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RéMY’S LEAVING THE KERCHEVAL household coincided with Ari’s being away from home more than ever before, traveling the country with his nephew and introducing him to clients and contacts. Gabriel sometimes studied in Ari’s vacant office, but more often than not he was off-premises too, at some library or other, or staying over at a friend’s house. The members of the 3:00 A.M. kitchen crew changed: Harriet would bake gingerbread while Margot, Mr. Bianchi, and Ms. Danilenko played a card game called “Marriage” and turned up the radio to obscure the sound of Tamar’s ear-splitting telephone rows with Kenzilea. Harriet scanned the internet for indications of what it was Ari did for a living. Nothing came up when she searched his name—for some reason the search engines eschewed their usual practice of referring to people with the same first name or people with the same surname when it couldn’t find anything on a person with that exact combination of first name and surname. Searching Ari’s name got Harriet literally zero search results—still does. It was the same with all the male Kerchevals, though traces of Tamar and Kenzilea abound. When Rémy started work for Ari’s company, it occurred to Harriet that she hadn’t searched the company name. She did so, and read her way through a lot of positive buzz. Clients fully recommended the company’s services without being at all clear about what it was the company had done or was doing for them. Well, who were the clients then? Those Harriet found any mention of were mainly notable for living off income inherited back in Victorian times. Members of online forums with usernames that matched some of those on Ari’s client list wrote about a two-way selection process: you solicited Ari’s services, but he only took you on if you met certain criteria of his. Margot was doubtful. Would people like this openly use their real names as usernames? They’d recently discovered that a Facebook friend of Harriet’s they’d both thought was a famous actress was in truth an anti-fan of that actress who dedicated about an hour of each day to posting unflattering paparazzi photos and insipid status updates based on her estimation of the famous actress’s inner life.
Harriet went to bed. Margot went to bed. Ms. Danilenko and Mr. Bianchi went to bed. Tamar reeled from closed door to closed door, crying and asking if Gabriel had come home. Gabriel . . . Gabriel . . . hello? Is anybody awake? Her hard-hearted housemates waited for her to realize she had work in the morning, and after one more journey around the house, she said, Five A.M.! and went to bed herself. Once she was certain the coast was clear, Harriet opened her bedroom door to go to Margot and found Margot already there on the landing. On the count of three they stated their interpretation of the search results on Ari’s company.
One—two—three—is Ari . . . a hit man?
If they’d known they’d be helping someone spend blood money, they would’ve just stayed in Druhá City.
A couple of days later, Ari came home, and Margot burst in on him while he was lunching at his office desk. She asked about his profession, and he laughed through a mouthful of salad and told her not to worry her pretty little head about it, in those actual words. Then he shuffled some papers and added that unless she had any other questions or concerns, he had to be getting on.
Margot and Harriet had already discussed what they would do in this eventuality, so Margot proceeded to go all nineteenth century on Ari. She spoke of largesse, unquiet conscience, and umbrellas of protection that must be retracted for the good of all. Ari’s appointment book was open on his desk, and Margot took advantage of her partial view to note that his next meeting was with Gabriel. His own son making appointments to see him . . .
How about speaking plainly, woman?
If you think you can keep me and my daughter around forever just because you want reminders of your own generosity—!
Suppose that’s exactly what I think—what then?
Well, it won’t do. We’re moving out.
Wonder who’ll be next, Ari said sadly. Maybe Tamar.
Margot told him she believed his big brother would always back him up.
That right? To be honest, I’d never really thought about it. But yes, good old Ambrose. Well . . . best of luck with it all. Call if you need anything.
And Margot did call. Not to make any requests, just to tell Ari things she thought he might like to hear about. He warned her that she should spend her time more constructively, but if a week went by and he hadn’t spoken to her, he’d phone and grumble about people who expected other people to wait around for their calls.
11
The Lees didn’t leave Whitby. They stayed in town, but . . . well, I’ll put it this way: For a year and a half, the view from Harriet’s bedroom window had been a cue to start her morning. She’d wake up, go to the window, and, unless the weather was very bad, she’d see Ambrose Kercheval pottering around his rock garden, tapping his rainbow-striped cane with an air of being about to launch into a Gene Kelly–style showstopper. She had not been unappreciative at the time, but she only really discovered just how splendid that view had been when she and Margot began living within their own means and the tiny window of their studio flat looked out onto a brick wall. The Lees’ new digs were the best they came across after asking an estate agent to show them all properties with “as little natural sunlight as possible.” Stating a budget was anathema to Margot Lee—she’d do anything, anything to avoid revealing that her funds were insufficient. It was like Ambrose and decision-making, only the contortions were more bizarre. Would Ambrose pretend to find sunlight deplorable so as to get out of having to make a decision? Come to think of it, maybe he would.
Given the parameters they’d searched within, the view from the studio flat was as to be expected. And as far as Harriet was concerned, the interior more than made up for it. She and Margot had said goodbye to their rental deposit, borrowed principles from the art of Kintsugi, and used metallic paint to augment the vein-like fissures that ran all along the walls of the flat. At one point during the painting process Harriet noticed that her mother was quietly sucking in a great deal of air through her mouth and letting an even greater amount of water out of her eyes. What to do? Harriet cleared her throat a few times, and Margot continued crying; then Harriet scratched her head with the handle of her paintbrush, a miserable scratch that only made her head itchier, and Harriet asked: Are you OK?
Yes, of course. Nothing’s really wrong. It’s just that here we are in this ugly room trying to make it nicer to live in, but we’re probably only making it even uglier. It’d be good if I could manage not to make such a mess of things, for once. Maybe next time. Anyway, what about you? Are you OK?