The Destroyers

by Christopher Bollen

  “So they weren’t much of a help when the bomb went off?”

  Charlie whirls around, and in a millisecond his smile closes up shop, the plants and welcome sign taken in, the grate pulled over the glinting windows. The sag of his mouth matches the damage done to his eye. I wish I could choose a different day to discuss my future. But I can’t wait any longer. I didn’t stop at a restaurant while biking through Skala out of fear of spending extra money on breakfast. The sight of all those horny, hungry vacationers nestled around tables while posting pictures of themselves felt like watching the security-cam footage of a peaceful morning in the seconds before a catastrophe strikes.

  “No,” Charlie answers. “They weren’t much help. You know, it wasn’t just tourists who died. The owner of the taverna and his son were killed too. The locals started throwing chicken feed at the police because all they did was run around and squawk.”

  “There were fresh flowers in front of the bomb site today. I figured those weren’t put there for the tourists.”

  “Doubtful,” Charlie agrees. “You don’t waste flowers on strangers whose whole purpose for being here is to turn their backs on the island to stare at the sea. One day it’s blood, the next flowers, and then it’s pavement again. That’s the way it goes.” He shrugs and points to the chair on the opposite side of the chessboard underneath a large framed photograph of his boat Domitian. Rounds of sunlight have aged it into nostalgia. “Quit stalling,” he says. “You’re black.”

  “I’m not sure I’m up for a game. Can’t we just talk about the idea I had? It’s important, I—”

  “Come on.” He swats my shoulder. I can tell he wants to anchor us in calmer water, and my role as his guest is to help provide that. “We can talk while we play. I always do my best thinking over chess. I’m guessing you haven’t gotten any better.”

  Chess was always Charlie’s sport. At the height of our marathon sessions, I won only a handful of times. I always suspected Charlie of allowing those wins because he understood the need for the occasional defeat in order to keep the competitor at the table. At Destroyers, I held the advantage, better when my back was against a wall than Charlie ever was with his blind faith that escape routes would magically materialize. At every other game, Charlie creamed me. And chess was indisputably his turf. I slide around the table and take a seat in the metal chair next to the radio. Charlie sits across from me, plucking his white rook from the board and dangling it between his fingers. The pieces are hand-carved wood.

  “Do you still need a handicap?” he asks. Even with the Central Park regulars, Charlie often forfeited a rook in order to play a more equal game.

  “It would be nice,” I say with a smirk. This sacrifice gives me as much confidence in the game as it does in our friendship: we haven’t lost it. And his beating me will instill a confidence in him: I haven’t changed a bit. More often than not, my side of the board tends to approximate a feudal court that is trying to depose its own king and form a last-ditch democracy. Charlie places the rook sideways on the table, fallen castle, and launches with his knight. I mirror the move.

  “How’s it going with Louise?” he asks. “Are you getting anywhere?” The pawns ascend.

  “Where am I supposed to have gotten with someone I haven’t seen in years?”

  Charlie expels a laugh, his hand fluttering over his pieces, as if my moves are merely mandatory rest stops. “You sound like you’d be a good candidate for the Patmian police force. Now you say this human is someone for whom I have feelings and—”

  “I told you, I’m not here for the beach. Not for love either. I’ve got bigger problems. Charlie, it’s bad.” I want to make eye contact to emphasize just how serious I am, but we’ve hit the familiar stride of our game, and I’m like a jogger trying to keep up. He captures on a retreat.

  For the past few days I’ve been trying to appear unfazed, the way you’re told to affect normalcy when a ferocious animal enters your campground. Running off screaming will only make you its victim. Look bigger than it, show zero fear, stand your ground. But right now, alone with Charlie, I feel so close to screaming for help that I can barely keep seated. I latch my hands on the table, a tactic Charlie notices. His lips tighten.

  “Okay, it’s bad,” he repeats. “No inheritance. You’re broke.” He stops to concentrate on my face. “So tell me, what did you have in mind?”

