Elliot Allagash

by Simon Rich

  I waited until all eyes were on me. Then I cleared my throat, paused for effect and announced my decision.

  “I’ve decided to join Elliot’s club,” I said. “The basketball team might be more fun, but I’d rather make a difference in the world.”

  I could hear the girls talking excitedly as I followed Elliot out into the street. I managed to contain my excitement until the limo doors were closed.

  “Did you see when Jessica touched my arm? Did you see?”

  “I saw.”

  “Did you see the look on Lance’s face?” I said. “When I bailed on the team? Oh my God…it’s like I’m too awesome to even play with that guy! I’m too awesome to even be on his stupid little team!”

  “You’ve got it, Watson.”

  “I guess there’s no asbestos club, huh?”

  “Of course not. But we’re still going to meet three times a week.”

  “What for?”

  “To plot our next move. We came out sprinting, but we’re still nowhere near the finish line.”

  He opened the sunroof, flooding the car with heat and light. I poked my head out and a rush of wind cascaded over my face. I imagined for a moment that there was no limousine—that it was just me on Park Avenue, sprinting uptown at thirty miles an hour. I shouted for Elliot to join me, but he refused. Eventually, after a few blocks, I grabbed his scrawny wrist and yanked him up off his seat. He struggled and cursed for a block or two, like a fish on a hook, but when his head emerged through the sunroof and the warm air hit his face, he looked at me and broke into an involuntary grin.

  “Pretend there’s no car!” I shouted, pumping my arms in place. “That it’s just us running!”

  I looked so ridiculous doing it that we both burst into laughter.

  Elliot ducked back into the limousine.

  “James, pick up the pace!” he said. “Can’t you see we’ve got work to do?”

  • • •

  If there’s one thing I’ve learned from television, it’s that you should never trust a genie. It doesn’t matter how you spend your three wishes. The genie will always find some way to screw you. If you wish for a million dollars, it’ll come in the form of a life insurance claim after your wife dies in a plane crash. If you wish for fame, a mob of fans will trample you to death.

  “I thought you said you wanted money?” the genie will say, a smirk on his smug genie face. “I thought you said you wanted fame?”

  “Not like this!” you’ll scream. “Not like this!”

  And the genie will laugh at you, his muscled, blue arms folded self-righteously at his chest.

  When I was ten I saw an episode of The Twilight Zone about a shopkeeper who discovered a genie. When he wished for power, he was immediately transformed into Hitler. That seemed a little unfair to me, even by genie standards. But, of course, I placed the blame squarely on the shopkeeper. He shouldn’t have wished for something so selfish and petty. He should have been content with his humble shopkeeper’s existence. He should have remembered all the cautionary tales he had read as a boy about genies and their treachery, and when he spotted that golden lamp and rubbed its smooth, sleek surface, when he smelled that purple smoke and heard that booming voice, he should have just thrown it away.

  That was easy for me to say. At the time, I had never met a genie.

  • • •

  Elliot had a great toy collection. He had an entire shelf of bug fossils. He had an old version of Monopoly from the 1930s, with a circular board and crumbling bills that peaked at “Twenty Dollars.” He even had a coin-operated genie—a life-size, turbaned automaton in a glass box, named The Great Shamba. If you slid a nickel into the machine, the genie gyrated for thirty seconds and a card slid out of his mouth like a paper tongue. The cards all said the same thing: IF YOU INSIST.

  Elliot’s bedroom had a dumbwaiter, which was hooked by a pulley system to a central kitchen. I never once saw the kitchen, but it must have been heavily staffed. They were able to produce any dish he requested, no matter how elaborate. Whenever Elliot wanted anything, he scrawled his order onto a scrap of paper, tossed it into the box, and lowered it using a large circular hand crank that looked like the steering wheel of a ship. A bell would ring several floors below to signal his order’s arrival, and within thirty minutes the crank would begin to turn in the opposite direction. The aroma of food would slowly waft up the shaft, growing in intensity until the dish itself materialized. Elliot rarely ate anything besides watercress sandwiches, but he encouraged me to test the kitchen’s limits. I tried dozens of strange dishes on Elliot’s recommendation: steak tartare, clams Casino, beef Wellington. If I didn’t like something, he would scribble down another order, spin the wheel, and try again.

