The Merchants of Zion (31 page)

“Me either. Ewwww.”

Ruth had found a shtick that worked and she was sticking with it. “Cliff, are you embarrassed? Don't you think he's turning red?” She jabbed her fork in my direction.

“Yup.” I preferred Ruth's previous inability to connect with Elly; this new bond made me jealous. I didn't think Elly liked Ruth's teasing because she was cutting down an authority figure. While it's always fun to watch someone you admire taken down a peg or two by someone with a different perspective of that person, in Ruth, Elly saw an adult whose behavior she wanted to emulate. I wasn't allowed even being better with kids.

“This is fun,” Ruth said. “It's sad we didn't see more of each other after graduation.”

“We did. But then you went and fu—You meddled with that girl Dimitri was dating.”

“Are you still on about that? In any case, I'm glad we've been seeing each other more often now.”

“Because of James.”

“Yeah...”

Silence fell across the table, concomitant with a lull in the antics in the adjacent booth. The men paid for the meal and shepherded the girls—who were drunk and stumbling in their heels—out of the restaurant. The waiter picked up the receipt and exclaimed “Twenty dollars!” As he rang it up he muttered to himself in French.

“Sucks for him,” I said.

“Service jobs are the worst,” Ruth said. Her face was drawn in a frown, and she poked at her half-finished salad, dejected. An impulse to reach out and touch her hand fluttered through my mind—a reminder of how close our breaking through had felt a few weeks ago—but I couldn't in front of Elly. It would be unprofessional.

“Cliff's in love with you,” Elly blurted. Ruth's head snapped up and I looked at her aghast.

Ruth's thoughts traced themselves across her face, buried millimeters deep and threatening to burst into verbalized reality. A thought can hide in the mind's crannies, never quite real until it passes into the wider world. Written, painted, or spoken, it cannot be recanted, though perhaps it can be ignored. She tried three times to form a sentence, but couldn't get beyond a half-finished word before lapsing back into speechlessness. Like myself.

On the fourth try she succeeded: “Did he tell you that?” she asked, her voice falling to a mouse's whisper. Deep shades of pink pierced her tan skin.

“No... but—“ Elly began.

I interrupted her. “I did not. She's taking some stuff I said out of context. Like kids do...” Elly glowered at me, betrayed. I hadn't realized I'd been so transparent talking to her, or that she was so sharp. The irony.

Ruth's mouth twitched. The pink hue remained. “I see. Well it can't be helped.”

“I guess not,” I said, a boulder caught in my throat. “You know what Robespierre says about romantic love.”

“No, what?”

“It's a tool the state uses to keep us pacified.”

“You're so stupid.”

The situation had been defused to my, and Ruth's, relief. Less dangerous conversation flowed from there.

“Did you figure out what James is up to?” I asked.

“No, but whatever he's doing he's going to get caught—that boy's not subtle enough to break the law successfully. I hope he gets arrested before he does anything 
really
 dumb.”

“What a supportive friend you are.”

I signaled the waiter for the check. Ruth insisted she pay, and wouldn't let me see the bill. She wouldn't even tell me how much they charged for the grilled cheese.

Outside the restaurant, Elly and I thanked her for the lunch. Shouting to be heard over the racket of the pumps, she said she was throwing a housewarming party this Saturday, and would love it if I came. James could also come, and Dimitri too. I hadn't mentioned to her that he was gone. She walked us to the subway and told Elly it was a pleasure to meet her, then pecked me on the cheek and said good-bye.

On the subway I asked Elly, “What'd you think?”

“You really don't love her?”

“Nope.”

“I'm gonna stick to my principles. You do. She's in love with you too.”

“Just like a movie.”

“Yup.”

* * *

James whistled. “How much does she make again?”

We were standing outside Ruth's apartment building, a stylish spire near Independence Park. A glass terrace jutted out from each story at gravity-defying length, and through the front door I caught a glimpse of a crystal cavern entrance hall.

“You ready?” I asked.

“Born to party.”

The doorman, a diminutive, graying man, said something in an incomprehensibly thick accent. James and I looked at him, bewildered, and he repeated what he'd said before.

“Look, man what the—”

“We're here for a party. Ruth Lee.”

He said something else, and I caught apartment number.

