effervesce. At my receptions, your enthusiasm was spontaneous, compelling. Why not do so for the rest of your life?”
“Why not?”
The waiter cleared our plates. We declined dessert, and Drew ordered a cognac for me and leaned back. “Sure, I make fun of my customers, some of whom think discrimination is a social problem afflicting black people. Others are vulgarity incarnate: a price I paid, the price you’ll pay. But some people get it. Bringing them along is rewarding, and I’m not talking about the money. Many start loving art for art’s sake.”
“I’m too excited to think it through.”
“Great to hear,” Drew said. “Alexander, you don’t like yourself; it’s the residue of Tatiana’s suicide. Self-hatred destroyed her, and”—he looked away—“you’re doing penance for the suicide; wasting your God-given talent as a banker is wrong.”
“I’m not doing penance. You don’t understand. How could you?”
“But I do understand.” Drew leaned closer. “Self-loathing, that’s your problem. The older you get, the harder it will be to control. And I fear you might end up like, well, like Tatiana.” Drew took my hands. “Sorry to get so personal, but it’s true. You know that?”
“Oh, I don’t know, there are times that, I wish… I pray… But, yes, from time to time the self-revulsion boils up.”
“There’s nothing you could have done to have prevented Tatiana’s death. If you follow the path you were meant to take, I’m sure you’ll start looking at yourself without the self-loathing. A fresh start; it’s my gift to you.” He squeezed my hands. “Say something.”
“You told me this was going to be a pleasant evening.”
“Take my offer, and you’ll remember it as momentous.”
“Don’t you think I’m more stable than my mother?”
“You’ve got a lot of Tatiana in you: the physical resemblance, of course, her vulnerability, her passion for art.” He shook his head. “Tatiana was amazing; there wasn’t much she didn’t know about paintings. Even with my lousy French, I could spend hours listening to her. That stopped when she got so confused and started going on about…” Drew shook his head.
“About what?”
“Crazy things.” Drew frowned. “Bad word that. She kept going back to Paris and reliving the German occupation.” Tapping his head, he added, “Memory is going, that’s all I remember.” Drew poured himself a glass of wine and drank it. “As for my business, I don’t expect an immediate answer, but…”
“My mind’s going a mile a minute.”
“Excellent.” He handed me a thin wrapped package.
It was a picture of Drew and me. He had taken the photo with a timed camera that summer at the Tahoe house. Tan and fit, we were facing the camera with our arms around each other’s shoulders. I was wearing khakis, a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and penny loafers. He was barefooted in Bermuda shorts and a white polo shirt. Drew was smiling; my expression was neutral.
The waiter served my cognac, and Drew said, “I’ll be damned, you’re blushing. It’s meant as a memento, not an embarrassment. Look at your eyes, what are they saying?”
“They’re somewhat guarded.”
“Your eyes were telling a story. Without Tatiana, you were lost and too terrified to admit it. Fred’s eyes were the same when I met him—the initial attraction. With Fred I discovered something about myself: I’m a Samaritan. I rescued Fred. He was clinging to one man, then another.”
“You want to rescue me from myself?”
“From where I’m afraid you may be headed.” Drew’s eyes were glistening, “I’ve said enough. It’s been a taxing day for both of us; come on, walk me to my car.”
We walked down the empty street without speaking. Next to his car, Drew took my shoulders. “Tell me one thing, please. You loved me when that picture was taken?” He put a finger to my lips. “No rationalizations, no time for that.”
“I loved you.”
“Did I use you?”
“I never thought so.”
“I love you, Alexander, always have. But you’ve known that all along, right?”
“Yes, I have.”
I thought he was going to kiss me, but we embraced. As the door opened, the car’s interior light illuminated Drew—a man stepping from the shadows of a Rembrandt painting. But the fog-diffused light was more El Greco: a man approaching eternity. I watched as he drove toward the Bay and turned west into the fog.
I walked home and drank myself into a fitful sleep.
CHAPTER 9
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 6, 1986
SAN FRANCISCO
The Marina District is at the very north of San Francisco on the approach to the Golden Gate. As San Francisco neighborhoods went, it wasn’t too foggy; and what fog there was usually cleared by the late morning only to return around sunset. The salt air was bracing, and one of the neighborhood’s extras was falling asleep with the windows opened while listening to the doleful fog horns on the Bay.
A recent addition to the City, the Marina had been built on a landfill and was flat, unlike most of San Francisco. Many of the streets were broad, but parking was scarce, and there weren’t many trees. The neighborhood had a small-town feel: Merchants often called their customers by name, residents patronized local restaurants and taverns, and I nodded to familiar-looking people.
I slept until noon and woke up with a throbbing hangover. The refrigerator was empty; I had to go shopping and phoned Sally Roth. The Roths had been my downstairs tenants for the past four years. Their household included Bert, Sally’s husband, their twin daughters, and, Arnie, a black-and-tan dachshund devoted to the twins. Sally was a psychologist overwhelmed by recent motherhood; Bert was an advertising executive.
Three years earlier, after the twins were born, Sally decided that they needed a second car, and my car’s repairs had reached the point of diminishing returns. The Roths and I bought a used Ford station wagon. I had first call during the weekends, Sally during the week. I was unloading the groceries when I saw Robert de Montreville approaching.
Robert said, “Didn’t I make an appointment with you yesterday?”
“I’m surprised you remembered. You shouldn’t have driven home.”
“I know, I know. Thank God, I didn’t find any dents this morning.” We took the last of the groceries upstairs to my flat. Robert looked around. “Gosh, this is nice. One of my relatives might have decorated his Parisian townhouse like this. You see, the de Montrevilles are a cadet family from the old dukes of Anjou.”
I clicked my heels and bowed.
“What did your family do in Russia?”