  The dumbwaiter was designed for food, but Elliot used it for all sorts of purposes. If he grew bored of his outfit, he would send down for “an array of jackets” and a shipment of freshly wrapped clothes would promptly arrive. He’d try them on in one of his many full-length mirrors, keep the ones he liked and toss the rest back down. Once, when I tried to start a homework assignment during one of his lengthier stories, he ripped the math worksheet out of my hand and tossed it into the dumbwaiter. The answers arrived within minutes, along with a separate document “showing the work.”

  Sometimes Elliot sent down for objects that he had misplaced around the house, like his fountain pen, phone, or keys. All he had to do was jot down what was missing and turn the magic wheel. The bell would ring, followed by some rustling noises, and before long the misplaced object would reappear in Elliot’s hand. When he was especially bored, he hid his keys in a remote location—under a bureau, say, or behind a tapestry—and timed how long it took his staff to locate them.

  The Allagashes hadn’t been able to find a residential building that was large enough to suit their needs, so they’d moved into a former courthouse that they had purchased from the New York City government. They’d gutted the interior but left the façade intact: columns, flags, and all.

  What Elliot referred to as his “bedroom” was actually a cluster of several rooms spread out over two floors. He had an office, a dressing room, some kind of film library which he kept locked, and two walk-in closets. He also had a billiards room, which contained a second, smaller dumbwaiter. That one he used exclusively for drinks.

  The most incredible thing in Elliot’s house was the gigantic bear that his father had shot and then had mounted inside his library. The bear was at least a foot taller than Vlad and three times as wide. But it wasn’t his size that I found shocking; it was his pose. The bears I’d seen in museums looked ferocious, with their forearms outstretched menacingly and their toothy mouths set into permanent growls. But this bear didn’t look tough; he looked terrified. His eyes were wide and watery and the prickly hairs on his scalp stood straight up in the air. His paws were raised defensively in front of his face. I imagined Elliot’s father following the trail of blood, stalking the wounded bear to the place it had chosen to die. The bear was frozen at that moment, when the hunter had aimed his gun to finish it off with a final, fatal shot.

  There was also a stuffed monkey in the front hallway, wearing a tuxedo. Elliot had shot it with his father on his last trip to Africa. It was small, about the size of a human kindergartener.

  “Give Jeeves your coat!” Elliot commanded the first time I passed it.

  I looked down at the monkey. Its scrawny back was hunched over in a deferential bow and its waxy lips had been bent into a horrible grin. Its right arm was thrust out to receive coats.

  “I don’t want to,” I said.

  Elliot laughed.

  “Don’t be impolite,” he said. “Jeeves is waiting.”

  “I’ll just hang it up somewhere else,” I tried.

  Elliot stopped laughing, and we stood there in silence until I finally agreed to drape my purple windbreaker over the monkey’s stiffened arm.

  • • •

  Elliot chalked the end of his cue, squinted at the tab
le, and effortlessly knocked a ball into the corner pocket. He had brought me to the billiards room to teach me how to play, but in forty-five minutes, I had taken only three shots. Elliot was running the table.

  “Tell me more about this Jessica girl,” he said. “Does her power stem from money, sex, or both?”

  “Jesus,” I said. “I don’t know. People just kind of like her.”

  Elliot’s eyes narrowed.

  “Money, sex, or both?” he repeated.

  “I guess…sex?”

  “Interesting.”

  I nodded confusedly and changed the subject.

  “This pecan pie is great. The guy who makes desserts down there is really awesome.”

  “It’s three guys, actually. They’re all pastry chefs, but they have different specialties.”

  “Wow,” I said. “That’s amazing.”

