have a meeting with Akmet tomorrow at seven.”
Although the elder Danforth had increasingly removed himself from the daily affairs of the business, he kept a close eye on how it was run, especially any dealings with Akmet, whom he considered little more than a Bedouin trader with a knife up his sleeve.
“The appointment was changed to ten,” Danforth told him.
“So Akmet is feeling his years at last,” the senior Danforth said with a small laugh. “Would you like a drink?”
Danforth nodded.
His father stepped out of the doorway and motioned him inside.
They walked into the front room of the apartment. A large window opened onto the night-bound city. The twinkling lights of its distant buildings locked like a rain of stars halted in their fall.
Danforth’s father poured two scotches, handed one to his son. He was a tall man, lean and fit. It was easy to imagine him as a figure in ages past, the captain of a great vessel, standing on the bridge and plotting his course by the stars; this was precisely what the first Danforth men had been, and by their intrepid scouring of the world, the family fortune had originated. They had sailed the roughest seas, hacked their way through jungle depths, staggered across desert wastes, been shot by muskets and arrows and even poison darts, and suffered all manner of tropical fevers. Compared to these intrepid forebears, Danforth had lived a pampered life, as he well knew, safe and secure in his Manhattan apartment, a student of languages, for God’s sake, with no claim to being different from a thousand other rich boys. A line from Pope crossed his mind, something about how much son from sire degenerates.
“You seem a bit tired,” his father said. “Long day?”
Danforth turned to face the window. Below, the sweep of Central Park gave off an eerie glow in the streetlights. “I was thinking of the Balkans,” he said. “Those thieves who stopped our train.”
His father took a sip of scotch. “Why would you think of that?”
Danforth recalled the young woman at the Old Town Bar, the peril she would be in should she really go to Europe. “Maybe it’s because I haven’t made any memories in a long time,” he said. “You know what I mean? Real memories. Something searing, that you’ll never forget.”
His father laughed. “Count yourself lucky,” he said. “Most lasting memories are bad.”
~ * ~
He left his father’s apartment a few minutes later, slept uneasily, went to work the next morning. Outside his office, the file clerks and secretaries busied themselves as usual. Dear old Mrs. O’Rourke was as attentive to him as ever, filling out his itinerary, screening his calls, making the appointments she deemed necessary, handing off various salesmen and solicitors to Mr. Fellows, the office manager, or Mr. Stans, the chief shipping clerk, doling out Danforth’s time frugally, as she knew he wanted.
In that way, the week went by, the weekend arrived, and he met Cecilia at a restaurant across from Gramercy Park, not far from the corner where he’d spoken to Clayton the week before and then been left to ponder his friend’s final question.
“Snowing again,” he said almost to himself as he glanced out the window toward the park.
Cecilia unfolded the menu and peered at it closely. “I think I’ll have a Waldorf salad,” she said. “What about you?”
“Caesar salad,” he told her.
The waiter stepped up, and they selected their entrees, Cecilia her fish, Danforth his chicken.
“And to drink?” the waiter asked.
Danforth chose a pouilly-fuisse, then handed the wine list back to the waiter.
“Very good, sir,” the waiter said as he stepped away.
Cecilia reached behind her head.
Danforth knew she was checking for errant strands of hair.
“You look perfect,” he assured her.
She dropped her hand into her lap. “The Vassar reunion is on Saturday. Do you want to come?”
“Of course.”
“It’ll be the first time I introduce you as my fiance.”
She seemed pleased and happy, and her happiness made Danforth happy too. For a moment, they smiled at each other, as happy couples do, and in that instant Danforth reaffirmed to himself his love for her, his commitment to the life they would share.
The wine came and they toasted their future together, and everything seemed perfect until Danforth glanced out the window, where he saw a young girl fling a handful of snow at a passing stranger; at that instant, he thought of the woman in the bar and found himself imagining her somewhere in the dark grove beyond the window, a lone figure moving away from him until she disappeared . . .
~ * ~
Century Club, New York City, 2001
“. . . into the snow,” Danforth said softly.
