Mount Terminus (45 page)

You're not lost to me, said Bloom.

But I am, she said. I am.

No.

I'm afraid I am.

I would have been much more disturbed if you hadn't fought to save yourself.

But I'm no longer the girl you fell in love with. I'm certain you know that to be true.

It doesn't matter.

A Pandora's box has opened inside me and I don't know how to close it.

Bloom reminded her what resided at the bottom of that box, and Isabella said, No, you don't understand. She took hold of Bloom's hand and lowered it to just above her waist. Feel, she said. She pressed his hand harder against her midriff and then moved it about its circumference. Bloom could feel how its shape had changed. How hadn't he noticed? She was swelling. Stretching. The body whose every feature he had committed to memory was transforming into an unfamiliar shape. Before he could become excited about what he was feeling in his palm, on his fingertips, Isabella said, It's been some time now. Understand?

Bloom felt the sensation of ice melting on the back of his neck.

I've been this way for quite some time, she said. Longer than the time we've recently spent together.

I see.

Do you?

Yes. I do. Bloom now understood. He now comprehended in all its complexities what Isabella had just confessed to him. She had known that night of the party. Had Simon known as well? Of course he did. Of course …

Bloom instinctively started to remove himself from Isabella's arms, but she refused to let him go. With a strength he didn't know she had, she grabbed hold of him and held tight. She interlocked her fingers with his, and she said, Whatever you decide tomorrow, I'll do. But tonight, please, just tonight …

*   *   *

Neither of them slept. Neither of them said another word until dawn. All night Isabella clutched hold of Bloom's hand, and Bloom didn't struggle to release it. He felt the warmth of her body against his, the weight of her breasts pressed against his back, but her presence was ghostly. Many times that night he recalled the first moment he saw Isabella in the mirror given to him as a gift by Dr. Straight. And he wondered which Isabella belonged to him. The image of her true self or the image of herself in reverse. He searched his mind for the smallest of alterations of her appearance. And he wondered which of her belonged to Simon. And he wondered which of her belonged to him. And he wondered what he should do. He had so many questions, but when he thought of posing these questions to Isabella, he refrained, because, even if he didn't know the answers, he knew the outcome; he knew in what direction this sort of conversation would take them. And he refused to take that well-worn path. He refused to make his fate the fate of his mother and his aunt. He refused to repeat the all-too-obvious patterns of the past. He chose instead to honor the promise he had made to his father when he was a child.
Blessed art thou, O Lord Our God, Ruler of the Universe, may I protect my love better than he protected his.
He chose to let his love for Isabella prevail over all else. He wouldn't bend to his primal nature. He wouldn't bend to tragedy's architecture. He would allow Isabella her flaws. He would tolerate the duality of her character. He would learn to forget her deception. He would love the child growing inside her as if it were his own. He would forgive his brother for his weakness. He would embrace him as the child's true father. I am a student of the invertiscope, he tried to convince himself. I am its subject. I am its embodiment. He would simply be better, better than all the protagonists in all the world's tragedies who had given themselves over to their basest passions. In all the ways his father was unable to protect his mother, he
would
protect Isabella, first and foremost, from himself. When the sun broke through the bedroom windows and shone its light onto Isabella's face, she asked Bloom if she should pack her things and leave.

To this, Bloom said, No.

What then?

Nothing. We'll do nothing. I can forgive you, he said in a voice as convincing as the voice Isabella had used when she asked Bloom to ask her to marry him. And he told her he could forgive Simon. And he told her he could love the child as if it were his own. And then he asked if Simon knew.

And she said that he did. He knew she was pregnant. But he didn't know that there was no question about who the father was. He thought there was a chance that it was Bloom's.

Then he must be told, said Bloom.

Must he?

Bloom didn't have the answer to this question. He only had another question. There's only one thing I need to know, he said.

What's that?

I don't want to know why, but I must know: are you certain it's me you want to be with and not him?

Yes. With you. Without reservation.

Why? he was tempted to ask, but instead said, Then that's the way it will be.

