The Canal House

by Mark Lee

  I got dressed and went outside. The grass was still wet from last night’s storm, but there was a sharp breeze and the clouds were moving south. Out in the courtyard it looked like the circus had come to town. A gang of young Welshmen had already raised one large white tent and were working on a second. Canopies and portable walkways connected these two structures to a pair of smaller tents, one for the cooks and the other for a bumper-car ride.

  Trucks squeezed through the main gate where a forklift unloaded storage containers. A trailer with toilets and dressing rooms had been set up near the house for a circus troupe—muscular men and women from eastern Europe. I could see some performers sitting on lawn chairs, smoking cigarettes and watching everyone else work. Butchers showed up with cases of meat. There were dance floor installers, liquor deliverymen, and electricians who connected every cord to a thick black power cable that snaked over the wall.

  A young woman carrying a loose-leaf binder stood in the middle of the confusion. She was small and trim, with short blond hair, and looked like the kind of person who had done gymnastics as a child. Before I could say anything, she approached me and flipped through her binder.

  “Are you one of the comedians?”

  “No. I’m Nicky Bettencourt.”

  She recognized my name and nodded. “Dreadfully sorry. I’m Vivian Hedges. I’ve hired two comedians and neither one of them is here.”

  “Are they putting on a show?”

  “Not exactly. They’re part of the computerized entertainment.”

  The forklift whizzed past us carrying a portable stove and Miss Hedges hurried after it. I tagged along, peering over her shoulder, and discovered that the binder contained employee names, pager numbers, and a twelve-hour schedule, broken down into five-minute increments. Disasters didn’t frighten Miss Hedges. There was even a section marked CONTINGENCY PLANS.

  Most men I know dream about movie stars or the airbrushed models in lingerie catalogs. My secret desire was to marry someone like Miss Hedges. There was something irresistible about her meticulous planning and her belief that there was a correct way to do everything. Under her influence, my own sloppy life would become organized.

  I raised my camera and got shots of her dealing with a drunken Polish midget who was part of the circus troupe and a French chef who kept poking his finger at the gills of a sea bass. Miss Hedges spoke in a polite but firm voice and pointed to her binder as if it were a sacred text.

  In the middle of all this confusion the two young comedians showed up in a mud-splattered sedan. They got out, looked around at the castle, and began to complain about their advance payment.

  Miss Hedges smiled at me. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bettencourt. But I need to speak to them privately.”

  “Sure.” I lowered my camera. “Maybe I’ll see you later on today.”

  I returned to the morning room to get breakfast and found Julia drinking tea at the mahogany table. She was wearing a sweater and jeans. No jewelry. The clothes looked far more natural on her than the dresses she had worn at dinner. “Did you sleep well, Nicky?”

  “All right. This is a creaky place.”

  “It’s a ridiculous place. Imagine cutting down hundreds of trees and digging up tons of slate just because you liked Ivanhoe.”

  I served myself some scrambled eggs, then dropped two slices of bread into the toaster. “If you have a free hour, maybe you could give me a tour.”

  “Sorry, there’s no free time. I’ve already been given my schedule. I have to escort Connie and Jax to a beauty salon and then we’ll have lunch together. They’ll spend the whole day gossiping. First they’ll say, ‘She’s one of my best friends,’ then they’ll tell you something awful.”

  “Make an excuse. Don’t go.”

  “It’s important that they have a pleasant weekend. They’ve given political support to Hand-to-Hand. It’s maddening to think that being charming and buying the right kind of champagne has anything to do with feeding hungry people, but it’s all connected. You saw the refugees and the IDPs at Kosana. The food they were eating was purchased by this silly charity auction we had last summer. People paid a great deal of money to fly to Barbados in Richard’s corporate jet.”

  The toast popped up and I returned to the side table. “I guess it’s necessary.”

  “Of course. But sometimes your activities are so far removed from the result that it all gets rather convoluted. For example, I want to buy four portable power generators for Hand-to-Hand which means”—Julia finished her tea and stood up from the table—“I get my hair done in Cheltenham.”