  I feel my speech is moving nicely, lubricated for professional momentum, until I reach the word fabulous. “A fabulous PR move.” Fabulous. Fabula. Fable. The word is a sinkhole, embedded in the English dictionary simply to swallow its user under the weight of its own flamboyance. Aren’t all job interviews desperate acts of fabulism? You need me, I possess a very special skill set, I can mountain your molehills and then molehill them again for a fee, Konstantinou Engineering can become the Apple of respectability under my constant watch. I push on, doubly muddled, because Charlie’s queen is eating horses, and a defensiveness creeps its way into my voice, as if Charlie is silently accusing me of being unable to organize a charitable wing of his father’s company. I realize part of my anger stems from the fact that he’s forcing me to play a board game while I’m begging for my life. “This is important, it could greatly impact your father’s business if only you could see that, and corporate altruism is a field I’ve been focused on for the last few years.” A small, fabulous lie. “I’m talking multiformat.” Did I already use the word liaise? I use it again.

  Charlie lets me finish. He pauses and doesn’t check my king but instead makes an unnecessary opening in his battalion of pawns. I can’t read this move as anything but charitable.

  “You’re my friend, Ian, my oldest friend.” The information is hopeful, but the frank tone is crossing out hope in fat, black marker. He rubs his hand on the table, the skin on his fingers peeling from sun and tobacco exposure. “So trust me when I tell you that would never work.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because my dad’s not interested in that. He never has been. He already has a team of flaks to help him fly under the radar. Opening a few art schools in the Middle East is going to be more of a headache and a potential political shit storm than it is a, a”—he avoids the ugly word—“good PR move.”

  “Don’t you think he should be the one to decide that? I’m only asking that you let me speak with him. If he’s in New York I can fly back. I’m also pretty good at Skype.”

  “He’s not well,” Charlie rasps. “He has surgery for his lungs and heart every second week. His health is fading, and the doctors can’t even manage a straight face on how long he’s got. It could be months, a year, maybe two. Who knows?”

  “I’m sorry. I knew he was sick, but I had no idea it was that bad.” I didn’t fully realize how much we have in common—both of us hitting that weird voodoo stretch of adulthood where parents evaporate one by one into hospitals and experimental procedures and family plots. But Charlie shakes his head, as if to ward off sympathy, his own and mine.

  “The point is, my father’s trying to tighten the strings, cutting the unnecessary fat so it’s easier for Stefan to take over when it’s time. Ian, I know this is meaningful, it’s what you want, but it just isn’t going to happen. Don’t be mad because you’ve invented a job we can’t offer you.”

  “The art school was only an example. It could be quieter, less risky endeavors. Maybe at this point in his life he’d appreciate the opportunity to give back. It could be an endowment, something in his name.”

  I worry I’ve overstepped—trying to tack my résumé on his father’s bleak medical files—but Charlie’s expression halts the apology on my tongue. His face is both knotted and serene, like a little Buddha statue folded up in painful contortions and yet expressing an uncomplicated peace. Then his mouth falls slack with the truth.

  “Ian, you do realize that even my father knows how to Google.”

  The remark stings. I stare out the window, at the white, claustrophobic glare of light on water, as if the mutat
ing code of the Internet has already infected those basic elements. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Internet could be detected deep in the Earth’s core, worming under the caskets and forgotten time capsules and decades of buried biohazard waste. There is nowhere I can go to escape Ian Bledsoe. A speck of island in the Aegean isn’t far enough away.

  “I’m just being honest,” Charlie says through clenched teeth. “One search and your whole history is right there. It’s probably not a fabulous PR move to hire you as the company goodwill ambassador.” Charlie rises from his seat, abandoning the game he’s on the verge of winning. He leans against the desk, pinching his chin.

  “None of that stuff is true,” I moan. “I had nothing to do with any fucking plot, because there was no plot. All I was trying to do was help. It’s bullshit. I wish you’d believe me.” I rest my elbows on the table. I have reached the age or state of decline where the head is a heavy appendage, in constant need of support. “Helping,” I repeat helplessly. “That’s all.”

