Kapitoil (15 page)

Then it was time for dinner, and we moved to the dining room, where we sat at one end of a rectangular wooden table that had 16 seats. Mr. Schrub said he hoped I wasn’t too bored during the tour, and I quickly said that Mrs. Schrub was an informative guide and I especially liked the armoire. Mr. Schrub laughed and said, “Helena, do you think Karim really cares about the
armoire
?”

“Not everyone is allergic to interior decoration. And Karim has a good eye for design,” she said, which was friendly but false, unless you consider theoretical design.

Andre served our dinners, and Mrs. Schrub had exclusively the salad. She apologized that we couldn’t use vegetables from their garden because of the weather. Mr. Schrub said, “Andre, would you bring up the ’93 Burgundy?”

After he left through a door in the dining room, Mrs. Schrub said, “Derek.”

His eyes linked with hers, and I looked at my plate to let them communicate in privacy, and then Mr. Schrub said, “Karim, do you like wine? Or would you prefer something else?”

I said, “I do not normally drink wine, but I would enjoy some tonight.”

Mrs. Schrub quickly asked me where I grew up, and I told her about Doha. She also asked about my family, which I valued, as the only other people who have truly inquired about them here were Rebecca and slightly Barron. Then she asked if I was “experiencing any difficulty acclimating” to life in the U.S. as “a citizen from an Arab country.”

I took a few moments to strategize an answer, as I didn’t want them to think I was ungrateful for being here or make them uncomfortable around me. So I said, “Americans are hospitable, although sometimes they do not know as much as they should know about the rest of the world considering how powerful they are.”

“I agree.” Mrs. Schrub put her fork down. “I very much support the Palestinians.”

Mr. Schrub smiled to himself as he cut his steak. “The lion’s share of people from my country agree with you,” I said.

Mr. Schrub laughed loudly and turned to his wife. “You support the Palestinians? That would be like someone from Qatar saying to you, ‘Just so you’re aware, I deeply support the IRA.’”

“I simply wanted Karim to know that not all Americans are willfully ignorant about foreign affairs,” she said, and I wished I hadn’t responded to her statement.

“You hear that, Karim?” Mr. Schrub said. “Not all of us regurgitate our opinions from TV news. Some of us do it from NPR.”

Mrs. Schrub looked down at her salad and Mr. Schrub leaned over to her. “Honey, I’m just joking.” He kissed her cheek. “Still love me?”

“If I have to,” she said. For a few seconds I had a mental image of Rebecca’s hair creating a tunnel over my head, but then I forced myself to focus on the Schrubs.

Andre returned with a bottle of wine. He showed it to Mr. Schrub, who nodded, and then utilized a corkscrew made of black rubber that depressed itself into the cork and removed it with ease. Its efficiency and reduction of human error and labor was impressive.

Andre poured a small amount of wine into Mr. Schrub’s glass. Mr. Schrub made a circular motion with the glass on his personal white tablecloth and the wine centripetally orbited around the interior. He inhaled the scent of the wine, then tasted it and gargled as if it were mouthwash. He said “Very good,” and Andre poured him a full glass and the same amount for Mrs. Schrub and me. He also poured water for us, which made me feel like when the doormen at my building perform a service (opening a door) that I prefer to do independently.

Mrs. Schrub didn’t drink her portion yet, so I wasn’t sure if it was rude merely to drink the wine without copying Mr. Schrub’s routine. I made the circular motion with my wineglass, but some of the wine spilled over the edge and stained my white tablecloth.

“I am very sorry,” I said, because it’s good to acknowledge your error in front of your employer before he does.

“That’s all right—it’s just cotton, we can throw it out,” said Mrs. Schrub. “Andre, would you fetch Karim a new mat?”

Mr. Schrub later said the wine had “too many apple notes for a red,” although I enjoyed it much more than beer and especially liquor, but I was careful not to have more than one glass. Mrs. Schrub had just one glass as well, but Mr. Schrub consumed the rest of the bottle. When we finished eating, Andre said the dessert would be ready soon, and Mr. Schrub asked him to bring up a dessert wine, then said he would retrieve it himself and invited me to see his wine cellar.

