Edge Play X (20 page)

X took off
her coat and hung it on the coat rack in the foyer and she put the envelope of
money into her purse.

“But only a
few people know that Mr. Compton and I are friends,” X said, using Steinberg’s
word. It felt awkward and uncomfortable in her mouth.

“That, I am
afraid, will not be a secret much longer,” he returned.

“Why would
that be?” she asked.

Steinberg
seemed taken aback with the simplicity of her question.

“I would
not be surprised if it were mentioned in a paper here and there that you and he
were traveling companions here in
Paris
. Some people will take
notice of who you are.”

“His
dominatrix?” she asked cynically, wondering what his response would be. He knew
the truth of the situation.

“An artist
who is accompanying Mr. Compton and sightseeing in
Paris
with him,” he
corrected.

“I have a
question, Mr. Steinberg. Will I need a bodyguard when I return to
California
?”

“Our
initial security briefings say no.
Europe
is somewhat more
dangerous due to its proximity to the
Middle East
. But we’ll be
evaluating the situation daily and if there are any security concerns, a
bodyguard will be provided for you, of course.”

“Fine,” she
said. “Thank you.” And with that, Steinberg was gone.

After he
left, X walked through the suite, pausing at the glass doors of the terrace and
looking outside to the lights and architecture of the
Paris
skyline. She ran her
hands over the antique furnishings and admired the original paintings before
putting her coat back on and stepping out onto the chilly terrace to have a
smoke. Before X had finished it,
Compton
had opened the doors
and joined her.

Like X, he
looked over the city, surveying the panorama of lights and sounds. What struck
X as she looked out over the rooftops was the lack of modernist buildings in
the cityscape, one which seemed devoid of the green space that X so desperately
needed to have in close proximity wherever she lived.

Still, as
the sun set over the city, the sky above them awash with pinks and oranges that
reflected from the many window panes, X felt a sense of amazement as she took
in the view. The architecture of many of the buildings was illuminated now, the
warm lights accentuating the details of each building, imbibing them with a
sense of distinction and nobility. No wonder her mother had loved
Paris
.

“Beautiful,
isn’t it?”
Compton
asked.

X nodded her
head yes and then crushed out her cigarette on the metal railing.

“Dinner is
on its way,” he said. “Are you hungry?”

“Yes,” she
admitted. She was.

“Good, so
am I.”

X followed
him inside as hotel waiters pushed a stainless steel cart of food into the room.
They pushed it next to a small round table and laid out gold-rimmed china place
settings for them. It seemed to X that the men were nervous to be in
Compton
’s presence, knowing
that a word from him to the management could get them fired in an instant.

Only one of
them spoke as they sat down. He had a thick French accent.

“To begin,
the duck
foie
gras
en
papillote
, cooked in a truffle-infused pot-au-feu
broth.
 
Also, there is a creamy Jerusalem
artichoke soup. The entrees, as you requested, are the split-roasted crown and
saddle of lamb with chick peas and the pan-fried venison with juniper berries
and black truffle cannelloni.”

The waiter
placed the beginning course onto the smooth taffeta of the tablecloth and then
filled their glasses, the ice cubes dropping into their glasses in quick plops.
He draped a towel over his arm and stood next to the cart, ready to serve the
next course.

“You can
leave the cart here,”
Compton
told him.
 

The waiter,
slightly taken aback by Compton’s request, said, “Yes, of course, I will open
the wines for you before I leave,” and after he had removed the corks the
waiters were gone, leaving Compton and X alone to their meal.

Compton
reached over to the cart and filled their wine
glasses.

He said, “I
don’t like it when people watch me eat if they aren’t eating as well.”

As they ate
their appetizers,
Compton
asked X if she would
prefer the lamb or venison.

“I assumed
you eat meat, but if you want something different we can order it from the
restaurant.”

“The lamb
will be fine,” she said as
Compton
took the covers off
the entrees and set them on the table for them. X took a bite and the food
melted in her mouth.

He asked,
“Have you had truffles before?”

“No, I’m
afraid not.”

Compton
cut off a piece of cannelloni and set it onto her
plate.

“You must
try it. The flavor of truffles is an experience to be savored.”

X took a
bite and decided he was right. It was delicious. Incredible.
Compton
was enjoying the food
as well and he looked happy and energetic.

“The
peasants used to trade truffles to the nobles in exchange for bread,” he
informed her.

X laughed,
and
Compton
, hearing her chuckle, poured some more wine into
her glass.

“That
doesn’t seem like a fair exchange,” she said.

“No, I
would say that it isn’t,” he agreed.

X glanced
outside at the lights and then took another bite of her food. The jet lag was
affecting her but she was invigorated by being in a
new city
.

“Do you
always eat so well?” X asked.

Compton
seemed pleased that she was speaking to him more
than civilly, almost kindly.

“If I
always ate so well, not only would I be fat but I would also not be able to
enjoy exquisite food as much.”

“Interesting.”

“Why is
that?”

X took a
drink of wine and then licked the last taste of it from her lips.

