Chapter Two
Three Years Later
“…And so, Rochester Energy Cells is struggling to break even,” Bob Carter says to the typed pages in front of him, afraid to look up and see the faces of other men around the table. “Joe Carbone and I had a long discussion about it and we believe that our only option is to outsource some of the production labor overseas… Labor being the heaviest burden…”
“Wait, wait… What are you talking about?” McGrath Frontier’s CFO Scott Brodsky could never master corporate restraint and, clearly, he is unable to hide his irritation with this clown now. “It’s not the cost of labor, it’s the productivity… I repeatedly explained that to Carbone! He is lagging… At the projected volume the economy of scale should’ve carried twice as much cost by now…” He looks at the head of the table for support, but it’s impossible to read William McGrath’s face at the moment.
What the fuck are they on about? This one, VP of Business Development and Innovation! What a fucking joke! He should be developing and innovating. Instead he is making a case about the profitability of his crony upstate who’s failing his purpose! And Scott? Why is he even entertaining this jerk?
“I don’t understand,” he finally interjects, “did Mr. Carter put you all to sleep with his droning? Why no one else, except the CFO here, is voicing his disgust? Did you all forget about the foundation of this company? I mean, it’s right above my head, isn’t it?” Without looking he points to the wall embossed with McGrath Frontiers’ logo circled by the words American Wealth Evolution. “Relocating an existing American production overseas because it’s cheaper there? That’s not what we do. If anything, we are in the business of creating new jobs here. And if we are not good enough to do that, I might as well shut this whole joint down.”
McGrath sees that Bob is ready to say something and raises his hand to stop him. Fuck! I hate that he makes me into one of those bosses who don’t let his people talk! But I really don’t have time for his lameness today.
“I also would like to remind you that invention and development of Rheanol is singularly the most important achievement of McGrath Frontiers to date. And we acquired REC specifically because they had a potential for its quick and, most importantly, manifold utilization. The decision was largely impacted by the fact that their R&D team presented the most creative plan for manufacturing a variety of compacts, including the flat micro cells.
“So far, they managed to materialize only two products with a limited scope of application. Moreover, neither are acceptable for the Frontier’s own devices and instruments… If they want to succeed… No, if they want to survive, they should get on with implementing their own action plan, like yesterday. A year from now we will be converting three times more waste into Rheanol than we do today.
“And we are in the middle of a financial crisis that affected every economic sector. There are plenty of struggling domestic manufacturers that can be picked up for pennies right now. And if REC cannot live up to their promises, we will take our technologies away from them and pass this mission onto the next company on our acquisition list… And then we can reemploy REC’s workers elsewhere, sell its assets, and reinvest the proceeds.” McGrath looks at his Director of Divestments, who nods in confirmation of his readiness to initiate such course of action at the boss’s first signal. “You can deliver this message to your friend Joe Carbone, Bob,” William concludes.
* * *
Now, that the meeting is over, he really should be getting on with his tight schedule, but he asks his right hand, COO Jim Lavolsi, and Scott to stay behind for a few minutes.
“So why did I need to hire this asshole?” he cuts straight to the point.
“Because we thought that you were stretching yourself too thin,” Jim has that annoying tendency of having a ready answer for everything.
“I think you, guys, are projecting. I think you feel that you are stretching yourself too thin, but you are afraid to admit it to yourselves. But if I admit it by hiring someone like this idiot, it will make your future easier. Right?”
“I haven’t thought about it this way…” Scott ponders. That what McGrath likes about his CFO – always open to look at things from different angles.
“Maybe,” Jim agrees.
“Okay, good. Let’s capitalize on the fact that we can still be somewhat honest with each other. I do not need a VP of Business Development and, God forbid, Innovation. It has always been a part of my job. I’m still doing it and I will be doing it as long as this is my business. You, Jim, hired him, you will fire him. Today.”
“You are the boss,” Jim sighs.
“That I fucking am. But we need somebody, I’m thinking out loud, to head the reorganization and restructuring functions for new acquisitions…”
Scott raises his Jewish Tribes pen – last year’s birthday present from William – signaling an interjection, “Just for the record, I did tell you that that Marina person was far more capable and suitable.”
McGrath nods, “For the record, I agreed with you. But, dude, even a scarily sharp broad like her was not immune…”
Scott interrupts him again and, encouraged by the boss’s familiarity, pushes the subordination aside for a moment, “What do you want? People cannot stop themselves from admiring beauty when they see it. Especially on the first encounter. But I’m absolutely positive that she cares more about her career than anyone’s pretty face. She can handle it, assuming we give her a chance.”
