Leave Her Out

by Daniel Davidsohn

  Stella gestured to a large chair on the terrace. Mohe sat and she settled on a leather couch next to him. He took a moment to take in the Redwood Park forest surrounding them. Stella watched him. There was another thing about Mohe that she presumed to know, and that was his connection to nature. He was a Cheyenne before anything.

  “This place has a good vibe,” Mohe said, and then he looked at Stella.

  She was wearing black jeans, an expensive-looking cashmere sweater, and a long woolen jacket. Not a hint of hippie.

  “Why do you think I live here?” she said with a polite smile. Her serenity was another thing that Mohe didn’t expect. Right then he realized that he no longer knew whom he was dealing with.

  “So, what brings you here?” she asked bluntly.

  “Your father.”

  “Naturally. What happened?”

  “Nothing. Yet.”

  Stella nodded. She didn’t take her eyes off Mohe. “What do you need?” she asked.

  Mohe was quickly reconsidering the angle he’d had in mind before meeting Stella. The carefully orchestrated conversation was meant for the other Stella, not this one. Maybe what he had to say wasn’t going to be that hard after all.

  “I’m not here on behalf of your father.”

  “You’re not?”

  “Anthony doesn’t know I’m here.”

  Stella arched her eyebrows. “Walking with your own legs?”

  Mohe ignored the provocation. “You know your father’s will is still open.”

  “And you’re still the executor.”

  “There we are.”

  “I don’t need anything. Honestly.”

  “So you’ve been saying for the past twenty years.”

  “There’s a difference now. Then, I didn’t want his money because I was mad at him. Now, I simply don’t need it.”

  Mohe nodded toward the huge living room, visible through vast floor-to-ceiling windows. “I can see that. But there’s another thing you don’t know.” Mohe looked her in the eye as he said, “Tony’s sick.”

  If Stella felt anything, he couldn’t tell. She said nothing, just waited for him to clarify, which he did in the next moment. “He’s got a liver disease. We don’t know how serious it is.”

  “Well, find out. You’re his doctor.”

  “That’s the problem. He’s not listening to me.”

  Stella uncrossed her legs and bent forward, elbows leaning on her knees. Mohe had to be careful not to reveal how impressed he was with the woman in front of him.

  She said, “So, what you’re basically saying is, my father’s dying and he doesn’t know what to do with his money.”

  Mohe tilted his head sideways. “It’s not that simple. And I’m not here just to let you know. I’m here to ask you what you think should be done. Perhaps we should consider the options together.”

  “You’re asking me? Thinks are changing, aren’t they?”

  “Your father asked me what I thought should be done about his will, which is new—he never asks anything when he doesn’t already know the answer. So I’m asking you.”

  “What do you suggest we do?”

  Mohe sighed and looked her in the eye again. “Would meeting him be out of the question?”

  Stella smiled. “Not at all. I’d see my father anywhere and anytime he wants.”

  “You surprise me, Stella, I give you that.”

  “But it’s got to be him who asks me, Mohe. Not you. Like it or not, I do believe I have the high moral ground on this. If my father were crazy, I would go back with you right now and see him immediately. But that’s not the case. He must play his part.”

  “Can’t say you don’t have a point.”

  “Why? Last time you asked me to see my father I was, what, seventeen?”

  “Something like that. You gave me a hard time.”

  “Oh, it was fun to annoy you, as long as it got to my father. The truth is, Mohe, I spent the next ten years learning to accept who he was, and the following years waiting for you or him to call with a meeting in mind. I guess today is that day.”

  “So, you accept it?”

  “Have him call me and I’ll gladly run into his arms.”

  10

  GLASGOW, MONTANA

  Back at my unoriginal White House desk. Oddly, the more I sat at it, the less I liked it. It reminded me of my days at the White House, that constant weight of the people on my shoulders and in my mind.

