The Merchants of Zion (32 page)

I expected the other PhD student to offer a rejoinder, a comment, something, assuming the political staffers were as lost as me. It was the staffer who knew every literary website in existence, however, who spoke up first.

“You have a point, but isn't there something to be said for the knowledge gained through personal study and rigorous parsing of historical texts? Not everything can have objective empirical measurements, don't you agree? Take, oh I don't know... Merovingian Gaul, for example. In Jefferson's latest book
—
you have read it?” Everyone nodded, myself included, despite having never heard of the book or its author. “He traces the dynasty's diplomatic history across Europe, and his conclusions about the period are based on thousands of hours of research of a handful of primary documentation. And numerous secondary sources, of course. While I'll grant you statistical analyses would be preferable, that particular reality can only be mediated through historical artifacts, as barring a major archaeological find no new data will ever be available to sort through.”

I'd never thought about history, or politics, or probably literature, as deeply as this political hack obviously had, and I retreated to the safety of the table for another glass of wine. I didn't consider myself hyper-intellectual, but certainly I was above average. Top ten-percent, maybe five, but I'd never been exposed to such a daunting group of people my own age. Dimitri would be at home here. I missed him terribly. He was a much better friend than James.

When I sought refuge in other groups I discovered they were on the opposite end of the spectrum and, having no career to speak of or romantic escapades worth recounting, I found myself in a corner, alone. How Ruth could navigate a world like this and populate her party with people like these, I had no idea.

The door outside had been propped open, and the outdoor lights bestowed long shadows on the sparse crowd, smokers all, rebelling against expectations and good taste. The terrace was huge—large enough for an entire party of its own. The Manhattan skyline curved parabolically before me, the broad emptiness offered by the park dropping off as taller buildings obscured those shorter, until only the Freedom Tower remained to break the horizon's block and spire outline. The temptation of the cushy life—submit and be taken care of. The price of comfort wasn't your soul, merely the willingness to be a cog in an amoral machine intent on ensuring its continued existence. And profit.

Behind me, in a familiar voice I couldn't quite place, a man asked. “Hey, Got a light?”

“Sure thing,” I said. I dug the lighter from my pockets and turned to give it to him. He was older, in his thirties, and had a cultivated air of world-weariness I envied. His face was obscured by the kind of beard I dreamed of growing, thick, black, and carefully groomed.

I couldn't believe my eyes. How could this person, of all the people on the planet, be the one before me now? “How do you know Ruth?” I asked, my hand shaking as I held up the lighter.

“My girlfriend knows her. You?”

“We went to college together.”

His name was Brian Anderson, and he was a writer. Published on the second website the snobby staffer had listed when he was twenty-three, and the first when he was twenty-seven, he'd since gone on to publish three novels, with a fourth in the works. I told him my parents had bought 
The Merchants of Zion
 for me the summer before I started college, and how it had changed my life. He was polite about it and seemed to appreciate the comment, albeit in a standoffish way, but I was too drunk to be sure. I shared with him my aspirations as a writer and wondered if he had any advice. Just stick with it; either it'll work out or it won't.

There was so much I wanted to ask him, all sorts of questions about being a writer: was the lifestyle amazing? did he consider himself lucky? how often did he get laid? but he flicked his cigarette off the balcony after a few puffs and excused himself, leaving me with the skyscrapers. I wanted to run after him, to latch on to his leg and never let go, but I was a coward and too polite.

Another glass of wine sounded like a cure for my ills, and I crushed my cigarette against the terrace wall, drawing it across the top and marring the rough-hewn glass with a dark line of ash. I spun on my heels, almost falling over, and another familiar voice, half-forgotten, called out to me.

“Cliffster, what's up?” A corpulent man approached me, swerving and rocking as if keeping his balance on the deck of a ship. He carried two glasses of wine, and an additional forty pounds since I'd seen him last. The tips of a giant, unkempt mustache hung heavy from either side of his lips—indolent lord of an unkempt face. He had on a dirty plaid shirt that bulged out around his waist and a pair of faded jeans with a rip down one side of his crotch. Scarlet creases ran beneath his eyes. His presence was a welcome relief and I couldn't remember ever being so ecstatic to see someone I knew.

