Meeting with this reporter in his observatory at Civic Planetarium on Wednesday, Zarnik explained that while the planet cannot be seen, its existence is deduced from its movement, which in turn is calculated from its measurable effect upon the polar wobble of Pluto as well as perturbations (disturbances) in the gravitational fields of both Neptune and Pluto.
To track the movement of the new planet, data are collected from both satellite-borne and earthbound antennae, then systematically compared in real time to produce a “live” image on a computer monitor. In the television picture, planet Zarnik appears as a pink speck in the black cosmos, traveling along a giant elliptical path, an estimated distance of 7 billion miles from the sun. The video demonstration was exhibited to this writer and a colleague on Friday, during a brief period described by Zarnik as an “astronomical oculus.”
The methods employed in Dr. Zarnik’s research are unprecedented in radio astronomy. How much computer power is required to accomplish this near-magical feat? “Pfroobst,” replied Zarnik, lapsing into his native dialect, “I do not know. The computers were installed in phases, designed as an open-ended variable.”
Zarnik came to Chicago via Switzerland less than a month ago with help from the State Department, and his revolutionary methods have drawn recent interest from the Pentagon. The source of the funding that backs Zarnik’s research project was not determined at press time.
Saturday, June 26
“WHAT THE HELL is this?” snorts Neil, flopping the late-Saturday edition of Sunday’s paper onto the kitchen counter next to Manning, who turns from the last-minute clutter he’s washing in the sink. Neil has been out to get a few forgotten items needed for tonight’s party. He begins unloading them from a supermarket bag. “You told me Zarnik was a quack. I thought you’d rake him over the coals. Instead, you’ve sent him a valentine.”
Manning turns off the water. “I need a little time,” he tells Neil, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “I’m buying time.”
Neil stacks several cans of Sterno and turns to face Manning. His accusing tone is softened by its underlying jest. “Is that fair to your readers, Mr. Ethical?”
Aware that Neil has targeted the core issue, Manning tells him, “I had to print something, and I don’t yet have sufficient facts to tell the whole story, the real story. I hope the public’s ‘right to know’ will ultimately be better served by my temporary willingness to play along with Zarnik. It was a tough call—one I’m not entirely comfortable with—but the decision’s made, so I have to run with it.”
“How?” asks Neil, folding the paper bag.
Manning stows the newly washed utensils in a drawer. “I’m not sure. That’s why I invited Zarnik here tonight. Till now, I’ve met him only on his own turf, in his lab, where he’s secure in his act. This’ll be different.” He looks out from the kitchen into the main space of the loft. “This is our territory, which may allow me to catch him off-guard. With any luck, he might enjoy a drink or two. Maybe he’ll let something slip.”
“Shame on you,” says Neil, mocking disapproval, “getting that kindly old man liquored-up—a foreigner, no less—so you can have your way with him.”
“Don’t forget,” says Manning, “that ‘kindly old man’ is a liar to the core who had an ax to grind with Cliff Nolan. What’s more, he’s no foreigner.”
“Regardless of what he isn’t, I know what he is.” Neil steps across the kitchen aisle and drapes his forearms over Manning’s shoulders. “He’s a celebrity, at least for now, till you blow his cover. He’ll add a certain—what … cachet? star quality?—to our big evening. Thanks for snagging him.” Neil gives Manning a genial peck on the lips.
“You’re welcome.” Manning pecks back. “But you’re center stage tonight, kiddo. We’re unveiling our new home. It’s a showcase of your talents, and I couldn’t be prouder.” Manning pulls Neil tight, and their casual embrace turns serious. As their lips press together, Manning’s passions rise, but his thoughts of impromptu lovemaking are dashed by the door buzzer.
“Curses,” says Neil, “foiled again.” He gives Manning’s crotch a gentle squeeze, then reacts to what he finds there. “Good heavens—save that thought.”
“Count on it,” Manning tells him, pulling him close for a last hug.
Neil glances toward the door. “That should be the caterers. You go put yourself together. I need to review some details with the boys from Happy Happenings.”
“Don’t forget to tell them about the peanut butter.”