  “Of course, I believe you. And quite honestly I find it courageous. You have what so few can even pretend to possess anymore. You don’t care what others think about you.” I stare up at him, my heart and eyelids beating arrhythmically. Charlie means it as a compliment, but the utter falsehood of that statement only shows how little he knows me. We have changed, and so has our sense of each other.

  “I was stupid, not courageous. And now you see why I’m screwed. No one will hire me. I thought maybe your family might because at least they remember who I am. Jesus, you make one mistake and you’re exiled to a life of unemployment and apologies. I suppose I could try China. They still have a ban on Google, don’t they?” I’m only half kidding. Repressive dictatorships might be my only zone of freedom. “If I could just get away from that, move beyond it, but I can’t! No one will let me! I wish they’d just throw rocks like they used to and be done with it.”

  “It’s because of how we were raised,” Charlie replies. I assume he means we were too coddled to bear hard falls, but he doesn’t. “No one has pity for the rich. You were born in the wrong tax bracket if you expect even one drop of that. You knew the inside of mansions too young. Millionaire tears don’t weigh much.”

  “I don’t want pity,” I whisper, although I realize that’s all I have left to hope for.

  Charlie draws his head to the side, studying me scientifically. “I always wondered why you’ve been so bent on this humanitarian crusade since college. All the volunteer work and passing out sandwiches and raising money for the next big cause.” I’m not surprised by this reaction. It’s always the good deed that needs to be defended, the selfless act that attracts suspicion and never the bad, self-seeking ones. “But now I think I know why,” he says. “You feel guilty for how easy you’ve had it, like it’s your own fault. Well, you aren’t the only one trying to crawl out of that shadow. That’s why I built this boat business. I needed to do something on my own, something that didn’t already come prefurnished because of my family, something”—he searches for the word along the cracks in the floor—“not haunted, do you know what I mean?”

  “I should never have taken that job at Kitterin. I shouldn’t have gone to Panama.”

  Charlie nods, like we’ve resolved the problem, although I’m still sitting in front of a chessboard facing a checkmate that won’t come. The sun hits the crumpled chip bag on the desk, a dense metallic sparkle, the ruthless sunlight of someone else’s rush hour, and I think of all the jobs that brought this 1.5-oz. bag of potato chips to the beach grass of a Greek island: the decades of careful planning and market testing and boardroom strategizing, the factory time and package design, the negotiations with wholesalers and regional suppliers, the shipments and stocking and advertising that account for the bright glassine miracle of this bag’s mere existence belying thousands of hours of people’s lives. The lessons from Panama have been learned: a vision of the world, without the mess of work in it, is the most deluded luxury there is. All the labor that spins the planet, and yet I can barely find the strength to lift my head from my hands.

  “You’re right,” I say. “We did have it too easy. And the sad part is I should have kept on like that.”

  Charlie glances despondently out the window, the ribbon of sea speckled with passing leisure boats. I think back to us as teens on the benches in Central Park with the miniature sailboats gliding through the tar-black pond water and the children standing like fidgety sentinels at the rim. The boats are bigger now and Charlie owns his own controls, but for the first time this morning I feel like we’ve found the quiet groove of our early friendship, two kids lightly damaged and stuck together in the spoiled orphanage of distracted families. We were junior champions of escape.

  “Do you still need a little man to examine Sonny’s entrails in the morning?” I ask him. You don’t need to be good among old friends, only good enough. “Do I sound desperate? Because I am.”

  “I have an idea,” Charlie says softly. “If you’re willing to think outside the philanthropy racket. It’s why I invited you here.” His smile returns, his arms folded at his chest. “I was thinking you could work for me, be my number two. The pay is decent. And you wouldn’t have to go back.”

