

Mom and Thad became instant partners in crime. She was always terrific with wounded souls and I think her being crippled allowed him to tap into the innate graciousness that played just beneath the surface of his cynical mask of social dysfunction. They were fellow Masons, funny and literate and conspiratorial — of the secret order of Those Who Knew. As the day grew longer they huddled and whispered, becoming even more fabulous and risqué. We gave them plenty of space. (I had a neurotic moment before reassuring myself Thad’s scabrous repartee would stop short of any mockery of Father. He would never have been so crass.) For his part, Perry was pleased at the alliance; he never brought home much except riches, so he was satisfied not to take center stage, happy that she was happy.

Besides, he would soon shine during the Grand Tour. I knew it might be dicey but Dad was particularly eager to display various artifacts belonging to Jack Michelet that he’d collected over the years like so many big-game heads. He also knew there was business to be discussed, however obliquely: Miriam’s odd proposal that her client novelize “Prodigal Son” for the Starwatch book series — I’d already primed the pump — and the more engaging idea of Nick Sultan’s that the surviving son adapt Chrysanthemum to the big screen. In fact, Perry had invited the television director and his spouse for brunch out of the former’s tenacious entreaties to package the shtick-fueled, intergenerational project. When I took Dad aside to briefly discuss, he said he’d have much preferred a “name” like Neil Jordan or Phil Noyce but had had the option for so damn long without incurring A-list interest (“A” for “Anyone”) that Nick’s passions were actually welcome. Besides, he said, if instinct had taught him anything, there was a lot to be said about going with what was in front of you.

I could tell Thad wasn’t fond of the director and it wasn’t hard to see why. Nick Sultan was one of those grating showbiz animals who couldn’t take a breath without advancing some pet project or other. His American wife reflected the same naked ambition — an aging Gold’s Gym rat, she must have thrown $40,000 at her teeth alone; exquisitely symmetrical, they gleamed like airbrushed headstones. Though hardly saying a word, Mrs. Sultan possessed the boundless energy of a trained spaniel, one who could circle her tail (or her master’s) ad infinitum, eating whatever amount of poo it took to get the job done.

When brunch was over Mars took latte orders, and that’s when Dad made his move — like sweethearts, he and Thad adjourned on cue. I watched the others quietly wrestle with whether they should follow but strategically held them at bay, informing that my father’s show-and-tells were heart-stoppingly tedious. I promised a scintillating private tour after espresso and desserts. They got the message.

As soon as they were safely engaged in frivolities (the captain’s boyfriend thought he saw Sting strolling past and everyone ran to have a look) I sprinted in hot pursuit of host and honored guest, catching up in the library.

“Your father’s firsts,” said Perry, waving to a shelf of leather-bound folios. “Did Miriam tell you I hold the option on Chrysanthemum?”

“Yes,” said Thad. “Mr. Sultan won’t let me forget.”

“He’s interested in directing.” I could tell by Dad’s tone that he wanted us to know he was slumming by even considering the Brit. But another implication was at hand: Perry Needham Krohn’s instincts never failed him. “I’m sure he’d do a fair job — he’s certainly thought about it long enough. He’s passionate, and I think that’s key. If you have a passion, you’re halfway there.”

“Talent helps,” said Thad drolly.

(A small, unvarnished dig that my father dug.)

“Talent would be nice. But Nick comes from British theater.”

“They all come from British theater.”

“Right — the RSC. Well if he can hack Marat/Sade, I’m hoping he’s up for Chrysanthemum. Besides, you’ve got people like Rob Marshall hitting home runs, right out of the box. Nick’s got great energy.”

Suddenly he was cheerleading, which I doubt had been his intention. As if to stop himself in his tracks, he turned to ask what I thought.

“It’s kind of hard to judge from his work on the set. I mean, it’s a well-oiled machine at this point, right? A feature takes a whole different—”

“True,” said Perry. He faced our friend. “What do you think of Chrysanthemum? As one of your father’s books.” A good, simple question which I’m sure gave Dad the fleeting sense he’d regained control. When Thad didn’t reply, he added, somewhat awkwardly, “What’s your opinion?”

