Several times on my various walks I'd passed the Key West Public Library. At two the next afternoon I entered the low pink-hued building, found a chair in the small reference section, and spent the afternoon researching the mysterious architect.
He appeared, from the pictures I found of his various homes, to be as rich as Rakoubian had said. In a spread on his Manhattan town house in Architectural Digest, I saw two paintings by Gauguin on the dining room walls and a portion of his priceless collection of Japanese scrolls and screens.
But it was his remarkable vacation house in Jamaica that intrigued me most, a building he had designed himself. In this elegant structure, made of bleached wood and great expanses of glass, he had tried, he said, "to combine the majesty of a Palladian villa and the austerity of a traditional Japanese house."
Each piece of furniture was a handmade original, every object exquisitely chosen, every flower perfectly arranged. Floating above the fireplace was a gilded medieval sculpture of an angel. It seemed improbable that a man who had created such a paradise could be so awesomely corrupt.
But as I read other articles I found subtle indications.
"A tough boss, incredibly demanding, he doesn't suffer fools gladly," an associate said.
"He's quite capable, when displeased, of treating you as if you don't exist."
Another architect, a rival, said, "We are what we build, and Arnold Darling's buildings reflect his soul. Sharp, hard-edged slashes against the sky, there is no comedy in them, no wink of complicity. His is a brutalism that conceals its brutality. Darling diagrams the cruelty of our corporate age."
I believe in the efficacy of photographs, that a welltaken picture can often tell you more about a subject than even a firsthand look. So I pored over photographs of Arnold Darling's work, searching for keys to the man, and by the end of the afternoon I began to understand a lot.
He was secretive. The articles told me that, but his buildings expressed it too. No question that he was an artist who channeled his feelings into structure and form; the buildings were strong, sometimes even magnificent, but there was also stealth and cunning in them, a clandestine rage and a taciturnity that matched his tight-lipped face.
Walking from the library down to Mallory Pier, I thought about Darling in his mask. Why, I asked myself, does he wear a fencing mask, instead of one made of rubber, or one of those fetishistic black-leather jobs you see in sex boutiques?
There was a reason he liked the fencing mask, and the more I pondered it, the more clearly I saw how that was connected to his designs. Such a mask does not cling to the contours of the face; rather, it acts as a second skin. Darting's buildings were like that, seamless, self-protective. Their vauttlike doors gave an impression of impenetrability and their deep-tinted windows hid their occupants from sight.
But there was more. A fencing mask, designed to protect the face from the consequences of combat, is, by its nature, aggressive. It's the mask of the warrior, the man who attacks, and who, while so doing, conceals his eyes.
At the bottom of Duval, I paused before a person I'd noticed several times before, an old man, sitting against a wall, quietly playing a harmonica. When our eyes met, he gestured toward a tin cup by his feet.
I put five dollars in it and asked if I could take his picture. He nodded, then began to play again.
As I focused on his face I was struck by its vulnerability, the very opposite of what I'd seen in I)arling's. There was pathos there, and pain, and the ravages of life. Nothing in his countenance was masked.
I think it was at that moment, the moment I took that picture, that all the anger I'd previously felt toward Kim was suddenly transferred to D-arling. I hadn't cared about him before, but now, on my way to the sunset ritual, I began to care very much. This was the man who had murdered Sonya and Shadow, and had ordered lye thrown at my eyes. He was rich and secretive and evil, and now I too began to hate him.
The hatred seethed in me all that nip-ht. but if Kim @Me' to me after sensed it, she didn't let on. When she c work, she was gentle and loving. She stroked and fondled me and whispered endearments in my ear.
The next morning, when we were eating breakfast, I asked her what she meant by "pay."
She looked at me curiously.
"You said Darling and Mrs. Z 'have to pay.
She laughed.
"Pay money, of course."
"Would that really do it for you?"
"it would be reparation."
"Doe s money repair?"
"Of course not, but it can help." She gazed at me.
"If a person feels injured and sues for damages and wins and is paid, that helps to even up the score. That's why people looking for equity always ask for money."
"You sound like a lawyer."
"I'd have made a good one. I have a lot of indignation. I think you've noticed that."
"So you want Darling to pay us a million dollars?"
"That wouldn't be so bad now, would it?" She smiled.
Later at the beach, as she was oiling my back, I brought up the subject again.
"Why would he pay this time, when he refused before?"
"Because of Shadow. The case against him is stronger now. "
"But he's made it clear he won't pay. That's what Rakoubian said."
"Rakoubian's stupid. He doesn't understand. Of course he'll pay if he's got no alternative."
The way she was sitting on me, rubbing in the oil, reminded me of the massage I'd gotten from Grace. I liked the feel of her weight on my body. Suddenly I felt aroused.
"We'd have to do it differently this time," I said.
"Yes, we'd have to be much more clever. And now that we know where Mrs.
Z stands, we wouldn't be falling into any traps,"
"What about that affidavit you signed?"
She played her fingers on my neck.
"Who cares? It confirms my story. I signed it under duress. It was a fake anyway, just a way to make me think they'd let me go."
"Blackmail isn't all that easy, Kim. Sooner or later you have to show to collect your money."
"Between the two of us, Geoffrey, with all our brains, I'm sure we can figure out a way."
I turned, looked up at her.
"Then what happens? What's to prevent them from killing us afterwards?"
"The same thing that kept them from killing us in the first place."
"What's that?"
"The photographs." turned my head back to the sand.
"We wouldn't turn them over-is that what you're saying?"
"I wouldn't, would you? But even if we did, we'd keep back copies. they know that. Mrs. Z said as much."
"In that case, what would they be paying for?"
"Silence.
"You've thought this through."
"I've spent a-month thinking about it." She bent forward, lay her face against my back, kissed my spine.
"Do you think it can be done, 'Geoffrey? You know, done properly?"
The next two days, while I tortured myself over the problem, she acted as if she didn't have a care. It was as if, having transferred the burden to me, she finally felt she could relax.
We went about our routine, swimming and snorkeling in the mornings, then she would go to work, and I would walk around taking pictures and feeling agonized.
Though we spoke of many different things during our times together, our brief exchanges about the blackmail ran through our conversations like a thread:
"What do we do about Rakoubian?" I asked her. We were lying in bed in my motel. She was fondling me through my clothes.
"Ignore him."
"What if he wants a cut?"
"He gave up his right when he chickened out. Jesusl Why worry about him?" She stroked my cock.
"Now, here's something worth discussing," she said.
Afterwards, resting together, my hands cupping her breasts, I asked her what I should say to Scotto.