“Let’s meet,” Charles Delacroix said finally. “I don’t have an office other than at home, and it would appear that you’re keeping this information from your boyfriend, my son, so…”
We agreed to meet at my apartment. Although I’d met with Charles Delacroix many times and under far more trying circumstances, I was still nervous. I took a while deciding what to wear. I didn’t want to look like a schoolgirl, but I also didn’t want to look like a little girl playing dress-up. I finally picked a pair of gray pants that might have been Daddy’s though I couldn’t say for certain and a black tank top that Scarlet had left at some point. The pants were too big so I belted them below the waistband. I looked at myself in the mirror behind the door and concluded that the outfit was silly. The doorbell rang—too late to change.
I invited Mr. Delacroix into our living room. He still hadn’t shaved, but it looked like his beard might have been trimmed.
“Tell me about your plan.” Charles Delacroix sat down on the couch and crossed his legs.
“You, um, already know the basic idea. I’ve done a little research since then.” I turned on my slate. I had made notes there, but as I scanned them, they looked less thorough than I had thought they would. “So, you’ll obviously know that the Rimbaud Act of 2055 banned cacao and specifically choc—”
“I can remember when it happened, Anya. I was a little younger than you and Win are now.”
“Right. But, well, the law was designed to stop the food companies from producing chocolate. Most cities, including this one, still allow the sale of pure cacao in small quantities as long as it’s for medicinal purposes. I guess this includes beauty products but it can also include anything health-related. So, what I thought is, I could start with a small store, less than five hundred square feet, maybe somewhere uptown, so that I wouldn’t compete with Fats. I’d hire a doctor, and a waitress, and I’d sell medicinal health drinks, made from cacao and chocolate. But where it would be different from Fats is that everything would be in the open. I wouldn’t have to be underground.”
“Hmm,” he replied. “It’s clever, as I already told you, but you’re thinking too small.”
I asked him what he meant.
“I’ve worked in government a very long time. Do you know the way to get the city to leave you alone? Be the biggest business out there. Be an elephant right smack in the middle of Midtown. Be popular. Give the people a product they want, and the whole city will be on your side. They’ll be grateful to you for making legal what they thought should never have been illegal in the first place.” He paused. “Also, medicinal cacao dispensary has no ring to it. People won’t even know what you’re talking about. Hire your doctors and your nutritionists, but you need to make the whole enterprise sound sexy.”
I considered his words. “What you’re describing could cost a lot of money.” I had Natty and Leo to think of.
“True, though it could also make you a lot of money. And as for the space, that’ll be cheap as the city has more mammoth abandoned spaces than it knows what to do with. How do you think those criminals who run Little Egypt manage it? You should have dancing, too, by the way.”
“Dancing? Are you saying I should open a nightclub?”
“Well, that makes it sound tawdry. How about a lounge? Or just a club. I’m thinking out loud here. If it were a club, all the members would need to have prescriptions before they could join. It would be a requirement of membership. Yes, then you wouldn’t even need the doctors on-site.”
“Those are, um, interesting ideas. You’ve certainly given me a lot to consider.”
Charles Delacroix didn’t say anything for a while. “I’ve been thinking about this ever since you called me and I want to help you do this. Because I respect you, I’m going to be completely candid about why I want to help. It isn’t because I like chocolate or you, although I do. The fact of the matter is, I’m a failure right now. However, if I give chocolate back to the people, I’ll be a hero. What better platform for me to run for DA or even some other, higher office?”
I nodded.
“So, why do you want me to help you?” Charles Delacroix asked.
“Don’t you already know? You always know everything.”
“Humor me.”
“Because you have a reputation for being ethical and always on the side of the good, and if you say this is legal, people will believe you. What I learned during those months I was away is how much I don’t want to spend my whole life in hiding, Mr. Delacroix.”
“Fine,” he said. “That makes sense.” He offered me his hand to shake and then he pulled it back. “Before we agree on this venture, I need you to know something. I don’t think anyone knows what I’m about to say, but if it came out later, I don’t want you to be shocked—I poisoned you last fall.” He said this as if he’d been asking me to pass the sugar.
“Excuse me?”
“I poisoned you last fall but I don’t see this as any reason we shouldn’t work together. I assure you I had perfectly good intentions, and you were never in any real danger. Perhaps it was wrongheaded of me but I wanted to get you out of the girls’ dormitory at Liberty and into the infirmary, a venue that I believed you would find more accommodating to escape.”
“How?” I sputtered.
“The water I gave you when we had our discussion in the Cellar was spiked with a substance that can emulate a heart attack.”
Though I was surprised, I was less shocked than you might have thought. I looked at him. “You’re ruthless.”
“Only a bit. I’ll be the same way for you.”
Had there been an official villain for my last two years on earth, it would have been Charles Delacroix. What had Daddy once said? “Games change, Anya, and so do players.” I offered this man my hand, and he shook it. We began to make a list of all the things we needed to do.
* * *
In the morning, I put Natty on a train bound for genius camp, and in the afternoon, Charles Delacroix called me. He said that although it might have been too early to be making such decisions and although this may have fallen outside of his purview, he’d become aware of a potential venue in Midtown. “Fortieth and Fifth,” he said.