“Okay, see if she is still available and if she is interested to accept the job. We can even create a title for her – VP of Restructuring.”
“Same compensation package as this schmuck had?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to meet with her again?”
“No, you can just hire her whenever you are ready, Scott. Hmm… If she accepts, she will be the first female executive at McGrath Frontiers,” William contemplates thoughtfully.
“I guess, we will have to call her the Iron Lady then,” Jim smirks.
“Okay, that was part A of the issue,” William continues without commenting on the joke. “Part B is that I want you both to prepare briefs for me, outlining yours and your staffing needs to accommodate our growth. And I’m not talking about conventional raises. We’ve doubled our holdings and tripled the number of our projects in the past two years, and we will need to move even faster in order to implement all the goals I’ve already formulated for the next three years. Your functions will have increasingly more shit to handle. So, give me ideas: compensation revisions for yourself, your key people, new staff, etc. We’ll start from there. Okay?”
“Okay,” Scott responds enthusiastically.
“Yes, sir,” Jim always keeps his emotions in check.
“At ease,” William retorts in tone.
All three of them get up at the same time and start moving towards the boardroom’s exit. Lavolsi, who is the closest to the door, clears it first. As soon as that happens, William turns to Scott, “American Industrial Bank is a go,” he tells him in a lowered voice, “Now. Call all your standbys.”
Neither as an individual investor nor as an entrepreneur, William McGrath has any interest in publicly trading entities, whatever they may be. In fact, seven years ago, when he and his best friend, Seb Cattrall, were selling their first company, MacCat Games, they settled on a privately-held Japanese buyer. Not because it was the highest bidder, but because all other suitors were public-stock conglomerates.
Yet, sometimes life presents you with an opportunity that no person in his right mind can possibly dismiss. Especially a person who can direct the resulting profits into important causes: forests, new energy, waste elimination, arts…
He’s been keenly observing the shock waves caused by the latest banking-industry fiasco – primarily out of concern about possible institutional failures. First, it was just a precaution. When it came to McGrath Frontiers’ vast liquid assets, William stuck to the core policies he applied to his entire enterprise – diversification and patriotism. On the other hand, it was out of the question that he would let a collapse of one or more of the US banks affecting the well-being of his employees, operations, initiatives, and projects. So, he and Scott conservatively spread the company’s funds throughout the strongest institutions. And they kept their ear to the ground. That’s all.
Thus, at first, watching the share price of American Industrial Bank rolling down the hill from the high of $256 was just a part of the safeguard protocol. When it went below $20, they took out whatever money they had there. Technically, there was no need to watch the stock anymore, but now it became a grievous betting game for them: how low will it go. Two weeks ago, it fell to $8.
Today, at the opening of the Stock Exchange, shares of American Industrial Bank were trading at $1.25 and will most likely go below $1. The temptation of taking a chance here was just too strong to ignore. Forgoing such opportunity would be simply illogical. McGrath knew that there was still an element of gambling here, but his gut and the political insight led him to believe that the federal government simply couldn’t afford the failure of an institution of this stature.
Prudently, he wanted to diffuse the buying over multiple sources. Brodsky has lined up his contacts and William had several brokers waiting for his orders as well. Now, it was just a matter of a few emails and they will pool for him a decent pile of the bank’s shares. Just enough to stay under the regulations radar. He figures he’ll sell most of them when the price bounces back to $50, which he expects to happen in two years or so, while keeping a small portion untouched – just to see what happens in the long run.
Now, he can forget about the stock. There are more important deals to attend to, more business decisions to chew on, more money-generating opportunities to explore, more forests to save…
“William?” extremely efficient and hardworking Allison Cushman, the Executive Assistant Supreme and the leader of McGrath’s administrative staff – or rather her face – appears in the intra-communication corner of the wall-mount display splayed on his righthand side.
“Yes.”
“It’s Gloria Burns of STAMP for you. Do you have the time now?”
Fundraisers! They still prefer the personal touch of voice communications. They will adore the LiveConnect 3D. “Yeah, I’ll take it.”
* * *
STAMP – the Society of Theater, Arts, and Music Philanthropists – has been supported by William’s family on the maternal side since its establishment in the nineteenth century. The Palmers donated millions of dollars to the organization and many sat on the Board of Trustees. They were instrumental in STAMP’s expansions and transformations: two theater houses, the multiscreen art-house cinema, and three galleries.
