I phoned Alison Botnick the next morning at Sullivan, Draskell, the realtors on Madison Avenue.
‘Well, Mr Spinola, how are you?’
‘I’m fine.’
I told her I was sorry for having run off that day, making a joke out of it. She said, oh, not even to mention it. Then I asked her if the apartment was still on the market. It was, she said, and all the work on it had just been completed. I told her I’d be interested in seeing it again, that day if possible, and in talking to her about entering a bid.
Van Loon had also said he’d write a reference letter for me, which would probably make it unnecessary for Sullivan, Draskell to pry into my tax returns and credit history – and would mean, if everything went well, that I could sign the contracts almost immediately and move in.
This had now become the controlling dynamic in my life – immediacy, acceleration, speed. I shifted rapidly from scene to scene, from one location to another, with little sense of where the joins met. For example, I had to see several people that morning, and in different places – the office on Forty-eighth Street, a hotel uptown, a bank down on Vesey Street. Then I had a lunch appointment with Dan Bloom at Le Cirque. I squeezed in seeing the apartment again after lunch. Alison Botnick was waiting for me when I arrived up on the sixty-eighth floor – almost as though she hadn’t left since my last visit and had been waiting patiently for me to return. Barely recognizing me at first, she was then all over me, but within about five minutes, probably even less, I had put in a bid at a small but strategic amount over the ask price and was gone – back to Forty-eighth Street and another meeting with Carl and Hank and Jim, to be followed by cocktails at the Orpheus Room.
As this last meeting was wrapping up, Van Loon took a call at his desk. We were now very close to announcing the deal, and everyone was in an upbeat mood. The meeting had gone well, and even though the hardest part lay ahead – seeking Congressional, FCC and FTC approval – there was a real sense of collective accomplishment in the room.
Hank Atwood stood up from his chair and strolled over to where I was sitting. He was in his early sixties, but looked trim and wiry and very fit. Even though he was short, he had a commanding, almost threatening presence. Landing a gentle punch on my shoulder, he said, ‘Eddie, how do you do it?’
‘What?’
‘That extraordinary recall you’ve got. The way your mind processes everything. I can see it working.’
I shrugged my shoulders.
He went on, ‘You’re on top of this thing in a way that I find almost…’
I was beginning to feel uncomfortable.
‘… almost… I mean I’ve been in business for forty years, Eddie, I’ve headed up a food-and-drinks conglomerate, I’ve run a movie studio, I’ve seen it all, every trick in the book, every kind of deal there is, every kind of guy you can meet…’
He was looking directly into my eyes now, standing over me.
‘… but I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite like you…’
I wasn’t sure if this was meant as a declaration of love or an accusation, but just then Van Loon got up from his desk, and said, ‘Hank… someone here to say hello.’
Atwood turned around.
Van Loon had stepped away from his desk and was walking across the room towards the door. I stood up from my chair and moved behind Atwood. Jim Heche had wandered about half-way down the room and taken out his cellphone.
I turned to face the door.
Van Loon opened it and motioned to whoever was there to come in. I could hear voices outside, but not what they were saying. There was a brief exchange, followed by a short burst of laughter, and then – a couple of seconds later – Ginny Van Loon appeared in the room.
I felt a quickening in my chest.
She pecked her father on the cheek. Then Hank Atwood raised his arms, ‘Ginny.’
She came towards him and they embraced.
‘So, you had a good time?’
She nodded, and smiled broadly.
‘I had a blast.’
Where had she been?
‘Did you try that osteria I told you about?’
Italy.
‘Yeah, it was great. That stuff, what was it called, baccalà? – I loved it.’
The north-east.
They went on chatting for the next minute or so, Ginny focusing all her attention on Atwood. As I waited for her to disengage and – I suppose – notice me, I watched her closely, and realized something that should have been obvious to me before.
I was in love with her.
‘… and it’s really cool how they name streets after dates…’
She was wearing a short grey skirt, a dusty blue cardigan, matching top and black leather pumps, all stuff she’d probably bought in Milan on her way back from Vicenza or Venice, or wherever she’d been. Her hair was different, too – not spiky any more, but straight, and with a bit at the front that kept falling into her eyes, and that she kept having to flick back.
‘… Twentieth of September Street, Fourth of November Street, it resonates…’
She looked over and saw me, and smiled – surprised and not surprised.
Van Loon said, ‘I guess history is pretty important to them over there.’
‘Oh, and what are we,’ Ginny said, turning suddenly to her father, ‘one of those happy nations that hasn’t got any history?’
‘That’s not what-’
‘We just do stuff and hope no one notices.’
‘What I-’
‘Or we make it up to suit what people did notice.’
‘And in Europe that’s not what happens?’ said Hank Atwood. ‘Is that what you’re telling us?’
‘No, but… well, I don’t know, take this Mexico shit that’s going on at the moment? People over there can’t believe we’re even talking about invading.’
‘Look, Ginny,’ Van Loon said, ‘it’s a complicated situation. I mean, this is a narco-state we’re dealing with here…’ He went on to paint what had been in a dozen newspaper editorials and op-ed pieces recently: a vast fevered mural depicting instability, disorder and impending catastrophe…
Jim Heche, who had drifted back up the room, and had been listening closely, said, ‘It’s not only in our interests, Ginny, you know, it’s in theirs, too.’
‘Oh, invade the country to save it?’ she said, in exasperation, ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this.’
‘Sometimes that’s-’
‘What about the nineteen-seventy UN injunction,’ she said, her voice accelerating rapidly, ‘that no state has the right to intervene, directly or indirectly, for any reason whatever, in the internal affairs of any other state?’
She was standing in the centre of the room now, ready to fend off attacks from any quarter.
‘Ginny, listen to me,’ Van Loon said patiently. ‘Trade with Central and South America has always been crucial to-’
‘Oh, Jesus, Daddy, that’s all spin.’
Looking like his daughter had just kick-boxed him, Van Loon threw his hands up.
‘You want to know what I think it’s about?’ she went on, ‘I mean really about?’
Van Loon looked dubious, but Hank Atwood and Jim Heche were obviously interested, and waiting to hear what she had to say. For my part, I had retreated to the oak-panelled wall behind me and was watching the scene with mixed feelings – amusement, desire, confusion.