13   Tuesday morning I was at my desk, thinking about the deadly airplane crash in Indonesia about which I had read in the paper. I had been flirting with the idea of a vacation in Indonesia later in the year; Kaycee had suggested Bali, but I thought that I would find Java more interesting. The crash happened on Sumatra, but still… A call came from the office of Clerk of the Court, informing me that the petition on behalf of Elizabeth Perino Schlemmer to be recognized as Peter Hart’s heir and the administrator of his estate had already been assigned to a judge, and that a hearing on the matter would be scheduled in due time. I was to come by the Courthouse at my convenience to take care of some formalities. The next call was from Rose. “Hi,” she said. “Last things first. About Peter Hart: his parents are deceased. His mother died just last year. He’s got two brothers and a sister. The brothers are both married, with children and grandchildren, living in the Cleveland area. They’re both on the Forbes list, by the way. The sister is childless, twice divorced, living in North Carolina. I’m e-mailing you the details as we speak.” “Great. You’re a genius.” “Now, did you know that in Canada they have Labor Day the same day we do?” “Yes, and they put U in it.” “What?” “Rose, can’t you ever be polite and laugh at my jokes? The letter U. They spell it L-A-B-O-U-R.” The thought crossed my mind that Chris would certainly have laughed. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m a genius for some things and dumb for others. Anyway, Thomas called me last night to wish me happy Labor Day. He’s got tomorrow off. I could go tonight and be back tomorrow evening. Of course the flight will cost more on such short notice. Around nine hundred, with hotel, cabs and everything. On top of my usual day rate.” “Don’t worry,” I said, “just put it on your bill.” “All right, just let me click OK on the confirm button. There. It’s a two-hour flight,” she continued. “I’ll have my laptop with me, so I’ll be able to get a start on the report en route.” She paused. “I know. I don’t waste time. It’s the Catalan in me, my mother used to say. Eres una catalana, Rosita. Did you know that Catalans are supposed to be stingy with time and money? Go ahead, answer with a joke. I promise I’ll laugh.” “No, I didn’t know. I only thought that they fought with the Doggalans. Please don’t laugh. That was pretty lame.” But she laughed anyway. “No, that really was funny. Now you know my level of humor. Third grade.” She laughed again. “What time is your flight?” “Seven-twenty-five, on Alaska. Staying at the Airport Travelodge. Back at SFO at five-thirty-four. I can go to my office and work on the report some more, and I can have a rough version printed out for you later in the evening.” “Fantastic,” I said. “Enjoy your trip!” “I will. I like Vancouver.” After I hung up I found that an incoming call had gone to voicemail while I was talking with Rose. It was from Jeff, at work. Jeff’s office, and probably Chris’s as well, is not in the main Wells Fargo building downtown but near the Civic Center. I returned Jeff’s call immediately. “Hi, Gary. Ann told me that you wanted to talk to me about Chris.” “Yes, I’d like that,” I said. “Do you mind?” “No, of course not.” “I have to be at the Courthouse some time today, so I’ll be near you. Shall we have lunch?” “Sure.” It was now well past my cappuccino time. I did an hour of paperwork and drove to the Civic Center.   “So, what do you want to know about Chris?” Jeff asked after we exchanged pleasantries and ordered lunch. “I’m not really sure. She told me a lot of details about herself. It’s her behavior, or her attitude, that’s got me puzzled.” “Hmm. I know her pretty well, and I think of her as pretty straightforward.” “Tell me about you and her.” Our beers were served. “We had a little thing going when she first came to Wells Fargo, maybe eight years ago. We were both on the rebound – me from Claire, her from whoever.” Claire was Jeff’s second wife. “We both knew it wasn’t going to go anyplace special. Workplace romances are okay, provided they don’t get serious. When she met someone else we stopped, and when that ended we would get together again. And the pattern didn’t change after I met Ann, Ann being who she is.” Jeff smiled. Ann must have told him about the night before. “So with you and Chris it’s been just sex.” “Not just sex. That wouldn’t be Chris. We’re friends.” “I beg your pardon. Just sex is exactly how Chris put it to me. It would be either that or a relationship, and she won’t go to bed with me until she knows which one it is.” “That seems new for her,” Jeff said just as our lunch plates were brought. “Her tendency has been to lose herself to a guy, and then get hurt when things didn’t work out. She’s been hurt a lot. Maybe she’s learning. She’s about to turn forty, and there may be a little panic setting in.” “She said something of that nature, about going on forty and not wanting to make the same mistakes over and over. It