Wakefield (21 page)

Marianna snaps open her purse and pulls out a rumpled pamphlet she flips open in front of him. “Look, for chrissakes, look!”

Wakefield looks: grainy babies lie in lumpy squalor in a dim dormitory. “I know,” he mumbles, “I saw it on TV, it's a terrible situation.”

Marianna holds him in her unblinking gaze, her once beautiful brown eyes cold behind the glass. “Is that all you have to say?”

Wakefield searches his memory and his conscience. “It's terrible, yes, but what am I supposed to do about it, Marianna?”

“Okay. Now you're talking. Three things you can do about it. One, you contribute that check you just got. Two, you come with me to see the organizers of the International Architecture Show and help me talk to them about building orphanages. And three …” She hesitates. “Three, you come with Margot and me to Romania to see the situation firsthand and then you write about it for
National Cartographic
.”

The third point floors Wakefield. What? Does she want to reconstitute their family unit? It's an extraordinary offer, with a dream-feeling to it. If the Devil is listening now, thinks Wakefield, he must be worried about the Deal. What could be more authentic than regaining the life he once had? It's like being offered a return to innocence, before he's completely lost touch with himself. Can you ever go home again? Apparently. Not only that, but it's a return with a larger context, a humanitarian venture that will have its own humanizing effect. He could abandon everything and leave right away. It's a real crossroads, maybe the one he's looking for. He tries to gauge the depth of Marianna's offer and sees nothing but missionary zeal in her eyes. No affection, no hidden agenda, not even sympathy. It's all about the orphans for her, not about him at all. He tries to sound both reasonable and tender when he answers:

“Marianna, this is quite a proposition.” He fishes into his pocket for the envelope, takes out the check, turns it over. Marianna already has a pen pointed at him. Wakefield endorses the check and hands it to her, smiling. “Part one is easy, and I can help you with the second thing, too. I'll have to think about the rest.”

He watches her face closely for some visible disappointment, but she just snaps the check into her purse and says coldly, “Meet me at the ticket booth of the Architecture Park tomorrow at ten o'clock.”

She is gone before he can ask for news of their own Margot. What just happened? Even the Devil is rubbing his eyes in bewilderment. Wakefield's own eyes are moist. His vision of paradise regained has vanished as quickly as it appeared.

By the time Wakefield returns to the lobby, security has funneled the crowd into the gallery, where a reception with wine and cheese and a jazz trio is in full swing. The lobby is empty except for museum staff, including Doris, who gives him a big hug, and Susan, who gives him kisses on both cheeks
and
a hug. Her makeup is a little tear-stained but she's smiling. “No sign of your ex-wife,” she tells him. “I think you got to her.”

Wakefield doesn't tell her about his encounter with the new Marianna.

“We could go in to the reception,” Doris says, “but we thought you might like to get out of here. Will you let us take you to dinner?”

“Tiff and Milena are waiting outside,” Susan adds, dabbing at her makeup with a tissue.

Wakefield accepts gratefully, but as they push out the museum doors they encounter an obstacle. Across the street, separated from each other by police and private security, two groups of protesters are facing off with signs and loudspeakers. Susan's father is at the front of one group, holding a sign that reads: This Isn't Art! It's Shit! Another man shouts into a bullhorn, “
Justice for Serbia!
” and “
American bombs are blind!
” The opposing group are mostly women, among them Aleisha Petrovich, her arms linked with two other women's, shouting: “
Criminals of Serbia, stop your killing NOW!
”

“Oh, my God,” Susan exclaims, “my mother shouldn't be here! If they let go, she'll probably fall down.” She calls to her mother, but her voice is drowned out by singing from the Serb protesters:

“All this was once ours,

until the stinking beasts

next door came here.

They speak a nasty language

and drink some nasty beer!

Their women are wolves

and their children are dogs.

Let's turn them into burning logs!”

Susan is still trying to get to her mother when the police vans come screeching around the corner. Policemen spill out with riot shields and batons and begin dragging protesters into the vans. Susan grabs Tiffany by the hand and yells something about “can't do dinner” and “bail” to Wakefield before taking off toward the parking garage, followed by Milena, running with difficulty in her high heels.

