fine.”
“Good.”
“Strauss is downstairs.”
In the diminishing light Whitehead crossed to the table and poured himself a sparing glass of vodka. He had been holding off from drinking until now; a shot to celebrate Toy’s safe arrival.
“You want one?”
It was a ritual question, with a ritual response: “No thanks.”
“You’re going back to town, then?”
“When you’ve seen Strauss.”
“It’s too late for the theater. Why don’t you stay, Bill? Go back tomorrow morning when it’s light.”
“I’ve got business,” Toy said, allowing himself the gentlest of smiles on the final word. This was another ritual, one of many between the two men. Toy’s business in London, which the old man knew had nothing to do with the corporation, went unquestioned; it always had.
“And what’s your impression?”
“Of Strauss? Much as I thought at the interview. I think he’ll be fine. And if he isn’t, there’s plenty more where he came from.”
“I need someone who isn’t going to scare easily. Things could get very unpleasant.”
Toy offered a noncommittal grunt and hoped that the talk on this matter wouldn’t go any further. He was tired after a day of waiting and traveling, and he wanted to look forward to the evening; this was no time to talk over that business again.
Whitehead had put down his drained glass on the tray and gone back to the window. It was darkening in the room quite rapidly now, and when the old man stood with his back to Toy he was welded by shadow into something monolithic. After thirty years in Whitehead’s employ—three decades with scarcely a cross word spoken between them—Toy was still as much in awe of Whitehead as of some potentate with the power of life and death over him. He still took a pause to find his equilibrium before entering into Whitehead’s presence; he still found traces of the stammer he’d had when they’d met returning on occasion. It was a legitimate response, he felt. The man was power : more power than he could ever hope, or indeed would ever want, to possess: and it sat with deceptive lightness on Joe Whitehead’s substantial shoulders. In all their years of association, in conference or boardroom, he had never seen Whitehead want for the appropriate gesture or remark. He was simply the most confident man Toy had ever met: certain to his marrow of his own supreme worth, his skills honed to such an edge that a man could be undone by a word, gutted for life, his self-esteem drained and his career tattered. Toy had seen it done countless times, and often to men he considered his betters. Which begged the question (he asked it even now, staring at Whitehead’s back): why did the great man pass the time of day with him? Perhaps it was simply history. Was that it? History and sentiment.
“I’m thinking of filling in the outdoor pool.”
Toy thanked God Whitehead had changed the subject. No talk of the past, for tonight at least.
“—I don’t swim out there any longer, even in the summer.”
“Put some fishes in.”
Whitehead turned his head slightly to see if there was a smile on Toy’s face. He never signaled a joke in the tone of his voice, and it was easy, Whitehead knew, to offend the man’s sensibilities if one laughed when no joke was intended, or the other way about. Toy wasn’t smiling.
“Fishes?” said Whitehead.
“Ornamental carp, perhaps. Aren’t they called koi? Exquisite things.” Toy liked the pool. At night it was lit from below, and the surface moved in mesmerizing eddies, the turquoise enchanting. If there was a chill in the air the heated water gave off a wispy breath that melted away six inches from the surface. In fact, though he’d hated swimming, the pool was a favorite place of his. He wasn’t certain if Whitehead knew this: he probably did. Papa knew most things, he’d found, whether they’d been voiced or not.
“You like the pool,” Whitehead stated.
There: proof.
“Yes. I do.”
“Then
“Good.”
“Strauss is downstairs.”
In the diminishing light Whitehead crossed to the table and poured himself a sparing glass of vodka. He had been holding off from drinking until now; a shot to celebrate Toy’s safe arrival.
“You want one?”
It was a ritual question, with a ritual response: “No thanks.”
“You’re going back to town, then?”
“When you’ve seen Strauss.”
“It’s too late for the theater. Why don’t you stay, Bill? Go back tomorrow morning when it’s light.”
“I’ve got business,” Toy said, allowing himself the gentlest of smiles on the final word. This was another ritual, one of many between the two men. Toy’s business in London, which the old man knew had nothing to do with the corporation, went unquestioned; it always had.
“And what’s your impression?”
“Of Strauss? Much as I thought at the interview. I think he’ll be fine. And if he isn’t, there’s plenty more where he came from.”
“I need someone who isn’t going to scare easily. Things could get very unpleasant.”
Toy offered a noncommittal grunt and hoped that the talk on this matter wouldn’t go any further. He was tired after a day of waiting and traveling, and he wanted to look forward to the evening; this was no time to talk over that business again.
Whitehead had put down his drained glass on the tray and gone back to the window. It was darkening in the room quite rapidly now, and when the old man stood with his back to Toy he was welded by shadow into something monolithic. After thirty years in Whitehead’s employ—three decades with scarcely a cross word spoken between them—Toy was still as much in awe of Whitehead as of some potentate with the power of life and death over him. He still took a pause to find his equilibrium before entering into Whitehead’s presence; he still found traces of the stammer he’d had when they’d met returning on occasion. It was a legitimate response, he felt. The man was power : more power than he could ever hope, or indeed would ever want, to possess: and it sat with deceptive lightness on Joe Whitehead’s substantial shoulders. In all their years of association, in conference or boardroom, he had never seen Whitehead want for the appropriate gesture or remark. He was simply the most confident man Toy had ever met: certain to his marrow of his own supreme worth, his skills honed to such an edge that a man could be undone by a word, gutted for life, his self-esteem drained and his career tattered. Toy had seen it done countless times, and often to men he considered his betters. Which begged the question (he asked it even now, staring at Whitehead’s back): why did the great man pass the time of day with him? Perhaps it was simply history. Was that it? History and sentiment.
“I’m thinking of filling in the outdoor pool.”
Toy thanked God Whitehead had changed the subject. No talk of the past, for tonight at least.
“—I don’t swim out there any longer, even in the summer.”
“Put some fishes in.”
Whitehead turned his head slightly to see if there was a smile on Toy’s face. He never signaled a joke in the tone of his voice, and it was easy, Whitehead knew, to offend the man’s sensibilities if one laughed when no joke was intended, or the other way about. Toy wasn’t smiling.
“Fishes?” said Whitehead.
“Ornamental carp, perhaps. Aren’t they called koi? Exquisite things.” Toy liked the pool. At night it was lit from below, and the surface moved in mesmerizing eddies, the turquoise enchanting. If there was a chill in the air the heated water gave off a wispy breath that melted away six inches from the surface. In fact, though he’d hated swimming, the pool was a favorite place of his. He wasn’t certain if Whitehead knew this: he probably did. Papa knew most things, he’d found, whether they’d been voiced or not.
“You like the pool,” Whitehead stated.
There: proof.
“Yes. I do.”
“Then
Similar Books
