of us walked up the Roman Ramp to watch the sun come up over the faraway hills of Jordan, the mountains turning purple and rose in the new light of day. It felt like a time when peace might actually be at hand. We had no way of knowing that our kibbutz, Har Milah, would soon be bombarded by Katyusha rockets from Lebanon, and that one of them would end Dalia's life.
The DVD ended, as Broza concerts always did, with 'Yihyeh Tov.' I watched the footage knowing that good things had not come. Peace had not come, then or now. I felt tears fill my eyes and tried to wipe them away discreetly. Then I stole a glance at Avi Stern and saw that he was crying too.
CHAPTER 32
I was up by six, unable to sleep after a vague but disturbing dream about Dalia in which we had gone to the cemetery on Mount Scopus in Jerusalem and got caught in a downpour without an umbrella. Why did Avi have to show me that DVD? Yes, Broza's Masada concert had been a great moment in our young lives, but watching the film had only stirred up intense feelings in both of us. Surprisingly intense, in Avi's case. He had brushed it off afterward, saying he was tired, saying he missed all the people he'd known on the kibbutz, missed the happy, crazy passion of life in Israel before the bombardment of Har Milah.
I made myself a cup of coffee, taking it black instead of using the powdered whitening product that came with it, then went to the hotel's fitness centre, where I put myself through an intense hour-long workout: thirty minutes on a treadmill, a hundred push-ups-okay, four sets of twenty-five each-and sit-ups until my abs cried No more. After a shower, I checked the hotel restaurant's menu and decided no breakfast was worth twenty bucks, even if it was Rob Cantor's money.
I walked over to Dearborn and found an agreeable diner where they piled on eggs, ham and home fries for six dollars and change. Three men at a table behind me got to talking with a group of four at the next table and soon they were comparing their military service. It started with one spotting a screaming eagle tattoo on another's arm, and asking, 'Is that for real? You a Marine? Hey, me too.' All but one of the seven had been in the army or Marine Corps. None had been in Iraq-they were all in their thirties and forties-but some had seen action in Desert Storm. Soon they were high-fiving each other and offering to buy drinks come evening.
That was one conversation you'd never get in Toronto, where the closest most people get to military service is protesting outside the U.S. Consulate.
I walked back to the Hilton, pondering my first move of the day. A sign outside Birk's old house said that security was provided by a company called Eye-Con. Maybe someone there would be able to tell me how the home invaders had circumvented the system without being seen.
As I walked up the circular drive, a man stepped out of a black Lincoln Town Car parked in front of the lobby doors and said, 'Good morning.'
He was around six-three and thin but I was betting there was a lot of lean muscle under his black suit. His head was shaved-no, not shaved: hairless. Not one hair on his head, no eyebrows, no sign that he had to shave his face. Alopecia. It made his eyes seem huge, like he was an amphibian of some kind, a Gollum who'd been living in an underwater cave.
'You've been inquiring about Simon Birk?' he said.
There was nothing in his hands. No one else in the car. I said, 'Yes.'
'He'd like to meet you,' the man said.
'Where?'
'His office, of course. He gets to work early.'
I hesitated. I wanted to meet Birk, but had no guarantee that's where this man would take me.
'It's up to you,' he said, looking at his watch. 'He's offered to make time for you. But he doesn't have all the time in the world.'
'You his chauffeur?'
'I provide a range of services to Mr. Birk. Collecting you is what I'm doing now.'
I said, 'You mind opening your jacket?'
He smiled without showing any teeth and unbuttoned his jacket. No gun in the waistband, no holster under the arm.
'Backside too?' he asked.
'Please.'
He pirouetted. Nothing in the back of his pants. 'It's a one-time offer, pal.'
'You have a name?' I asked.
'I have several,' he said.
'Which should I use?'
'Curry.'
You get into a stranger's car, there's always a chance you won't come back, or not all in one piece. But I had come to Chicago to meet Simon Birk himself, so I got into the car and fastened my seat belt, hoping it wouldn't be too bumpy a ride. The Birkshire Riverfront was on West Wacker Drive, on the south side of the Chicago River, overlooking the LaSalle Street bridge. My hairless escort parked between signs that said No Parking and No Stopping. I followed him into an opulent two-storey lobby with travertine floors and water bubbling through beds of stone. Chandeliers formed of opaque cylinders hung over a semicircular desk where two uniformed guards watched feeds from a dozen security cameras. Curry flipped his car keys to one of them then led me to a bank of elevators whose brass doors were so highly polished I could see my reflection in perfect detail.
There were no buttons to push for the penthouse level; access was by key only. Curry produced a ring of keys, chose one that looked like it was for a bike lock, inserted it and twisted. The elevator rose swiftly enough to make my stomach lurch, and reached the sixtieth floor in less than a minute.
The elevator doors opened directly into a reception area with cherry-wood panelling and the same travertine flooring as in the lobby. The woman behind the desk said, 'He's waiting,' and reached under her desk to press a button that unlocked the door into the inner sanctum of Simon Birk.
His office wasn't much bigger than a soccer pitch, with windows on two sides offering a fabulous view of the Chicago skyline across the river-the white Gothic stone of the Wrigley and Tribune buildings; the Hancock with its spires like the horns of a gazelle. The third wall had framed photos of Birk's buildings around the world, all taken at night. Surrounding his desk like chess pieces were knee-high scale versions of his best-known towers in Manhattan, Chicago, Los Angeles, Dubai, London, Macau and Rio. Birk could walk among them for inspiration, bestride them like a colossus, all five-foot-five of him.
The man himself was standing behind the mahogany desk, hands clasped behind him, looking out at the city. He kept his back to me as he said, 'Chicago is a tough city to build in, Mr. Geller. Toughest in the world. You've seen some of the crap going up in Toronto. I assume you have travelled to other cities. Chicago will not stand for inferior buildings, certainly not among its major projects. Skyscrapers were born here-not in New York, as most people think-and the best architects and developers of our time have come to make their mark here. When you build in Chicago,' he said, 'you're competing against past and present. And if you wish not only to compete, but to stand out? You know going in that there will be challenges. Hurdles and snags. Every project has them. But this one, Geller… this one has been a trial. Every step of the way, there have been problems. First the old bones. Then the crane falling. Month after month I've had to wait for it to get back on track and now it is, finally. You were there yesterday?'
'Yes.'
'Watching it go up?'
'Yes.'
'Wishing perhaps it would come down?'
I let that one pass.
He said, 'For every visionary who looks up at the sky and says, 'Why not,' there is a small person somewhere who'd rather tear it down. Are you one of those, Geller? Because you have to understand that after everything I've had to endure to keep the Millennium Skyline going, I'm not in a position, not in the mood, to brook any further delays.'
