“You want me to hire—”
“I believe the phrase is assistant director, yes?”
“Mr. Kinsky,” Hugo says, “I already have—”
“You look at your staff tonight,” Hermann says. “You see if you have need for this assistant director. My attorney will come by in the morning. You tell him your decision then.”
And then Hermann does the signature belittlement. Before Hugo Schick can respond, before he can speak or even change his posture, Hermann Kinsky pats him on the head like a dog, like a Viennese mongrel he stumbled upon in the park. Kinsky turns and moves for the center aisle, snapping for his people to follow him at once. Weltsch and Felix bound from their seats and parade to the exit behind their leader.
But Jakob lingers for a moment, staring at the theatre, pivoting his head in a slow pan, trying to take as much in as the darkness will permit.
He comes to Hugo Schick, still squatting, watching the hulking shadow of Papa exit the theatre. At the back of the hall, the doors swing open and closed.
Hugo looks down at the boy, takes a breath and says, “It will be a pleasure working with you, son.”
6
There are probably things Sylvia hates worse in this life, but right now, standing at Perry’s side like this well-groomed, brain-addled, pseudo-spouse, listening to Ratzinger hold court with his circle of pre-partner associates, she can’t think of one. Every time this guy makes another denigrating joke about his wife, she digs her nails deeper into the palm of Perry’s left hand. There’s a sycophant tax guy named Gordon-something who’s choking himself on forced laughter, spilling shrimp cocktail sauce on his designer tie. Sylvia’s feet are killing her and the room is too hot. She wants to be home. She wants to be down in the cellar. Down in the darkroom with the Aquinas on the worktable, going over the instruction book step-by-step, removing and installing the lens. Maybe even hooking up a flash and shooting some of those Polaroids.
Right about now, channel 6 is starting their weeklong Peter Lorre film festival. They’re going to begin with Mad Love and close out with The Patsy. They’re going to run all the Warner Brothers dramas from the forties. There will be a roundtable discussion of The Lost One, a trivia quiz on The Maltese Falcon, and the first uncut, local screening of Pionier in Inoplastaldt with the corrected subtitles. She just wants to be back home waiting for the Sydney Green-street collaborations, checking the schedule for Passage to Marseille, now and then looking at the picture on the tube through the Aquinas.
And she wants to be wearing her sweats and her sneakers. She wants to have her hair pulled back and her face washed. It’s not like she’s reactionary when it comes to dressing up. She’s got on the black velvet dress and the pearls Perry gave her at Christmas a year ago. She knows he likes her like this and she’d be lying if she said she didn’t get a kick out of his reaction as he came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist and saw her in front of the bureau mirror and said, “God. Just gorgeous.”
But it’s so close and humid in here. She wants to grabs one of the waiters and tell him there’s a sweet tip if he can locate the air-conditioning and lower the temp a little.
The killer is that on the drive downtown, Perry started in on how they’ve got to get used to all these receptions and fund-raisers and open-house deals the firm throws. That there are only going to be more in the future and once he makes partner his presence is always going to be required. Sylvia said, “Fine, but why does that mean my presence is required? I don’t work for these guys. I don’t even have a law degree.”
He said, “Because it looks better. It looks good. For you to be there with me.” And she gave a little laugh she couldn’t help and then regretted it right away. He’s still pumped up about the partnership offer and Sylvia honestly doesn’t want to ruin it for him.
He said, “You don’t think so, fine. But it still works this way. It sends a message to the old boys. The guys above Ratzinger. It says I’m stable. It says I’ve got plans and direction. Focus. And, I’m sorry, I don’t want you to take this any way but as a compliment, but it says I’ve got taste. That if this looker came with me there must be something.”
She stared at him as they pulled into the underground garage. She stared until he said, “What?” in this kind of great, flinching whine.
“Looker,” she said.
“Jesus, Sylvia.”
“Looker?” she couldn’t get over the word. “Did you, like, age a generation in the shower?”
“Sylvia, c’mon—”
But Sylvia couldn’t stop. “Looker? Is this part of the deal now? We have to change the way we speak? Should we practice tonight? Perry, could you have the darkie bring your cupcake a martini …”
So she stepped over the line at the end there. He was self-conscious and hurt and she had to calm him down in the garage before they went up to the reception.
Walpole & Lewis has rented out the main gallery of the art museum. If she’d listened more closely Sylvia would know all the details, but she was thinking about the camera while they were getting ready to go. She was thinking about just getting home and playing with it, taking it apart and getting used to the feel.
Perry mentioned something about a new client, some political action group that’s really up and coming and got “a pool of money and a national network.” Sylvia doesn’t know what their grudge is, but they’ve just tossed a wad to W & L as a retainer and she knows Perry said something about “they really want us to put our best teeth in the mayor’s ass.”
The fact is, Sylvia’s just not a political creature and never will be. There’s no juice in it for her. No charge. And for her to make a connection with something, to give it her time and her thought, there has to be some natural gravitation, an ongoing connection where she’s dwelling on it in her sleep, where she’s thinking about it in line at the supermarket or while she’s getting her hair cut.
On Sylvia’s thirteenth birthday, at about six o’clock at night, her mother put the supper dishes in the sink to soak. Then Ma brought this small cake out of the refrigerator, this chocolate cake with butter cream frosting. And after Sylvia blew out her candles, Ma put a small box in front of her, about the size of a doughnut box, maybe a little smaller, and wrapped in pink and white paper with a bow saved from some other holiday. Sylvia sat there a minute to let the excitement build, to consciously savor the feeling and let it expand just a little. She carefully unwrapped the box and handed the paper back to her mother and watched as Ma smiled and sort of absentmindedly refolded the paper on the kitchen table. Then Sylvia looked down to see a bright yellow display case and the red letters on the top that said Kodak. It was a hinged box and she lifted the top back and there, sitting in these black, mock-crushed velvet inserts, was a flashcube, a black plastic cartridge of film, a detachable black plastic wrist strap, and her first camera, a classic Instamatic, all grey and silver and this round bug-eye lens in the front.
She pulled the camera from its resting place in the box. And she was honestly speechless. She stared up at her mother and, she still has no idea why, she started to cry. The tears just helplessly came down her face. And the horrible thing was that Ma immediately misinterpreted the reaction. She thought Sylvia was crushed by what must have been the inappropriateness of the gift. Ma got terribly upset and started repeating, “But you asked for one, last summer, you asked for one.”