Cloud Atlas

worse. You complain about being lonely so I introduce you to nice young men, and you ‘bull-dyke’ them in your Spyglass voice.”

“When did I ever complain about being lonely?”

“Boys like the Hendersons don’t grow on trees, you know.”

“Aphids grow on trees.”

There is a knock on the door, and Bill Smoke peers in. “Mrs. Rey? Sorry to intrude, but I have to leave soon. Hand on heart, today was the most welcoming, best-organized fund-raiser I’ve ever attended.”

Judith Rey’s hand flutters to her ear. “Most kind of you to say so?.?.?.”

“Herman Howitt, junior partner at Musgrove Wyeland, up from the Malibu office. I didn’t get the chance to introduce myself before that superb dinner—I was the last-minute booking this morning. My father passed away over ten years ago—God bless his soul, cancer—I don’t know how my mother and I would have gotten through it without the society’s help. When Olly mentioned your fund-raiser, just out of the blue, I had to call to see if I could replace any last-minute cancellations.”

“We’re very glad you did, and welcome to Buenas Yerbas.” A little short, assesses Judith Rey, but muscular, well-salaried and probably on Luisa’s side of thirty-five. Junior partner sounds promising. “I hope Mrs. Howitt can join you next time?”

Bill Smoke a.k.a. Herman Howitt does a mousy smile. “I’m sorry to say, the only Mrs. Howitt is my ma. So far.”

“Now is that a fact,” responds Judith Rey.

He peers at Luisa, who is not paying attention. “I admired your daughter’s principled stand downstairs. So many of our generation seem to lack a moral compass nowadays.”

“I so agree. The sixties threw out the baby with the bathwater. Luisa’s departed father and myself separated some years ago, but we always aimed to instill a sense of right and wrong in our daughter. Luisa! Will you tear yourself away from the television set for just a moment, please, dear? Herman will be thinking—Luisa? Cookie, what is it?”

The anchorman intones: “Police confirmed the twelve killed on a Learjet accident over the Allegheny Mountains this morning included Seaboard Power CEO Alberto Grimaldi, America’s highest-paid executive. Preliminary reports from FAA investigators suggest an explosion triggered by a defect in the fuel system. Wreckage is strewn over several square miles?.?.?.”

“Luisa, Cookie?” Judith Rey kneels by her daughter, who stares aghast at pictures of twisted airplane pieces on a mountainside.

“How .?.?. appalling!” Bill Smoke savors a complex dish, all of whose ingredients even he, the chef, can’t list. “Did you know any of those poor souls, Miss Rey?”

51

Monday morning. The Spyglass newsroom swarms with rumors. One has it the magazine is bust; another, that Kenneth P. Ogilvy, its owner, will auction it off; the bank is giving a fresh transfusion; the bank is pulling the plug. Luisa hasn’t informed anyone that she survived a murder attempt twenty- four hours ago. She doesn’t want to involve her mother or Grelsch, and except for her bruising, it is all increasingly unreal.

Luisa does feel grief over the death of Isaac Sachs, a man she hardly knew. She is also afraid but focuses on work. Her father told her how war photographers refer to an immunity from fear bestowed by the camera lens; this morning it makes perfect sense. If Bill Smoke knew about Isaac Sachs’s defection, his death makes sense—but who wanted Alberto Grimaldi taken down at the same time? The staff writers gravitate into Dom Grelsch’s office as usual for the ten o’clock meeting. Ten-fifteen comes around.

“Grelsch wasn’t this late even when his first wife gave birth,” says Nancy O’Hagan, polishing her nails. “Ogilvy’s got him screwed into an instrument of torture.”

Roland Jakes gouges wax from his ear with a pencil. “I met the drummer who’d done the actual drumming on the Monkees’ hits. He was banging on about tantric sex—I thank you. His favorite position is, uh, called ‘the Plumber.’ You stay in all day but nobody comes.”

Silence.

“Jeez, just trying to lighten the vibes.”

Grelsch arrives and wastes no time. “Spyglass is being sold. We’ll learn later today who’ll survive the sacrificial cull.”

Jerry Nussbaum loops his thumbs through his belt. “Sudden.”

“Damn sudden. Negotiations began late last week.” Grelsch simmers. “By this morning it was a done deal.”

“Must have been, uh, one helluvan offer,” angles Jakes.

“Ask KPO that.”

“Who’s the buyer?” asks Luisa.

“Press announcement later today.”

“Come on, Dom,” wheedles O’Hagan.

“I said, there’ll be a press announcement later today.”

Jakes rolls a cigarette. “Seems like our mystery buyer, uh, really wants Spyglass, and uh, if it ain’t broken, don’t fix it.”

Nussbaum snorts. “Who says our mystery buyer doesn’t think we’re broken? When Allied News bought Nouveau last year, they even fired the window cleaners.”

“So.” O’Hagan clicks her compact shut. “My cruise up the Nile is off again. Back to my sister-in-law’s in Chicago for Christmas. Her brats and the frozen-beef capital of the world. What a difference a day makes.”

52

For months, Joe Napier realizes, looking at the coordinated artwork in vice CEO William Wiley’s anteroom, he has been sidelined. Loyalties snaked out of sight, and power was tapped from the known ducts. That was fine by me, Napier thinks, only a year and a half to go. He hears footsteps and feels a draft. But downing an airplane with twelve men onboard isn’t security, it’s multiple homicide. Who gave the order? Was Bill Smoke working for Wiley? Could it just be an aviation accident? They happen. All I understand is that not understanding is dangerous. Napier berates himself for warning off Luisa Rey yesterday, a stupid risk that achieved a big nothing.

William Wiley’s secretary appears at the door. “Mr. Wiley will see you now, Mr. Napier.”

Napier is surprised to see Fay Li in the office. The setting demands an exchange of smiles. William Wiley’s “Joe! How are ya?” is as vigorous as his handshake.

“A sad morning, Mr. Wiley,” replies Napier, taking the seat but refusing the cigarette. “I still can’t take it in about Mr. Grimaldi.” I never liked you. I never saw what you were for.

“None sadder. Alberto can be succeeded, but never replaced.”

Napier permits himself one question under the guise of small talk. “How long will the board leave it before discussing a new appointment?”

“We’re meeting this afternoon. Alberto wouldn’t want us to drift without a helmsman for longer than necessary. You know, his respect for you, personally, was .?.?. well?.?.?.”

“Devout,” suggests Fay Li.

You have come up in the world, Mister Li.

“Precisely! Exactly! Devout.”

“Mr. Grimaldi was a great guy.”