The Metropolis (32 page)

O
VER THE NEXT
few months, though the battle continued on many fronts, Lucien made a point to console Eduard whenever he could: he massaged his neck, he brought pomegranate juice to his office, he filled the apartment with black roses and violets. He helped Heinrich plan menus for several dinner parties they hosted for members of the government and nobility whose friendship was deemed critical by Eduard. Though it didn’t come naturally, Lucien enjoyed playing a supporting role; he especially liked going to the market with Heinrich, who would suggest a dish with Greek olives, at which point Lucien would say, “No—let’s use the Italian ones, which Eduard likes better.” And though he was conscious of the fact that Heinrich in certain ways knew both of them better than anyone—and
had probably even proposed the Greek olives because he knew that Lucien would enjoy correcting him—it still pleased him to think that, in sum, if one considered not only Eduard’s tastes in food or clothing—in which Heinrich probably did have the upper hand—but also the curve of his back, the texture of his hair, the quiet whimpers he sometimes made under Lucien’s weight, or even the way he tended to sleep on his stomach with one leg bent and the other straight, nobody—not even Heinrich—knew Eduard as well as he did, which if it was not the only meaning of love struck him as a most plausible one.

T
OWARD THE END
of the winter, Eduard and his allies achieved several tactical victories to ensure that his original design was to be implemented with only minor alterations. Construction resumed at full speed, and his mood improved greatly, at least until April arrived and brought with it a new and unforeseen problem—if not exactly unprecedented in Vienna—in the form of rain. It started around the middle of the month, which caused little concern until a second week passed without any real interruption, and then a third; when it wasn’t drizzling, it was a downpour, and at all times a cold, dank mist seemed to seep through even the thickest walls. Lucien slept under three blankets, and even the usually imperturbable Heinrich walked through the apartment muttering about the green mold that crept into undershirts, bedsheets, buttonholes, and shoe eyelets. At the end of the third week, the Danube overran its banks, and the army was dispatched to build barriers of sandbags.

Lucien felt sick with anxiety each time he looked out the window to assess the infinite layers of gray sky, but when he accompanied Eduard through the fog to check the opera house, he did not have to feign optimism. Though it was unnerving to see the waters rising on
the other side of the sandbags, which in turn were stacked higher by the soldiers, there was a majestic quality to the structure that went beyond its sheer heft. Except for a few leaks here and there—mostly backstage—the roof kept the inside dry, and in the somber lamplight, it was easy to imagine the theater filled with operagoers. Several times Lucien and Eduard emerged from these inspections into a deluge, but with the water streaming off the curving dome of the roof in thick, opaque sheets, the building felt as impenetrable as a massive ocean liner. While waiting under the arcade, Lucien always made a point to grip Eduard’s hand, and he felt reassured when the gesture was returned.

O
NE MORNING—IT
was now May—the rain stopped. Lucien opened his eyes and detected a strange and forgotten illumination coming through the drapes. “Eduard, look!” he cried but reached out to find only rumpled sheets. He quickly dressed and ran downstairs, where Heinrich confirmed that Eduard had already left for the site.

Outside, the sidewalks steamed and glistened in the hazy white light, and as Lucien walked past the construction on the Ringstrasse—on the western side of the site, with all the new government buildings—he barely noticed that it was effectively underwater, with only columns and pilings poking through the surface like a graveyard of masts, or that, to the north, many of the streets were now canals, with water lapping at the windows and doors. He took his usual detour to Grabenstrasse, which though wet was not flooded. Many of the shopkeepers were bringing their goods out to dry in the sun, while farther ahead on the Stephansplatz, only a few puddles dotted the field of cobblestones. Here he paused to admire the cathedral’s shining spire, which seemed to offer a benevolent grace and power,
and even inspired him to whisper a contingent prayer to a god he had never really believed in.

Running down Kärntnerstrasse, he saw the opera house, and his spirits lifted at the sight of the copper wings of the rooftop, which hovered majestically above the last remnants of silver fog. As he got closer, however, his exuberance was tempered by the realization that the sandbags had given way, so that the entire structure was circled by a moat, perhaps fifteen feet deep. He stood on the edge and peered through the tops of the entranceways—the doors had been pushed open by the flood—into the vast interior. He called out to Eduard but heard only his own voice echoing back across the water. He yelled again and this time heard his name return as soft as a whisper.