“That’s right in the middle of town,” I said.
“I know,” he replied. “That’s the idea. I’ll meet you outside.”
Other than its capaciousness, the most notable feature of the exterior was the pair of graffiti-covered statues of reclining lions. “Oh, I know this place,” I said to him. “It used to be that nightclub the Lion’s Den. None of us ever liked to go there because it was awful and Little Egypt was closer.”
Charles Delacroix said that apparently it was awful enough that it had just closed for good.
We walked up a grand flight of steps, then through a set of columns. A Realtor met us inside. She was wearing a red suit and had a sickly-looking carnation tucked into her lapel. The Realtor looked at me dubiously. “This, the client? She looks like a kid.”
“Yes,” Charles Delacroix said. “This is Anya Balanchine.”
The Realtor started at my name. After a beat, she offered me her hand. “So, we can’t lease out the whole place on your budget, but we have this one room that might meet your needs.”
She led us up to the third floor. The room was about eighty feet wide and three hundred feet long and probably fifty feet high. Arched windows lined both sides of the space, so that the overall feeling was one of openness. The ceiling was vaulted, with dark wooden moldings. The part I liked best were the murals that had been painted on the ceiling: they were of blue skies and clouds. The effect of the room was such that it was like being outside while you were inside. I loved it immediately because it was private enough to accommodate my business, but it also said Chocolate can and should be sold in the open. It felt sacred to me, like being in church.
Much was in disrepair—broken panes of glass, holes in the plaster—but none of it seemed impossible to fix.
The Realtor said, �
�The old tenant had a kitchen just outside. And there’re bathrooms somewhere around here, too.”
I nodded. “What used to be here?”
“Lion’s Den. Some kind of club.” The Realtor made a face.
“Before that,” I specified. “What was the original purpose?”
The Realtor turned on her slate. “Um, let me see. It was a library, maybe? You know, paper books, something like that.” She wrinkled her nose as she said “paper books.” “So, what do you think?”
I wasn’t necessarily a believer in signs but the lion statues outside made me think of Leo, and paper books of Imogen, of course. I knew this was the place for me, but I wanted to get a good deal so I kept my face blank. “I’m going to sleep on it,” I said.
“Don’t wait too long. Someone might snap it up,” the Realtor warned.
“I doubt that,” Charles Delacroix said. “You can’t give these old ruins away. I used to be in government, you know.”
Charles Delacroix and I walked out into the sticky New York June.
“So?” he said.
“I like it,” I said.
“The location is good, and it has some kind of historical significance, for what that’s worth. But the main thing is the gesture of it—if you take a space, it becomes real to people, more than just an idea. I doubt you’ll have much competition for the lease.”
“I’m going to speak to Mr. Kipling,” I said. Mr. Kipling was managing my finances until August 12, when I turned eighteen. As yet, I had not felt any need to run my business plans past him.
Upon returning home, I slate-messaged Mr. Kipling that I needed to talk to him at his office. I had not seen him since Simon Green’s return.
When I arrived at his office, he greeted me warmly, and then he embraced me. “How are you? I was about to call. Look what came yesterday.”
He passed an envelope across the desk. It was my GED. I must have used my business address. “I didn’t know it would be paper,” I said.
“Important things still are,” Mr. Kipling said. “Congratulations, my dear!”
I took the envelope and slipped it into my pocket.
“Perhaps we could talk about your post-graduation plans?” Mr. Kipling cautiously suggested.
I told him that that had been exactly why I had come and then I described the business I planned to open and the space I wanted to rent in Midtown. “I’ll need you to arrange two payments for me. The first is a retainer for the business lawyer I’ve hired”—I purposely didn’t mention who the business lawyer was—“and the second as a deposit on the space I’d like to rent.”
Mr. Kipling listened carefully and then he said exactly what I’d feared he would say: “I’m not sure about any of this, Anya.” Although I didn’t ask him to, he began listing his objections: mainly that the idea could potentially anger the semya and that a business of any type was a financially risky venture. “A restaurant is a money pit, Anya.”
I told him it was a club, not a restaurant.
“Can you really say you know what you’re getting into?” he asked.
“Can anyone?” I paused. “You honestly don’t think this is a good idea?”
“Possibly. I don’t know. What I think is a really good idea is you going to college.”
I shook my head. “Mr. Kipling, you once told me that I would never escape chocolate so there was no point in hating it. That’s what I’m trying to do. I believe in this idea.”
Mr. Kipling didn’t say anything. Instead, he ran his fingers through his imaginary hair. “I may not be your lawyer anymore, but I am still the keeper of the trust, Anya.”
“In two months, I’ll be eighteen and I won’t need to ask your permission,” I reminded him.
Mr. Kipling looked at me. “Then I think you should wait two months. That’ll give you more time for research.”
I informed him that I had already drawn up a detailed business plan.
“Still, if it’s such a good idea, it’ll be good two months from now, too.”
Two months. I didn’t have two months. Who knew what the situation at Balanchine Chocolate would be two months from now? Who knew where I’d be? Now was the time. In my heart, I knew it.