  “You’re lucky you can still experience pleasure. I’ve become accustomed to a level of decadence so extreme that to go without luxury for even a minute fills me with a powerful rage. A rage that you could never understand.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Well…just be sure to thank those guys for me, okay?”

  Elliot sighed.

  “Okay.”

  He racked the balls and prepared to break again.

  “Hey, Elliot?” I asked. “Who’s that guy in the painting? Riding the horse?”

  “That’s Terry,” he said. “I suppose you should meet him at some point.”

  “Who’s Terry?”

  Elliot hesitated.

  “My father.”

  He smacked the white ball with surprising force and a couple of striped balls skittered into the side pockets.

  “Would you like to meet him when he’s drunk or sober?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. What do you think?”

  Elliot shrugged.

  “It’s your call. Terry’s more entertaining when he’s drunk, but he’s also less predictable. More prone to outbursts.”

  “I think I’d rather meet him sober,” I said.

  “Then we better hurry,” Elliot said. “It’s almost four o’clock.”

  • • •

  I followed Elliot down the stairs and into the bright-green library. Terry wore a red monogrammed bathrobe and held an unlit cigar. He was slightly balder and significantly fatter than he appeared in his portrait. He was looking intently at the bear, and it took him a moment to notice our presence. When he finally saw us, he bounded over to shake my hand.

  “So, you’re Seymour!” he said. “Elliot told me about your basketball prowess. And your valiant community service efforts.”

  I started to stammer something about asbestos, but Terry mercifully cut me off.

  “It’s a miracle that scheme paid off,” he said, chuckling. “So needlessly complicated!”

  He turned around and rooted in his desk drawers for a lighter.

  “What can I say? Aux innocents les mains pleines, right?”

  I noticed that Elliot’s ordinarily pale face was mottled with a splash of crimson.

  “What does that mean?” I whispered.

  “‘Beginners’ luck,’” he muttered.

  Terry started to offer me a drink, but a buzzer sounded before I could respond.

  “Excuse me,” he said.

  He pressed a button on his desk and James’s voice sounded over the intercom.

  “Hodges is waiting outside,” he said. “Should I let him in?”

  “Yes!” Terry shouted.

  Moments later, a disheveled old man shuffled into the room.

  “Should we come back later?” I asked.

  “Stick around,” Terry whispered. “This won’t take long.”

  He stuck out his hand, and Hodges hobbled across the library as fast as he could to shake it. The old man shook our hands as well and then sat down across from Terry. I followed Elliot over to a leather couch on the far side of the library.

  “Are you sure your father doesn’t want us to leave?” I whispered.

  Elliot rolled his eyes.

  “He wants us to watch,” he said.

  Terry sunk into his chair and clasped his hands behind his head.

  “I saw your new paintings at the Guggenheim,” he told Hodges. “I liked them.”

  Hodges laughed nervously.

  “Of course, I’m no critic,” Terry continued, “just a collector. Still, they weren’t bad. Some really pretty colors—especially that squiggly one.”

  “Those are old paintings,” Hodges said, blushing. “They’re just putting them up now. I haven’t done many new paintings lately. Or, at least, not many that can be exhibited.”

  “Did you get the last payment?” Terry asked.

  “Yes,” Hodges said. “I did.”

  “Good!” Terry said. He poured himself a glass of port and took a large sip. I looked at my watch and noticed that it was exactly four P.M.

  “I want you to paint a duck,” Terry said.

  Hodges nodded wearily and took a notebook out of his pocket.

  “Any particular kind of duck?”

  Terry scrunched up his eyes and drummed his fingers against his desk.

  “A happy duck,” he said, finally. “Wearing some kind of hat.”

  Hodges nodded.

  “A duck with a hat,” he said.

  “I’d also like another one of your ambitious ones. You know…abstract. Like the fuzzy one of the ocean.”

  “Green Waters?”

  “Yes—that’s the one! Green Waters.”