“Eduard?” he repeated and was met by the same whispered response.

He found a plank of wood about the size of a small door, on which he was able to kneel precariously and paddle forward. He ducked under the entrance and went through to the lobby, where the water was still and flat except for the debris that seemed to hover ominously in the shadows beneath the surface. He continued forward into the auditorium, where, after catching his breath, he again called out.

“Lucien,” Eduard responded, but in a soft, hesitant tone that Lucien almost didn’t recognize.

He looked up and saw Eduard perched on a scaffold near the very top of the dome, at least a hundred feet up. He could not suppress a cry of surprise and then fear as he strained to see. “Eduard,” he yelled. “What—what are you doing up there?”

“It’s over,” Eduard replied after a few seconds. Though he spoke softly, there was something about the watery acoustics of the theater
that made it seem as if he were only inches away. “They’re tearing it down.”

“What do you mean?” Lucien replied automatically, as it began to occur to him that Eduard was not just inspecting something.

“It’s done,” his lover said. “Destroyed. Enjoy it while you can.”

There was a flat, hollow quality to Eduard’s voice that alarmed Lucien, even as he struggled to understand. “But—but I’m sure it’s not as bad as it looks,” he responded, trying to sound confident. “Once it drains, it’ll be fine. Maybe it’ll push things back a few months, but the outside looks—well, it looks beautiful. Did you see some of the other buildings? They’re much worse—there’s hardly anything left at all—”

“It’s just an excuse,” Eduard vaguely replied.

“What are you talking about?” Lucien cried.

“ ‘I hope you won’t be too offended, Herr van der Null,’ ” Eduard began in an affected, imperious voice before continuing in a harder, sarcastic tone. “Oh no, thank you, Excellency, why would I be offended? I’ve only given fifteen years of my life to this, so of course I understand why political expediency demands that you do whatever you must to please the general’s cousin. Why let a little flooding go to waste? These things happen! Such is life! Good day, sire!”

Lucien stared up, perplexed. “Who is this?”

Eduard sighed. “I saw the emperor this morning. They’re going to demolish it and use the committee plans.”

Eduard’s words—now that Lucien understood what was happening—seemed to hang in the air for a second before they froze and like a piece of ice fell down to break into shards. The water dripped around him as he responded. “Eduard, they can’t,” he said and realized that his hands were shaking where they gripped the board on which he sat. “They’ll have to kill me—both of us. We’ll fight. You
know that just because the emperor says one thing it doesn’t mean he can’t say something else the next day.”

“I—I don’t know, Lucien,” Eduard sighed. “It’s too much. I never thought I would say this, but I can’t see this destroyed.”

Lucien could not contain his dismay. “Eduard, this isn’t you talking—it’s—it’s your demons.”

Eduard responded in a resigned tone that—because of its flat, conversational quality—frightened Lucien even more. “You’ve said it a thousand times, Lucien—it’s irreplaceable. You don’t build something like this more than once in your life. Losing this makes me less than nothing.”

The implications of this statement—not only for the present situation but for their past—took Lucien’s breath away. He felt a new tremor of panic as he considered how he could possibly reach Eduard, whose despair surpassed anything Lucien had ever experienced, even during his darkest moments in Munich. It seemed to unveil a wider gulf between them than he had ever imagined, and he saw nothing in his own life—or at least his artistic life—he could use to convey his empathy without sounding condescending and false. Yet even as these doubts occurred, he brushed them away with a desperate certainty that what he and Eduard shared transcended any artistic crisis. He stopped himself from shaking and focused on the still, yellow light surrounding him.

“You can’t be nothing,” he said, “because to love you would make me nothing, too—and that’s not what we are. We’re not nothing—I know you don’t think that.”

Eduard seemed to waver for several seconds before he spoke. “Lucien … you know … I love you,” he said, and there was a tender quality to his voice that led Lucien to think he was getting through.