He led me through the door Andre went through and downstairs to a steel door. Mr. Schrub checked an instrument panel outside the door and said, “You want it at 55 degrees and 65% relative humidity.”

He opened the steel door and we entered a room whose light powered on automatically to a low level so it looked like the production of many candles. Horizontal bottles of red wine occupied hundreds of slots on each wall. The different colors of their upper covers made a beautiful random pattern like a Jackson Pollock painting. Mr. Schrub went to a corner and selected a bottle immediately. He quickly told me about the different brands of wine and which ones he preferred (red wine more than white wine because it is more complex, and I predict I would agree with him for that reason).

Before we left he said, “Here, I’ll show you my baby.” He walked to a vault in a corner of the room I had not observed before. I looked away as he deciphered the combination and retrieved the bottle protected inside.

“1945 Bordeaux.” He turned the bottle in his hands as if he enjoyed the feel of it as much as the potential taste. “Arguably the vintage of the century for Bordeaux.” He held it out to me with both hands. “Want to see it?”

He handed it to me, but I was very nervous, like I was when my parents took Zahira home from the hospital for the first time and they let me hold her and I was afraid I would drop her because she was so small. I kept thinking that if I ever dropped her she would be ruined forever, like it would be if I dropped the wine, which is foolish because humans are mostly strong and repairable, but in some ways they aren’t.

“When are you going to drink it?” I asked.

He shook his head and took the bottle back. “I’ll never drink this.” He observed it again for several seconds with a smile on his face as he held it near his chest, then replaced it in the vault.

I had baked baklava as a gift and brought it down for dessert, and we also had delicious sorbet and raspberries and wine, and Mr. Schrub consumed two glasses of dessert wine even though his wife and I only drank one glass each. Mr. Schrub yawned and said he was exhausted and he had planned a big day for us tomorrow, and asked if I minded if we all retired early for the night.

Mrs. Schrub said that she was very glad to have met me after she had heard so much about me, and I tried not to smile but I couldn’t restrict myself, and I said I had heard a great amount about her as well, although of course Mr. Schrub hadn’t told me anything, but I had read about her and the multiple charitable organizations she is on the board of.

My bedroom had a wooden bookshelf of a blond color with dozens of books. Many were about finance, and I initially selected one titled
Emerging Asian Markets
, as that is an area I have interest in. I was prepared to start, but then I saw that the bookshelf contained a few nonfinancial books.

This was an opportunity to broaden my worldview, as I don’t typically read literature. Although it was very long, I picked the one that had the most intriguing title because its arrangement of words was illogical:
The Grapes of Wrath
.

I read the first few pages, and the language was simple for me to access, and the story incorporated me, and then I noticed I had been reading for three hours without stopping, which is rare for me to do with anything nonfinancial.

It was slightly after midnight. I wondered what Rebecca was doing. She had said she was doing nothing special, but maybe she was lying as well. I hoped she was home alone and not with any of the men from her party. I continued thinking about this scenario, and I couldn’t fall asleep, and I told myself to reroute my thoughts but that made me think about it more, and finally I called Rebecca’s home telephone number that she had listed in the email for her party. It rang several times, and each time it rang I was more certain that she was out with someone else, but on the fifth ring Rebecca picked up.

“Hello?” she said, and her voice sounded scratched.

I didn’t say anything. “Hello?” she said again. “David, is that you?” My chest shifted until I remembered that David was her brother.

When I still didn’t respond, she said, “Whoever the fuck wakes me up in the middle of the night should at least have the courtesy to identify yourself,” and disconnected.

I closed my cellular and exhaled.

I woke in the morning feeling fatigued, because although the bed was very soft, in fact the softest bed I had ever slept on, it was almost
too
soft and I never felt comfortable, in the same way that some foods are too sweet to enjoy.

When I went downstairs, Mr. and Mrs. Schrub were already eating breakfast. “We didn’t want to wake you,” Mrs. Schrub said. “Derek is up at 5:30 every morning to go for his walk, but the rest of us mortals need a little more sleep.”

They were reading their own copies of
The New York Times
and eating bacon and eggs, but Andre made me a flavorful vegetarian version of it with tofu and false eggs. Even though it was a substitute I believe it probably tasted superior to the authentic version. When we finished, we heard the front door open. Mrs. Schrub said it was the boys and that I should come and meet them. Mr. Schrub stayed to read an article.

