Memorial

LXI.Joan

HE asked her to fly with him to Paris for the weekend.

They hadn’t discussed the pregnancy any further.

There were 3 pilots and 3 stewards, 2 master suites, and a full spa. The bathrooms had special black toilet paper from Spain.

She was a little under the weather, but the Ritz didn’t make her feel any worse. On both days, Lew had a full slate of meetings, except for when he insisted she come with him to the Marais to look at a 4 foot tall 122-lb Christian Bailly automata, a complex mechanical figure called the Bird Trainer, in the lineage of 18th century creations. It took 6 years to build. 6 years = $6,000,000. Joan thought everyone was kidding.

She liked spending time alone.

The Bentley — which for some reason had a sink in the back — shuttled her to anonymous vintage clothiers, hidden away in unlikely arrondissements. Lew kept the car in its own climate-controlled “condo,” and the driver-caretaker lived above. He could view his collection, including a Czech Tantra 87 and a 1933 Maybach Zeppelin, on a Webcam from wherever he was in the world. He told her the Maybach’s orange paint had been matched to a Moroccan ex girlfriend’s pubes. Joan said, “TMI, Lew,” and he laughed.

A boutique in the hotel sold 35-hundred dollar Japanese jeans (woven with platinum strands), a knee-length jacket made out of fetuses cut from ewes’ carcasses, and a 32,000 dollar cellphone. He wanted to buy them all, for kicks, but she said no 5 times. (When she returned to LA the jeans and phone were waiting for her at ARK. At least he didn’t send the coat.) Though he seemed to relish her spirited refusals, he absolutely would not let Joan turn down his offer of a Guerdon credit card. At that point, she caved. He is going to be the father of my child. She bought a 12,000€ belted Lagerfeld dress coat at Anouschka on Avenue du Coq (Catherine Deneuve was having lunch in the vestibule with an employee), a Goyard doctor’s satchel, an incongruous pythonskin ultra P&G bag, a Spaksmannsspjarir sweater with button-on collar, a tacky Andrew Gn coral print coat, a black Lurex Boudicca shirtdress, and a reworked 20s flapper gown from a husband-and-wife team who called themselves E2.

She walked on the street.

She hated the bustle — people stuffing their faces with food, on the fly. It was the same all over the world. She hated watching daughters or wives or mistresses attentively watching their fathers or husbands or lovers talk on cellphones: the men usually spoke with bizarre, heightened urgency, as if negotiating with abductors. Everything was so intensely grave and poppycockish, and she knew that if she could understand what was being said it’d be the most mundane thing imaginable.

She watched television back at the hotel. Larry King again, always a comfort. All Larry, all the time. This one was a BTK rerun. A cop was talking: “I always thought he had the misfortune, given his aspirations, to live in a small media market. He never got the attention of an LA or New York market because he lived in Wichita.” On the BBC, Condi Rice was telling an interviewer that she was a social scientist; Condi was weirdly comforting too. Sexy.

A soap came on. Some kind of Latin couple. The guy said, “I am not going to make love to you.” The girl said, “You are going to make love to me.” The guy said, “How can you prove you made love to me?” The girl said, “Why would you want to make love to me?” Nothing made sense. Maybe she wasn’t paying enough attention.

The ads were mostly tourist promos for other countries. She liked the slogans: MADRID ONLY HAPPENS IN MADRID. UGANDA — GIFTED BY NATURE. MALAYSIA TRULY ASIA. DO BUY IN DUBAI. (RWANDA IS FOR LOVERS.) A funny one was aimed at the Arab Emirates; people there were so parched that India was offering trendy new “monsoon mania holidays,” even though recent floods had killed thousands.

GOA — COME FEEL THE RAIN.

DARFUR — FEEL THE JANJAWEED.

Condi’s moment dissolved into a feature on Viktor Yushchenko, he of the toxin-ravaged face. One poll taken said the Ukrainians thought he was shit and things were now worse than before the revolution. But the poll that closed the news segment said 2/3s of the populace were “very happy.” Shit Happy Shit Happy Shit Happy.