“I don't know the apartment number,” James said. “But the chick's name is Ruth Lee. Isn't that enough? There's a party, and we're going to it.”

He flailed and jabbered at us. It was clear he thought we had no business being here. A couple our age came in behind us. The man had on a charcoal suit with glossy black shoes, and the woman wore an emerald cocktail dress and heels designed for stabbing the sidewalk-sleeping homeless. I could add underdressed to the list of reasons I felt out of place—I'd worn a green corduroy shirt with pearl-snaps, my favorite jeans, and a pair of scuffed skate shoes. James had done slightly better, with a blue and white striped buttondown and a pair of shiny designer jeans. He was, however, wearing loud, orange and green neon sneakers.

“We're here for the party in fifty-two-A,” the man said pleasantly. The doorman nodded and pointed them to the elevator.

“That's the one we want, fifty-two-A,” James said. The man crossed his arms and shook his head.

“Come on James, it doesn't look like we're getting in. Exclusive club,” I joked.

“Fuck that.” He faced the doorman. “Ruth Lee. Fifty-two-A,” he said, speaking loudly and elongating each word to twice its normal length.

“Call her,” James said.

“Why don't you call her?”

“I don't have a phone, moron. Give me yours.” No answer. He tried again. No answer. The doorman watched us, exuding schadenfreude.

On his third try she answered. “No, it's James. We're in your lobby and this dipshit doorman won't let us up. Fifty-two-A? Yeah, I told him. Okay.”

“She's gonna call down.” An antique, black phone behind the doorman's desk rang. He picked it up and after listening for a few seconds, he protested, saying “No. Gibberish. No, no no, more gibberish.” When he finished, he looked at us. “Go,” he said tersely, waving us through.

“Thank you,” I said.

“You gotta show 'em who's boss,” James said once we were inside the elevator, and out of earshot.

Twenty-five was the lowest floor with a button, and we accelerated past it before I'd had time to reflexively check my phone.

The elevator opened to a short hallway with three labeled units: fifty-two-A, fifty-two-B, and fifty-two-C. I knocked and James tried the door. It was unlocked.

Ruth's apartment was as spacious as a small warehouse. Two entire walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling windows, offering a breathtaking view of Independence Park and Manhattan's southern skyline. A staircase with cast iron rails spanned a third wall, leading to a lofted bedroom. And a giant video played against the fourth wall, against which we were silhouettes. Of what, I was too close to tell.

Couches and chairs had been pushed aside, replaced with long tables levitating over strips of copper and piled with drinks and dishes. Men in suits and women in short dresses milled around it, while other clusters of guests had broken off along the edges of the room. It was impossibly elegant and I had a strong desire to bolt back home, where I could hide under the covers and pretend this had all been a bad dream.

“Swanky, right?” James said, making his way towards the tables. I followed in his wake, keeping an eye out for Ruth. The video was a montage of New York panoramas, so we were hemmed in by skyscrapers on three sides.

James grabbed a plate—they were paper—and loaded it with crackers and caviar, stuffed olives and fruit. An assortment of wines were arranged at the table's end.

“These wines are shit,” he said. “Look, they're all from California or South America, and the oldest one is from three years ago. At my old job, clients would've laughed me out of the room if I offered them this.” He picked out a chardonnay in a tub of ice. “Here, it's the least terrible wine she has. And look, these are made of imitation plastic,” he said, flicking one of the glasses with his finger.

I took a sip—it tasted fine to me. “I didn't know you were a wine expert.”

“Not even close. But I had to take a class for my old job. When you're schmoozing rich assholes for their billions, you'd better at least pretend like you're fucking cultured. This caviar sucks,” he said, spitting it onto his plate.

James's antics were simultaneously embarrassing and gratifying. His snobby rudeness grated against my instinctual politeness, but I was happy for the shelter his attitude of superiority, justified or not, provided.

Ruth spotted us and detached herself from a small crowd to say hello. She was wearing a dark violet dress and had changed the streaks in her hair to match. Her hair had also been curled

“I'm so glad you both came. You look nice, Cliff. Very Brooklyn.”

“Your apartment, I can't believe it,” James said. “What's the rent like?”

“Oh, you know. Not so bad.”