just feels weird that I’m the one that she wants to practice her newfound discernment on.” “Don’t get sarcastic. Chris doesn’t deserve it. She’s a good girl who hasn’t had an easy life. You might take it as a compliment that she’s picked you to try to practice some self-control with.” “Thanks,” I said as I put a big forkful of chow fun into my mouth. “There you go again. I think she really likes you. She really went after you at the party, and you let her down.” So you picked her up, I said inwardly. “Give her a chance. Hell, give yourself a chance.” “A chance for what?” “Have you had a real relationship with a woman since Margo?” “No.” “Believe me, my friend, it’s worth the pains and annoyances and inconveniences.” After a moment of chewing he went on. “It was Ann’s idea, by the way, that you and Chris might be good for each other.” “Maybe we are,” I said with a shrug. “But she won’t give me a chance to find out.” “You mean, because she won’t fuck you?” “Yes.” “As I said, that’s something new for her. Probably for you too. Think of it as an opportunity to get to know each other from different perspectives than the sexual.” It felt clear that I could not explain my dilemma to Jeff unless I told him about Libby. What he advised would have made sense without that bewitching presence looming over me. But the conflict in my mind between Libby and Chris was a metaphysical one, almost in the literal sense of being beyond the physical realm. There was no credible chance of realizing my feelings about Libby in a physical way, except as I had done with Kaycee. I was in the throes of a schoolboy crush, and this was not something I felt ready to share, as one fifty-year-old man to another. “Okay,” I said, “I’ll try to think of it that way. Thanks, and I mean it.” Jeff acknowledged my thanks with a smile while chewing, and we went on to other subjects.   In the Clerk’s office at the Civic Center Courthouse I found out, after filling out the appropriate form with the names and addresses of Peter’s siblings, that Libby’s petition had been assigned not to a judge but to a probate commissioner named George Mandros whom I knew quite well from his days in private practice and with whom I had dealt several times since he had become commissioner. I knew George to handle the matters before him expeditiously. He would probably want to have an accountant’s appraisal of the estate, with its tax liability, as soon as possible. And who better than Paul Stevens (originally Stavropoulos)? Paul, George’s cousin, was currently helping me with the software tycoon’s divorce settlement. Like George, he is a fast worker. I called Paul as soon as I got back to the office, and my estimation of his speedy work was confirmed immediately. “I was just about to call you,” he said. “I’m done with the calcs.” “Good,” I said. “I’ve got another job for you. A big estate to be appraised.” “Peter Hart?” “Good guess.” “Not exactly. I heard from George.” “News travels fast.” “You know us Greeks. We communicate instantly. We even have a word for it: tilepáthia. Telepathy, for you barbarians.” “Watch who you call a barbarian.” “It’s a compliment, my friend. We Greeks invented civilization, and look where it’s gotten us. Anyway, let’s meet and exchange data. You give me raw, I give you cooked.” We arranged that I would stop at Paul’s office on my way home; it would be only slightly out of the way. I made a photocopy of the notes I had taken at the bank and packed it into my briefcase, along with a copy of the petition. Paul scanned my notes and quickly said, “It looks like a good fifteen mill before taxes, considering all the real estate. That means about nine mill net for your girl, if she’s recognized, and George likes her case, so far.” What Paul’s estimate meant for me was a fee of some nine hundred thousand. Once the case was settled I would ask him to help me minimize my taxes by means of income averaging or something like that. But I now felt in a position to offer to buy out Margo’s share of our building and dissolve DE Properties. When that transaction was done, I would celebrate it by removing the Ash and the Unicorn from the lintel. “I’m happy to hear that, Paul. You know that Margo plans to petition on behalf of Peter’s boyfriend.” “Not a chance,” Paul said. I supposed that he was echoing his cousin’s sentiments. George Mandros is, by San Francisco standards, a conservative. He once worked for Dianne Feinstein. “Of course she’ll get a fair hearing,” Paul added, and smiled knowingly. “Of course,” I said. “Anyway, thanks for the work, Gary. I’ll be done quickly.” “I know.” “I appreciate the confidence. And, on a personal level, Cindy and I would like to have you over for dinner some time.” “That would be great, Paul. Give her my regards.” We shook hands and I left Paul’s office. On my way out the receptionist, a slim young black – but not very African-looking – woman, chirped, “Bye, Mister Einhorn.” I did not remember her name, so I simply said “Bye” and smiled back.   