  AFTER BREAKFAST, I put on a jacket and went back outside. I walked around to the tennis court and found Digran sitting alone on a bench. The poet wore a new Burberry trench coat that was two sizes too large for him; his body seemed lost in the loops and the buckles.

  “How are you, Mr. Petrosyan?”

  “Very good, sir. I have just received a letter from your American government.” Digran took a fax out of his coat pocket and carefully unfolded it. “It will give me a visa to go to the United States. My niece and her family live in Hollywood.”

  “A lot of Armenians live in Hollywood these days. It’s a nice place, but don’t expect to meet any movie stars.”

  “I don’t care about movies. Are there any gardens in Hollywood?”

  “Sure. You can grow anything in southern California.”

  “I will become an old man, sitting in his garden. That’s what happened to Dante. Maybe I’ll write a poem there. Do you think it’s possible?”

  “You’ll write a lot of them.”

  I decided not to tell Digran about the Los Angeles smog, the traffic, and the earthquakes. After we finished talking, I crossed the moat and strolled through the sheep pasture. Charlie Drayton, the actor turned shepherd, was sitting on a stump while his rented flock was scattered in front of him. He held a cell phone in one hand and was studying the buttons.

  “Good morning, Mr. Drayton.”

  “Morning, sir. You a guest at the castle?”

  I nodded and introduced myself. “So how are the sheep doing?”

  “The sheep are fine. All they do is eat and look stupid.” He glared at his cell phone. “I’m the one with the problems.”

  “Phone doesn’t work?”

  “Me manager left a message on me answerin’ machine. Said I’m not gonna be Captain Maslow. You know what I’m talkin’ about, sir? Face on the cracker box.”

  I vaguely recalled a bearded sea captain on a brand of English crackers.

  “Company wants a new face so I auditioned. It’s only five hundred pounds for all rights, but there are buckets of gravy. I’d get paid extra for TV ads. Paid extra for store appearances. And they were talkin’ about a trip to America.” Charlie closed his eyes and sighed. “It would be a grand thing to be Captain Maslow.”

  “But you weren’t chosen.”

  “Didn’t get the callback. Don’t know why.” Charlie resumed dialing. “Now, I can’t get hold of me manager.”

  I continued across the pasture and the sheep shied away from me. “Good luck, Mr. Drayton. I hope it all works out.”

  “If they hired that wanker Joe Emery, I’m going to be angry. He showed up smokin’ a pipe and wearing rubber boots, but he’s as much a sea captain as one of these bloody sheep.”

  I TOOK A LONG walk to the edge of the estate and when I got back a tour bus was trying to squeeze through the barbican gate. Miss Hedges stopped the bus and unloaded the passengers—over two dozen young men and women. “Follow me,” she chirped. “Right this way!” Miss Hedges led them into the bumper-car tent where rows of folding chairs faced a large TV monitor. I lingered near the opening while she snapped a cassette into a VCR machine.

  The monitor began to play a video that showed a waiter pouring wine and serving dinner. “As you notice, he always takes the plate from the right side,” Miss Hedges said, then stopped the tape and pointed at each detail. There was something unusual about the group and I real
ized that none of them had displayed a mustache, tattoo, or nose ring. The young men and women leaned forward as if they were watching a crucial lecture for their A levels. As the documentary began to show an elderly waitress serving hors d’oeuvres, Miss Hedges hurried over to me.

  “Now Mr. Bettencourt. This isn’t for your eyes.”

  “Call me, Nicky.”

  “Better get dressed, Nicky. The party starts at six o’clock.”

  “Will you eat dinner with me?”

  “I’ll be much too busy for that.”

  “What about a drink?”

  Miss Hedges guided me out of the tent and began to close the canvas flap. “It’s possible. We’ll see.”

  My shoes had been shined and my new tuxedo had been brushed and laid out on the bed. I got dressed and inspected myself in the mirror, then sat by the window and watched as several helicopters swooped over and landed on the pasture. Richard’s guests were arriving. Limousines and black sedans rolled through the barbican and stopped in the courtyard. It was just a party, but I felt like I was walking toward gunfire.

