Markov snorted. "Newspaper? Business propaganda only. Selling restaurants, selling T-shirts, selling shnorkels."
"Ink on pages," Cherkassky insisted. "Is a paper."
"She is not journalist" protested Markov. "Only she sells adwertisements."
Ivan Cherkassky put down his glass, slowly ran a hand over the lumpy hollow of his face. "Gennady," he said. "To you this boy he walks on water. You laugh, you pat his hand, you do not see. But I am telling you, this talking, talking, talking, it is bad."
Markov waved his snifter. Fat in his maturity, goatish in his youth, he was no believer in disciplining appetite, arguing away desire. He said, "He wants to fuck her, Vanya. Can I tell him not to talk?"
Cherkassky stared into the unlikely fireplace, watched yellow flames lick against the bricks. "Yes," he said with certainty. "You can."
Chapter 8
Aaron Katz swung slowly onto A-l A and tried to get his mind around the notion that he was bringing his old and slipping father on a play-date.
A couple of evenings before, Sam had found a cocktail napkin in his pants pocket. Written on the napkin was a name and number, but Sam couldn't quite remember whose they were, or how the piece of paper had gotten in his pants. He'd put the napkin on his nightstand, hoping that it would catch his eye at some receptive moment and everything would click.
And sure enough, he finally remembered Bert—the shiny hair, the ancient dog, the offer of companionship. He said to Aaron, "Can we call him up? D'ya think it would be okay to call him up? Would you bring me for a visit?"
So they were driving now along the beach, toward the Paradiso condo. Palms leaned backward against a fresh east wind. Beachgoers danced over the thin imported sand that hid the native lacerating coral. Enormous freighters looked like bathtub toys as they rode the Gulf Stream, out beyond the reef. Sam and Aaron didn't talk because the only things they thought of were things they didn't want to say.
Aaron was thinking: I wonder if he'll be all right, if he'll get confused and panic. What if he goes wandering off? He thought how nice it would be if his father had a friend, and he caught himself daydreaming guiltily about the things he could do if he had more time to himself.
Sam was thinking: This having to be driven everywhere, accompanied—it was a nuisance. For all the many things that he forgot, he seldom forgot that he was in the way. A burden. His son worked too hard. Was lonely. Needed friends, a woman. Needed time to find those things. Maybe Sam could still discover something of his own, a place to go, a way to keep his dignity and his distance. It would be better for everybody.
They reached the Paradiso complex—three long squat buildings cradling a pool and a putting green and tennis courts and a gazebo—a perfect little swath of Florida across the road from the Atlantic Ocean. Aaron parked. Father and son walked up to an iron gate and punched in Bert d'Ambrosia's number on the intercom. A buzzer buzzed and the gate swung open.
Bert met them at the pool. He was wearing a mustard- colored linen shirt with big rough buttons made of bone, and he was holding his dog like the dog was a football. Everybody said a nice hello, but Aaron felt awkward, shy; felt, absurdly, like a parent at a prom. Eager to go, he said to his father, "So you'll call me later? The number's in your wallet."
Bert said, "Don't expect him soon. What if we find a couple broads or something?"
Sam said of his new friend, "A regular comedian."
Aaron patted his father's shoulder then turned his back on the two gray men and the moribund chihuahua. But crazily, as soon as he began to move away, he found his steps were weighted down with grief. It was a brilliant sunny morning. Nothing was wrong, everyone was fine. But as he walked back toward the iron gate he just felt torn apart. Loss. A strange word. It seemed to mean an absence, something missing; but loss was also a presence all its own, a fanged and snarling monster ready at any moment to break its chain and snatch someone away.
The condo gate swung open at Aaron's approach, started swinging closed again as soon as he had passed. It clicked shut with a terrible finality, like the school door on the first day of kindergarten. Aaron grabbed a deep breath to open up his throat. He thanked God he had no children of his own. He didn't know how anyone could stand the love and sorrow of doors clicking shut on both sides all at once.
"Peter," Suki said, "how do you get into the database?"
Peter Haas, the restaurant reviewer, looked up from his computer screen. He had lank sandy hair and owlish horn-rim glasses, and he'd been trying to decide whether a certain chocolate terrine was better described as ambrosial or celestial. He tried to look a little bit annoyed though he was relieved to be interrupted. "What do you want to look up?" he asked.