Paul Preuss - Secret Passages.pdf - Paul Preuss - margozap

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Paul Preuss

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t the edge of a high terrace, under a grape arbor supported on slender columns, two

men sat watching the autumn twilight. Below them the lights of Athens rippled in

the thick-ening haze; the shadow of the Acropolis rose like a stone ship on a

phosphorescent sea.

“The fellow was competent enough, occasionally creative,” said the taller man.

Manolis Minakis poured brandy into bal-loon glasses and slid one across the marble

tabletop. “It wasn’t a complete waste of time.”

“You said the same thing about Ostrovsky when you gave him the sack.”

Richard Wingate was small and neat, with man-icured nails and graying hair trimmed

close to the skull.

“Bloodless characters, with passion only for their next pub-lications,” Minakis

replied.

“Ambitious youngsters, rather, not religious acolytes. And they agreed to help

you, despite the absurdly remote location and your insistence on secrecy.”

Minakis raised his glass— ”Yeia sas, Richard”—and leaned back comfortably,

his blue cotton sweater draped loosely over his shoulders. “It’s good of you to

defend them. And they did teach me an important lesson.”

“Which is?”

“That I need something more than a bright young experi-mentalist.”

Wingate’s laugh was dry. “You need a disciple.”

Minakis did not reply, but studied the purpling sky through the curve of his

glass. Behind him, over the tile roof, a pale glow in the sky announced a fat moon

rising.’

“Who’s the next candidate?” Wingate busied himself light-ing a thin black

cigar with a cylindrical brass lighter. “I’m sure you have someone in mind.”

“I’m thinking of Peter Slater. Presently in Hawaii.”

“Slater. Really.” Wingate blew a thin stream of smoke. “How do you propose

to lure him away from his comfortable position to follow you into the desert?”

Minakis grinned, baring white teeth under a broad gray mus-tache. “There ate

signs that, like Saul on the road to Damascus, Peter Slater has recently undergone a

conversion. He is willing to admit that the world is real after all, even at the quantum

level. I intend to discuss this with him at Delos II. Of course, I also intend to make

him question the worth of his heretical new beliefs.”

“And if he doesn’t choose to attend Delos II?”

“I’m afraid the whole affair will have to be postponed.”

Wingate shook his head. “Am I to understand the corporation is

underwriting this conference just so you can play devil’s advocate to Peter Slater?”

Minakis raised his brows, all innocence. “The invitations are strictly Papatzis’s

concern. I only suggested that it would be appropriate to invite those who were at

the first Delos.”

“I had no idea Slater was that old.”

“He’s an ancient—almost half as old as you or I. I’m told he’s on the verge of

acquiring an instant family, by marrying a woman who brings her young children

with her.”

“Then why not let me pull a few strings and have him invited to CERN for a

year? Surely it will be easier to move your experiment to Switzerland—which I’ve

been trying to convince you to do since you started—than persuade Slater to move

his family to Greece.”

“I trust you’ll find a way to indulge me,” Minakis said com-placently. “That is,

if you haven’t grown weary of my stubborn quest.”

“Really, given the chance, slight as it is, that you will some-day get around to

changing the world with these experiments of yours ... Well, I’ll find out what I can.

But don’t set your heart on acquiring Slater as a junior colleague.”

Minakis’s black eyes reflected the curve of the moon. “Don’t concern yourself

with my heart, Richard. Whatever will happen has happened.”

* * * *

Anne-Marie walked barefoot at the edge of the surf, hugging her daughter to her

shoulder, and Jennifer crowed in ecstasy when the high waves crashed beside her,

partly because her mother squeezed her extra tight each time. But on Anne-Marie’s

face tears mixed with the salt spray. The cool breeze, the warm sunshine, the

thunder of the turquoise ocean, every sensation reminded her of yesterday’s

happiness; with every retreat of the seething water, the wet sand beneath her feet

slipped away as if she were sliding back into the sea.

For half a year she’d been living an anticipatory dream, of building a home

with a man she loved who would be a loving father to her children—a life filled with

the simplest of pleasures, the things most people have, what seemed to her a normal

exis-tence—a life she had hardly dared dream of before she met Peter. At last she

would belong in one place in the world, belong there by choice, instead of drifting or

running or being held prisoner to someone else’s whims. As soon as the divorce was

final, as soon as Charlie had finally accepted the inevitable and done what was right,

she and Peter would marry. The dream would come true.

But when she came home from her job at the ad agency that day, the

baby-sitter told her about the thick envelope that had arrived in the morning mail.

Before the door closed behind the woman, Anne-Marie had ripped open the

envelope.

Re: Marriage of Phelps.

Dear Anne-Marie; I am pleased to inform you that the court has entered

a judgment of dissolution, effective 1 November…Because the dissolution

was contested, the court has decided a number of issues. While we were not

given everything we asked for, nevertheless ...

Her fierce hope exploded in despair. She had lost; Charlie had won. He had

won the right to carry Jennifer away for weeks at a time, and worse, much worse,

Carlos would go on living with him. Charlie had taken her son. The daughter who

was more Peter’s than his, the son who was not his at all.

For an unknown time her mind was filled with no coherent thought but

instead with a kind of howling light. Then she heard her ten-month-old daughter’s

tiny voice—”Ma, Ma”— and felt a tug on her skirt and forced herself to bend and

take up the little girl, to flee the beach house, to trudge the sand where the blurred

light resolved itself into waves making their thundering landfall.

The lawyer’s letter lay open on the kitchen table, beside the stiffly folded

judgment. She had not read the letter a sec-ond time, had not read the judgment at

all. Why should she? Without her children, what did the rest matter? She was

through with lawyers and judges and social workers and hearings, through with trips

to California to beg for what was hers, through with postponements and empty

days waiting in motel rooms, through with decisions made without her. What was

left to her was what she had never used but should have begun with, the truth.

Charlie’s money and connections wouldn’t save his pride when he heard what she

had to tell him.

As for her own pride . . . that was only a part of the dream.

Paul Preuss - Secret Passages.pdf

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