“I’ve always had a special relationship to that novel,” said Thad, without elaborating.

This seemed to please my father.

“Nick said it might be something you’d like to adapt.”

“I didn’t quite say that.”

He was standoffish though still friendly — not so much hard-to-get, but insinuating the complexities of blood he knew Perry would appreciate.

“I thought it’d be a hell of an interesting experiment. Son adapting father.” Dad was in murky waters but I didn’t intervene. “I like the idea of it.”

Thad walked closer to a framed watercolor.

“Recognize it?” my father asked. “One of Jack’s.”

“Yes,” said Thad. “I do.”

It was a woman with her legs spread, hands cupping a resplendent purple vulva.

“A recurring theme,” he said, not without humor. “You know, Perry… what really interests me — at the moment—and I’m not saying I wouldn’t want to take a stab at Chrysanthemum because that intrigues as well, it really does.”

“OK.” He exhaled, giving Thad his full attention — like a merchant ready to barter.

“What I’ve really been thinking about is your book series.”

Dad wrinkled his brow as if downshifting to a lower mental gear. He politely nodded. “Miriam mentioned something about that. Now I’m intrigued. Tell me more!”

“Well, I guess I’m a little perverse! Since my father’s death, there seems to be a lot of interest in Michelet properties in general. Someone even wants to do my first book, The Soft Sea Horse.”

Miriam appeared in the door. “Mikkel Skarsgaard,” she said.

“The marvelous DP,” said Dad authoritatively. He had a staff of people paid exclusively to keep him abreast of rising (and falling) hipsters in the art and film worlds.

“I’m really interested in doing a Starwatch book…”

“ ‘Prodigal Son,’ ” said Miriam, offering what my father already knew.

“It’s transgressive,” said Thad.

“He wants to do something… subversive,” said Miriam. “Counterintuitive.”

They were wisely appealing to the “collector” side of dad, the Perry Krohn who’d been known to chicly underwrite tedious performance pieces. He laughed amiably.

“It does seem a bit of a waste of your talents.”

“I–I can’t explain!” said Thad, grinning ear to ear.

“It’s his Matthew Barney moment,” said Miriam.

“I love Matthew Barney,” said Perry.

He seemed to brighten and grow vacant all at once because though the analogy made no sense whatsoever my father was afraid that it did and he’d missed something. He indulged them because he didn’t remotely want to be the butt of a joke, no matter how obscure.

“It’d be great,” said Miriam, jauntily bringing things back down to Earth. “I mean, Thad’s such a wonderful prose writer as is.”

“We’re talking about you novelizing ‘Prodigal Son’?” said Dad, to clarify.

“Yes. I’d actually love to do it as two books,” said Thad, overenthused (and with Black Jack’s will in mind; two books would increase the odds). Perry all but scratched his head — at least he was still smiling. “I’m serious!”

“All right, then let’s make it happen!” said Perry, leading us from the library.

Thad gushed his thanks (as if that were all that was legally required to seal the deal), while Miriam obsequiously trumpeted the Dadaist brilliance of it all. My guess was that Father thought it more socially expedient to acquiesce than debate the point. It was some kind of silliness.

I decided to talk with him about the whole business later on and promised as much to Miriam. I was a little concerned Thad hadn’t given enough lip service to Chrysanthemum, which after all was my father’s baby, or should I say, orphan. I could illuminate the testamentary backstory, without which Thad’s zeal must have seemed bizarre — here was an opportunity to score a classy screenwriting credit for a significant chunk of change yet for some reason young Michelet was hell-bent on churning out one of the cookie-cutter volumes of an obscenely banal book series instead, a series already vaguely embarrassing to his employer, a man who prided himself on being a bibliophile (and author) yet whose only aggressive contribution to world literature thus far was this commercial offal, this worthless waste of tree and ink, this dumb and dumber encyclopedia of embroidered teleplays. On the other hand, Perry had always shown a sense of humor when one least expected, a levity about his life and the grotesquely lucrative permutations it had taken: that was his saving grace. Emphatically, the only way any of this might go down would be if yours truly laid out the cold, hard facts of the situation, IRS and all. Best not to be underhanded with Dad — it would only backfire. I’d clear it with Meerkat first, but knew she’d be game.