She drowsily focused on another image byte — people in New York shouting, “Where’s my Xbox? They promised Xboxes but it’s a lie!”—before drifting off to sleep.

THEY were supposed to fly on to the small Swiss town of Rossinière, where Lew had been asked by the widow of the painter Balthus to see a dusktime outdoor puppet show, an invitation which, through the intervention of Louis Benech and Trinnie Trotter (who had codesigned the landscape for one of Samuel’s homes), took months to procure. Setsuko and her daughter, Harumi, lived in “The Grand Chalet,” a converted hotel-castle, supposedly the largest of its kind in Switzerland. But at the last minute, the widow became ill and regretfully informed she must bow out. An intermediary told Lew that Setsuko would still be delighted if he came, even if it meant they might not meet. Since Harumi was in Los Angeles, as much as he wanted to visit the legendary place, Lew decided it wouldn’t be right.

THEY gave it to Goldsworthy.”

“What do you mean?” said Joan.

“I just talked to Eugenie — at Guerdon. They’re flying Andy in from Scotland next week so he can do his walkabout.”

“Barbet, what are you saying? We already knew that. We knew Andy was going to do something.”

“And we were correct. But evidently, it’s a little more than ‘something.’ From what I’ve gathered.”

“Like what?”

“No details immediately forthcoming.”

“So it’s totally over?”

“Let’s say we’ve gone from dark horse to black hole horse.”

“It isn’t funny.”

“I’m not laughing, Joan.”

“Lew would have called me. He’s knows I’m going up there with that fucking maquette!”

“You still are. And here’s to you, Mrs Frei-berg, Jesus loves you more than you will know. Wo wo wo. Maybe he’s going to make you a different sort of proposal. A decent one. You’ve already won the mother of all commissions, right?”

“Oh bullshit. Anything on Rem?”

“Definitely out. Outré. Rien. Rien Koolhaas! At least we didn’t lose to Dutch Schultz. Pointy-head bitch motherfucker.”

“I cannot believe this.”

“Well, you’ll always have Paris.”

She was so angry at Lew and herself and the world that she felt on the verge of serenity.

“What about the maquette?”

“Being trucked to Mendocino and delivered in a crate as we speak. In situ. What a situ-ation. Honey, look: I’m drinking and cannot be disturbed. The guys’ll meet you at the property.”

“But why?”

“For the unveiling.”

“Does Lew know about this?”

“Of course he knows! I told Frieberg I wanted him to see the thing, in the chapel. In twilight time. Goin to the chapel and we’re…gonna get mar-ried—not! Maybe it’ll turn him around. Isn’t that brilliant?”

“You mean he wants us to go through the motions. Sadist.”

“Motions? Um, no, not us, that would be you, ma chérie. ‘Distant as the Milky Way’…no shit. Your fucking motions made us who we are today! Or who we aren’t. I meant fucking motions. But don’t worry, Mrs Robinson. Still plenty o’ mems in them thar hills.”

T hat was last night.

She’d been home for 2 days, and now it was noon. She turned her phone back on. She was hungover from the Ambien CR. The jet was leaving at 3. Her conversation with Barbet seemed like a bad dream. She didn’t know whether to give it credence; Lew could be playing mindgames. Who was this Eugenie at Guerdon anyway? Maybe Barbet had a mole. A moll. A Molly. A fuckmole. She felt strangely secure, or at least secure in her own insecurities. It was probably because of the baby. As fanatical as it seemed, Joan still wanted the Napa commission more than anything; maybe even more than the child itself.

She turned on the Impressa and listened to her voicemail while fishing soy milk from the fridge.

A blasé sobered-up message from Barbet wished her luck. He was going to his house in Rancho Mirage, shorthand for having made a new conquest. The Molly. He sounded depressed, and she knew what he was up to: fucking his way out of it, per usual. Call when you get to Mendocino so I can help coordinate. Completely unnecessary — she’d phone the art guys directly to make sure the model had arrived intact — but it was Barbet’s way of doing the team thing. The ARK thing.

