to answer the door if she happens to be closest to it when somebody arrives. At other such houses, the Svenkas and Ivans and Grishas (they tend to be well-educated Eastern Europeans) would never deign to answer the door. A maid would do it.
“Helloo, Peter,” she says, grinning with what Peter once thought was lasciviousness but which, as he has come to realize, is actually a sense of complicity, because Svenka knows that although Peter gets picked up by Gus at the station, although he’s invited to dinner parties, he is in fact a servant, just as she is.
“Hello, Svenka. This is Ethan.”
“Hellloo, Ethan. Do come in.”
The foyer of the Potter house, like the rest of the Potter house, is a perfect imitation of itself. What the foyer most immediately offers is a low, black-lacquered Chinese cabinet. Peter doesn’t know Chinese antiquities but you don’t need formal training to see that this thing is ancient, this thing is from some revered dynasty or other and was 240 grand minimum. It supports a pair of chunky French candelabra, brass or bronze, early twentieth century, patinaed to a rich brown-black, and an unornamented Roseville ceramic vase, cream-colored, full always of flowers from Carole’s garden—big blowsy white gardenias, just now. And so, the house announces itself: eclectic but fiendishly edited, prosperous but not ornate, gilt-free, beautiful in a way that will probably charm you if you’re ignorant about furniture and art but will dazzle and humble you if you know your shit.
As Svenka leads them into the living room, Peter glances surreptitiously at Mizzy, to see how he’s taking it, but there’s nothing much on Mizzy’s face at all, and it occurs to Peter that Mizzy may in fact feel a certain sense of homecoming here—it’s probably been a long time since that threshold was crossed by anyone as exquisite and well-made as the objects within.
Still, he wonders: Is Mizzy impressed by all this quiet splendor, or put off by it? It would, of course, speak more compellingly of Mizzy’s character if he was put off (I mean really, sure, it’s beautiful, they’re passing the foyer Ryman now, one of the Potters’ true prizes, almost heart-stoppingly perfect to the left of the Chinese cabinet, but still, but yet, the preciousness of everything, the exhausting preciousness… ), though Peter hopes Mizzy is impressed, at least a little—Mizzy, this is my world, I deal routinely with people who’ve got this much money and power, and if it interests you even a little then you’re interested in me as well; whereas if you think it’s all even slightly ridiculous… hm, do I have to be ridiculous along with it? It’s just business, after all. I can still cavort on a moonshone lane. I can still dance to the pipes.
And then: the Potters’ living room.
It’s a great room, and it should properly be entered to a flourish of trumpets, maybe Bach—anyway something small but perfect and imperishable in the way of Bach. The whole
“I take it my guys are here,” Peter says.
“Yes, they’re putting the urn up now.”
Peter can tell she disapproves—something tight happens around her chin. Does she dislike the Groff urn, or art in general? Or, okay, remember—you, Peter, are the one who tried (unsuccessfully, as it turns out) to sell her boss a ball of tar and hair for a small fortune. Svenka, can I really blame you?
“I’ll tell Carole you’re here,” she says, and withdraws.
“Nice room,” Mizzy says, after she’s gone. He’s not being ironic, is he? No. Peter has probably lived too long among fluent speakers of irony.
“The Potters are very good at what they do.”
“What do they do, exactly?”
“Well, really, their main job as far as anyone can tell is being the Potters. The money comes from washers and dryers, but Carole and her husband don’t have anything to do with that. They just, you know. Get the checks.”
Carole enters (oh, God, she didn’t hear that, did she?), with a ritualized air of slightly rushed apology. This, Peter has learned, is one of the customs. She is never immediately available, even if the visitor in question has arrived at precisely the appointed hour. The visitor is always ushered in by Svenka or some other member of the family, and made to wait, briefly, in this spectacular room, for Carole to appear. (How much of his life does Peter spend waiting for someone to make an entrance?) In Carole’s case this is done, as far as Peter can tell, for several reasons. There’s the simple element of theater—and now, the lady of the house! And it must be made apparent that Carole is busy, that she is with some difficulty making time for even the most anticipated of guests.
“Hello, Peter, sorry, I was out watching your men put up the urn.”
Carole is a pale, freckled, blinking woman who seems always to have something small and wonderful in her mouth, a round pebble from the Himalayas, a pearl, that makes it ever so slightly difficult for her to speak clearly but conveys, at the same time, that she has gratefully sacrificed precise diction for the tiny precious object that resides on the back of her tongue. She is prone (she’s wearing one now) to white, rather frilly blouses, vaguely reminiscent of Barbara Stanwyck, which is not exactly the sartorial inclination you’d expect of someone who has this art, these sofas.
Peter gives her his hand. “I’m glad they got it here. What do you think?”
“I like it. I think I might like it a great deal.”
Bingo.
“Carole, this is my brother-in-law, Ethan. He’s thinking of entering the family business, God help him.”
“Nice to meet you, Ethan. Thanks for coming.”
Carole would, with just this queenly feigned sincerity, thank anyone for coming, up to and including the shah of Iran. It is what one does.
Mizzy says, “Hope you don’t mind. I’m just tagging along, really.”
“And Peter,” Carole says, “wanted you to meet one of the last living Americans who buys the occasional work of art. This is what one looks like.”
She does a quick turn, showing herself in her entirety. She can be charming, no denying it. What’s she got on her feet, some kind of green rubber miniboots, must be her gardening shoes.
“Ta-da,” Mizzy says, and he and Carole have themselves a short laugh, which Peter joins in on a moment too late. Mizzy remains, as far as Peter can tell, unintimidated by anyone. Carole may be the queen of her realm, but Mizzy is a prince in his own country, which, though currently a bit impoverished, has a rich, distinguished, and noble history.
“Would you like something to drink?” Carole says. “Coffee, tea, some sparkling water?”
Peter says, “How about a little later? I can’t wait to see how the Groff looks in the garden.”
“A man with a mission.” Does she sneak Mizzy a conspiratorial wink? “Let’s go, then.”
She leads them back out the front door, across the cobblestoned drive to the far side of the house, toward the English garden, speaking to Mizzy and not Peter as they go. Is she being hostessy, or is she dazzled? Both, probably.
She says to Mizzy, “I’m sure Peter told you. I lacked the courage for the last piece I bought from him. I hope he’s planning on introducing you to someone a little braver than I.”
Peter says, “It has nothing to do with courage. The Krim was wrong for you, that’s all.”
“The Krim,” she tells Mizzy, “gave our friends’ miniature schnauzer an actual fit of epilepsy. I can’t get a