James pushed the issue. “Fucking perks. The network hooks you up, I bet, or the mayor's office. Golden handcuffs, so you remember whose side you're on.”

“I don't know about any of that. Come on, Cliff. There's some people I want you to meet.”

When I expressed reluctance, she grabbed my hand and aimed for a three couple flock admiring the view. James stayed at the table, gulping his glass of wine and pouring another.

Ruth introduced me as a friend from college. One of the men and one of the women were co-workers of hers, and she knew another woman through the gym. They chatted about how much better New York was than wherever they'd come from for a moment before Ruth disengaged, dragging me around to meet the other wonderful people she knew.

They were all young professionals living in Manhattan. Most were employees of Liberty Bell or one of its subsidiaries. Some worked for the government. All of them were successful, with bright futures, and boring. After three pit stops to refill my glass I began talking instead of watching passively. I asked if she'd invited Paul.

“Who's Paul?” she said innocently.

Eventually she parked me with a group of four guys. Two PhD students in shabby suits, studying Political Science and Sociology in Boston, who knew Ruth from college. The other two were staffers for a Senator with whom Ruth had done her final installment of Puppies and Politicians.

“Hey guys, this is my friend Cliff. He's a writer. I'm gonna leave you boys to talk about all that boring intellectual stuff,” she teased. “I need to go play host.” She bounced jauntily away.

“Writer, y'say?” One of the staffers slurred, “Who'd'ya write for?”

I squirmed—nothing annoyed me more than being introduced as a writer, as if I were making a living from a neglected hobby. I suppose Ruth thought it sounded sexier than 'tutor' or 'teacher,' or more truthfully: 'glorified babysitter.'

“Fiction, actually.”

“Like a novelist?”

“Short stories.”

“Been published?”

“Not anywhere you're likely to know.”

He ticked off a litany of fiction sites, starting with the most prominent and ending with some I'd never heard of.

“No, those are all so mainstream. Try 
Run-Down Publications
, 
Black Sparrow Monthly,
 and 
Introversion
.”

“Haven't heard of any of 'em,” he said, narrowing his eyes, as if offended by the thought.

“Yeah, well they're pretty obscure.” Obscure enough not to exist.

“Make much money?”

His fellow staffer patted him hard on the back and shut him up. “I'm sure we can find them. What were those magazines?” He had his phone at the ready.

“I don't like people reading my work in front of me.” I shrugged. “It's an artist thing.”

A lapse in the conversation followed and I excused myself to get another drink. I chose a pinot noir, vintage the previous year—James would disapprove—and scanned for a different group to join, preferably one containing members of the opposite sex. She hadn't introduced me to any unaccompanied women—had that been intentional? Paranoia on my part, almost certainly, but doubt lingered. And, seeing as she had been introducing me only as her friend, would it be such a 
faux pas
 to flirt with a friend of hers? This was why I preferred solitude to socializing; it was less complicated by an order of magnitude.

But no better opportunity presented itself, and I returned to the grown-up version of the teens hanging out in the kitchen. They were in the middle of an intense debate about the intricacies of US military involvement in Mexico, and when, not if, Operation Empire for Liberty (OEFL, as they pronounced it: a two syllable word) would be expanded further south to Guatemala and Belize. They slung around the names and opinions of department sub-directors and corporate vice presidents like they were famous, and I realized I knew less than nothing about how the world worked. If these four listened to James and me argue about anything political they'd laugh at our ignorance until they cried. And as their words blurred together and the volume of their voices steadily increased, I wondered: if they could do this drunk, how formidable must their knowledge be sober?

I mentioned Robespierre, hoping to steer the conversation towards a subject of which I had some cursory knowledge.

“The Jacobins? Please,” said the sociology student. “I wrote my undergraduate thesis on the Epistemological Flaws in Radical Dialectics. Any attempts to create political change through an ontological lens clouded with ill-defined, abstract concepts like class or inequality breaks down when one considers the principal agent problem...” he continued pontificating. The other three watched him with an unnerving intensity. I pretended to as well, quickly losing the thread of what he was saying in the morass of unfamiliar terms and authorial name-dropping. “...and based on those material conditions, that's why things must be the way that they are, and it's for the best,” he ended, and there was a pause as everyone mulled his words over.