As we rejoined the others, I overheard Miriam “spinning” my father while they walked, arm-in-arm. “It’s gonna be great,” she said. “And I know he’ll want to do Chrysanthemum too. The novelization will be a warm up.”

Now Dad was having his fun. “If he agrees to costar in the next Starwatch feature, I’ll think about it. And I mean for scale!”

We settled onto the patio to watch the beachscape.

“The sea is high today, with a thrilling flush of wind,” Thad declaimed. The first line, he said, of The Alexandria Quartet.

Nick moved his chair closer as if for a tête-à-tête, which didn’t make the budding Morloch happy (as the sun dipped, his warm-demeanored ensignhood began to chill). Clea smartly created a diversion, tearing off to frolic with a golden retriever. Miriam followed in Frisbee’d pursuit and the captain’s partner joined them, demonstrating an exemplary wrist-flicking technique. Gita, who’d vanished upstairs awhile, reappeared at the outside elevator. Seeing her, Thad affectionately made the starship whoosh as Carmen pushed Mom toward our remaining little group.

“The technology of the palace is quite impressive, Captain, don’t you agree?”

Laughton looked over with a vacant smile; he may not have heard through the crashing of waves.

“I mean,” said Thad, “you must be aware there are no oceans — not as you know them — in the Vorbalidian sector. I hasten to add what you’re now seeing isn’t a holograph: it’s an aggregation of supercells, a benignly metastatic reconstruction, not a replica, of the immense body of water known as the Pacific that is native to your planet. Scratch the surface and you’ll even find fish and flora. Some genetic differences but fish and flora nonetheless — actually quite edible!”

“Aye-aye, Ensign Rattweil, or shall I call you Prince?” said Laughton, getting into the spirit.

“You may call me Morloch.”

“The Artist Formerly Known as Ensign,” I said, going retro for the sake of the gagline.

Gita wheeled to the terrace on her own power.

Thad acknowledged her with a wink. “Hello, Mother. Glad you could join us.”

“That’s Queen Mother, to you,” interjected the drunken captain, announcing himself as a formerly closeted traveler, now from “outed space.”

Gita drank from a flute of Champagne before saying, “Otherwise known as Her Royal Pain — to my husband anyway.”

Nick tried to play but was frozen out.

His wife wisely retreated in the direction of the Frisbeeites.

“Commander Karp,” said Laughton. “Have you been introduced to the concubines?”

“Incredibly authentic,” I said, snapping sordidly into character. “I believe X-Ray is making the formal request we be allowed to bring them aboard — scientific study, of course.”

Clea and Miriam laughingly returned to the deck. They were wet to their hips.

“Oh my God!” said Clea, breathlessly. “It is so beautiful.”

“The water is amazing,” said Miriam.

In the distance, the captain’s partner still frolicked, joined by flat-stomached stringy-haired teens and a few more cash-rich dogs.

“Aye, Ambassador Trothex! We were just talking about the astonishing Vorbalidian science. The water, not being water, feels more like water than water itself!”

“It’s a rare thing when we Vorbalids are allowed to enjoy the fruits of our own technology,” said Clea. “It is only because of your diplomatic visit that we’ve been sanctioned to experience ‘the Malibu.’ Do you have a name for this sort of activity, Commander? Other than the subgenre ‘R and R’?”

“Yes,” I said, eyebrow raised. (My Cabott impression.) “I believe the Earthling slang is an obscure, three-letter word. The pronunciation is ‘fun.’ ”

“Fun,” echoed Clea, morosely contemplative.

Miriam giggled as the game devolved and everyone made a dash for fresh rounds of food and drink. Only Thad remained engrossed, albeit in a softer, minor key.