I knew their names were Wilson and Jeromy, and they were putting down their luggage by the front door. A black sport utility vehicle was parked outside on the semicircular driveway.

Mr. Schrub’s sons were both tall, even taller than he is, although they were also slightly overweight, especially in their faces, as if someone had inflated them, Wilson’s more than Jeromy’s, and Jeromy’s neck had red bumps all over from shaving. Mrs. Schrub introduced me to them, and they both shook my hand and said they were glad to meet me. Then Wilson said he was starving and Mrs. Schrub told him Andre would fix them something, and we all returned to the kitchen.

Mr. Schrub and his sons said hello to each other. Jeromy ordered French toast from Andre and Wilson ordered steak with eggs. “Bloody and runny, please,” he said.

“I was thinking of taking a hike around the Audubon Center today. Who’s up for it?” Mr. Schrub asked. I waited for his sons to answer, but when they didn’t, I said I was.

“Good,” he said. “Guys? It’s a beautiful day.”

His sons were reading the newspaper now. Wilson had the National section and Jeromy had the Sports section. “I’d love to, Dad, if I could find the time,” Wilson said, and he smiled very slightly to himself while he continued reading.

“Me, too,” said Jeromy. “I’ve been getting literally raped at school.”

“Jeromy,” Mrs. Schrub said. “First of all, getting ‘literally raped’ would mean you’re actually getting raped. Second, it’s not the most polite language.”

“Sorry,” he said. “Figuratively speaking, I’ve been getting sexually harassed.”

“Then it’ll literally just be me and Karim,” Mr. Schrub said. “Or is it ‘Karim and I’?” he asked his wife, and pinched her waist. The proper grammar was in fact “Karim and I,” and in addition to “me and Karim” being incorrect, it is considered impolite to state “me and [other person]” instead of “[other person] and me,” but I remained quiet.

Irma provided me with hiking clothing and sneakers, and after I changed Mr. Schrub and I went outside to the driveway, where a dark green sport utility vehicle was already parked. Mr. Schrub drove and I sat next to him, and because we were so high off the ground in the car, it felt as if he were the pilot of a plane and I were his copilot.

The Audubon Center had multiple walking trails, and we took one that Mr. Schrub said was his preferred route. Of course I had been in Central Park many times, but there you are always seeing people and it doesn’t feel like you are truly solitary in nature. We saw very few others, and the only sounds I heard were birds and the wind on the leaves colored like fire and the branches breaking under our feet. Mr. Schrub didn’t talk frequently except to identify the names of the trees I didn’t know, such as American sycamore, and plants with original names, such as honey-bells and eastern skunk cabbage.

We arrived at an open field, and Mr. Schrub handed me a pair of binoculars he had brought. “This is one of the best sites in the country to spot hawks,” he said as he looked through his own pair. He pointed to a tree a few hundred meters away. “Look! That’s a red-shouldered. They’re rare, now.” He exhaled loudly and said, “Moronic hunters.”

It took me longer to find it, because I wasn’t acclimated to searching for birds in trees. The hawk had red and brown horizontal stripes over its chest and shoulder and black and white on its wings and tail. Mr. Schrub told me facts about the bird, e.g., it locates prey from a tree branch, then dives quickly and retrieves its target and eats it on the branch again, and facts about hawks in general, e.g., their eyes are eight times more powerful than a human’s. “Gorgeous creature, isn’t he? You have to be a robot if that doesn’t bowl you over,” he said.

Maybe this was why Mr. Schrub gave his company the logo of a hawk, which was something I had always wondered and had never read about.

Then the hawk flew off its branch and zoomed down to the field. I couldn’t track it with the binoculars because it was too fast, so I observed with my eyes. It plummeted to the ground and fluctuated its wings but without flying. “Use the binoculars again, and look at its talons,” Mr. Schrub told me.

The hawk’s talons contained a gray object. “What is that?” I asked.

“Lunch,” Mr. Schrub said. “And dinner. Squirrel.”

The hawk made noises that sounded like “kee yar,” and Mr. Schrub joked that it was trying to call my country’s name.