“Yes, Mark.” Neil rolls his eyes—Manning’s plot to bait Zarnik with peanut butter seems far-fetched at best.
Manning gives him a thumbs-up, then crosses to the far end of the loft and climbs an open stairway that leads to their sleeping area and the bath beyond.
Neil buzzes open the lobby lock. A minute later, a crew of buffed young men files through the door bearing an array of chafing dishes, cooler chests, and racks of glassware. Their white polo shirts sport the Happy Happenings logo. Their uniforms are finished off with baggy tan shorts and black combat boots with an inch of white socks protruding from the tops. The procession winds its way toward the kitchen, punctuated by laughter, hoots, and occasional shrieks that belie the paramilitary look of its ranks.
“Hi there, hon,” one of them calls to Neil. He’s older than the others and far from lean. It’s the boss.
“Hello, Henry,” says Neil. “Your troops are looking better than ever. Where do you find these guys?”
“Hah!” says Henry with a toss of his head. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” He shoos a couple of straggling beauties from the hall toward their clones in the kitchen.
Upstairs in the bathroom, Manning steps from the shower—no molded plastic stall, but a room in itself, tiled with black Carrara glass—and pauses while toweling himself dry. The man reflected in a wall-high mirror looks back at him, then winks. In spite of the sobering events of this past week, the man in the mirror seems pleased with life, pleased with himself.
Though not at all religious—Manning lost the faith when he was twenty-something—he feels moved at this unlikely moment to count his blessings. He’s healthy. He’s attractive, not only for a man in his middle years, but judged against any standard. These thoughts make him wonder, Am I that vain? Narcissistic? Maybe. But objective. If I refuse to delude myself with denial of my foibles, denial of reality, why should I deny my own virtues?
Virtue—funny word for a physical trait, a blessing. Blessing—funny word for dumb luck. Amazing how the God-folk have managed to claim a lexicon of their own, restricting a rational society in the use of its native tongue.
Manning recognizes that he enjoys other blessings that are not the booty of luck, but the reward of his own efforts. The success of his career is the most obvious of these blessings, attested to by the respect of his peers and the growth of his readership. With it has come material blessings—the marble-floored bath is a good example. The car. The comfortable lifestyle. What he wants, he buys.
His affluence, he knows, is not entirely the result of his reporting skills and his Journal paycheck. There was the cash reward for his work on that high-profile missing-person case—but he “earned” that, didn’t he? There was the inheritance from his uncle in Wisconsin—okay, that was dumb luck. And there has been the pooling of resources with Neil, an architect with a thriving career of his own.
Ah yes, Neil—the greatest of Manning’s blessings. Did he earn such a gift? Was it chance? How can he account for the affections of another human being, for the melding of two minds, for their mutual past and their planned future, for the proprietary right they have granted each other to share their bodies in bed, or after a run, or whenever they feel the spark. How can he account for love?
It was luck. He might never have met Neil, who turned out to be the right man at the right time. But Manning also earned their love. He willed it. The accumulated frustrations of his heterosexual life before Neil, while disturbing, were not sufficient to
nudge him into the arms of the first willing man who came along. Manning’s frustrations were accompanied by the emotional baggage of a lifetime, by definitions he had set for and of himself, by a gut-deep fear of queer and faggot and all those other labels. There were mind-dragons to fight, demons to conquer before he could banish uncertainty and redefine himself. But he did it. And he has never looked back.
The man in the mirror has an erection. Manning laughs, wraps the towel around his waist, and works his fingers through his hair, deciding that a wind-tossed look will suit the evening’s festivities better than his usual comb-and-brush style. He says to his reflection, “Lots of blessings, ample sunshine. No clouds on the horizon?”
The man in the mirror frowns. What about the clouds of his dreams? The pretty pink clouds of planet Zarnik are not what they seem. Their playful tendrils are wisps of unknown gases that might sear the lungs if swallowed. Caution. Manning reminds himself that tonight’s celebration will be tempered by the arrival of a mystery guest, the man who claims to be Pavo Zarnik. And there is still the great looming question of Cliff Nolan’s murder.
