The Horses of the Night (11 page)

Not me, I thought, in a confused attempt to protect myself from disappointment. Surely it's somebody else.

Nona was squeezing my hand, gripping it hard, with a clench like terror, except that she was smiling, her beauty smiling into my eyes. People were turning to clap their hands at me.

What an incantation a name is, meaningless sounds that are, at the same time, as intimate as a gland, or a first memory. I was dazed. I made myself repeat the syllables he had spoken, to make sure that I had heard correctly.

My name.

Christ, they'll think I'm milking the applause. More faces were turning to look, still smiling but touched, now, with curiosity. Eyes were on mine.

I pulled myself to my feet, the applause swept me onto the stage. Fortunately the stage had that reassuring artificial look, the look of a place that was hyperreal, lurid and awash with light and at the same time fake. The floorboards gleamed. The podium was far in the distance, a monolith I could never reach.

The audience was comprised of professional designers and architects, and the critics who approved and derided them. Then, naturally, there were the hundreds of people who employed these professionals.

I reached the podium and accepted the award, a simple, purist-pleasing rectangle of engraved paper. I turned, and for a moment it happened.

Peterson would be standing here, I told myself. Blake Howard would be sitting there, at the end of an aisle, his usual sort of seat, smiling toward the stage.

How strange the theater looked from where I stood. I surveyed the blur of faces, and what I saw resolved itself into individual countenances. These were the well-fed, wrinkles surgically erased, hair transplanted, jawlines lifted, women long past childbearing kept eerily teenage-thin.

These were the men and women I knew well, some of them friends since my childhood. Isn't it wonderful of Stratton to take up architecture, family friends had smiled, but at the same time it had been obvious that they generally thought it just a bit odd that I shouldn't content myself with horses and a tasteful and slightly dull collection of eighteenth-century oils.

There was DeVere, his eyes hard.

I began to speak, and the years of training, practicing careful diction under the attention of a gifted man who was at once teacher and servant, and the years of watching my parents at ease in public, all stood with me.

I praised Peterson's work. I offered the solemn memory of the promising architect, and of “San Francisco's best friend,” Blake Howard. By instinct, I was able to choose exactly the words people wanted to hear. Looking upward, up the slope of the seats, through the haze of faces and the glints off jewels here and there in the audience, I sought Nona's face, and found it, continuing to offer my thanks, my appreciation to my fellow designers and architects, sustained by the sight of her encouraging smile.

It was then that I saw a new person, a stranger, slip into the room.

She stepped through the doors at the end of the aisle, declined with the easy wave of a hand the assistance of an usher, and slipped into a seat at the end of the very top row. It was a glimpse, only, of a figure with white hair, a latecomer, wearing something moon-bright and resplendent, a gown.

My voice was steady. But as I spoke there were thoughts edging in on me, pressing upon my pleasure. Now, I thought, they'll start to actually build one of my projects. Now they'll take me seriously and let my gardens take their place in the real world, and not only in a few out-of-the-way corners. I would get commissions from around the world.

I should have felt joy. I should have felt the bliss of honor. What I felt was anger. They had withheld this sort of public acceptance from me for a long time. Too long. I had redesigned a cardiologist's mock-Tudor, managing to make the residence into an office building without making it look cheapened. I had doctored a multistory parking complex so that it now looked more like a set of hanging gardens, gracing San Francisco instead of punishing it. But most of my dream gardens, dream landscapes, dream glimpses of what structures could be if we gave ourselves over to trees and ivy, natural wood and native stone, remained in the realm of the unlikely, sets for plays no one would ever produce.

I had designed birdbaths, wading pools. Now, I thought, I can actually accomplish something real, and not be rewarded as a visionary, a man of dreams that are too beautiful to be made concrete. “You think too much,” my brother had once said. “Beauty's a luxury. All that prettiness is so much perfume—nice, but not worth the earthquake insurance.”

Now all that futility was behind me.