  I stepped out into the hallway and saw Julia standing in front of Daniel’s door. She wore a red off-the-shoulder dress that rustled when she moved. The floor creaked and she turned toward me, looking surprised.

  “I’m looking for Daniel. He’s not in his room.”

  “Sorry. I haven’t seen him.”

  “The man who runs the estate garage said that Daniel borrowed the motorcycle. I don’t suppose you know where he went.”

  “No.”

  “Do you think he decided to return to London?”

  “Anything’s possible. But he probably would have told me.”

  “Yes. He said you were his best friend.”

  I wanted to ask Julia about that comment, but Billy appeared in the hallway. His muscular arms and chest were stuffed into a tuxedo and he reminded me of a bouncer at one of the London casinos.

  “Julia! I’ve been looking all over for you. Richard wants to see you in his office.”

  “I’m sorry. I dropped by to see Nicky.”

  We all smiled at each other, chums forever, then Billy jerked his head slightly. “Better go.”

  “Why don’t you come along and look at the tower office, Nicky? It’s quite wonderful.”

  Julia touched my arm and we followed Billy down the hallway. The hem of her dress brushed against the banisters as we climbed a narrow staircase up to the third floor. Fat little cherubs were painted on the ceiling above us and a cast-iron snake was twined around the railing.

  We entered a circular room with three slit windows that overlooked the front courtyard. Halogen lighting fixtures set into the ceiling illuminated a desk with a steel column attached to each end. Both columns had segmented arms with thin computer screens that could be swiveled into different positions. In his dress shirt and black bowtie, Richard sat at the desk glancing at the images on four different monitors. Somewhere in the universe of the Riverside Bank, a research assistant was evaluating a takeover target, a real estate agent was searching for a place to put a branch office, and a man in Tokyo was selling millions of yen.

  “There you are, darling.” Richard typed something and the monitor screens began to go blank. “We lost track of your location.”

  “I ran into Nicky. We were just about to go downstairs.”

  Richard pushed back his office chair and stood up. “Take mental notes, Nicky. I’ll be curious to get your reaction tomorrow morning. Julia thinks that the party is nonsense, but you have to make people feel good about giving you money.”

  “Whatever works.”

  “Exactly.” Richard walked over to a file cabinet, opened a drawer, and took out crocodile-skin jewelry case. “I’m afraid this isn’t a gift, Julia. It’s just a loan from Asprey and Garrard. I told Billy to take photographs of that dress you’re wearing and he e-mailed the images to London. The manager at Asprey thought this would match.”

  He opened the jewelry case to reveal an emerald necklace and matching earrings. The emeralds were so large that they looked like chips of bottle glass. Richard moved his wrist slightly and the green stones seemed to glow with their own power.

  “The big one in the middle actually has a name,” Richard said. “It’s called La Dorado. That’s a village in the mountains of Columbia.”

  “I can’t wear that, Richard. We’re asking people for donations tonight. Aren’t they going to look at this necklace and wonder why we don’t sell it?”

  “Our guests are going to look at you and this necklace and think, ‘How beautiful she is, how attractive.’ They don’t give money to beggars on the street. They give it to people who look just like them, only better.”

  He took the necklace out of the box and fastened it around her neck. Julia put on the earrings and touched the dark green stones. They seemed to absorb some of the warmth from her skin. “It does look nice. Doesn’t it, Nicky?”

  “Yes. It’s quite beautiful.”

  Julia pushed back her hair and turned to Richard. “What happens at the end of the party? Does a little man appear and take it all away?”

  “Billy is in charge of the emeralds. He’ll make sure they’re safe.” Richard slipped on his dinner jacket. “Nicky, if you don’t mind, Julia and I need to talk about the guest list. A few special donors are coming tonight and I want them to receive extra attention.”

  “No problem. I’ll see you at the party.”

