Ark by Charles McCarry Read Free Book Online

Henry decided to abandon the taciturnity that had been the most noticeable thing about him since he returned from the Hsi-tau. He began talking about the Event and the thousands of things that remained to be done to prepare for it. The discourse went on for some time—the ship, the crew, the cargo, the itinerary, the many subcategories under each of these headings, and the uncountable details attaching to each subcategory. I pretended to listen. I never wanted to meet another Garbo or another Amerigo or another engineer.
     
    While Henry went on about our epic to-do list, I fantasized about writing him a check for the money that remained in my checking account. Very little of the five hundred thousand dollars he had deposited had been spent. Only the week before I had received a royalty check that would keep me afloat for six months, so I could afford to return Henry’s half million and call it quits and just perish with everybody else.
     
    In the theater of my mind I wrote the check, smelled the ink, tasted the envelope flap.
     
    ~ * ~
     
     
     
     
    6
     
     
     
     
     
    I HID OUT LIKE A sick cat for a week. After that, the old boyfriend who had taken me to the depressing play and the trattoria phoned and asked me out again. We arranged to meet in a restaurant in Chelsea. I went down a couple of hours early so I could wander through the galleries by myself. In one place that displayed gargantuan paintings of galaxies, I noticed a man. He was around six feet tall, Roman nose, nice jawline, curly hair, body fat close to zero. Nothing he wore was new: a suede blazer over a black knit shirt, scarf, corduroy pants, scuffed loafers. We stood side by side, looking at the same picture.
     
    He said, “What do you think?”
     
    “I like it. But I don’t have a place to hang it.”
     
    The canvas was about twenty feet long and maybe twelve feet high.
     
    He said, “I’ve got the same problem.”
     
    He followed me to the next picture—same galaxy, bigger painting.
     
    He said, “Would you like to grab a drink?”
     
    I looked at my watch. I had ten minutes to get to the restaurant, which was about fifteen minutes away.
     
    He said in a flatter voice, “You’ve got to go.”
     
    I nodded.
     
    He smiled with just the right amount of regret. “Nice talking to you. I hope you find a bigger place.”
     
    “What?”
     
    “I said I hope you find a bigger apartment,” he said. “So you can buy the picture.”
     
    At the restaurant, another trattoria, the old boyfriend was seated at a table with another couple. The woman was a pretty, bosomy blonde, a lot younger than her husband. She wore a wedding ring and a large diamond engagement ring. She told me that my date and the husband had gone to Colgate together. They played varsity lacrosse and almost won the championship in their senior year. She was from Wisconsin. There was an empty chair at the table. Was another Colgate chum on his way?
     
    The wife confided that she was a new wife. Her husband was wonderful in every way, but his three teenage kids came to stay with them every other weekend and on alternate Wednesday nights. They made it obvious—she described exactly how they did this— that they wished she had remained in Wisconsin, or better yet, been killed in a plane crash on her way to New York. Her eyes filled with tears. I said, “There, there.” We retired to the ladies’ room.
     
    By the time we returned to the table, the extra chair was occupied. The newcomer was the man I had met in the art gallery half an hour before. My friend introduced him to the wife, whom he greeted with grave formality, gazing into her eyes as if forbidden by some code of chivalry to look at any other part of her wondrous person. He gave no sign that he recognized me.
     
    His name was Adam.
     
    “Adam is a big fan of your books,” the old boyfriend said. “When he found out I knew you he gave me no peace until I said I’d introduce him.”
     
    “How