The reception was what the society columnists would call a “sparkling affair.” I shook hands and accepted warm congratulations. It was obvious that Peterson's lurid death was eagerly put out of mind for the moment, and Blake's loss was not enough to dim the event. The celebration was all that I could have wished.

Barry Montague, my doctor, clapped me on the back and said that this was the best thing that had happened for a long time. We promised each other again that soon we would play tennis, “like the old days,” said Barry. “Although I think you'll clobber me.” He patted his stomach. “Too many doughnuts.”

Fern fingered the stem of an empty glass, beside the rush of palms into which he had just emptied his bubbly. He looked much better in a tux than most big men, and I had to remind myself that Fern was experienced with protecting the lives of ambassadors, a man who was accustomed to wearing a gun under any sort of clothing.

To my surprise, my brother was there. He made his usual pistol-shot with his fingers, the way he usually said hello, what he called “the silent hi.” I nearly always had the same, simultaneous linked thoughts when I saw Rick.

I thought how good it was to see him, and at the same time: I wonder what sort of trouble he's in now. There is something electric between the two of us, something that springs from our shared memories. The woman with him was a dream-vision of high couture and something vaguely dissolute, a fashion model turned courtesan.

I made my way through the crowd, unable to attract the attention of Nona. She was chatting with women in brightly colored dresses while dressed herself in something subdued, dark blue, clothes that made her look like a woman who had taste and, at the same time, someone who could save your life.

“Of course you won,” said Rick with a smile. “You're a winner—like me.”

Rick was a little thinner than usual, still looking like a man who could get a job as a model himself, Suits for the Man on the Go. He introduced me to “Honey—that's her name—right out of a storybook,” the sort of meaninglessly pleasing statement Rick had made a specialty. I studied his face, his eyes, for signs of drinking, drugs, even recent accidents. He had crashed a string of sportscars, including that near-fatal crash at Devil's Slide not so long before. Physically, we looked very much like brothers.

Rick put his arm around me, my younger brother acting like the protective sibling. “I'm proud of you, Strater.”

His compliment warmed me inside. I thanked him.

“I knew you were a winner, all the way, even when we were kids.”

It was the kind of boyish nonsense Rick manufactured nonstop, but this once it worked with me, and I was pleased.

“That news about Blake was really bad. Really hit me hard,” he said. He was being truthful, I knew, but he had probably been skiing in the Alps when the news had reached him, and he was too lively and unsentimental to bother with memorial services. “You ought to drive up and see Mother,” he said. “Tell her about the award. She'd like that.”

I wasn't in the mood to talk about Mother. “She was never enthusiastic about me drawing pictures.”

“I'm not exactly something for her to show off to the nurses. I saw her a few months ago.”

“How was she?”

I rarely saw Rick looking so thoughtful, or troubled. All he said about her was, after a long moment, “Quiet. Not peaceful, exactly. Just quiet.”

The doctors had asked us to stop visiting her. After our visits, the word had been, she was “uncontrollable for days, except under chemical maintenance.” I knew what that meant—the sort of sedative that sent a patient into a virtual coma.

“But go on and have your party, for Christ's sake,” Rick laughed. “We'll talk about Mom some other time.”

I left my brother to Honey and made my way through well-wishers, feeling buoyant despite the talk of my mother and the strain in my brother's voice.

DeVere caught my eye. I stepped up to him, wishing he would vanish from my sight.

“Enjoy the prize,” he said.

15

In Pieter Brueghel's painting of the Tower of Babel there is an open mountain like a volcano, except that it is not a true mountain at all. It is composed of the arches and spans of a magnificent unfinished edifice. This mount is, at its summit, streaked with cloud.

There is little sign of confusion—of babble—at all. The divine aphasia that has rendered language both nearly useless and multifoliate had either not taken place yet, or has had the effect of making the human beings present cautious rather than confused. The structure stands seemingly vacant, apart from both human aspiration and scorn. A few figures gather, others scatter, and it is plain that above all else in this landscape the building is most lasting, even unfinished as it is. Humans flee, or wander, or stand where they are. With that Flemish talent for diminishing human stature, the painter shows us that human beings are not terribly important, although human endeavors may be. It is the tower that endures.