Pradeep called from Delhi, saying what a wonderful time he had with her and how sorry he was they hadn’t hooked up before he left. Then came 2 rather tentative calls from her mom; she thought about waiting until she returned from up north but decided to check in.

“Mom? How you doing?”

“Joanie? Hello.”

“What’s wrong.” Silence. “Mom, are you all right?”

“Joanie — something happened.”

Her heart seized.

“What is it, Mother?”

“A man came to the house and said that I won a great deal of money.”

“Oh God.”

“Joan, please!”

“But when?”

“A few weeks ago.”

“Why didn’t you — was he a scammer?”

“They think so. Yes. Please don’t be mad.”

“OK. OK. I won’t be mad. I’m not mad.”

Joan got the details, best as an agitated Marj could deliver, then made her read the phone numbers of Agent Marone and the bank officer so she could get in touch. She realized she’d been abrupt, and told her mother not to worry. She would ring back after making a few calls.

Shit.

There were 2 for Agent Marone, and she hoped her mom had gotten them right. She tried the 1st: voicemail. The 2nd was the antifraud division of the FBI. A woman asked if she wanted to be forwarded to his inbox but Joan declined, saying she’d already left a message on his cell. She thought twice and had them transfer, leaving word that she was Marjorie Herlihy’s daughter.

Then she called the woman at Wells Fargo.

“This is Cynthia Mulcahy.”

“Hi, Cynthia. It’s Joan Herlihy, Marjorie Herlihy’s daughter.”

“Hi, Joan,” said the woman, as if in condolence.

“Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“Have you spoken to Agent Marone?”

“I left a message on his voicemail.”

“You talked to your mom.”

“She wouldn’t tell me how much the guy stole.”

“About $550,000.”

“Oh my God!”

“I know,” she said, with a kind of warm yet steely sympathy. “A hundred thousand of that is insured by the FDIC. I’m not sure if your mother told you, but we got that back to her, and it’s resting in a special account. There’s no way that anyone — except Marjorie, of course — can get to it.”

“But how are you going to catch the guy? I mean, I’ve heard about this stuff and they never recover what’s…”

“That’s not entirely true, Joan. Agent Marone is very good at chasing money. I’ve worked with him before, and he’s got a great group of forensic accountants. And, as I said, the federally insured amount has already been credited to her account, which is unusual. Most of the time that process takes 90 days, but we have Ruddy to thank for that.”

“Ruddy?”

“Marone. That’s Agent Marone. Have you seen her yet?”

“No — I can’t. The timing is horrendous. I’m on my way out of town on what is probably the single most important business trip of my life. I’m not sure what to do.”

“I understand. If it’s any consolation, the banking industry is in the middle of a virtual pandemic in the area of geriatric fraud. And the people who took money from your mom are probably better at it than any group I’ve ever seen.”

“Oh, great.”

“What I mean is, your mother is very sharp. From the conversations I’ve had with Ruddy, she was circumspect; you can’t imagine how skillful these men and women are at establishing trust. That’s what they do. But she is definitely of sound mind, and didn’t just give her money away. I know that sounds hard to believe when we’re staring at the results, but it’s important for you to keep in mind.”

“I appreciate what you’re trying to say, Mrs—”

“Mulcahy. And it’s Ms—but Cynthia, please.”

“I appreciate it. She’s not senile. OK. She’s alone and vulnerable, and I probably have something to do with that.”

“Don’t go there, Joan.”

“But the money’s gone nonetheless. And it’s a lot.”

“I know. Look: everything that can be done is being done. Are you going to postpone your trip?”

“I don’t know. I need to think.”

“OK. If you do go, when will you be back?”

“I was just going for a few days, but I’ll cut it short. I can actually be back late tonight. It’s a presentation,” she added needlessly.

