Lying on the Couch (47 page)

On Wednesday at eleven. Marshal had a free hour. Ernest's supervisory hour had still not been filled. He took a walk on California Street, passed the Pacific Union Club where he had lunched with Peter and then, a block later, suddenly turned back and climbed the stairs, passed through the marble doorway, past the rows of burnished brass mailboxes, into the diaphanous light of the soaring, glass-domed rotunda. There, surrounded on three sides by mahogany leather sofas, stood Emil, the gleaming, tuxedoed, majordomo.

Thoughts of Avocado Joe's drifted into Marshal's mind: the Forty-niner jackets, the dense cigarette smoke, the black, bejeweled dude with the gray Borsalino, and Dusty, the pit boss, admonishing him about watching because "we worry about feelings here." And the sounds: the hum of action at Avocado Joe's, the chips clicking, pool balls clacking, the joshing, the gambling talk. The Pacific Union Club sounds were more subdued. The silverware and crystal lightly tinkled as waiters set the luncheon tables; the members genteelly whispered about stock market purchases, Italian leather shoes tapped smartly on polished oak floors.

Which of these was home? Or did he have a home. Marshal wondered, as he had so many times before. Where did he belong—Avocado Joe's or the Pacific Union Club? Would he drift forever, unan-chored, in between, spending his life trying to leave the one, trying to reach the other? And if some imp or genie commanded him. It's your time now to decide; choose one or the other — your home for

all eternity, what would he do? Thoughts of his analysis with Seth Pande came to mind. We never worked on this, Marshal thought. Not on "home," nor on friendship, and, according to Shirley, not on money or greed, either. What the hell did we work on for nine hundred hours?

For now Marshal feigned being at home in the Club and walked smartly up to the majordomo.

"Emil, how are you? Dr. Streider. My lunch companion, Mr. Macondo, a few weeks ago told me of your prodigious memory, but even you may not remember a guest after only a single meeting."

"Oh, yes, Doctor, I remember you very well. And Mr. Maconta ..."

"Macondo."

"Yes, sorry, Macondo. There, so much for my prodigious memory. But, actually, I do remember your friend very well. Though we met only once, he left an indelible impression. A fine and very generous gentleman!"

"You mean, you met only once in San Francisco. He told me about meeting you when you were the majordomo at his club in Paris."

"No, sir, you must be mistaken. It is true I worked at the Cercle Union Interallie in Paris, but I never met Mr. Macondo there."

"Then, Zurich?"

"No, nowhere. I am quite certain I have never met the gentleman before. The day the two of you lunched here was the first time I ever saw him."

"Then, well. . . what do you mean? ... I mean how did he know you so well... I mean . . . how did he even know you worked at the club in Paris? How did he qualify for lunch here? No, I mean, does he even have an account here? How does he pay?"

"Is there some problem, sir?"

"Yes, and it is related to your pretending to know him so well, pretending to be such old friends."

Emil looked troubled. He glanced at his watch, then looked about him. The rotunda was empty, the club quiet. "Dr. Streider, I have a few free moments before luncheon. Please, let us sit and talk for a few moments." Emil gestured to a closet-sized room just off the dining room. Inside, Emil invited Marshal to sit down and asked permission to light a cigarette. After exhaling deeply he said, "May I speak, frankly, sir? And off the record, so to speak?"

Marshal nodded. "Of course."

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"For thirty years I've worked at exclusive clubs. Majordomo for the past fifteen. I am witness to everything. Nothing escapes me. I can see, Dr. Streider, that you are unfamiliar with such clubs. Forgive me if I presume too much."

"No, not at all," Marshal said.

"One thing you should know is that, in private clubs, one person is always trying to get something—some favor, an invitation, an introduction, an investment, something—from another person. And to . . . let us say ... to lubricate that process, one person has to make a certain impression upon the other. I, like every majordomo, must play my role in that process; I have an obligation to be certain that everything runs harmoniously. Thus, when Mr. Macondo chatted with me earlier that morning and asked whether I had worked at any other European club, naturally I responded cordially and told him I had worked in Paris for ten years. And when he seemed extremely friendly in greeting me in your presence, what was I expected to do? Turn to you, his guest, and say, 'I never saw this man before'?"