  Every now and then, out of the blue, Vicky would ask me a philosophical question. I suspected she spent part of her time studying me, trying to find the perfect moment to be insolent. So she asked things and listened to whatever wisdom I had to offer. I knew she was trying to read my soul, see what was inside this old carcass.

  That day, the question was about the people. What did the people really mean to the likes of me? Just like that, in the middle of my breakfast. The truth was, I couldn’t offer an honest answer—didn’t have one—so I lied and told her what I thought she’d expect to hear from me. That the people mattered. She smiled and walked away, leaving me wondering.

  Of course the people mattered. They were part of the process of getting us into positions of power. But there was a reason why we separated them from us. Leaders in politics and businesses everywhere saw the people as a separate breed of humans. It wasn’t a cynical view, unfortunately—it was a realistic one. To us, at least.

  Invariably, every leader had a vision. That was what made us leaders in the first place. We somehow grasped life beyond what the common folk could understand. In the past, I was sure we’d had authentic leaders who truly worked for the greater good of the people. But we hadn’t experienced that kind of leadership in generations. It just wasn’t doable given how the system worked these days.

  I remembered when I interacted with the people at public occasions—campaigns and otherwise. I tried to please them. The smiling, the baby kissing, the handshakes—they had always been part of the ritual. Among the desperate or the excited ones, I knew that they needed me more than I needed them. Still, in the beginning, I did love the people. But in the end, when criticism replaced praise, I hated them.

  It’s probable that this hatred affected my capacity to see them for what they truly were. Experts lied when they said the people were lost. They were what they were, and they liked it. They understood their role in society and played it with genuine conviction. Deep down, they knew they didn’t have the will to grow, the desire to take full responsibility, and the generosity to give themselves to the cause of improving humanity. So they left it all in our hands. And what did we do? We took that responsibility.

  Few really wanted to make decisions about wars and somebody else’s fate, only the greedy and the presumptuous. True, the people had opinions, sometimes passionate and violent ones, but they weren’t emotionally equipped to take the greater risks. How could a common person decide what was best for millions of people? It was no ordinary task. The reality was brutal, and corrupt. That was where we came in.

  Call the people what you want—sheep, weak—it didn’t matter. On a daily basis, we leaders fed on them, and some even loved us for doing it. The consequence of this unreasonable worship was our complete lack of respect for them. Which, I suppose, made them and us equally guilty. The current systems of checks and balances across the globe were created by leaders, not the people. Hence the current state of the world.

  I believed that we were going to continue to eat the people alive, toy with them, sell them what we wanted, mess with their minds and health, and ultimately create a world in our own image. We would decide for the people on a scale they could not imagine. It scared me, but we were already doing it. I hoped I was wrong about the future, I really did. But if most people preferred distraction and narrow-mindedness instead of education and enlightenment, we would give them exactly what they wanted, because we had scruples only in the daylight, with people watching us. The rest of the time, we were modern politicians, and we had chosen darkne
ss.

  I tried to do something about it, believe me. But by the time I earned my seat at the White House, I had long been playing the continuity game, which was a job requirement for any serious candidate. When I was young, I was an idealist. I wanted change. Ironic that my daughter would grow up to want the same, and that would be what separated us. If I hated her for what she was, then I unequivocally hated myself for how I was at her age. Go figure. To think that the world was in the hands of people like me, so human, so mistaken… It was a vision of pure despair.

  “So, how do we transform the world?” Vicky said during one of our exchanges. I don’t remember my answer. In truth, the only way I knew to change the world was to go the distance. To do it Mahatma Gandhi style, Martin Luther King, Jr. style. They were humans and had flaws like everybody else, but they were a different species of human. They were of the giant kind. Their sacrifices catalyzed progress.

  I was no giant. My peers and I belonged to the pathetic kind.

  Now, this pathetic man had better start typing. The pearl for my daughter required attention.