“All right. Why don’t you give me your email and cellphone number. You left it for Agent Marone?”

“Yes. But not my email.”

“I’m sure he’ll call within the next few hours. I don’t think there’s much you can actually do by being here, Joan, aside from hand-holding — which she definitely needs. The poor woman hasn’t had an easy time. There’s a lot of shame attached to this type of thing when it happens. I wish I could say I hadn’t been through it with other clients.”

“You’ve seen it before.”

“More than I wish! Many, many of our customers. And it isn’t just widows and widowers: it’s married couples, folks in their 50s, we’re generally talking about savvy, well-educated people. Baby-boomers! They become mesmerized—the groups preying on them are like — well, they’re just so seductive. Whether or not you postpone your trip is completely up to you, but you should take comfort that the agent in charge of your mother’s case is extremely competent. We’re keeping a close watch on Marjorie’s account. I am, personally. If you’re back tonight or tomorrow morning, I don’t see much difference. It’s your call. It’s an emotional call.”

“Do I need to get a lawyer?”

“Absolutely. Why don’t you come see me the minute you touch down — with or without your mom. I’m here all week. The Pico-Robertson branch. That’s Marjorie’s home branch. We can discuss all your options and I can give you a list of people — attorneys — you might want to get in touch with.”

Joan called her mother and said she’d spoken to the lady at the bank and had also left word with the FBI agent. She was leaving at 3 to give the final presentation of the Memorial, but would be in constant touch. When she broached the possibility of returning on the same night, Marj would hear nothing of it, which only made her feel worse, accentuating the offer’s hollow ring. (After speaking to the Wells Fargo woman she had pretty much settled on staying in Napa until the following afternoon, to get closure on whatever the hell was going on.) She patiently waited for her mom to get a pen and write down Joan’s cell number, asking her to repeat it back. She told her to keep the Nokia turned on as well (the old woman didn’t have the heart to say she’d forgotten her own mobile number — thank God Joan didn’t ask her to recite it — but didn’t think it made any difference, as long as she had it charged and ready), and not to leave the house or answer the door. If anything “seemed ‘funny,’ ” Joan said, “I want you to call 911 immediately, and then call the agent, and then Cora, and then me—in that order. OK, Mom?” Her daughter said it sounded like everyone was doing what they could, and not to worry. It wasn’t that much money in the scheme of things (the fuck it wasn’t)…you have your health, your children, and your house free and clear. These things happen to people of all ages. It’s a pandemic. (She hated parroting the woman from the bank and hated herself for wanting to soften things before they hung up. She had years of experience hanging up on her mother.) She tried to end on a cheerful note by bringing up the hundred-thousand dollars that Cynthia said had been deposited back in her account. They spoke another 5 minutes, but Joan was on autopilot, her head already in Napa.

AS the Town Car ferried her to Van Nuys she put on her warpaint, strategizing how to surf the cauldron of india ink that abutted and slapped the great and perilous cliffs of Losers Coast.

She decided not to refer to the baby unless Lew Freiberg brought it up. She would promise an abortion if that was what he required — a stone lie, yet one that might buy her time. All Joan wanted was a fair shake at winning the Mem: if securing the commission, publicly, came down to an order to scrape the womb, she would give notarized assurance. (In her heart she felt he would never tell her to do such a thing but she had to prepare for the worst). The prime imperative, as they say, was for ARK’s design, her design, to be inseminated into every media outlet that mattered, up, down, and sideways. She wanted to win a prestigious foreign prize. She wanted to be profiled, a smoldering headshot in the sidebars of middlebrow magazines that sit in doctors’ offices: Time, Newsweek, what have you. She wanted the whole international elitist enchilada. She wanted to be recognized then move on. Let Lew Freiberg try to pull the Mem plug late-term — but she wouldn’t, she would have that child. And if Joan Herlihy couldn’t have her commission, why then she’d just build a baby, like her brother said, because time was running out, all around.

What could be a more intelligent design?