Stillness Part VI, Chapter 56
As the elevator doors slide closed behind me, I round the corner to observe that the office is quiet — perfectly, blissfully quiet — just as it always is.
I love Monday mornings.
The 19th floor of the Hamilton Building is a delightful place, a veritable paradise on earth. The ceiling of the main lobby, or “atrium” as we like to call it, is 25 feet high, except for the dramatic glass cathedral skylight in the center — that reaches some 12 feet higher. In fact, the 19th floor was originally the 19th - 22nd floors. We had to do a substantial amount of structural work to accommodate all the marble we brought in, especially for the fountain. As we made our way up the building over the years (starting with just a single office way down on the second floor), we left our mark at every stage of the ascent. So today we not only have an executive suite that Kublai Khan himself would be proud to call his own, we have very comfortable accommodations all the way down to the first floor. The sniveling, underachieving whiners with whom I swore I would always identify — that lasted about six months — have it better than they can possibly imagine. Whenever any of them has the temerity to complain about anything, I fantasize taking them back to the sixth floor of the old WorldConneX building and letting them cool their heels in one of those cubicles for a few hours.
Of course, that would never work. Even if the setting could be recreated (and it couldn’t; Vision bought out WorldConneX years ago, a move that I had a small hand in — although, come to think of it, that doesn’t necessarily imply an improvement in habitat for the local fauna), the essential angst would be gone. The ingrate in question would know that he or she would be coming back to work for me before long, so the experience would be devoid of that heaviness, that slow, persistent dread, that thought that one must always try to suppress, though one can never fully escape — I’m going to be stuck in this hell-hole for the rest of my life.
Aside from the lobby, the 19th floor houses only the boardroom and two offices, my own and that of my Chief Operating Officer. The Chief Counsel, CFO, and lesser luminaries dwell in somewhat more, shall we say, reserved opulence on the 16th-18th floors. They are a fine bunch, friendly and deferential to me and scared to death of the COO. Just as it should be.
Good Cop is the role I was born to play.
As I approach my office door, I pass a very well-made (and expensive) desk where Vanessa — one of three administrative support staff devoted solely to attending to my every need — looks up from some paperwork and gives me a fabulous smile
"Good morning, Mr. Hamilton."
“Vanessa, please. It’s Emmett.”
She nods, looking a bit less than convinced.
“Yes, sir.”
She stops for a moment and considers how best to put what it is that she has to say.
“You see, Mrs. Hamilton has issued a memo explaining that we are not to address either you or her on a first-name basis.”
Ah, now that’s my COO. You’ve got to love her.
“I see. Well, I certainly don’t want to undermine her authority.”
“No, sir.”
“We better just go along with what she says.”
“Yes, sir. Speaking of Mrs. Hamilton, will she be in this morning?”
“Probably not. She’s taking the kids to Suzuki.”
Vanessa nods and moves her paperwork to one side, then makes a note in a red appointment book already open on her desk.
“Your ten o’clock is already here, waiting in your briefing room.”
I fumble in my jacket pocket for my PDA. Taking it out, I look at it with utter perplexity, just as I always do. I can never remember how to turn the damn thing on.
“My what? Ten o’ clock? I didn’t think I had anything before lunch today. Who is it?”
Vanessa passes me a hard-copy of my day’s schedule, printed out from the online scheduler. The red book is just a formality. Entries in it are copied from the computer screen — a pointless exercise, some would argue. Well, what can I tell you? My wife — the Chief Operating Officer of Hamilton Ventures, Inc., one Margaret (“Peggy,” but only to me, and only when she’s in the mood) Elaine Hamilton, nee Branch — runs a very tight ship.
“It’s a Mr. …Markku?” she says, even as I’m reading the name on the print-out. “I’ve not seen his name before. One of the other girls must have scheduled the appointment; I know I didn’t.”