*   *   *

That morning they returned to the studio lot down the hill and continued their work. They were exhausted and at times distracted by what had passed in the night. They had thus far introduced all their principal characters and completed the scenes set within the Spanish court of King Philip. The events preceding Fernando and Miranda's expulsion had been completed, as had the scenes depicting Manuel's work as an apprentice to a master builder. On this day, Bloom sat perched on a crane with Gottlieb and his new cameraman, Roland Briggs. Together they overlooked the deck of a balsa wood replica of the
Estrella del Mar
mounted to a fulcrum, at either end of which members of the crew took turns squatting and lifting to approximate the ship falling and rising over the ocean current. An industrial-sized fan blew the sails full of wind, and when the jib boom dipped into the sea, a fire line of men with buckets heaved water up onto the starboard and port. It was a tedious morning followed by a tedious afternoon, one during which Bloom withdrew into the scrolling backdrop of the sea. He could feel himself roiling with the slow movement of the passing waves. Unwanted images of Simon and Isabella appeared. He couldn't help but imagine his brother's seed taking root inside his wife, forming in the well of her a growing replica of his brother, of Bloom. The more he dwelled on these thoughts, the better he comprehended the nexus of his mother's madness. He understood what drove her to Sam Freed's house that day to claim Simon as her own. How, he wondered, would he manage this without losing his mind? I am a student of the invertiscope, he reminded himself. Its subject. Its embodiment. But would he be able to inhibit his basest nature before cold, rational reason took hold and made him a better man? The actions of Isabella and Simon, he could forgive, but these images he had invited would not cease. They only grew more vibrant and real. No matter how concerted his effort to act in a loving and sympathetic manner toward Isabella in the days that followed, when night fell and they turned in to bed, he saw Simon mounting her, entering her, taking from her the most intimate and animalistic part of herself, taking from Bloom what was his. He grew so disturbed and outraged by these thoughts, he needed to remove himself from their room, and on many occasions, he was tempted to get into his car, to drive down the mountain, to confront Simon, to ask him why he had undermined the love he felt for the two people he cherished most in the world. Was he still motivated, Bloom wondered, by his residual anger toward Jacob? Or did Bloom in some way unknowingly earn Simon's scorn, as Rachel had earned Leah's? Or was it simpler than that? Was it possible his changed wife had fallen in love with Simon, with the complexity of his fractured self, and had Simon fallen in love with Isabella for that very same reason? Was it only their concern for him that was keeping them apart?

Night after night, Bloom walked to Mount Terminus's peak and sat there until his temper quieted, and he then returned to his bed before daybreak so Isabella wouldn't have cause to feel concerned. He did this for weeks, exhausted his body to such an extent he exhausted his anger. And with his anger exhausted, he was able to imagine himself as Simon. He was able to empathize with him. Unconditionally. He was able to rationalize a world in which he had given over his responsibility for his troubled wife to his brother. And he recalled what he saw in Manuel's secret room. In what way the connection between Isabella and Simon was authentic. And he recalled what Simon had sacrificed the night of the party, when, in effect, he returned her to Bloom. And when he was able to perceive their family drama from this point of view, he was grateful to Simon. The images of his brother lying with his wife began to recede, their focus softened, but, night after night when Bloom rejoined Isabella in their bed, he was now awakened in the dark by the same dream he had when Simon returned to Mount Terminus after Jacob and Sam had passed away. Night after night, he dreamed of the mirrored villa filled with his distorted image, of the tower crumbling and rushing asunder, and each time he awoke with a start, an image of Isabella and Simon's child, born and alive, and aging into a man, into a woman, appeared in Bloom's mind. And night after night, he was struck by the same thought. Simon had willingly sacrificed the love of a woman who didn't rightly belong to him, but what of the love of a child who did? If there was no doubt about who the baby's father was, would he remain amicable? Or would he become the man whose omniscient gaze peered out from the heights of billboards overlooking the basin and the sea?

*   *   *

On a morning Bloom was meant to be driving out to meet his crew in the far reaches of the valley—where Gottlieb had found a location that resembled the drawings Bloom had made for the Mount Terminus massacre—he discovered his father's old business associate Saul Geller waiting for him in the parlor. The man looked in good health, but his demeanor at the moment was sickly. He appeared as Bloom did, as if he hadn't slept in weeks. He nevertheless possessed the same warmth Bloom remembered from the time they sat in the courtyard for the reading of Jacob's will. Bloom told Mr. Geller what a pleasure it was to see him again, and he explained he was in a rush. He was expected within the hour, and, as it was, he was already going to be late. He wondered if Mr. Geller could wait to meet with him later in the day. Geller took hold of Bloom's arm and apologized to him. He said it was imperative that they speak now. Please, the older man asked, when is the last time you saw our Mr. Stern?