  I went downstairs and followed a red carpet out into the courtyard. About a hundred guests had already arrived and they were drinking and chatting with each other in the reception tent. A string quartet sat on a platform and played classical music. Couches, chairs, and potted trees from the conservatory had been arranged around the portable dance floor.

  The clean-cut young people were serving drinks and hors d’oeuvres. They wore skinny black neckties and white shirts with the Hand-to-Hand logo silk-screened on the front pocket. The staff was inexperienced but cheerful, and one of the women coaxed me to try an egg roll. Miss Hedges had changed into a blue satin evening gown. She wore a radio headset with a tiny microphone and clutched her binder. I grabbed two flutes of champagne off a tray and approached her. “You said you’d have a drink with me.”

  “That wasn’t a promise, Mr. Bettencourt. I didn’t write it down.”

  “Here. Take it anyway.” She accepted a glass and took a cautious sip. “These servers look great. Very impressive.”

  “Yes. Mr. Seaton didn’t want professional waiters.”

  “I didn’t know that Hand-to-Hand had so many volunteers.”

  Miss Hedges scrunched up her nose and giggled. “Oh, they’re not volunteers. Hand-to-Hand doesn’t have any volunteers. They’re a Mormon youth group who wanted to get money for their missionary work.” She took another sip. “I tried to hire Jehovah’s Witnesses or Seventh-Day Adventists, but they refused to handle alcohol. The Mormons will serve wine, but they won’t drink it.” A server walked past us and she put her champagne glass on his tray. “And isn’t that what you want from a waiter?”

  A voice had apparently come over her radio headset. “Of course,” Miss Hedges said. “Right away.” She left me and hurried over to the bandstand. Bright lights glowed from outside the tent. Richard had let in a TV news crew to shoot the beginning of the party. I was about to get another drink when I saw Daniel entering the tent.

  He wore a tuxedo and dress shirt with black jade cuff links. His appearance was quite presentable, but there was a fierce intensity in his manner that made me cautious. If we were strangers, meeting in a bar somewhere, I would have concluded that he was going to start a fight or end a fight before the evening was over. Several women turned their heads, staring at him.

  “Where have you been?” I asked. “Haven’t seen you all day.”

  Daniel took a glass of champagne from one of the waiters. “I borrowed the motorcycle and rode west down some country roads. This is a beautiful country, Nicky. Lots of streams and st
one bridges.”

  “Julia was looking for you. She knocked on your door.”

  Daniel’s relaxed manner disappeared. “When was this?”

  “About twenty minutes ago. I saw her in the hallway and then Billy came along. Right now she’s up in the tower with Richard, talking about donors.”

  “What did she say to you?” His voice was calm and deliberately neutral.

  “She wondered if you’d gone back to London.”

  “No. I wouldn’t do that.” Daniel stopped talking when Julia and Richard entered the tent. He watched Julia intently as people approached her and shook hands.

  More guests arrived and the circus performers slipped into the tent. I thought that Miss Hedges would have to tell them where to go, but she had already handled that. Strips of masking tape had been placed on the floor at precise locations. There were no clown acts or flaming torches, but all the performers were talented acrobats. They didn’t smile, speak, or play the crowd. Wearing a skin-tight cat suit, a female contortionist got up on a pedestal and began to do her act.

  More guests arrived. People glanced at each other, not knowing how to react, and realized that it was sophisticated to ignore the circus performers. A woman wearing spangles did a one-armed handstand on a man’s head while the people around them sipped champagne and talked about joining the League Against Cruel Sports. People laughed a little louder. They grabbed for the champagne when the tray drifted by. The woman doing the handstand seemed bored and the man supporting her looked like he was waiting for a bus. It was only when I got closer that I saw the slight trembling of her biceps.

  When most of the guests had arrived, Richard climbed up onto the bandstand. He tapped his finger on the microphone and everyone stopped talking.

  “Welcome to Westgate Castle. I want to thank all of you for coming tonight and showing your support for Hand-to-Hand. We’re going to have a wonderful meal along with dancing, entertainment, and lots of wine. Your only responsibility is to enjoy yourselves so let’s get started!”