  Marshall and Alberto arrived at the Port of Rio de Janeiro, which was the main gateway for African slaves brought to the Americas. From there, they traveled to São Paulo, where sugar plantations were well-developed, especially in the rich soil of the west.

  Alberto lived in a big house called casa grande, very similar to the Southern plantations in the United States. Marshall stayed in the big house, which had seven bedrooms. He soon became familiar with the dynamics of the property. The slave quarters were known as senzalas, and the sugarcane mill was known as engenho. His official job title was senhor de engenho, master of the sugar works. The position gave him complete control over all the land and the slaves of the plantation.

  The casa grande compound included a school, a chapel, the family cemetery, and a nursery. It was during his first week there that Marshall met Kesia, an outstandingly beautiful slave without a single mark on her body. Kesia was one of the very few who enjoyed the privilege of living inside the casa grande, but she paid the price. She was part of Alberto’s harem and, as such, was required to suffer his disgusting sexual habits.

  One such habit was offering Kesia to some of his most important visitors and business partners. Alberto offered Kesia to Marshall with the intention of making him feel more at home. When Marshall accepted the gift, Alberto made sure to advise him that Kesia was his favorite. It was meant to be a one-night-only pleasure, and so it was.

  Nine months later, I was born. They named me Isaac. I inherited the complexion of my mother, and later they would say that my chin resembled those of the Irish. That was probably a joke.

  A glass of port would be fine just now. I needed a break to counter the powerful effect that creating Isaac, even if only in the form of words, was having on me. This fantasy would never be properly explained to people. Maybe I was going too far creatively, but the story felt so real. Anyway, let them all rumble about my sanity. My imaginary world was no one else’s business. I would pretend that I didn’t care.

  Aromas drifting from the kitchen stirred up hunger. Mohe had called earlier and told me he wouldn’t be coming for dinner. Cheyenne business, he explained. So it was Vicky and me. I hoped she was in the mood for chatting. Loneliness was a tough thing. I never got used to it.

  Vicky had cooked a delicious coq au vin. We ate together whenever we found ourselves alone in the house, and today she was in the mood for a more elaborate dish. It was just as good as Anya’s. Funny, but Vicky reminded me of my wife in such a way that I felt completely at ease with her. I didn’t know if that was healthy. When Anya died and Vicky decided to follow me, I told her to stop calling me Mr. Morris or Mr. President. She easily made the transition to Anthony, and now, after a year in this house together, she even bossed me around like she was Anya. I enjoyed it when she did that. It brought a familiar texture to our relationship.

  We were on our third glass of port when I said, “Tell me, Vicky, have you been enjoying your life here in Glasgow? I mean, honestly, I think you must be bored to death.”

  “Not at all. I like it here. Small. Quiet. I go for a walk every day. I take care of you… Life’s good, Tony. No complaints.”

  “You’re some woman.”

  Vicky laughed. She had a beautiful smile. Her company warmed me.

  “I see your game, Vicky.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes. You avoid touching my wounds. That’s quite smart. You rarely mention Stella’s absence, and you ask very few personal questions. Why?”

  Vicky put her glass of port on a side table and crossed her arms. “Now we’re being open?”

  “You could say so.”

  “OK. Here’s why. I like being here. You’re like family to me, and I think you feel the same. You’ve had a roller coaster of a life—Jesus, you were President Morris—and I had the privilege to ride along. A mere server at first, then as Anya’s ears, and now here we are. I can’t complain.”

  “You know I’ll probably never leave Glasgow.”

  “I do.”

  “What about your dream? Weren’t you going to retire in Slovenia?”

  “Possibly. Would you come with me?”

  That was odd. I didn’t think she was serious. “Who knows?”

  “So, what’ve you been writing about?”

  “I bet you know.”

  Vicky stared at me and smiled. “I may have looked at it.”

  “Good. It’s supposed to be private, but since you’ve asked, do me a favor and make a copy of the new pages every time you see them on the pile next to my typewriter.”