“Hunter. What are you doing here? I thought you hated Ruth,” I said.

“She's friends with my fianc
é
e.”

“How?”

“College, probably. But fuck if I know. Do you still smoke?”

I showed him my pouch. “I thought you quit,” I said.

“I did.”

I rolled a cigarette for him, and another for myself. When I held it out he looked at his full hands and casually tossed one of the glasses to the ground. It clattered along the floor and the wine spilled out, sinking into the crevices of the paneling.

“I know you prefer the lighters with hand-mined flint, but all I have is this cheap Storebrand one.”

“Fuck off.” He took the cigarette from me and asked that I hold his wine. “You drink it,” he mumbled, then reached into his back pocket and brought out a flask. “I came prepared.”

Hunter's family owned a substantial stake in an energy holding company that had, thus far, fended off Liberty Bell. They did a little bit of everything, an oil refinery here, a bank of solar there, with a half-dozen thorium reactors and a battery factory thrown in for good measure. He'd disappeared after college, decamping to Europe in order to pursue whatever new interest had caught his eye. I hadn't known he'd returned in New York.

“Are you living in the city again?”

“Sort of. I'm here for another month, then I'm off to Nairobi.”

“International playboy stuff?”

“I wish,” he sighed, his gut heaving. “We're looking at buying twenty thousand tons of silksteel alloy. The Chinese company that ordered it went bust and the manufacturer's looking to dump it for cheap. You know how it is.”

“I understand.” I said, though I didn't. I thought about Elly and her parents—the closest thing to a family I had. Would I subordinate my desires to theirs? I didn't think so, though if the sacrifice meant controlling a corporate empire and worrying about money on a scale of billions of dollars rather than hundreds, it might not be so bad.

“I wouldn't have pegged this as your crowd, Cliff. Aren't they a little pedestrian, a little petit-bourgeois for your tastes?” he needled.

“I followed James here. He flamed out and was sleeping on my couch, but that's about to change I think.” We talked about his showing up, about Dimitri moving out West, about Elly, and about Ruth—eliding any hint of romance. Unloading it all onto a disinterested, but familiar, third party felt wonderful, and unlike James or Ruth he listened patiently and without interruption.

“Here,” he said, offering me the flask. “You need this more than me.”

* * *

James had found somebody to fight. He was surrounded by three men, and a fourth shouted at him inches from his face. James pounded his fist into his palm without saying a word.

“My fucking girlfriend. Do you know who I am? I'll fuck you up...” Ruth intervened. I told her I'd take him outside, but she looked at me like she didn't understand what I was saying. She relented when I grabbed James by the arm and walked towards the terrace.

* * *

Smoking cigarettes and drinking wine with James on the balcony. His hand was bleeding all over from punching the railing, staining his clothes and his cigarette. Didn't care, and asked for another smoke when he finished the first.

* * *

James was crying. Never seen it before, wondered if it was the first time. Deadbeat dad, working mom. Good sob story, but not enough to justify his life. Asked him if he realized this, said he did. Said it got to a point where being an asshole was just expected from him, so he went with it. Boo-fucking-hoo.

* * *

Hunter came back. Gave us both more whiskey. Reminisced about college. James asked about his crotch-hole. Was it appropriate? Hunter didn't care. Bunch of peasant philistines. Offense taken. Oh, was a joke. Ha-ha. Seriously, though. He didn't give a shit what they thought of him. Office drones chasing the upper-middle class lifestyle bequeathed upon them by their parents. Asked how he was different. Wasn't upper-middle class. Was rich. Oh. Right.

* * *

Hunter's fianc
é
e sniffed him out. Gave him disgusted lecture. Expected him to curse at her or be sarcastic. Wrong. He submitted and they went home. Good-bye, Hunter.

* * *

More cigarettes. More wine. Deep discussions with James about the ideal life. Alone on the terrace. People filtered out. Late. James wanted enough money to not have to answer to anyone. Had to be the boss. Me? Fuck, who knows?

