I’m Losing You (48 page)

Perry Needham Howe

Rachel found a dealer for the grande complication at the Regency Beverly Wilshire. The fine watch emporium was managed by a suave, self-effacing Frenchman. As things had it, Henri Clotard was a huge fan of
Streets
. He was very sorry to say there were no Destrieros in the country at this time; he would have to make a few inquiries. Monsieur called the next morning to say he had arranged for a minute repeater to be sent by courier from the East Coast. Since Mr. Howe had never seen one, he thought it would be of interest. Perry went over as soon as the timepiece arrived.

He waited to be buzzed in.

Henri extended a hand, smiling graciously. “What a pleasure it is to meet you! Your kind assistant said you were a prompt man, and on this day I am most grateful, for I have been called away on a minor medical emergency.”

“I'll come back another time.”

“Nonsense, sir—I would not think of it. You are
here
and it would be bizarre to send you packing.” He possessed the heightened, anachronistic politesse of a diplomat in a drawing-room farce. “I was fortunate enough to locate a complication here in the United States. Would you care to see it?”

The watch was similar to the Destriero, except its movement was concealed by a solid platinum case (the Destriero's was see-through). Perry strapped it on, feeling the full weight of its six hundred-some parts—perhaps one got used to the heaviness. The face was elegant, without bejeweled ostentation. To the untrained eye, there was nothing to indicate its worth; that was part of the allure.

“There are complications far plainer than this, sir. Two days ago, I had here an Audemars: one hundred forty thousand dollars. You would really not look twice. And yet, if you buy yourself a ticket to New York next week for the auction at Sotheby's (you don't have to fly first class!), you can put your bid on a very simple-looking Patek Philippe, a minute repeater from the year nineteen and thirty. But make sure,” he added, with a showman's grin, “to have half a millions in your wallet.”

They walked through a catalogue. There were peculiar-looking
“jumping hour” models; Reverso Tourbillons; Chronograph Rattrappantes; a Breguet (the premier genius of watchmakers and Marie Antoinette's favorite) that measured the length of each day as would be shown by a sundial; and the wristwatches of Ulysse Nardin, portable astrolabes reflecting the time and position of the stars all at once, in addition to the month, lengths of day, night and twilight, moon phases, astronomical coordinates and signs of the zodiac. The dials were made of meteorite.

“The ‘Astrolabium Galileo Galilei' is so correct,” said the Monseiur, “that there would merely be a deviation of
one day
from the position of the stars after a period of approximately one hundred and forty-four thousand years.”

“Where does one buy something like this?”

“Oh, you can get them. Mostly, at auction—Genève. I was, last month—
une grande farce
. Dealers should just stay away. You see, the auctions are now open to the public, they are in the hands of consumers who know
nothing
. I saw a watch that retails for thirty-five thousand go at thirty-eight. It
retails
at thirty-five,
new
, sir! There was an Italian on one side of me, a German on the other and they just
did not stop
. They were competing with one another—in a frenzy for the absolutely insignificant. For things of no consequence. I said to the auctioneer, ‘Why are you doing this?' He said,
‘Je ne fais rien.'
But the auction houses…
alors
. Have you seen this?” He pushed at him a photo of what looked to be an oversized pocket watch. “Patek Philippe: the ‘Calibre 89.' I have a video I can show you. They sold one at auction to a group of Japanese investors for some three millions. Patek was
livid
—they thought it should have gone for seven. You see, the house set the reserve too low. They started at six hundred thousand when it should have been one and three-quarters millions. Only three ‘Calibres' exist, sir!”

Perry undid the band, balancing the watch in his palm. “And how much is this one?”

Henri consulted another book. “One hundred and seventy-five thousand.” He turned it over to reveal the engraving: “You see? One of fifty produced in nineteen ninety-five. It is also available—I would have to make a phone call, maybe two—with a platinum band. For that, seventy-five thousand is added. But if it is not in the country…” He winced a small, punishing smile; the dollar was weak. “You see, these kind of watches are made for a very elite group. And
we are pushing ourselves into a corner, dealers and manufacturers alike. One day, I predict it will be very bad. They are making these in China now—in fact, I am going to Peking next month. They will make them at a fraction of the cost and sell low! They will say, ‘This is authentic! Look,
we
are the oldest culture!
We
invented gunpowder! We! We! We!'”

The moment Perry had been waiting for was at hand: time to depress the repetition slide, the lever that triggered the chime. Henri set the hour at 11:57 and, without fanfare, keyed the mechanism with his thumb. The eleven meditative strokes of the hour were plangent and softly surprising, like a bell tower ringing in a distant town square. Perry thought of the shrunken city Superman kept under a glass in the Fortress of Solitude; he imagined the atom-sized inhabitants of a village—Schaffhausen?—going placidly about their business as the sealed world sang with the chronometric music of time. After the hours marked, there immediately followed the ringing of the quarters: three mellisonant double-chimes like delicate flares of wheat. To the sightless (and privileged), the clock had thus far “read” the hour as 11:45. Then, higher tones still, came an aborted minuet of minutes that remained. When this was done, Henri discreetly stepped away, allowing Perry the honors of initiating such a feast of minutiae and movable parts himself.