“What’s wrong?” asks Neil, reacting to Manning’s frown as he enters the bathroom. Ready for his own shower, he wears only lounge shorts. “A Happy Happening is in the works—and Henry has assembled a crew of first-class eye candy.”
Manning smiles. Hugging Neil, he tells him, “You’re all the eye candy I’ll ever need. I’m a lucky man—who just happens to be momentarily put-off by his work.”
Neil peers at him. “Don’t let this get to you, Mark, at least not tonight.”
“Nope,” says Manning, tracing his thumbs along Neil’s pectorals, “tonight’s a celebration. If I happen to glean a stray tidbit from Zarnik, all the better.” He crooks his head to lick one of Neil’s nipples, then kisses the other.
Neil says into his ear, “Get dressed. Our guests are due. But save that thought.”
A few minutes later, Manning stands in the dressing area of the balcony, deciding on an outfit for the evening. Pleated khaki slacks—no surprise, though these are gabardine, a dressier version of the twill variety he always wears to the office, an easy decision. But the top half vexes him. Jacket and tie? That’s what he’d normally wear, but Neil won’t, not at home—too stuffy. Then he thinks, Why not try a T-shirt with a vest? He’s seen younger guys wear such outfits. Hell, why not?
“That looks great,” says Neil, padding out from the bath.
“Think so?” asks Manning, needing reassurance. “I’m not … too old for it?”
“Hardly,” says Neil. “You’ll be the hottest man in the room.”
“What about the catering boys?” Manning asks.
Neil pauses. “They don’t count. They’re paid to be here.”
A few minutes later, Neil is dressed, and he and Manning head downstairs to await their first arrival. As they cross the main room toward the kitchen, a voice from behind asks, “Can I get you guys a drink?” Manning turns to find one of the Happy Happenings waiters standing there with a tray. He wears an engraved plastic name tag, Justin, not on his shirt, but below his belt, on his hip. Neil was right—this kid’s a knockout. “Something before your guests arrive?”
Manning and Neil eye each other with a look that asks, Should we? Neil tells the waiter, “We’ll both have vodka on the rocks—the Japanese brand—with a twist of orange, just the peel.”
Manning nods his agreement and watches the waiter strut away to fill their order. The knotty muscles of Justin’s calves bulge from the top of his boots.
Music is playing now, and it sounds great—a familiar, nameless cocktail tune—but there’s some sort of commotion in the kitchen. “I’d better keep an eye on things,” says Neil, following Justin.
Manning stands alone in the center of the room, telling himself that all is ready, that he looks just fine—when the buzzer yelps, shattering his fragile confidence. He looks about, wondering who’ll answer the door, then realizes that the task has fallen to him. He assumes that all the staff has arrived, that whoever has buzzed must be the first guest. Manning swallows, crosses to the door, and swings it open.
“Happy new home, gorgeous!” says Daryl, flinging his arms around Manning for a full-body hug. A herd of other copy kids and Journal interns piles in behind him—the party has begun.
Justin nudges through the crowd with his little silver tray balanced overhead on the prongs of his fingertips. “Your cocktail, Mr. Manning.”
“Thank you.” Manning takes the drink—needing it—having managed to disentangle himself from Daryl, who now stares at the waiter with wide, unbelieving eyes, like a lucky cat who has stumbled upon a fat, fated mouse.
Justin asks the guests, “What can I get you?”
“Honey,” says Daryl, brushing up next to him, “you’ve got it all backwards. What can I do for you?” In the same breath, he has his arm around Justin’s shoulder and walks him away from the group to explore the loft.
Manning takes a gulp of the vodka. “Come on in, gang.” With a shrug, he tells them, “There’s plenty more where that came from,” knowing, as the words leave his lips, how insipid they sound. He’s certain he’s blown it—doomed the whole evening by his lack of social finesse.
But his young guests aren’t fazed. Indeed, they laugh at his comment as if hearing it newly coined. They gape and coo at the artful transformation of the loft, wishing him happiness amid interjections of “Congrats” and “Way cool.” Their enthusiasm, he can tell, is genuine, and he wants to share it with Neil, whose creativity has shaped these surroundings. As if summoned by Manning’s thoughts, Neil appears.
