In the Salon Régence, paneled walls, a blue-and-gold carpet, a marble bust, sparkling crystal, silver, and a centerpiece of white and purple flowers in profusion upon a gold damask tablecloth were lit to gleam and effulge in waterfalls of luxury. The curtains were a deep indigo that Jules had seen once before, when he was playing in a string quartet at the French Embassy in Rome, and a similarly deep-sky-colored cloth had floated in as the gown that embraced the athletic body of a young Italian principessa. Though Jules had dropped a couple of notes at the sight of her, no one but the musicians had noticed.
The purpose of this room was to make anyone in it think he had arrived, or to assure someone who was already there that he hadn’t left. If only briefly, it imparted as if by magic a powerful sense of well-being. The staff in such a place knew exactly when to appear and when to serve. Out of nowhere, one of them, clad in a morning coat, came over as silently as a mantis and filled two tumblers halfway with fifty-year-old Glenfiddich. At 2,000 Euros a bottle, it was something Jules hesitated actually to drink even though Jack wolfed his down as if it were a Dr Pepper.
“Ha!” Jack said. Having observed that Jules was aware of all the money vacuumed out of Acorn’s treasury as standard operating procedure, he wanted to counter the impression that he would be an easy mark. “You know that kid Mason Reese?” he asked.
Jules shook his head to communicate that he didn’t. Naturally he didn’t, and, besides, Jules’ English was entirely formal, and he thought Jack was referring to a goat.
“No kid in the world looked like this. He was a grown-up kid, but he looked like a baby.”
This seemed reasonable to Jules. A chevre could look like a chevreau, but, still, he had no idea what Jack was talking about.
“In fact, at the time the kid was most famous, our Chairman had recently had his own son. So Rich says to me – that’s our chairman ….”
“Yes, I know.”
“He says, ‘On the retail end, we sell insurance to families. Do our commercials appeal to families? No. What the hell does an eagle have to do with families? We’ve got an acorn and an eagle. Great, but we’re not recruiting for the Marines.’”
“Eagles sometimes carry away kids,” Jules said.
This made Jack hesitate. “Well, yeah, I guess so.”
“And eat them.”
Jack pulled back.
“The meat is very tender.”
Completely at a loss, Jack resumed. “Anyway, Rich says, ‘get that kid Mason Reese. No one could ever forget his face. It’s one in a trillion.’
“‘But, Rich,’ I say, ‘he’s probably fifty by now.’”
Quite relaxed by the Glenfiddich, Jules felt a little like a tycoon. “They don’t get to be that old,” he offered. “It’s impossible.”
Jack looked at him in amazement. “What’s the average life expectancy, in France?”
Jules, who still thought they were talking about goats, said, “That’s not something I know. I would guess maybe twelve or fifteen years.”
“No,” said Jack. “We have actuaries. It’s our business. You’re wildly wrong.”
“You know?”
“I would imagine it’s at least eighty.”
“Maybe in America,” Jules said, “but not here. Even if they could live that long, the meat would be much too tough.”
“So you write music?” Jack asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. That’s what I do.”
Jack took another drink and continued his story. “We got a kid, a really great-looking one – red hair, blue eyes.”
“Really. I’ve never heard of that.”
“Yeah. His mother was gorgeous, too. That helped. We put them in commercials: sitting around, eating dinner, on a roller coaster.”
“On a roller coaster,” Jules echoed.
“Uh huh, it was a huge hit. It said, ‘Protect your loved ones.’ And we made out like bandits, but then, through his agent, the kid tried to milk us.”
“He tried to milk you? And he was a he?”
“Yeah,” Jack said, looking suspiciously at Jules. “I don’t quite understand you, but, anyway, he knew how much money we were making and how successful the commercials were. We were willing to get milked a little, but he wanted the moon. Rich called him in.
“‘You can’t get rid of the kid,’ the agent says. ‘He’s too young to go to college. What are you going to say if suddenly he’s offscreen? He left his family to open a surf shop in La Jolla? He went up the river to Sing Sing?’
“‘We’ll get another kid,’ Rich says.
“‘Good luck. Nobody looks like this kid. It’s like Mason Reese.’”
“So what did you do?” Jules asked, completely confused.
“What else? Rich threw him out of the office. He hires another kid who doesn’t look anything like the first one, and wraps him up in bandages like the Invisible Man. No announcement is made, no explanation, nothing. Do you know what a sensation that caused? And how that put our name on the lips of everyone in America? That’s what’s great about Rich. He’s really tough, he’s daring. He’s unorthodox. And that’s what’s great about America. Look at Hollywood. A zillion-billion-dollar industry – well, not really, it’s extremely small compared to us – built on a mile-high pyramid of jiggling bosoms, dead bodies, exploding cars, and all kinds of other crap. It makes no sense at all, and yet people crave it like heroin. Can you beat that?”
“No, and I don’t know what’s wrong with us in France. We still tolerate drama.”
“Yeah,” said Jack. “Europeans are like that. I don’t know if it’s good or bad.”
The menus had appeared before them as if placed by magic. They opened them in perfect synchrony and studied them. Because he couldn’t imagine that he would be hired by such people, Jules was content to enjoy the dinner and see what would happen.
Jack, on the other hand, furrowed his brows until he looked like a high school student in a calculus exam. “What’s this?” he asked, shoving the menu to Jules.
“Paté chaud de Bécasse à la Périgourdine. It’s a paté of woodcock bird with bacon, truffles, foie gras, and toast.”
“Woodcock bird. Is it good?”
“I have no idea: I’ve never had it. I’m going to have a steak.”
“Oh,” said Jack. “I think I will, too.”
It didn’t take long for the food to arrive, and after Jack inhaled his steak, he said, quoting Hemingway, “It was good.” And it put them in good spirits, as the other spirits had already. And they were pleased.
“So, Jack, are you here just to arrange for a theme?”
“Oh God no. I came to see Hollande. It’s funny that your president has the same name as the country almost next door, as if we had a President Canada, or Mexico, or Honduras. Not so strange I guess. You know who Grover Cleveland was?”
“Yes, I do.”