“I will have to fight my brother Morloch,” he said to himself, resigned. “It’s the only way the others can be saved.”

I didn’t think anyone else heard but then I saw a perturbed look on Gita’s face. Sensing something wasn’t right, she engaged “instruments” in an effort to stabilize. Mother delicately brought up the canceled Beckett play (I told her about it a few days ago), and how much she admired anyone with the fortitude to tackle “the craggy Irishman”—like a famously genial professor, she added a subtler intellect to the grosser Perry Krohn equation, for balance. Under the pull of her gentle conversational prodding, Thad eventually broke free of the tractor beam of Vorbalidian constructs. He spoke for a while like a charmingly distracted, slightly defeated person.

She even asked after Morgana. He said that when his mother heard he was doing Starwatch, flowers had been sent (chrysanthemums, actually) along with a note: “Beaming down lots of love.” Gita laughed. She told him she knew Mrs. Michelet’s work though admitted confusing it with “that Ettlinger woman,” which he got a kick out of. For a moment, I panicked Mom was going to ask if he’d ever sat for an official portrait but my worry was needless.

Thad espied a small, wet neighborhood boy, a shivery party-crasher of about nine, standing at the cornucopia of the buffet table cogitating over what he might help himself to. Mars handed the towhead a towel; without taking his eyes off the food, the visitor draped it over his blonde-downed, sparrow’s shoulders.

“There’s something so… perfect and monstrous about the drowning of a child,” said Thad, taking the child’s measure.

The comment jarred Gita anew. I moved closer, as if to shield Thad’s words from the guests and muffle him from the world as well.

“Jeremy was like that when they found him — down in the flooded library of the Aegean, the tiniest Leopardi. I made my way through schools of Father’s iridescent books. Heartbreaking it was, to see him broken on the reef with his funny glasses.”

Gita glanced at me then put her hand on Thad’s.

Clea joined us with a plate of pasta and eggs, and an unsuspecting smile.

“He already had little scales. The eyes were hooded and when the lids opened… cobalt blue! Like the most fantastic marbles. Beautiful—beautiful. He hung there in the water, twisting ever so slowly… the softest of sea horses. Oh, it was him all right! The picture pride of Hollywood. I knew it was him. ‘Too many fall from great and good for you to doubt the likelihood. Die early and avoid the fate’—”

The captain bounded over unawares, Miriam at his heels. Observing Clea’s darkened face, and mine and Gita’s as well, the book agent knew something was up.

“Well, well,” said Laughton, still oblivious. “I see our beloved ensign is in sequestration with his mum, the Vorbalid queen!”

“That would be you,” his boyfriend shouted, approaching the bridge.

“Thad,” said Gita. “Are you all right? Would you like to go in and lie down?”

Everyone instantly grew solemn-faced. Father came out. Thad was still fixated on the towel-shrouded boy, who, plate filled, shuffled back to sea and sand.

“Headache,” said Thad, without much conviction.

Clea knelt by his side and quietly asked if he’d brought his “medicine,” whatever that was code for — in moments like this, I’d gladly have forked over heroin. I just wanted him “fixed.”

He’d be fine, said Thad, if only he could “catnap.” Clea and Miriam helped him to his feet. Carmen met them at the elevator and up they whooshed, as if to sickbay. Nick made a few predictable comments about how his mother, who lived in a place with the wretched name of Slough, also suffered migraines — remarks calculated to communally minimalize Thad’s short-term miseries while self-servingly allowing the director to keep his eyes on the prize of any long-term Thad-related goals. The tomb-raiding wife nodded along, in mercenary cahoots to rescue and coddle future deals at any cost. Thankfully, the couple soon announced they were going home (a Point Dume rental). The captain and his partner discreetly ambled down the coast to let things settle before taking leave. Dad wondered aloud if we should call Thad’s personal physician, then excused himself to retrieve a bottle of wine from the cellar.

I sat with Mother and she looked so sad.

Her gaze fell over the water, blinking at gulls and whitecaps.

“What an awful time of it some people have, Bertie. What an awful time.”