  “Charlie,” I wheeze. I’m stalling, sending his name slowly out of my mouth in a skid of air and spit, to gather all of the reasons why that wouldn’t be a feasible arrangement. But all I can come up with is my lack of experience. That didn’t prevent me from proposing art schools in the Middle East. “I don’t know anything about yachts. Twenty feet out in the water and I wouldn’t know how to steer one to shore. I appreciate it, really—”

  “You can learn. And I’m not suggesting you become a captain. I was thinking more along the lines of support and development. Oh, and office upkeep.” He picks up a few of the papers on the desk and lets gravity return them to their natural disorder. “If you can handle crack addicts, you can handle anything—even tourists who expect Folegandros to have the five-star amenities of Cap D’Antibes. The cleanup is probably similar.”

  “But you already have a staff. Ugur.”

  Charlie laughs. “Ugur is the brain of boat repair, and I’m lucky to have him. But you’ve heard his English. No, Ugur doesn’t have the goods for upper management.”

  “What about Rasym? He’s a sailor, isn’t he?” I don’t know why I’m trying to talk Charlie out of his proposal. Maybe I simply want to know whom I’m cutting in front of.

  Charlie nods and reaches under the desk to retrieve a canvas tote bag. “Yeah, Rasym is competent on the water, no question. It’s his first August on Patmos since I opened the company, and he did hope to come on board. He doesn’t exactly do much besides errands for my uncle in Nicosia. But I want to keep the business out of the family. Rasym stopped by an hour ago. I told him I was going to offer you the job.”

  “No wonder he didn’t look too pleased when I passed him on the road.”

  “He’ll be fine. He doesn’t warm instantly to outsiders. It’s the Turkish side of his Cypriot. Invaders don’t appreciate other invaders.”

  Support. Development. I’m only dimly aware that Charlie’s company involves sending rich vacationers into the Aegean on refurbished vessels. The ports I can name are Athens, Patmos, Turkey, a few other Greek islands like Folegandros. I speak the global language of English, not the insider tongues that pull the tighter strings.

  “It’s kind of you, Charlie, really, but—”

  “But what?” He stares at me as if he’s tucked a check in my palm and I’ve dropped it at his feet. “I need you,” he wails. “Do you know why? Because I can trust you. That’s worth more to me than any nautical competence or five years handling invoices. I’ve had workers before, people I assumed I could trust, but they stole from me. Right out of the safe.” He nods to the photograph of Domitian above my head. “It’s nearly impossible to find someone you can trust, and we already have that. We’re like brothers, aren’t we? Better than brothers. We’re not fighting
over an inheritance like every scrap is a piece of our father’s heart.”

  Charlie fishes his tobacco pouch and rolling papers from the tote bag and begins constructing one of his thin cigarettes. I pick up my queen and squeeze it. The game is over, but, like Charlie, I feel the need to busy my fingers.

  “Look,” he says, “there will be a lot to absorb and not all of it is pretty. Schedules and coordinates and dock reservations and even bribes.” He nods at the last inclusion. “The ancient rule of baksheesh. You have to grease a few hands in this part of the world to keep a business going. It’s just the way it is. And as much as I want this company to be my own, I had to call it Konstantinou Charters because the family name is worth something over here. My grandfather and father have been sailing the Aegean their whole lives. The locals value it. Every boat has a red K on the bow, a mark of safety and familiarity.”

  “Safety. Familiarity.” I remember Charlie’s own words about his family building the highways in the Middle East. “And intimidation.”

  He grins as he digs into the tote to locate a lighter. “Sure. The seas are still the Wild West sloshing up around the overpoliced borders. It’s good to have the threat of a little financial muscle behind you. The job isn’t saving poor kids, Ian. I can’t give you that. But I can give you a place in what I’ve got.”

  Konstantinou Charters. Sometimes I think the Bronx nonprofit We in Need only hired me because of my last name. They were willing to forgive my infamy once they learned my father was a top executive of an international conglomerate. When I had trouble rounding up donations, colleagues asked why my father didn’t fund a program. “I’ve seen your stepmom in the society photos of those fancy galas, why don’t you ask her to get involved?” Perhaps they fired me once they understood they were only getting one Bledsoe, the least powerful and most unappealing, as a member of their team. Haunted. That’s the right word for a last name, and saints are the only ones free of them. From here on out, I could just be Ian, two syllables, three letters, enough of an island on which to pitch a tent.