  “That reminds me,” Hodges said. “Have you by any chance had time to consider…my proposal?”

  Terry squinted, genuinely confused. He clearly heard a lot of proposals.

  “Remind me?”

  “I asked if it would be okay…if we exhibited Green Waters. You would get all the proceeds, of course, since it’s your piece. I just…I feel very strongly that it’s my most successful painting in recent years and…I would…”

  “Oh,” Terry chuckled. “That proposal.”

  He poured out another glass of port and handed it to the old painter.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just not possible.”

  “I’d be willing to do any number of complimentary paintings to replace it,” Hodges said. “Please, sir.”

  Terry laughed.

  “Did James tell you about my situation? Who I am, how I operate, that sort of thing?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then why are you debating me?”

  Terry closed his eyes and massaged his temples.

  “You know, it’s funny,” he said. “If you hadn’t told me how good that painting was, I might have given it up. It would be in some museum by now—or willed to one, at least.”

  Hodges swallowed.

  “Do you really plan on destroying them all?”

  “Yes,” Terry said. “They’re my paintings, and I’m the only one who gets to look at them. Upon my death, they will be destroyed by my associate James, along with the rest of my Personal Museum.”

  “‘Personal Museum’?”

  Terry’s eyebrows arched with incredulity.

  “You didn’t think you were my only artist, did you? Give me a break! I’ve got dozens.”

  “Did you make the same…arrangement…with all of them?”

  Terry grinned.

  “Most had the presence of mind to demand more money,” he said. “But yes.”

  “Why?” Hodges asked. “Why would you do a thing like that?”

  Terry leaned forward.

  “Do you remember when they found that new Van Gogh twenty years ago, at that yard sale? It was in all of the papers.”

  Hodges nodded slowly.

  “Well, that’s what got me thinking,” Terry said. “I read that article as a young man and thought, ‘My goodness. There is nothing more decadent than unseen art.’ I mean, just think about it! Any collector can surround himself with pieces that are famous or ancient or good. But who owns pieces that
will never be seen by other humans? Probably no one since the pharaohs! Do you know how many historians have begged me for glimpses of my collection? How many scholars have tried to sue me for ‘robbing humanity of its treasure’? That’s power—not your name on some plaque in some museum! My collection isn’t simply valuable, you see. It’s priceless.”

  He leaned in closer and continued in a whisper.

  “And it isn’t limited to paintings, Hodges. I own sculptures, prints, photographs, films. I owned a novel once, by a Pulitzer Prize–winning author. It was profoundly beautiful—one of his best. I made him write it for me in longhand, while under surveillance, to make sure he couldn’t save it electronically. It cost me more money than you would ever dream to guess. He knew he was surrendering all of his rights to me, but I think he assumed I was planning to publish it someday, on some kind of personal press. He didn’t know I planned on destroying it. When he handed me the manuscript and I told him what I was going to do to it, he wept like a child. He offered to return his fee, plus his meager life savings. It was pitiful. I read his book in a single sitting and then burned it in my fireplace, right over there, behind my bear.”

  Hodges’s face was drained of color.

  “My God,” he said. “What was it about?”

  Terry threw back his head and laughed.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know!”

  • • •

  Elliot led me back into the billiards room and picked up the game where he had left off. When he was finished beating me, I asked him a question that had been on my mind for some time.

  “Elliot? What does your father do?”

  Elliot repeated the question to himself, as if trying to make sense of it.

  “Oh!” he said, finally. “You mean his profession.”

  He laughed.

  “He’s never worked a day in his life.”

  “So what does he do all day?”

  “He spends money and drinks.”

  “Is he…a philanthropist?”

  Elliot shook his head firmly.

  “Absolutely not. My family only gives money to charity when it’s absolutely necessary for tax purposes. And even then, we only give to foundations that are trying to cure diseases the Allagashes are genetically predisposed to, like hemophilia and gout. There’s the Allagash Prize, I guess, but I wouldn’t exactly call that charity.”