  “No problem.”

  “Then take the copy with you next time you go for a walk. Hide it. Don’t even tell me where.”

  “Sounds exciting. But why?”

  “It’s a sort of insurance policy. For me. For Stella.”

  “Oh. Sure, Tony. Thanks for trusting me.”

  11

  ARCATA, CALIFORNIA

  The morning after her meeting with Mohe, Stella drove to her office in Arcata, a small and discreet property on 11th Street she’d bought years before. Inside, she found her new secretary in her own office, sitting at Stella’s desk and leaning over a pile of papers. Fernanda leapt up, her smile dazzling and her eyes feverish. Since the moment she’d set foot in the office, she’d been keen to create a good impression.

  “Found anything interesting?” Stella asked as she sat and hung her purse on the back of the chair.

  Fernanda walked around the desk and stood before her, arms crossed, beaming like she’d just found gold. “You know that IKEA chair I love?” she said.

  “Coffee’s fresh?”

  Obediently, Fernanda went to the sideboard, poured a cup of coffee from the jug, and brought it to Stella. Then she returned to the same position as before. Stella leaned back in her chair, sipped her coffee, and finally gave Fernanda the attention the young eco-warrior needed.

  “The ninety-nine-dollar chair?” Stella said.

  “Exactly. The one I want you to buy for me. My back aches, you know.”

  “Skip that part. You’re too young for backaches. And you need to exercise more.”

  “Yeah, whatever. Take a look at the pink file on your right.”

  “Sum it up for me.”

  “OK. They bought that exact same chair from a distributor. You know how much our dear client, The Nature Dweller, says they paid for each of the thirty units? Four hundred and twenty bucks for each chair.”

  Fernanda waited for Stella’s reaction. She was yet to witness any alteration in her boss’s temperament.

  Stella finished her coffee and said, “I’ll have a look at it.”

  It took a few seconds for Fernanda to turn and walk away, full of frustration. How could Stella keep her cool?

  “Please close the door on your way out,” Stella called.

  Fernanda did, but not before yelling, “They’re crooks!”

  Stella sighed and started t
o read the contents of the thick pink file on her desk. The Nature Dweller was an international organization and one of the top NGOs in the country, with a yearly income nearing $2 billion. It had prominent names on its board of directors, including a royal from Europe and two former US senators. Like most NGOs, its operations depended on the collective public trust. But as it grew in size in its more than three decades of operating, The Nature Dweller became less transparent and accountable, and it was constantly adapting its practices to take advantage of weak regulatory structures in overseas countries.

  When rumors of dodgy accounting started to show up in the press, Loretta Johnson, an old lady from Nevada whose husband died and left $12 million to The Nature Dweller at her request, felt that it was time to look into the matter. Having nothing better to do other than spend her time and money gambling in Vegas, Loretta decided to sue TND when the organization refused to be more open about the exact destination of her husband’s millions.

  Stella had been lawyering for several NGOs, including TND, and she had no business looking into their accounting. But when they refused to show her their numbers the first time she requested it, Stella made it a question of honor to have access. They only agreed to show their books after much insistence. She was, after all, their lawyer.

  Loretta Johnson was a rich lady with plenty of time to seek new kinds of thrills, just like the case was promising to offer. Stella’s role in defending TND was extremely important and sensitive. If they lost this case, it could set off a terrible domino effect that would damage their reputation. Because there was so much more to be uncovered.

  Stella had been looking deep into their guts for months. Fernanda was new in the office and didn’t have the whole picture, but Stella did. The truth was, the overpriced IKEA chair in their books was just a drop in the ocean. What Stella already knew at that point was that TND had been committing fraud and lying to its donors and the public for years. By her account, almost 40 percent of all their income had been used for non-legitimate purposes. When crooks ran an NGO, the environment was an almost untouchable excuse. The case was promising to cause a scandal with unpredictable repercussions.