Bloom told him it had been some time. Stern, he explained, had, in the past few years, taken to sending couriers with written reports, which Bloom admitted to never having read.

Geller stood up and walked to the sideboard on which Meralda had left Jacob's crystal glasses and a decanter filled with schnapps, and he poured himself a drink, and then poured one for Bloom. When he handed Bloom the tumbler, Bloom reminded Geller he had just started his day. Trust me, Joseph, you'll want the drink before I deliver the news I have.

What is it? Has something bad happened to Mr. Stern?

If
only
that were the case. I would consider it a blessing. Geller shook his head and drank. A few weeks ago, I received a distressing letter from Stern. I want you to understand, I have no way of verifying if what he says about certain parties mentioned is accurate. I'm only relating to you what he wrote to me … Please, Joseph … Geller pushed the bottom of Bloom's glass to his lips. Drink.

Bloom, now sensing the news Mr. Geller had come all this way to deliver was as bad as he claimed, and because he thought it would be impolite not to, drank.

The short of it, said Geller, is that Stern has cleaned you out. This much of what he has written to me I
can
verify. The man has taken you for everything. Your entire inheritance, it's all gone.

Bloom felt the uncanny sensation of blood rushing out of his head. His thoughts departed from the room for a moment, and when they returned, he said, Mr. Stern? We
are
talking about Mr. Stern?

Yes. There is no mistake about it. Mr. Stern, our stern Mr. Stern, has liquidated all your assets. He has raided all your accounts and emptied all your deposit boxes. He has even gone so far as to sell off all the land surrounding the estate. Every square inch of it. He's left you with this property, your home in Woodhaven, and only because he would have required my approval, he left you the controlling interest in our company. Little, very little meat remains on the bone.

Our Mr. Stern?

Yes, said Geller, our Mr. Stern.

Bloom took a seat on the sofa and looked into his now empty tumbler. To the many images of his face reflected in the crystalline diamonds that formed the glass's smooth surface, he said, I'm shocked.

Of course you are. We all are.

I protected him when he needed a confidant. He looked up to Geller as he might have to a rabbi. What have I done to him that he would feel the need to do this to me?

So far as I know? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He's simply lost his head … over a woman.

A woman, said Bloom. Of course, he thought, the woman. The woman Stern never believed would give him the time of day. That same woman who appeared to think nothing of him whatsoever, a caterpillar crushed on the sole of her shoe.

He mentioned in his letter that you know of the woman.

Yes, I know of the woman. But, as far as I knew, he was finished with her, and she was finished with him. So far as I understood it, there was nothing between them to begin with. The woman, he explained, was a prop, an actor, Simon's leverage to blackmail Stern. Simon, he explained, needed Bloom's money to keep his enterprise afloat, and his brother rightly perceived Stern as an impediment to getting what he needed.

Well, on that score, said Geller, you came out well. Stern made a point of saying this. He was considerate to spare your feelings where your brother was concerned.

It turns out he needn't have, said Bloom.

As Geller spoke of short-term losses and long-term gains, of rates of return, Bloom once again fixed his attention to the images of his face at the bottom of his glass. For his deceitful behavior, you can fault Simon, said Geller, and, I imagine, if you want to hold him responsible for the unintended consequences. Had it not been for the ways in which your brother inspired Stern, Simon's manipulation would have done you no harm at all. His example, on the other hand, for that you can hold him accountable. Our Mr. Stern, it seems, had fallen in love with the conniving seductress. And he pursued her after the fact. The problem was he couldn't afford her. So he took it where he could get it. When he saw how easy it was to manipulate your money without you having taken notice—not that I'm casting blame, mind you—he started scavenging your fortune. After Simon had paid back the money he had taken, Stern gradually moved it into one of his own accounts. In small amounts at first, then larger and larger amounts. The next thing he knew, he was liquidating the remainder of your investments and assets, buying property abroad under false names, moving your funds to accounts under the same false identities, and now he's disappeared to God-knows-where with that woman.