"Of course not, Emil. I see your point exactly. No criticism meant. It was only that I was astonished at your not knowing him."

"But, Dr. Streider, you mention a problem. Not a serious one, I hope. I should like to know if it is. The club should like to know."

"No, no. A minor matter. Only that I have misplaced his address and wish to contact him."

Emil hesitated. Obviously he did not believe it was a minor matter but when Marshal volunteered no further information, he rose. "Please, wait for me in the rotunda. I shall do what I can to get some information for you."

Marshal sat down, chagrined at his own awkwardness. It was a long shot, but perhaps Emil could help.

The majordomo returned in a few moments and handed Marshal a slip of paper on which was written the same address and phone in Zurich that Marshal already had. "According to the desk, Mr. Macondo was given a courtesy membership here since he was a member of the Baur au Lac Club in Zurich. If you wish, we can fax them and request more current information."

"Please. And, if you will, please fax the reply to me. Here is my card."

Marshal turned to leave but Emil stopped him and added, in a whisper: "You asked about payment. I tell you this, also in confi-

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dence, Doctor. Mr. Macondo paid by cash, and generously. He gave me two hundred-dollar bills, instructed me to pay for lunch, leave the waiter a generous tip, and keep the rest for myself. On such matters as these my prodigious memory is entirely dependable."

"Thank you, Emil, you've been most helpful." Marshal reluctantly tugged a twenty from his money clip and pressed it into Emil's talcumed hand. He turned to leave and then suddenly remembered something else.

"Emil, may I ask one final favor of you? Last time I met a friend of Mr. Macondo, a tall gentleman dressed somewhat flamboyantly—orange shirt, red-checked jacket, I believe. I have forgotten his name, but his father was once mayor of San Francisco."

"That could only be Mr. Roscoe Richardson. I saw him earlier today. He's either in the library or the game room. A suggestion. Doctor: do not speak to him if he's at backgammon. That will make him cross. He's rather intense about his gaming. Good luck, and I will personally see to your fax. You may count on me." Emil bowed his head and waited.

"Again, thank you, Emil." And, again. Marshal had no choice but to peel off another twenty.

As Marshal entered the oak-paneled game room, Roscoe Richardson was just leaving the backgammon table and heading toward the library for his preluncheon newspaper.

"Ah, Mr. Richardson, perhaps you may remember me: Dr. Strei-der. I met you a few weeks ago when I lunched here with an acquaintance of yours, Peter Macondo."

"Ah, yes. Doctor Streider. I remember. The memorial lecture series. My congratulations. Wonderful honor. Wonderful. Join me for lunch today?"

"Alas, no. I have a full schedule of patients this afternoon. But a favor, please. I'm trying to reach Mr. Macondo and wonder if you know of his whereabouts."

"Heavens, no. I never saw him before that day. Delightful chap, yet, odd thing, I sent him material about my new startup but FedEx returned it as undeliverable. Did he say he knew me?"

"I thought so, but now I'm not sure. I do remember his saying that your father and his, a professor of economics, played golf together."

"Well, who knows? That's very possible. My father played with every well-known man in the Western world. And . . . "—here he

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scrunched his heavily jowled face and produced a large wink—"and with quite a few women, too. Well, eleven-thirty. Financial Times should be arriving. There's always a mad rush for it, so I'll be on my way to the library. Good luck to you, Doctor."

Though the conversation with Roscoe Richardson provided no comfort, it did provide some ideas for action. As soon as he arrived at his office. Marshal opened his Macondo folder and extracted the fax announcing the Streider Memorial Lecture Series. What was the name of that provost at the University of Mexico? Here—Raoui Gomez. Within moments he had Mr. Gomez on the phone—the first thing to go well in days. Though Marshal's Spanish was limited, it was sufficient to understand Mr. Gomez's denial that he had ever even heard of a Peter Macondo, let alone received a large grant from him for a Streider lecture series. Furthermore, as for Peter Macondo's father, there was no Macondo on the faculty of the Department of Economics, nor, for that matter, in any department of the university.