Markku. Ha. Now there’s a name that means absolutely nothing to me. Still, he must be pretty important, or he would never have been able to score a face-to-face with me. ( I say that in all modesty. A few years ago, I could never have gotten a meeting with me.) Peggy must be behind it. No doubt, she told me all about it.
Think, man. Think.
"Um, does it say who he’s with?"
Vanessa gives me a patient and understanding look, and slowly shakes her head.
“Okay, well I guess there’s only one way to find out.”
“Yes, sir.”
I begin to proceed on to my office.
“Oh, Mr. Hamilton? One other thing. We got another call requesting that we confirm your appearance on Oprah next month. Shall I tell them that you’ll make it?”
This time, I don’t even bother with the PDA.
“No. I thought I told one of the others…maybe it was Julie? …to ask them for another date. I’m in Washington meeting with the President that day.”
“Yes, sir. Mrs. Hamilton thought it might be best to reschedule with the President.”
“What? That’s out of the question.”
“I understand. But she told me to ask you which of the two will sell more books?”
___
My briefing room is tucked away in one corner of the library, which is a sort of second lobby, creating even more space between the rest of the world and my inner sanctum sanctorum. The library houses a few shelves of antique books. The biggest of these is no bookshelf at all, but a façade that opens up to reveal a widescreen television. My stereo and video games are in there, too. So I’m not boasting at all when I say that — unlike most CEO’s — I spend a good part of each work day in the library.
The door to the briefing room is closed. Good. I’m in no hurry for what are bound to be an awkward few moments as I come face to face with this “Marko” person and try to figure out who exactly he is supposed to be and why, precisely, I’m supposed to be interested.
Double doors, which I usually leave open, divide the library from my work area. I make my way through them, put down my bag, and head for the phone. I dial Peggy’s number.
“Darling,” she whispers. “I tried to call you. Why aren’t you answering your mobile?”
Ah, good question. Now where on God’s good green earth did I put that thing?
“Sorry, Sweetheart. I must have left it at home.”
There is a pause. Her sigh is inaudible and, therefore, deafening.
“Well, I wanted to talk to you about Oprah. I know you have your heart set on the D.C. trip, Emmett, but honestly —”
“Wait. This can wait. We’ll discuss Oprah when you get here.”
I don’t want to get into that at the moment, not because I’m particularly worried about keeping Mr. Polo waiting, but because I have this sinking feeling that my wife is going to talk me into snubbing the leader of the free world in favor of…well, the other leader of the free world. And that is the sort of conversation that can always wait. Always. At least until it can’t.
So I push on.
“Right now I need to ask you about this guy I’m meeting this morning.”
I can hear a general hubbub in the background where she is. Then a sort of scratching grows into a kind of semi-harmonious yowling that just jeeps getting louder and louder, swelling into a tremendous pile of near-music that more than makes up for in enthusiasm and sheer volume what it may be lacking in, say, talent. It’s a sound that only 30-40 preschoolers with violins can make.
“Sorry,” she whispers, her voice sounding more urgent against the din. “What meeting are you talking about? What guy?”
I’m about to answer, when I realize that she’s still talking.
“Yes, of course. I’m hanging up right now. No, I understand the rules. One moment.”
And then suddenly she’s whispering again:
“Emmett, I have to go. You know how sticky they are about this. I’ll call you as soon as the class is over. Love you, Darling.”
“Love you, too,” I reply, but the line is already dead.
So I’m on my own.
Well, I decide, let’s just get this thing over with, shall we? After all, it’s nothing that I can’t handle. Some guy waiting to see me. No big deal.
Happens all the time.
I make my way back to the door of my briefing room. There’s no reason for me to feel nervous, but I do. There’s no reason for me to feel apprehensive, and yet apprehensive is exactly what I feel. There’s no reason for me to dread opening the door, no reason to believe that some living horror is waiting on the other side, waiting to drag me into some nightmare of ghastly —
Oh, to hell with it. I’m spooked. But then again, I’m always spooked. I spook easy.
