The Executor (13 page)

G
etting Yasmina to meet me in person entailed an extensive negotiation; she wanted to keep it to a phone conversation. Left with no other choice, I played the birthday card. A cup of coffee: was that too much to ask? I upped the ante by suggesting an old haunt of ours, a café in the North End where they brewed espresso in a machine the size of a Sherman tank. She caved, as I knew she would. Her desire to keep me at arm’s length could never outstrip her love of fancy hot beverages.

Upon arrival, we found the place shuttered. I tried not to take this as a sign. Yasmina let out a little cry of grief.

“When did this happen?” she said. “I was here like two weeks ago.”

In the window was a letter dated March 23.

I shuddered to realize that Ettore (whose name I had never known) had opened his café right around the time my brother drove a truck into a river and drowned.

We walked under the expressway, settling for the Starbucks near Faneuil Hall. Yasmina tried to pay, but I stopped her. “Give me the gift of self-respect.”

She smiled crookedly, bit her tongue.

“I’ve been calling you for weeks,” she said as we sat down. “It rings and rings.”

“It’s not my number anymore.”

“You switched it?”

“I don’t have a phone.”

“Why don’t you have a phone?”

“You canceled it.”

“You didn’t get a new one?”

“No.”

“That wasn’t—I mean, I waited one billing cycle. I figured you’d port the number over when you got a new phone.”

“I didn’t get a new phone.”

“Oh. Well ... Well, I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

“We didn’t discuss it. We should have.”

“It’s all right.”

“And I was mad.”

“I know.”

“But I should’ve told you first.”

“Forget about it. It’s liberating, actually, not having a phone. You’d be amazed.”

“I’ll bet.” She paused. “So what brought that on.”

“Nothing in particular. I wanted to write to you, so I did.”

“. . . okay.”

“I didn’t realize we had a moratorium on e-mail,” I said.

“Don’t get mad.”

“I’m not. I just don’t see what the big deal is about me sending you an e-mail.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“Then why are you getting upset.”

“I’m not upset. Please, Joseph. I’m—look, we’re not
together
anymore, and—”

“I know. I’m well aware. Thanks for the reminder.”

“Can you not, please.”

I said nothing.

“I’m happy that you’re doing well. I
want
to hear that. Tell me about this job.”

I thought. “It’s sort of like a research fellowship.”

“Like a ... a think tank?”

“You could call it that.”

“That’s great,” she said. “That’s perfect for you. Haven’t I always said that? And a new place? I thought you were living with Drew.”

“For a while. Not anymore. Look.” All the small talk was beginning to derail me. “I’m not sure how to say this.”

“Wait,” she said. “Wait.”

“Let me—”

“Wait a minute. I know what you’re going to say.”

“You don’t—”

“I do.”

“Your family? Was that it? Because if that was the issue, then—”

“That wasn’t the issue. That was never the issue.”

“Strictly for my own edification—”

“Please
stop,” she said. “We can’t have this conversation here.”

“Then where can we—”

“Nowhere. We can’t have it anywhere, at any time.”

“I’m trying to learn.”

“There’s nothing to learn.”

“There’s always something to learn,” I said. “This isn’t beyond me, Mina, I can und—”

“Please don’t call me that,” she said.

Stung, I said, “Why not.”

“Because I’m asking you not to.”

“But
why.”

“Would you please, please, keep your voice down.”

People had begun to eye us over their lattes.

“Let’s take a walk,” I said.

She shook her head.

“Why not?”

“I want to stay here.”

“Why.”

“It’s neutral territory.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“Of course I trust you—”

“Then let’s go.”

“Do you want to argue, or do you want to talk?”

“We
aren’t
talking,” I said. “You won’t let me.”

“Joseph.” She put her head in her hands. “You’re working yourself up.”

“I am merely—”

“Please,” she said, looking up. “Please let me speak.”

For a moment I thought she might cry. I had seen it enough times to know. Her face takes on a greenish cast, as though she’s going to be sick. I beat back the urge to reach out for her. She rubbed her eyes again, and this time when she came up, she looked perfectly sober.

“I’m engaged,” she said.

Now one of our neighbors, a girl with black plastic glasses, began to gawk openly. What entertainment! Better than
One Life to Live!
I glowered at her, and she went back to her Aphra Behn. Meanwhile, Yasmina was taking rapid sips, her eyes darting nervously.

“It’s been five months,” I said.

“Six.”

“Not even. Five and a half.”

“So.”

“So that’s—that’s ridiculous.”

“Don’t.”

“It is. It’s
completely
ridiculous.”

“You’re entitled to your opinion.”

“Who is he?”

“His name is Pete,” she said, “and
‘he’
is my
fiancé,
so if you don’t mind—”

“Pete.”

“Yes.”

“That’s his real name?”

“Of course it’s his real name,” she said. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Does Pete have a last name?”

The tiniest silence. Then: “Soleimani.”

“Ah,” I said.

“What’s ah.”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing’s ever nothing with you; tell me what you meant by that.”

“It’s nothing,” I said. “Just, that’s what I thought.”

“What’s
what you thought.”

“Persian,” I said.

“Yes, in fact, he is.”

“So, that’s what I thought.”

“Well, hooray for you. You were right. Bravo.”

“There’s no need for sarcasm.”

“He’s Persian. Is that all right with you, Your Highness?”

“Well, I don’t think my opinion really changes—”

“No,” she said, “it doesn’t, but who cares? Who cares if we’re talking about someone I love? It’s not about me, or him, it’s about
you,
it’s always about you, so why don’t you tell me exactly what you think. Get it all out on the table. Go ahead, it’ll make you feel better. ”

“Fine,” I said. “Let’s see: he lives in Los Angeles.”