“Well, you live
in such opulence that I would think that you would grow used to it, not
appreciate it.”

“I
appreciate it,” he said. “I have seen how most of the world lives. I’m a
well-traveled man.”

They
continued to eat their meals as an awkward silence hung between them.

“But
doesn’t it seem strange to you that what you pay for this hotel room for a few
nights is more than many people in the world will make in their whole
lifetime?”

Compton
set down his fork and wiped the corners of his
mouth with his napkin.
 
He ran his index
finger around the mouth of his wine glass.

“I could
buy a place in
France
, a chateau or an
apartment, but I don’t. I know that this hotel is expensive, but it’s still
less expensive than buying something.”

“Do you
always justify yourself by saying what you could do?”

“The world
is an unfair place, X.
 
You know this.
Wealth exists. Poverty exists.”

They ate a
few minutes in silence.

“A small
percentage of society controls the bulk of the wealth and you are that small
percentage. We live in what is essentially still a feudal system.”

Compton
lifted his wine glass and swirled the liquid
around before taking a drink.

“That’s
true. Very true. But look at how the peasants live.”

“What?”

Compton
continued to eat, speaking between swallows.

“The
quality of life has greatly improved. The lifespan has improved. Now, even the
poor have more variety of food than the kings and barons had centuries ago.”

“If you are speaking about the
United
States
, perhaps.
That doesn’t apply
globally.”

He wanted
to tell her that egalitarianism went out with the Stone Age, but did not.

“Somebody
has to control the wealth,” he said. “People in our society have the
opportunity to make it to levels that they were shut out of due to birth until
recently.”

“But don’t
you feel,” X asked, “guilt?”

“What most
people spend on a car is more than most of the world’s people will earn in a
lifetime, X.”

“It’s
different,” she argued.

“How
so?”
 
He seemed curious and his tone was
non-argumentative.

“You are
one of the wealthiest men in the world.”

“The
principle is the same,” he said.

“And what
principle is that?”

“That most
people do not give everything they own to the poor. Do you think they should?”

“The
wealthy have more of a responsibility to the world’s poor,” she said.

X couldn’t eat
another bite. She had lost her appetite.

“Every
human being has a responsibility to the poorest, to alleviate suffering,” he
added.

“The rich
should do more. They have more power and more money. But instead they spend it
on airplanes and Bentleys and artwork.”

Compton
swallowed a bite of food.

“X, I give
millions of dollars a year to charities. Millions.
Some to
charities that the
U.S.
doesn’t exactly approve of.”
 

X thought
about what he said. Maybe that was really the reason why the government was interested
in him. Who could ever say what those spooks were up to anyway?

“More than
what is a tax write-off?” she asked with a scathing tone.

“Yes.”
Another awkward silence came and X drank from her wine and stared out the doors
of the terrace.

“How much money
do you have, Terry?”

Compton
was surprised at her question.

“What?”

“I want to
know.”

“Why?”

“Curiosity.”

“It’s
difficult to say,” he said. “It fluctuates depending on the markets. It changes
by the day, by the minute, actually. I’d have to consult an accountant to give
me the answer and even then he could only give me a ball-park figure. Why does
it matter?” he asked. And when she did not answer, he returned the question,
“How much money do you have?” Again, she was silent.

Compton
set down his fork and took a drink from his water
glass, the cubes jostling against each other in the glass.

“If all of
the money that I have could alleviate the suffering in the world, remove it
entirely from the planet, X, I would give it all, every last cent of it in an instant
and live the rest of my days as a pauper. But the world doesn’t suffer because
I have wealth or because anyone else does. The world suffers because it is the
human condition. The world would be inequitable even if money did not exist.
It’s always been that way and it will always be that way.”

Compton
reached across the table and placed his hand
gently on X’s own.

“My father
was a teacher, X. My mother worked at a shoe factory. She cleaned people’s
houses for extra money. I went to college on a scholarship. Our beginnings are
not so different. In fact, I would say that yours were more privileged than
mine.”

X pulled
her hand away and topped off her wine glass.

“Congratulations.
You pulled yourself up by your bootstraps. The American dream in action.”

“So I
should be punished because I have a gift for understanding the markets? Do you
punish virtuosos for being gifted at music?” He laughed to himself. Now he was
getting argumentative. X had offended him finally. “Maybe you do.”

“You are a
man of the world. That is true. But you are isolated from the world. You live
in a gated mansion, fly in private planes, stay in the most expensive hotel in
the city. Your every need is taken care of by other people because there is
always someone who wants to make a buck. You want a woman like me to make you
experience pain because it’s the only time you witness suffering. Even then,
it’s on your terms. You can stop it with your safe-word. A man like you should
experience real suffering, see what it’s like to starve. It would be good for
your soul. But you don’t believe in the soul, isn’t that right, Mr. Compton?
You say that you have seen how most of the world lives. Then you should know
that what you paid for our meal and that wine and your fucking crocodile
loafers could feed a thousand hungry people.”