It was this picture, Brueghel's oil and wood reproduced in an art book, that fascinated me as a child, more than any of the Annunciations, more than any of Gustave Doré's biblical nudes. This building was a marvel, even though its construction had begun so much human confusion. I believed, in my boyish way, that the polyglot citizens of the land must have found some use for such a great tower in the years yet to come, if not as a citadel then as a quarry for future cities. It is this painting, I think, which lay the first stone in my desire to be an architect, my aspiration to span the sky with sanctuary.

The reception was a crush of light and voices. Standing there, champagne flute in hand, surrounded by the murmur of so many lives, I remembered this painting. We need safe havens, strong buildings to act as theaters for our dreams because our dreams are fictions, as we are.

DeVere's security men stood along a wall, beside a stairway, watching. DeVere found a place for himself where he could both greet well-wishers and watch the crowd. I had a bad thought: Fern is outnumbered.

Why did I think such a thing just then? Nona and I smiled at each other from time to time. She was speaking to a real-estate developer and a coffee heiress, no doubt explaining her work at the hospital, and describing the need for money.

Someone touched me. I turned. I took a step back, unable to speak.

She was pale, her hair a remarkable color, like moonlight. She was dressed in a silvery gown that trailed upon the floor.

She had touched my hand. The touch had been cool, and yet I lifted my hand and cradled it, as though I was in pain. She smiled, as though knowing exactly what I was thinking.

This was the woman who had entered the hall as I accepted the prize. I must have said something, some stammered pleasantry, because she shook her head, just slightly, to keep me from saying anything more.

She stepped close, and despite her beauty I involuntarily took a further step back. She swept lightly upon me, and touched my lips with hers.

Her lips were cool, and there was a fragrance in the air that warmed, as oil of cloves or essence of spearmint will both warm and numb the lips. I wanted to thank her for her congratulations. But I made no sound.

I have met many remarkable women, and a gentle kiss on an evening like this can communicate exactly the right sort of charm. This woman did look vaguely foreign, so perhaps her command of English was not equal to her poise.

But I looked into her eyes. It was not the usual moment in which one fumbles for words, embarrassed, distracted. This was something quite different. I knew this woman. But I could not guess how.

The woman left me. There was a swirl of gown upon the floor. There was a wash of light that followed her through the crowd.

I stood, my fingers to my lips, and people were talking to me. Familiar faces were beaming at me, and I had to say something. But I was aware that all the sounds, all the voices and gentle laughter, had been silent for a moment in my ears.

I found Nona and took her elbow, leading her to one side. After we had talked about the people she had met, the actor with the conservatory theater, the executive with Clorox, I stepped as close as I could to her, as though confiding a secret, and said, “Did you see that woman?”

“Which one?”

Nona was teasing me, I knew. She was being coy. Everyone here had to be aware of the pale woman in the silver gown. I described her, and Nona smiled and put her nose to mine, both playful and mildly mocking.

“I didn't see this queen of the evening,” she said.

I persisted, and Nona put her hand in mine, the same hand the woman had touched. “No, Stratton. Honestly. I didn't see anyone like that.”

16

After the reception, Nona and I found a favorite restaurant for a continuing celebration.

The owner welcomed us with a cry. I felt slightly embarrassed at his apparent delight in seeing us. We made our way to a secluded corner.

“You're a champ, Strater,” said Nona, lifting the flute of yet more champagne. Her eyes dazzled me, the candlelight reflected in them.

We touched glasses, the crystal making the appropriate music, and I made a heartfelt but flowery comment about being inspired by her presence.

The award, the champagne, the North Beach restaurant to which we had retreated, were all like the facets of a new kingdom. Even the sight of Fern at a corner of the bar, sipping what looked like a diet cola with an impressive amount of ice, made the evening all the more perfect. Shouldn't someone as splendid to the eye as Nona have a courtier or two, a palace guard this late in the evening?