Marshal collapsed into his chair. He had absorbed too many blows and now leaned back, trying to clear his head. After only a few moments his efficient temperament took over: he reached for pen and paper and made a "to do" list. The first item was to cancel his afternoon patients. Marshal placed calls and left messages for four patients canceling their hours. He did not, of course, cite a reason. The proper technique. Marshal was certain, was to remain silent and to explore the patients' fantasies of why he had canceled. And the money! Four hours at one hundred seventy-five dollars. Seven hundred dollars in fees lost—money that could never be made up.

Marshal wondered whether canceling his afternoon schedule represented some turning point in his life. The thought entered his mind that this was a watershed decision. Never before in his career had he canceled a clinical hour. In fact, he had never missed anything—a football practice, a day of school. His scrapbook was full of attendance awards going back to grammar school. It was not that he was never injured or sick. He got sick just like the next man. But he was tough enough to gut it out. But one cannot gut out an analytic hour in a state of panic.

Next item: call Melvin. Marshal knew what Melvin would say, and Melvin didn't miss a beat: "It's bank time—take that note immediately to the Credit Suisse. Ask them to make a ninety-thousand-dollar direct deposit into your bank account. And be grateful.

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Marshal, kiss my boots, that I insisted upon this note. You owe me. And remember—Christ, I shouldn't have to tell you this, Marshal— you're treating meshuganahs: Don't invest w^ith them!"

An hour later Marshal, bank guarantee in hand, was walking down Sutter Street on his way to the Credit Suisse. En route he grieved lost dreams: wealth, additions to his art collection, the leisure to give written expression to his fertile mind, but most of all he grieved the key to the insider world, the world of private clubs, brass mailboxes, and insider bonhomie.

And Peterf Was he of that worldf He would not profit financially, of course — or, if he did, that was between him and the bank. But, Marshal thought, if Peter had no financial motive, what were his motives? To ridicule psychoanalysis? Could there be a tie-in with Seth Pandef Or Shelly Merrimanf Or even the whole breakaway faction of the analytic instituted Could this possibly be a prank? Sheer sociopathic maliciousness? But, whatever the game, whatever the motive, why hadn't I spotted it earlier? I've been a fucking fool. A fucking, greedy fool!

The Credit Suisse was a bank office, not a commercial working bank, on the fifth floor of an office building on Sutter Street. The bank officer who greeted Marshal inspected the note and assured him that they were fully authorized to deal with it. He excused himself, saying that the branch manager, who was tied up with another client, would attend to him personally. Besides, there would be a slight delay while they faxed the note to Zurich.

Ten minutes later, the manager, a slim, solemn man with a long face and a David Niven mustache, invited Marshal into his office. After inspecting Marshal's identification and copying numbers from his driver's license and banking cards, he examined the bank guarantee note and then rose to make a photocopy. When he returned. Marshal asked, "How will I receive payment? My attorney has informed me—"

"Excuse me. Dr. Streider, may I have your attorney's name and address?"

Marshal gave him the relevant information about his cousin Melvin and continued, "My attorney advised me to request a direct deposit into my Wells Fargo account."

The manager sat silently for several moments, inspecting the note.

"Is there some problem?" Marshal asked. "Doesn't that guarantee payment upon demand?"

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"This is indeed a note from the Credit Suisse guaranteeing payment upon demand. Here, as you see," and here he pointed to the signature Hne, "it is issued from our Zurich office and signed by Winfred Forster, a senior vice president. Now I know Winfred Forster quite well—very well, indeed: the two of us spent three years together at our Toronto branch—and, yes. Dr. Streider, there is a problem: this is not Winfred Forster's signature! Moreover, Zurich has confirmed this by fax: there is hardly any resemblance. I'm afraid it is my unpleasant duty to inform you that this note is a forgery!"

TWENTY-THREE