Manning asks him, “You know everyone, don’t you? We were just singing your praises.”
The arrivals number about a dozen, college-age or so, both men and women. Neil has met most of them at previous gatherings or in the city room of the Journal, where he sometimes meets Manning for a lunch date.
While newsroom attire is generally conservative, the trend toward the casual has been evinced even there, especially by these journalists in training. A copyboy can wear jeans to the office without thinking twice, but he knows instinctively that tank tops are beyond the limit. Tonight is different, though—it’s a party. And while it’s hosted by the paper’s star reporter, there’s a general consensus that he and Neil are “totally rad,” so these guests have dressed as they please.
It’s been a hot week in the city, and the younger crowd has responded by baring some flesh. Some of the girls wear tube tops with skirts that remind Manning of his youth in the liberated sixties. Some of the guys wear shorts and sandals. One of them wears a vest—like Manning’s—but without a T-shirt underneath, displaying shifting glimpses of his tanned torso. He also shows a tattoo, and he’s not the only one.
This is a trend that Manning has noticed, bewildered. No longer the blue-collar insignia that were once limited to anchors, eagles, or hearts with ribbons bearing Mother or the name of an erstwhile gal, these new tattoos are much smaller, worn by well-educated youngsters of both sexes in unexpected places—on the ankle, for instance, or the shoulder blade, or God-knows-where. They are tributes neither to patriotism nor to love, but to beer brands, cartoon characters, and pop-music fads.
It’s another sign of growing older, Manning tells himself, when you can’t figure out why kids do what they do. Try to keep an open mind.
Neil says, “Hey, guys, the bar’s in the kitchen. Have fun.” And they will. They pass around Neil, offering pats on the back, making a beeline for the booze. Neil tells Manning, “That’s what I like about youth. Aside from their obvious visual charms, they’re so easily amused.”
Again the buzzer. “Your turn,” says Manning, sweeping his hand from Neil toward the door.
Neil opens it, and in steps David Bosch with his two out-of-town guests. David wears an outfit similar to the uniforms of the catering staff, but with preppy loafers instead of boots. His shorts and knit shirt confirm that a fantasy body has lurked all along be
neath his office attire. Neil gives Manning a private Groucho-twitch of his eyebrows, a silent allusion to David’s “obvious visual charms.”
Pink clouds. Manning realizes that his earlier tally of clouds on the horizon failed to include David, whose newly revealed doting is a sticky, unexpected development.
“Hi, David,” says Neil, shaking his hand. “Welcome to our humble home.”
“Awesome,” says David, who then cringes at the word. Then he turns to his older companions for a round of introductions. The woman is fifty-something, fashionable and handsome, not quite pretty; she wears tailored slacks and a vibrant red silk blouse. The man is in his sixties, balding, slim, and dapper; he wears a dark silk suit, lightened for the occasion by a jaunty yellow necktie with matching pocket handkerchief.
David says, “Claire and Hector, I’d like you to meet Mark Manning of the Journal.” David beams with pride, then adds sheepishly, “I don’t have to tell you—Mark’s the best in the business.”
Manning rolls his eyes, saying, “David, please. …”
David continues. “And this is Mark’s friend, Neil Waite, an architect who’s involved with the planning of Celebration Two Thousand.” Then turning to Neil and Manning, David says, “Gentlemen, please meet Claire Gray and my uncle, Hector Bosch.”
They all shake hands, honored to know one another. Manning concludes by telling David’s guests, “Welcome to Chicago. We’re delighted to have you in town.”
Claire tells him, “The theater committee was kind enough to invite us for the opening ceremonies during Fourth of July weekend. We were thrilled to be asked.”
Hector says, “And since I’ve spent no time whatever with my favorite nephew (my one and only, actually) since his earlier salad days in college, this trip provides me a perfect opportunity to scrutinize his new life among the Second City’s fourth estate. So I’m prepared to be impressed, Mr. Manning. Naturally, I’ll be filing reviews of the theater festival.”
Eye Contact Page 8