“I’m coming up there,” Lucien cried and started to paddle toward
the scaffold upon which Eduard was perched. “We’ll go home—Heinrich is making lunch—we’ll go back to bed and sleep.” He paused to look up, and Eduard took a step toward the ladder from which he could descend. Now drifting, Lucien felt the light on his face and, sick with relief, thanked whatever power had led Eduard to back away. “Eduard—be careful—”

But Eduard did not pivot around as Lucien expected and instead launched himself off the platform. He fell through the gloom, his arms extended like wings, his eyes no longer silver but soft and unfocused as he spoke his final words. “I’ll miss you,” he whispered before he hit the water, where the heavy splash echoed beneath the harrowing dismay of Lucien’s untrained screams.

NEW YORK CITY, 2001. On Thursday morning after the attacks, Martin went to work and arranged an appointment with the managing partner. His intention was to give notice as quickly as possible, but when he walked into the corner office, he was shocked to find his dead father, Hank, sitting behind the desk. Although Hank was now a lean sixty-something man, his hawkish eyes and jutting chin left no doubt in Martin’s mind as to his identity. “How’s it hanging, Marty?” he asked as he removed his sunglasses from where they had been perched on the top of his head.

Martin did not respond for a few seconds as he debated how to react; he knew he didn’t really have time to consider the logic or
illogic of what he saw but simply needed to accept it, to adjust to the unexpected terms of this confrontation and proceed accordingly. If he had learned anything in his career, it was that nothing ever went according to plan, and his ability to maintain his cool under the tensest of negotiations was part of the reason he could even entertain the idea of quitting.

“I want to give notice,” Martin announced, but in an unconcerned tone generally reserved to describe last week’s weather. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” he said before alluding to a deal he had recently wrapped up. “I want to leave before I get too deep into anything else.”

“Come on, Marty.” His father shook his head. “You’re one of our top earners. I know this terrorist shit has thrown everyone for a loop, but why don’t you take a few days to think it over? Take a vacation if you want—come in next week and we’ll talk about it …”

Martin hated how reasonable this sounded. “Thanks—I appreciate that,” he began slowly, “but like I said, it’s been on my mind for a while—Tuesday just kind of sealed it for me.”

“Early retirement, eh?” Hank scoffed. “So what are you going to do? Make cookies?”

“I’m not sure yet, to be honest,” Martin admitted with some candor.

“Sure you can handle it?” Hank asked. “Have you ever not worked?”

Martin understood that Hank was only trying to get under his skin, that he was embarrassed by the prospect of his son’s early retirement, as if to lead a life of leisure had a certain effete quality that did not belong in the masculine world of the corner office in which they now sat.

“I guess I’m not as motivated as I used to be,” Martin agreed somewhat evasively, feeling that this would be the best strategy,
though as he said the words, he felt them resonate; it wasn’t hard to remember when he had enjoyed the prestige of working for a top firm in a city where such associations meant access to certain clubs and restaurants that had once interested him.

“Yeah, some people lose the drive,” Hank continued in a predictably dismissive tone.

This provoked Martin. “Don’t you ever get sick of this place?”

“No, not really,” answered Hank in a grave manner that offered Martin no satisfaction. “It’s actually worse when I’m not here for too long, you know, when your mother’s dragging me to all those crazy fund-raisers, or the fucking opera. I want to shoot myself.”

Martin—again resolved to move ahead with his plan—could only shrug. “I’ve never had that problem.”

“I’ve always said you cocksuckers get off easy,” Hank noted wryly as he stood up and looked through his son.

Martin recognized this to be the end of the meeting and the mark of his new beginning as someone off his father’s radar, so it didn’t seem worth arguing the point. “In that respect I guess we do.”

Surprisingly, Hank’s expression softened, and Martin considered confessing some of his real reasons for wanting to retire—which ironically enough were connected to being gay—but before he could say anything, his father spoke, softly, as though confessing a secret. “The truth is, Marty”—he smiled—“I’d give just about anything not to be so addicted to cunt.”

Martin laughed uneasily but gratefully, knowing that this was exactly the kind of comment—along with everything it represented—that he wanted to leave behind with the job. With a smile, he stood up and shook hands with the man for what he expected to be the last time, knowing that he would most likely be able to avoid him during the next two weeks, given that they were separated by two floors.