I open the door, and there he sits.
Aha.
And again I say…aha.
So it’s that guy.
I saw him only once before, years ago, but he would be pretty hard to forget. I note in passing that, for once, my being spooked was reasonably justified. This guy is kind of creepy. Kind of extremely creepy, as a matter of fact.
The way he dresses doesn’t help. It’s got to be 80 degrees outside, but he’s wearing that same filthy black overcoat. And he just sort of sits there, you know? I mean, is he breathing? It’s like even his eyes don’t move. And that’s just not right. He’s like this big, nasty bird thing.
But never mind. It’s my office. I’m in charge, here.
“So,” I say heartily, as if picking up where I left off with some boon companion of my youth, “Mr. Marko. What a surprise. What can I do for you?”
I take a seat at the opposite end of the table. There is no pretense shaking hands. I’m not touching him, no way. In fact, I think I’ll have that chair disposed of. I can do that sort of thing.
I’m rich.
“I am pleased that you remember me, Mr. Hamilton. I am Nino Markku.”
“Right. Markku. Sorry.”
Just then, Vanessa walks in and sets a steaming cup of coffee down on the table in front of me. Just a tiny bit of half and half. Just the way I like it.
It occurs to me that I need to get rid of this creature so I can go back to savoring my perfect life.
“Are you sure you don’t want anything, Mr. Markku?” she asks.
“Quite sure.”
She leaves, and I’m left alone with him again. I suddenly remember the other time we met. It was exactly like this. Sort of. Then, like now, I was stuck in a room with him. I was supposed to be thinking over a very complex decision about whether to open just one box or to open both of them, when this guy shows up and tells me to just take the one.
And now here he is, back for more fun.
“So…how’ve you been?”
Oh, nice try, Emmett. How’s the wife and kids? Junior still eating his classmates?
He just stares at me.
“As I told you at the time, it was a poorly constructed choice. Badly formed.”
So he wants to talk about the first time we met. Okay. Fine. For starters — yes, I seem to recall that he said those very things. It didn’t make much sense at the time, but now…
Now it makes no sense whatsoever.
“Right,” I manage.
“Normally, I would recommend that one decline to play at all. But I sensed that you would not take that advice. You wanted…”
He waves his hand casually in the direction of the lobby. Only there’s nothing casual about it. The windshield wipers on my BMW have got nothing on this guy where mechanical precision of moment is concerned.
“…all this. You would not be dissuaded.”
I just nod.
“And I could not kill you. That would not have been practical”
I chuckle at this. I do. I chuckle.
This freak-bird thing shows up on my calendar out of nowhere after seven years and just oh-so-casually mentions that it wouldn’t have been practical to kill me that other time we met.
Right. Casually. Casually like a windshield wiper, if you see what I’m saying. Casually like a freaking bird-freak homicidal BMW windshield wiper!
Okay, whoa there.
Just whoa.
Let’s keep it together, buddy-boy. Let’s get just a smidge of a grip.
But still. That was the only thing stopping him. It wouldn’t have been practical.
So I laugh to try and keep the mood light.
Because I don’t doubt for one bazillionth of a second that he means exactly what he says. He would have killed me.
Killed me.
If it had been practical.
Keeping it light, I decide to take sip of my coffee. My hand is shaking so bad that it sloshes onto the desk. Okay, never mind. Happens all the time. I lift the cup to my mouth and take an enormous gulp, burning my tongue and throat and the roof of my mouth. It hurts so bad, I almost cry out.
But I can’t do that. I’m keeping it light.
“And besides, if I killed you, how could we be talking today?”
Yeah, right. See…he’s keeping it light, too.
I chuckle again. Or maybe sob. I’m not sure.
“And then how could I offer you the chance to make a much better choice? A well-formed choice, this time.”
I try to clear my throat.
“Are you sure you don’t want something to drink?” I ask.