Wakefield and Doris settle for a couple of Polish dogs and an early night. Back in his room, Wakefield can't sleep. First he hears angry voices, barking dogs, then breaking glass and what sounds like dishes being tossed against the walls. Then there is the acrid smell of tear gas and a German shepherd with bared teeth stands on the bed growling at him. He pours two whiskeys from the minibar into a glass and downs it. He picks up the room-service menu with shaking hands, and the embossed name of the hotel triggers a memory. This is where the delegates to the Democratic convention stayed in 1968. He's listening to … history. The dog disappears, but the room starts to tilt and sway. He feels sick. The sounds of the riots and the gas recede, making room for a battlefield. Wakefield hides behind the dresser while shells explode around him. He dials room service. The voice on the phone sounds familiar. “A bottle of Stolichnaya,” he manages. He tries to turn on the TV, dodging shells, careful not to step on several dying soldiers lying around the room, but the screen fills with snow, no images appear. By the time he hears a knock at the door and jumps to open it, the room is filled like a meat locker with corpses. It's freezing. Wakefield opens the door. His teeth are chattering, but he relaxes when he sees the face of the bellboy. As he takes the bottle of Stolichnaya from his hands, the corpses vanish and room temperature returns to normal. Strangely, the bellboy follows him into the room and takes a seat, showing a little hoof when he crosses his legs.

“You look like shit,” the Devil-bellboy says.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Wakefield whispers in a breaking voice. “Is all this your doing?”

“Hardly. I'm as baffled as you are. It seems that we're not alone.”

A hint of a smile appears on Wakefield's dry lips when he sees the Devil's sincere puzzlement and raised tufty eyebrows. Then he starts giggling like a nervous girl on a date. When the Devil's yellow eyes widen in an expression of mock sincerity, Wakefield bursts out laughing. He laughs and laughs, can't stop himself. “I can't … believe it,” he finally succeeds in saying through the guffaws. “The Devil himself doesn't know what's going on.…” Wakefield realizes that if he laughs any longer, His Demonic Highness might be offended, so he stops, with an effort. It is a very strange world, indeed, when the only company he draws comfort from is the Devil.

“What do you mean, we're not … alone?”

“That's difficult to explain to a human.”

“Try me.”

“Well, it's like this. There was a time when I could keep track of everybody and every
thing
, even ghosts and goblins. Fellow devils all registered with me, of course. Then things and creatures, and I don't mean just humans, started multiplying. Every creature, thing, even
ideas
, started to subdivide. The agreed-on borders of time and space started to fray as more and more of these new abominations claimed a place in the sun, so to speak. Realities that had always been quite separate started mixing; even time started going backward and forward without any respect for the old physics. Me, I'm a strict Newtonian. This whole blender effect is making me queasy.”

“I don't believe you,” Wakefield says bluntly. “Things were always mixed up, they are just … faster. You're just getting old, you can't keep track of them. Me, too, for that matter. Old and stupid. Anyway, I don't need a lecture. I can do that myself, thank you. What I need to know is when are you going to fire your damned pistol so I can get serious.”

It's the Devil's turn to laugh. “You're such a conformist, Wakefield. Just like your namesake in that Hawthorne story. Why do you need to wait for authorization? Why don't you just pick something from that huge menu you're staring at every day, call it the real thing, and get on with it? What do you care what I think?”

“Because, because …” Wakefield stammers, “I can't make up my mind.”

“Well, more power to you,” snickers El Diablo. “What do you think I get out of this? Your confused mind is my only pleasure. Well, one of them …,” he corrects himself. “One of the best. If you make up your mind and the race hasn't started, I can call it off, of course … but so what? You'll get what you want, maybe even eat half of it before I show up and haul your sorry ass out of this world.”

“Well, that's just it. I'm not ready. Besides, didn't you want me to bring you a gift, something to please you?”