Hinted that he'll soon be set for life. One more deal. All thanks to me.

* * *

James slipped that he slept with Ruth when she stayed in Rockford. Whoops, he said. Apologized. Both got real drunk. Had been a mistake. Felt terrible. She made him promise not to tell me.

Screaming. He got defensive. Said you weren't interested. Even asked you before hand. Knew he was right, but didn't care.

* * *

Found Ruth inside. Asked if I like the party. Wanted me to have a good time. She was drunk too. Rubbed my stubble with her hand. Fuck you, I say. Tried to laugh it off, thinks I'm joking. You fucked James. Tried to deny it. He told me. Oh my God. Horrified.

* * *

She refused to apologize, refused to cry. A crowd formed behind her in a semi-circle. Could go fuck themselves.

* * *

Drunk bro attacked James outside. Fight. James won. Took two people to get him off the prostrate guy. Crowd forgot about Ruth and I. Said I ruined her party. More wine.

* * *

Against the wall.

* * *

Wanted to die. Wondered if I was.

* * *

Stairs.

* * *

Red cover.

* * *

“mumble mumble mumble idiot mumble mumble...”

* * *

Warmth.

* * *

…

My Departure from the Gates of Babylon

She left me with tears in my eyes and a faded, tiger cowrie shell in my hand. The salt water droplets streamed from her braids and down her macchiato back, glistening like the glass beads of my broken heart.

We'd been enjoying a light sprinkle as we frolicked in the froth of the Jamaican People's Beach when the clouds, as if arranged by Lady Destiny herself, dissipated and summoned twinkle-bells of sunshine to dance across the water. The only exceptional thing about the fight was how unexceptional it was, a disagreement over whether or not to leave the cool confines of the ocean depths and trek across the dampened sand so we could share a fishbowl mojito at the open-air bar. I don't even remember which course of action it was I suggested, only that the whole situation exploded like a buried land mine, leaving me emotionally disfigured and regretting having ever taken that fateful step.

I found the shell as I ran after her. Submerged in the shallows, my big toe caught on its lip and excavated it from the silty sediment. I grabbed at it reflexively, having some half-formed idea of offering it to her as a token of peace. She paused on the beach to pull an open-knit tunic over her bikini, and when I waved the shell in her face she slapped it out of my hand. In a fit of anger, I told her I now realized she was no more than an ungrateful beach hustler who latched onto whatever unwary foreigner opened his heart—and bank account—to her. And what was more, I wanted the ring back, to give to someone more deserving. She yanked it off her finger and threw it down with such force that it buried itself in the sand, the opal peeking out like an iridescent child witnessing her parent's final quarrel before divorce. She ran from me as quickly as she could, her long caramel legs extending in a graceful, gazzelle-like gait. I picked up the cowrie shell; in my crazed state of mind I'd pinned our salvation in the beauty and simplicity of its Euclidean curvature.

She paid the cracked, elderly man renting kayaks with money I knew she'd filched from my wallet, and in a single smooth motion she was in the water and paddling away, forever beyond my reach. I called after her, shouting her name, “Felicity! Felicity al-Nour,” again and again until my voice was shot and my throat burned hotter than the Kingston asphalt in July. She disappeared behind a copse of mango trees and I sank to my knees, sobbing. The elderly man shifted uncomfortably, and after a span of several minutes suggested I rent a kayak and chase after her. Half-off, he said. The grieving lover's discount. I glared at him in disgust and cradled my broken heart at the bar, where I ordered one of those fishbowl mojitos. Then a second. And a third. I never saw her again.

14. Fallout

I woke up flailing blindly and gasping for air. A red duvet pulled over my head fell off the bed and settled in a clump on the floor. Ruth lay asleep beside me in a slip, whistling softly with each breath. I was still in my jeans and a rail spike of a headache thumped at the base of my skull. I wasn't wearing a shirt and my shoes were off, which was something. My stomach was churning; I needed to find a bathroom stat. Ruth mumbled as I crawled out of bed, one aimless hand reaching for a now-missing me.