“New York.”

“Okay, fine, New York. And he’s forty-five and sells cars.”

“Thirty,
” she said pointedly, “and an investment banker. Are you done? Because I don’t need this, so if you can’t stop behaving like an infant, I’m going to leave. I don’t need to tell you anything. I
wanted
to, as a courtesy, so you’d hear it from me first. That’s why I’ve been calling. I’m trying to be nice, but you’re making it very, very hard.”

A long silence.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

She said nothing.

“Mina.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Another silence.

“Let’s try that again,” I said. “Tell me you’re engaged.”

After a pause, she said, “I’m engaged.”

“Congratulations. I’m happy for you. I couldn’t be happier. Really, I couldn’t be happier, not if—”

“Enough.”

I thought I’d been putting on a pretty good show. “Where did you meet?”

“My sister set us up.”

“And ... when’s the big day.”

“We don’t know yet. He’s working on getting a transfer to the West Coast. I’m staying here next year, clerking for Judge Polonsky, so it won’t happen for at least a year.”

“So that’s how long I have to win you back.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Congratulations,” I said. “I mean it.”

“Do you?”

“I’m trying to.”

Silence.

“Thank you,” she said.

Silence.

“I want to ask you something,” I said. “But you can’t get upset. Deal?”

“No.”

“All right, well, regardless ... Is his name really Pete?”

I couldn’t tell whether she was going to laugh or hit me.

“It’s short for Pedram,” she said.

“Got it,” I said.

Silence.

“Thank you for not yelling at me,” I said.

The noise of steam and grinding.

“It’s not what you think,” she said.

“What do I think.”

“He’s a good guy. A really good guy. He’s very thoughtful, and smart. He went to NYU.”

She sounded wistful, and I realized that if I needed to believe I still had a chance, she needed equally to prove—to herself, to me—that she hadn’t sacrificed her ideals by trading me in for a snazzier model. Though I wanted desperately to refute her, all I said was, “I expect nothing less.”

 

 

I COULDN’T SLEEP that night. At quarter to six Daciana’s station wagon chugged into the driveway, and I rose and went to the kitchen, where Alma was unwrapping a fresh loaf of bread.

“Up early, Mr. Geist.”

I smiled wanly. “I’m not feeling my best.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Perhaps we should once again table the debate.”

That would make twice in one week, and I felt my insecurities resurgent: she was trying to drive me away. Then I forced myself to calm down. I’d neglected to shave, and I looked a wreck. She was being considerate.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I said. “But thank you.”

“As you wish.” She handed me the bread to slice. “I must apologize that I didn’t warn you of my nephew’s arrival. I would have, had I been given any notice myself.”

“There’s no need to apologize.”

“Please, Mr. Geist. Let us be honest with each other. Your irritation was plain.”

Knife moving, I shrugged.

“I must ask that you accept his presence here, for it is inevitable, and will inevitably recur.”

I put the bread in the toaster and reached for the whistling kettle. “He’s your sister’s grandson.”

“The very same. The last remaining leaf on the tree, so to speak, and for that reason I choose to overlook his many flaws. While I consider a poor upbringing no excuse for lapses of character, much of the responsibility for that upbringing was mine. He was orphaned at a young age, and for a time thereafter lived with me.” Before I could reply, she raised a hand. “You doth protest too much, Mr. Geist. I only tell you this in order that you should exercise patience with him and with me.”

“May I asked what happened?”

“A drunk ran down his parents.”

Now I really did feel guilty.

“Yes,” she said. “It was very sad. As you might imagine, it was a rather uncontrollable boy that I received, though I no doubt contributed to these tendencies, or at least exacerbated them. Children frustrate me, as they give the appearance of possessing reason when they do not. That I failed to learn, time and again, is my fault alone.” She paused. “Again I apologize. None of this concerns you. All I ask is that you not judge him too harshly.”

“It’s you I’m worried about.”

“Allow me, then, to set your mind at rest. He tests me, it is true, but I am more than capable of handling him. I do, however, wish for you to be prepared. He has a habit of appearing out of the blue, and leaving just as abruptly. Before this week I had not heard from him in six months. We ought therefore to expect many visits in the coming days.”

I looked at her.

“He needs money,” she said.

“... I see.”

Somewhat tartly, she said, “He is my only living relative, Mr. Geist.”

“Of course. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“My relations with my nephew always have been and always shall be effected through the exchange of funds. It is better that this should be so, in order that he remain interested in me and I avoid disappointment.”

But why, I wanted to ask, do you care whether he’s interested in you? Why, when you have me? “I understand,” I said.

Her point made, she sat back, far older than I had ever seen her. “Ach. This has been going on for years. I am merely unaccustomed to a third party bearing witness.”

“He has no right to upset you.”

“He does all the same.”

“He doesn’t have to.”

She smiled. “No? You would murder him for me, then?”

“I can keep him outside the next time he shows up.”

“That is good of you, but I am afraid I couldn’t accept. Though the burden be terrible, I bear it freely.”

Her weariness didn’t seem to square with the laughter I’d heard from the other room. I knew as well as anyone, though, that love makes hypocrites of us all.

In the next room, the maid began to vacuum.

“Let us talk of happier things.” Alma reached into her sweater pocket and took out a check. “For you.”

“You paid me yesterday.”

“Yes. This is for your birthday, which I believe is almost upon us.”

If I’d mentioned my birthday to her, I’d done so months ago; for her to have borne it in mind so long moved me. I was about to thank her when I looked down at the check and saw that it was for five hundred dollars.