“Well, yeah, I have my collections to look after. But you've given me plenty already. Go ahead, though,
étonnez-moi!
Blow my mind. Bring me something I never thought of. Humans do surprise me sometimes. By the way, let me give you a hint about ‘authenticity': all the women you've known so far were ‘authentic,' as ‘authentic' as humans get. So I might rethink that notion, if I were you. Personally, I prefer ‘vivid' to ‘authentic.'”

“Well, you're not me. So when are you going to shoot?”

“Haha,” laughs Sataniko, “when I can't stand it anymore. Maybe I'll just shoot myself to further complicate things.”

“How is that possible? I thought you were immortal.”

“I didn't say I was going to
die
. I shoot myself all the time.”

At breakfast, Wakefield feels like he's had a rough night, but he can't remember much of it. Only the encounter with Marianna, his lecture, and the crazy street riot remain vivid. The newspaper left at the door of his room clarifies some things. The protest and arrests are front-page news and the story is worse than he would have guessed: Slobodan Petrovich, released on $750 bail, led a violent gang of men who smashed the windows of the Bosnia Club, where the counter-protesters, including his wife, Aleisha Petrovich, had regrouped after their own release from jail. The vandals, including Mr. Petrovich, were rearrested, and the judge refused to set bail a second time. On the editorial page one commentator laments, “How can American citizens, no matter their birthplace, behave like this? Why haven't they learned tolerance? Real, local issues must take precedence over old-world imperatives of blood and revenge. We need voter registration and sewer taxes, not single-handed Noble Slayers of thousands.” The editorialist seems very familiar with the nationalists' rhetoric.

Susan arrives as Wakefield scoops up the first forkful of his eggs Benedict. She looks like she hasn't had any sleep, either. He makes room for her on the banquette and orders her a cup of coffee. He covers the eggs with his napkin; the sight of them clashes with the throbs of his vodka hangover.

“I'm so sick of this shit. It's not like I make a lot of money. I spent my whole puny savings bailing out my fucking parents.”

Wakefield grins, and Susan laughs despite her distress.

“We have a plan,” she tells him, gulping down some coffee. “Tiff and I think that you'll have a very bad impression of the city if you don't see something besides the battling Petroviches while you're here. We want to go to the annual show at the International Architecture Park. I hear it's really civilized, and maybe after that you could come with me to the Tribune Tower. I have to meet a reporter there; she knows everything about our situation and has a lot of connections. I'm going to ask her to help my pop.”

She shows Wakefield a brochure of the Architecture annual. The exhibition sprawls over sixty acres. Wakefield remembers that he's promised to meet Marianna there, but Susan's invitation gives him a way out: he'll meet Marianna at the show and then they can run into Susan, as if by accident. If things are going well, they can all join up. If not, Wakefield can make some excuse and say good-bye to Marianna.

“Okay,” Susan agrees, slightly disappointed, “let's meet at noon by the Hungarian pavilion. And here, take one of these. It's codeine and Tylenol.”

Wakefield takes the pill from Susan. It's just what his throbbing head needs.

The day is gray, the leaden sky filled with impending snow, but it's not all that cold, and Wakefield carries his coat over his arm as he strolls through the International Architecture Park with Marianna. Only, they are not really strolling. Marianna is clutching a briefcase that looks incongruous with her long peasant skirt and sheepskin coat with hand-embroidered edges. Whatever happened to couture and $500-an-ounce perfume? She even smells like sheep. They are on their way to meet with the Swedish Culture Minister, who is greeting visitors today at the Swedish pavilion.

The pavilion is a mall-like minicity, complete with split-level homes, an amusement park, and a sculpture garden. It looks terribly familiar. Marianna beats him to the punch: “It's like that suburb we lived in when Margot was born.” Indeed, to be complete, all the illusion needs is for a younger Marianna and Wakefield to walk out of one of the houses, holding baby Margot.

They enter a reception area lit by a huge skylight. Seated behind a glass-topped desk in a Deco chair is a cheerfully blond young man with a diamond stud in his left ear. He is the Swedish Culture Minister. Several respectful students are listening to him speak in accented English. He looks a little bored, so when Marianna and Wakefield approach, he waves them over familiarly, raising his eyebrows as if to say “Finally, some grown-ups!”