| Paris were in operation beforethe East Coast of America was out of bed. If Talbotwas not there, he would try Nathan Simon, thenBrooks, if he had to. Neither alternative was nec-essary. Lawrence Talbot answered the phone. “I’ll be damned, how are you, Rene? You in NewYork?” “No, Paris.” “Sounds like you’re down the block.” “So do you. It’s always startling.” “It’s also late where you are, if I’m not mistaken.” “It’s very late, Larry. We may have a problem,that’s why I’m calling.” “A problem? I didn’t even know we had anybusiness going. What is it?” “Your missionary work.” “Our what?” “Bertholdier. His friends.” “W7lo?” “Jacques-Louis Bertholdier.” “Who is he? I’ve heard the name but I can’t placehim.” “You can’t… place him?” “Sorry.” “I’ve been with Joel. I arranged the meeting.” “Joel? How is he? Is he in Paris now?” “You weren’t aware of it?” “Last time I spoke with him was two days ago inGeneva after that awful business with Halliday. Hetold me he was all right, but he wasn’t. He wasshaken up.” “Let me understand you, Larry. Joel is not inParis on business for Talbot, Brooks and Simon, isthat what you’re saying?” Lawrence Talbot paused before answering. “No,he’s not,” said the senior partner softly. “Did he sayhe was?” “Perhaps I just assumed it.” Again Talbot paused. “I don’t think you’d dothat. But I do think you should tell Joel to call me.” “That’s part of the problem, Larry. I don’t knowwhere he is. He said he was |
sunlight and bright reflections. Of billowing white sails on the lake sturdy, irregular buildings above, their rippling images on the water below. Of myriad flowers surrounding blue-green pools of fountains duets of exploding colors. Of small quaint bridges arching over the glassy surfaces of man-made ponds to tiny man-made islands, sanctuaries for lovers and friend sand quiet negotiators. Reflections. Geneva, the old and the new. City of high medieval walls and glistening tinted glass, of sacred cathedrals and less holy institutions. Of sidewalk cafes and lakeside concerts, of miniature piers and gaily painted boats that chug around the vastshoreline, the guides extolling the virtues and theestimated value of the lakefront estates that surelybelong to another time. Geneva. City of purpose, dedicated to the necessity of dedication, frivolity tolerated only when intrinsic to the agenda or the deal. Laughter is measured, controlled glances conveying approval of sufficiency or admonishing excess. The canton by the lake knows its soul. Its beauty coexists with industry, the balance not only accepted but jealously guarded. Geneva. City also of the unexpected, of predictability in conflict with sudden unwanted revelation, the violence of the mind struck by bolts of personal lightning. Cracks of thunder follow; the skies grow darkand the rains come. A deluge, pounding the angry waters taken by surprise, distorting vision, crashing down on the giant spray, Geneva’s trademark on the lake, the jet d ear, that geyser designed by man todazzle man. When sudden revelations come, thegigantic fountain dies. All the fountains die |
