It was getting dark; the drizzle had turned to an earnest rain. I saw the lights of a freighter heading out of the Golden Gate. On the ship’s bridge, two officers were looking through binoculars at their course; another two were at the charts that would guide them home. An officer turned south and pointed his binoculars in my direction. I waved and was surprised when he waved back.
No one noticed as I slipped out past Fiona and Big Jim’s family, avoided the crowd around Drew, and found my raincoat and umbrella. I walked up to California Street and whistled down a cab.
CHAPTER 8
DECEMBER 1986
SAN FRANCISCO
The restaurant Drew suggested had developed a reliable clientele who appreciated its sturdy northern Italian cuisine. The décor was simple: wide-planked oak floors, stark white walls with framed black-and-white photos of Florence and rural Tuscany. The tablecloths were heavy cotton and whiter than the walls. I had eaten there and remembered the variety of tempting veal dishes. A Friday night, the restaurant was crowded. Drew stood up and waved from a secluded table in the back.
There was a lot of Fiona in Drew’s features: the light-brown hair, the high forehead, the fine nose, the set of the mouth, and the large greenish eyes. Their countenances differed: Drew was sunny; Fiona was moody and a bit chilly. While Fiona was an attractive woman, Drew was so striking that men and women stared at him when we were young. Drew had changed from his suit and was wearing a blue blazer, gray slacks, a striped shirt, and a Charvet floral tie. His coloring was sallow, and his collar was loose. He stood up and hugged me.
We sat down, and Drew asked the waiter for drinks: a glass of white wine for me, mineral water for him. Drew leaned forward. “Thank you for coming. You’re more relaxed without your banker’s suit of armor.” I had changed into a tweed jacket, shirt, and tie. “You look drawn. All the traveling? Or today’s service?”
“Both. The service was difficult.”
“The memories of Tatiana’s funeral, of course,” Drew said. “I wouldn’t have blamed you if you hadn’t come. But you did. I appreciate that, I do.”
“That summer has been on my mind since our phone conversation. I’m sorry about the way I treated you. Everything was so confusing back then: you, the sex, my mother’s mental state, her death. I couldn’t handle it and crashed into something of a nervous breakdown. I am ashamed that I’ve taken so long to apologize. And there’s one more thing I must say: Fred was in love with you, and you with him; you were kind to each other.”
Drew put his napkin to his eyes. “Took me by surprise. You’re usually more staid.”
“I meant it.”
“I know, and thank you,” Drew said. The waiter returned with our drinks. We both ordered braised breast of veal. The waiter left, and Drew said. “Fiona told you that I have AIDS.”
“Yes, what are you going to do?”
“I’ve finished my opened orders, and the business is on hold for the time being. I can’t stay in my place, not after Fred; so I’ve moved back to Fiona’s. Early next week, Fiona and I are going to the summer house at Tahoe. We’ll try to reconcile, even at this late date.”
“How long are you going to stay at Tahoe?”
“Oh, I’ll die up there.”
“Talk about sangfroid.”
“How else to take it?” I started to speak, but Drew said, “Hear me out: you and Fiona are the most important people in what’s left of my life, and I must say what has to be said and do what must be done.”
“I have apologized.”
“And I’ve accepted it. Nothing unpleasant this evening, I promise.”
The wine steward approached. Drew glanced at the wine list and ordered a light Chianti. The steward suggested an expensive Barolo that would flatter our meals. Drew didn’t agree; the steward tried again, and Drew insisted on the Chianti.
The steward smirked and left.
Watching him leave, Drew said, “That young man doesn’t know his trade. He’s here to guide customers instead of selling them the top of the wine list. Wine has become like art: Salesmen bullying inexperienced customers into overpriced items they don’t understand and won’t appreciate.”
The steward returned with the Chianti and poured Drew a tasting. Drew examined the wine from several angles, spun it around in the glass before tasting. “Tastes okay,” he said, “but how does it sound?” He put the glass to his ear. Moving his shoulders, he said, “What a delightful tarantella.” The steward stared across the room. Drew smiled. “Why don’t you pour this vivacious little wine?”
The steward poured and stalked off. “For his effort, he lost his tip,” Drew said. “Now, tell me about your dreadful flight.” I was describing the evening in Denver, and Drew asked, “Who was this other person?”
“Another banker, Helen Jacobs, works for Growers and Ranchers.”
“Marital status?”
“Recently and painfully divorced.”
“And is Alexander Romanovsky, confident heterosexual, going to follow up?”
“Mordant observations don’t make for the pleasant evening I was promised.”
Drew arched his eyebrows. “Touchy, touchy. Going to call on the beguiling Ms. Jacobs?”
“I don’t know.”
“Didn’t you tell me once that bankers are so boring that they’re forced to talk to each other?”
“As a matter of fact, we did spend time talking about banking.”
“Why not give her a call and continue the conversation?” Drew made a playful face. “Or drop by for a chat about foreclosures? That must turn on bankers?”
“Actually, that’s one of the worst things that can happen to a loan.” I laughed. “I’ll give her a call.”
Drew sipped the wine as the waiter served our meals. “Tell me about Russia,” he said, looking at his plate with no interest.
I tasted the veal and said, “Well, the system is falling apart. Nothing works; corruption snares everyone.”
I stopped and watched Drew roll a piece of bread into a small ball. He put the bread down, looked at me, and blinked. He closed his eyes, then opened them. He seemed surprised to see me. “Sorry, I get distracted these days. Tell me more about Russia.”
“Later,” I said and got the conversation around to him. Drew always pretended to be astonished that millionaires ranging from Texas oil barons to Silicon Valley moguls paid him to buy their art with their money. His anecdotes were etched with acid diluted with self-deprecation. He was telling me about two Texans, Reba and Floyd, when I asked, “How many paintings did you sell them?”
“By the yard or in dollars?” Drew rolled his eyes. “Remember our plans, our dreams? As people get older, they become too self-conscious to wonder, too jaded to dream. That’s a pity.” He pushed his plate away. “I’ve compromised, boy, have I, and ended up fawning over the likes of Reba and Floyd. And you, you’re a banker, of all things.”