Glimmering

“No, you understood perfectly. God forbid Leonard should ever miss a deathwatch.” Larry stared at him, his expression still frozen in that mask of benign agreement, but his dark eyes held a flicker of unease. “I just—well, even if I did want to sell the magazine, there’s the matter of choosing a successor—another editor.”

The unease melted into another conciliatory smile. “Mr. Tatsumi would like you to continue as editor.”

“But I don’t want to be editor anymore. I’m sick,” Jack said, and no longer cared if bitterness leached into his voice. “I’ve spent my whole fucking life on this magazine. I’m ready to give it up. Can you give that message to Mr. Tatsumi?”

He had thought it might be gratifying to insult his visitor. Instead, Jack immediately felt awful. Larry Muso stared at him with such pity and embarrassment that Jack found himself reassuring him.

“Look, Mr. Muso, maybe I could help you find someone to replace me, someone who—”

“But your family—the magazine has been in your family—”

“Well, yes, but it was always just a sideline to the department stores. And it’s been a hundred years. I mean, we’ve had a good long run—”

“I am certain that Mr. Tatsumi wants the magazine intact.” Larry Muso shook his head; his pompadour waggled furiously. “It is part of the entire aesthetic of the purchase. We will have to discuss this, I think.”

Jack cast a quick look at the prospectus on the table. “Maybe,” he said, trying to imbue the word with menace. “But right now I really have to get back to work. So—”

He beckoned at the door. Instead Larry Muso stared at him with an oddly frank sort of interest, neither sexual nor businesslike; as though Jack were wearing some highly unusual item of clothing. After a moment he said, “What are you doing for it?”

Jack frowned. “Some phone calls—I have a few—”

“No, no—for your disease. What treatment are you undergoing?”

“That’s none of your fucking business.” Jack’s face tightened with anger, “I said—”

“Because you are looking very well.” Larry Muso stepped around Jack, still giving him that appraising stare. “There are some unusual drugs, we have several major pharmaceutical holdings, and I was just—”

“OUT! ”

Jack stormed after him, but at the door Muso stopped and made a mocking half bow.

“That was inexcusably rude. Please forgive me.” For a moment Jack thought Muso was going to burst out laughing. “But I should warn you, Mr. Finnegan—The Golden Family is quite serious about acquiring your magazine. I volunteered to make this inquiry, out of respect for what Leonard Thrope told me of your work, and because I thought it would be more—palatable—than introducing you to our attorneys so early in the negotiation process. But the attorneys will come…”

Absently he fingered his waistcoat. “There is a word we use, Mr. Finnegan—nemawashi. It is a business term, but the word is derived from gardening. It is what one does when planting a tree. To cut the roots, to wrest the plant from the earth too quickly, is to kill it. The roots wither, the tree will die. A wise gardener will pluck and prune carefully over several weeks, so that the tree can adjust to its new life.”

Larry Muso’s eyes gazed directly into Jack’s. “These are dangerous but very interesting times for investors, Mr. Finnegan. That is why The Golden Family is launching a sky station from the Mongolian desert. That is why we have very exceptional gardeners.”

With a flourish he smoothed the front of his coat, bowed again, and walked out the door. Jack could only watch, chastened and amazed, as the slender figure strode vigorously back up the rain-streaked drive, until it was lost to sight.

He turned and sank into a chair, picked up first The King in Yellow and then The Golden Family’s prospectus. The novel he gazed at longingly and set aside. The prospectus earned more resigned attention. He weighed it carefully in his palm, wondering what, exactly, the cover was made of—the material felt smooth and taut, but also supple, like the skin of an underripe fruit. Tentatively he pressed it with a finger, and was rewarded with a slight dimpling in the material.

“Another product of The Golden Family, GFI International,” breathed the portfolio. “Manufactured entirely in the Nippo-Altai Commonwealth.”

“What’s it made of ? ” demanded Jack, half-fearful that he would get a reply; but the portfolio was silent. He turned to the first page, activating the icon.