“I could take you to court,” I said.
Mr. Kipling shook his head. “That would be foolish. You’d eat up money in legal fees, and it wouldn’t be settled by August anyway. If I were you, I’d wait.”
Mr. Kipling put his hand on my arm. I shook him off.
“I’m only doing this out of love,” he said.
“Love? That’s why you killed Nana, too, right?”
I left Mr. Kipling’s office, feeling despondent but also determined. I tried to come up with someone who could lend me the money I needed for the deposit on the lease. It was only five thousand dollars to hold on to the room, and I didn’t want to lose the space. I couldn’t think of anyone, or at least not anyone to whom I wished my brand-new business to be indebted. I thought of whether I had anything worth selling, but nothing was worth much in those days.
I was on the verge of despair when Mr. Kipling called me. “Anya, I know we’ve had our struggles this year, but I’ve thought about it. I’ll draft you the payments if that’s something you really want. You’re right when you say it’ll be your money in two months anyway. In the meantime, though, I want you to sign up for some extension school classes in business or law or restaurant management or medicine. That’s the price of me drafting these payments or any others.”
“Thank you, Mr. Kipling.” I gave him the name of the Realtor and the amount.
“You mentioned a business lawyer? Does this person have a name?”
“Charles Delacroix. I suppose you don’t need me to spell it.”
“Anya Pavlova Balanchine, have you lost your mind? You have to be kidding!”
I told him that I had thought about it, and for a variety of reasons, Charles Delacroix was the person who best met my needs.
“Well, it’s a very bold choice,” he said after a bit. “Certainly unexpected. Your father would probably approve. You’ll need to open a corporate account.”
“Mr. Delacroix said the same thing.”
“Of course, I’m glad to help you with that or anything else you need, Annie.”
On my way to the nightclub formerly known as the Lion’s Den, the place where I was meant to meet Charles Delacroix to sign the lease, I walked past St. Patrick’s Cathedral. I decided to go in to say a quick prayer.
It wasn’t that I was having doubts exactly. But I knew that once I signed that paper, everything would start to become real. I guess I thought it would be a good idea to ask for a blessing for my new venture.
I knelt down at the altar and bowed my head. I thanked God for the return of Leo and for keeping Natty safe. I thanked God that my legal problems were behind me. I thanked God for the time I’d spent in Mexico. I thanked God for my father, who had taught me so many things in the short time we had known each other. And I thanked God for my mother and Nana, too. I thanked God for Win because he had loved me even when I was pretty sure I was unlovable. I thanked God that I was Anya Balanchine and not some other girl. Because I, Anya, was made of pretty sturdy stuff, and God had never given me more than I could bear. And then, I thanked God for that, too.
I stood up. After depositing a small offering in the basket, I left the church, then went southward to sign the lease.
* * *
The second Friday in June, I decided to throw a small gathering at the new venue to tell my friends about what I’d be doing next year. Before I even invited anyone, I knew I would have to tell Win about his father’s involvement.
That summer, in an attempt to show that New York City wasn’t so awful, the mayor was screening ancient movies outside in Bryant Park. Win wanted to go, in the way rich, privileged people liked to do things that were potentially dangerous. I told him I’d come, but as was to be expected, I had my machete with me.
No one accosted us at the screening—
police presence had been fairly impressive for a recreational event. Still, I could barely pay attention to the movie because I kept thinking about what I had to tell Win.
On the walk home, Win was still talking about the movie. “That part where the girl rides the horse across the water? That was amazing. I want to do that.”
“Yeah,” I said.
Win looked at me. “Annie, were you watching at all?”
“I—I have something I need to tell you.” I told him about the business and the lease I had signed and finally the name of the lawyer I had hired. “I’m having a sort of party to kick the whole thing off next week. I’d really like it if you came.”
Win did not speak for an entire city block. “You don’t have to do this, Anya. Just because you signed a lease doesn’t mean you have to do this.”
“I do have to do this, Win. Don’t you see? It’s a way to redeem my father. It’s the way I could change things in the city. If I don’t do this, I’ll always be living in the dark.”
“You think you have to, but you don’t.” He grabbed my hand and turned me roughly toward him. “Do you have any idea how hard this is going to be?”
“Yes, I do. But I have to anyway, Win.”
“Why?” he said in a sharper voice than I had ever heard him use. “Your cousin took over Balanchine Chocolate. You are out!”
“I’ll never be out. I am my father’s daughter. And if I don’t do this, I will always regret it.”
“You are not your father’s daughter. I am not my father’s son.”
“I am, Win.” I told him that to deny this was to deny who I was at my core, that I could not change my name or my blood. He wasn’t listening, though.
“Why did you have to hire my father?” he asked in a quiet voice that was more frightening than his loud one had been.
I tried to explain but he just shook his head.
“I knew you were headstrong, but I never took you for a fool.”
“I have reasons, Win.”
Win cornered me against the wall. “I have been loyal to you. If you do this, I won’t be by your side. We can be friends, nothing more. I will go as far away from you as possible. I will not watch you destroy yourself.”
Because It Is My Blood Page 27