For dinner I had my leftover enchiladas. I realized that I was eating enchiladas for the third day in a row, and, counting Roccapulco, for the fourth time in five days. I was transported, in a Proustian way, to that Saturday morning when I was twelve and saw Elena come out of my father’s study, wearing a robe, while I heard my father folding the sofabed inside. As she walked past me toward her room, Elena smiled at me as though what had happened were the most natural thing in the world. I was by then aware enough of my own desires to understand my father’s needs that my sick mother could not meet, but the understanding did not mitigate the deep distress that I felt. My mother sensed my sudden unease, and a few weeks later she told me that it was she who had instigated the liaison. She also told me then that Elena had a husband in Mexico, whom she had left, and three children, the youngest of whom was a thirteen-year-old daughter. I asked Elena about her family, and she showed me a picture of her daughter, named Socorro, whom I found beautiful. For some years thereafter I felt myself drawn to girls who looked Mexican. In my high school, to my regret, there were very few of them. I now wondered if, in my attraction to Chris Martinez, I was reliving that part of my adolescence. After dinner I decided to call Greg. I felt curious about what had happened Sunday afternoon in Sebastopol. “It was kind of anticlimactic,” Greg said. “Mom did finally call back. But before that a friend of Jill’s came over to help, and Jill introduced her as my girlfriend Megan, so I realized that when I told them that my mother and her girlfriend Joyce would be coming, they might not have gotten it that they were a lesbian couple, and, given how Republican they are, I didn’t know how they felt about gay people.” “There are gay Republicans, you know.” “I guess so, but I told Mom what I knew, and she decided not to come. Told me to make up an excuse. I decided to stay, just out of curiosity and also to be with Rebecca. And it turned out that there were several gay couples, male and female, among the guests.” “You just never know, do you?” “No, you don’t. Also, I heard Carl trashing Bush, mainly for being a hypocrite and not being really conservative, whatever that means. But, anyway, Dad, thanks for your advice. It turned out to be moot, but it was good.” “I wonder if any of your friends who did not grow up with two lawyers say moot.” “They say mute,” Greg said, and we both laughed. After hanging up I thought about Greg some more. I admired the fact that, at twenty-one, he had a girlfriend for whom he felt more than mere lust, something that I didn’t experience until I was two years older and found myself in love with his mother. The thought of mere lust brought me back to Chris’s just sex. It now seemed curious that she had formed the kind of dichotomy that my mind was associating with post-adolescence. What was more, she had formed it at incipient middle age as a defense against repeating the mistakes of past years. Now, it seemed to me that a certain lack of judgment, of discernment, of clarity about one’s feelings was part and parcel of being in a state of sexual attraction, at any age. My own confused feelings about Chris were, in this regard, paradigmatic. There are occasions when I sense the philosophy minor that I pursued at Berkeley – along with my comparative-literature major (French and Spanish) – catching up with me. This was one of them. But this time the sensation went beyond the substance of what I had learned and to the person of one my teachers, a professor who at the time was one of the most radical leftists on campus – Free Speech Movement, antiwar demonstrations – and who later, on becoming wealthy as an owner of apartment houses, turned into an anti-tax, anti-rent-control rightist. Would I be liable to a like transformation when the windfall of my fee from Libby came due? I had already thought about minimizing my tax bill. No one likes to pay taxes, but for rightists the dislike is categorical while for liberals like me it’s conditional, I like to think, on our dislike of the government’s spending priorities. But it was not simply a matter of a windfall. I know my profession well enough to know that, in the wake of the publicity about my mysterious client’s coming out of nowhere to inherit a prominent man’s estate, I would come into prominence as an estate lawyer, and would henceforth be in demand. All it takes is one big case is an oft-heard adage in my circle of solo practitioners. I was now, quite probably, on the way towards becoming a wealthy man. If I were a rich man, I began to sing to myself. And I would not fall into the trap of arrogance. I would not tell myself that I was immune to the poisonous charms of wealth, that I would not be affected by it in ways that had up to that time seemed to me unappealing, that I might not come do disdain Two-Buck Chuck. But I would try to follow the Socratic path of self-awareness. It was time to read the new New Yorker.