“I know a collector who has eleven minute repeaters,” said the Monsieur as he returned. “Each a different maker. His joy is to set them off in unison. He lines them up in front of a microphone and broadcasts the cacophony over speakers—and these are not the normal speakers, I assure you, they are quite monolithic. I don't know what the neighbors think; it sounds like nothing you've ever heard before. It isn't necessarily pleasing to the ear—not to
mine
, but to his, yes. He is eccentric. You'll note I don't say crazy, I say
eccentric
. We all have a fever. My friend has his and you have yours, I can tell. I'm not sure what it
is
, but you have it.”

Perry snapped to: “I've kept you far too long.” The television producer longed to engage in the florid, mannerly volleys of noblesse oblige.

“It is perfectly okay,” said Henri. “It has been my utmost pleasure, and of that, I am sincere.”

“You've been exceedingly gracious” was the most the novice could muster. Then: “I hope whatever calls you away isn't serious.”

“It is very kind of you to offer a comment and I thank you for that. My mother is ill, for some many years. She recently had the misfortune of taking a tumble and it seems she has taken another. Not to worry: fortunately—if one can say such a thing—this last unpleasantness occurred one hour ago while at hospital for the purpose of assessing hip transplant surgery. She is in good hands and I am assured all is status quo. I am headed there now.”

Perry didn't buy the complication but felt he probably should have, if only for selfishly detaining his adviser. He bought a Tiffany watch instead, and told Henri it was for his wife. He would give it to Tovah as an emblem of their new project—knowing full well that was artifice. He would give it to her because it felt good and because he wanted to see her face when he put the box in her hand. It was as uncomplicated as that.

Ursula Sedgwick

Ursula kept calling ICM, leaving Donny messages that she needed to see him. When she told one of his assistants it was “urgent,” the agent finally agreed, out of sheer paranoia. He was half an hour late for their lunch at Cicada.

“Phylliss Wolfe tells me you're big buddies.”

“Phyll's great—and she's great with Tiffany. She really wants to have a kid.”

“Yeah, well, she'd better hurry. Her hormones are almost in turnaround.”

“She's very spiritual, too.”

“So
Phylliss
is the one who got you involved with this shit! She tried to drag
me
to one of those fucking meetings.”

“She didn't drag me anywhere, Donny.”

“With the guy—Mahatma Hoot-muh—what do they call him?”

“His name is Sri Harold Klemp. He's called the
Mahanta
—”

“Right! Klemp! The guy from
Wisconsin
. Wisconsin, the dairy and guru state.”

“You can sit and make fun all you want, but it's real. And so is reincarnation of Soul.”

“You have to admit it's kind of hilarious, Ursula. I know I said ‘Get a life,' but I didn't mean a
past
one.” People stopped by to say
hello. Donny didn't bother to introduce her. “Why don't we have the food to go and get a room somewhere? Someplace sleazy.”

“I don't want to do that, Donny.”

“Because of the boyfriend? I want to hear all about the boyfriend.”

“He isn't a boyfriend.”

“Then let's go.”

“I don't need to do that anymore.”

“Oh, I get it.” He scowled. “
Past Life Therapy
…is that what this is?”

When she started to talk, he waved at a table. The luncheoners beckoned him over. Ursula used the wineglass to make imprints on the cloth, drawing faces in the circles with a fork. Donny sat back down and the same thing happened again, different players. He was gone ten minutes, returning as the salads were served.

“It was early in the fourth century—”

“Joan of Arc?” he asked cursorily, digging into the romaine.

“I was a wealthy girl—”

“Why is it that in past lives, poor people are always
rich
?”

She stared down at the scarified linen, collecting herself. “It was in Rome. I was born in Palermo, of a noble family. A powerful senator wanted to sleep with me, but I refused.”

“Maybe that was Newt—Newt had to have a past life. Or Ross Perot! Al Gore?”

“As punishment for my stubbornness, I was forced into a house of prostitution…”

“
Now
we're getting somewhere. You know, I believe in past lives, I really do. I knew a guy who sold used cars. Always called them ‘chariots.' Sweet guy, name of Benjamin—Benjamin
Hur
. But all his friends called him—”

“Donny, just listen!” The agent grew sullen and fidgety. “The only person who would help me was a boy who ran errands for the madam—”

“Right! The new boyfriend—your
hero
. I'm happy for you, Ursula. Maybe you can rule the trailer park together. But let me ask you something: does Mahatma Junior share the same little recovered memory? I mean, does he at least get the chance to
rebut
? You know: ‘Hey, I don't remember that! That's not one of my past lives! I was King of the Zulus!'”