William grew up with STAMP as a habitual presence in his life. As a teenager, he participated in many youth programs ran by the Society’s various art departments. And during the summer after his high-school sophomore year, he interned with the group responsible for STAMP’s drama programming – researching cutting-edge theatrical events all over the world and checking their availability for future bookings.
He loved theater and he loved STAMP. No matter what he did with his life, he would’ve remained STAMP’s supporter – both to keep the family tradition going and out of his own attachment to the place. Of course, his fortune, which already exceeded the cumulative wealth of all his ancestors, as well as his charitable reputation made him an obvious target for various solicitations. That’s how it works: once you give to one, everyone else comes running. They all know each other and they talk. STAMP was one of the organizations he never turned down.
* * *
William presses the blinking light on his telecom panel, “How are you, Gloria?”
Gloria Burns joined STAMP’s executive team three years ago as a Director of New Ventures. In that capacity, she gave start to some marvelous initiatives. McGrath was sure that she was calling about STAMP Voyager – her newborn baby conceived as a combination of international travel and theatrical experiences. It’s been offered exclusively to trustees and upper-level patrons – in other words, to those who could afford the steep price tag.
“William!” her voice is warm and genuinely excited, “I am fine. Thank you for asking. Thank you so much for taking my call. I hope everything is well on your side.” She makes it sound as if the very idea that something could be not well on William McGrath’s side is unacceptably ridiculous.
“No complaints. What can I do for you today, Gloria?” McGrath keeps his voice even, yet skillfully injects an almost imperceptible hint of a spellbinding lure.
He has always thoroughly understood his powers. When he walks into any room, he knows that he can have any person in that room in whatever way it suits him. Business or pleasure. And he routinely enjoys the unfailing effects the tools of his seduction arsenal have on people.
“Yes…” Gloria skips a bit and William smirks to himself. “Have you given any more thought to our trip to Italy?” The professionalism takes over and she quickly gets on with her script, “We are about to close the booking and I thought I would check with you for your final decision.”
“Sounds fascinating…”
“Oh, it’s going to be incredible! We are going to stay in this famous beach-front resort on Capri and we will travel to the mainland on a luxury 120-foot yacht, and then to various points of interest by a limousine bus. We’ll visit Rome and Naples. And Nia promises some exciting cocktail party on the villa of an undisclosed celebrity. She wants it to be a surprise. You know how she is – she likes to bedazzle everyone with her connections. But she does seem to know everyone in Europe. And, of course, Shakespeare in Pompeii! An international troupe! ‘As You Like It’! It’s going to be absolutely spectacular! And…”
Gloria continues to rattle out the information William has already read in the exclusive printout she distributed four months ago… She seems very enthusiastic herself – punctuating every sentence with an exclamation point. The truth is he doesn’t need any convincing: from the moment he found out about the performance in Pompeii, he knew it would be a once-in-a-life-time experience. And it’s not necessary to participate in the whole trip either. He can just come for the performance; then take a yacht to Sardinia for a couple of days; maybe fly Ingrid from Berlin for some high-quality fucking… Yet…
“So, did you get a good response from trustees and patrons?” he uses the moment Gloria pauses to catch her breath, “Is it going to be a large group of voyagers?”
“Actually, no, it will be a relatively small group. Only fourteen people will be participating in the full itinerary,” Gloria responds eagerly, “and six more will be traveling separately and join us for the performance only.”
“Really? How many patrons?”
“Just two, or rather one. A Platinum League contributor – an impressively erudite woman actually – and she is bringing her nineteen-year-old daughter, an art student.”
No surprises here. The trustees are too lazy for this sort of thing – they’d rather stew in the Hamptons. And not too many patrons can risk $12,000 per person, plus airfare, plus food, etc. for something that has never been tested before.
“Of STAMP’s execs, Mary will be there, Chris and I…”
Mary Thompson, STAMP’s veteran of thirty years and its president for the last ten, and Chris Pasco, the chief of programming, were at the head of the entire organization. Mary was considered one of the most important cultural fundraisers and administrators in the world, with awards from French, Swedish, German, and British governments – grateful for her popularizing their classic and avant-garde arts in the States. McGrath has known both of them practically his entire life. They usually irritated the fuck out of him, but he always respected their hard work and devotion to the arts. Both of them going was the best advertisement for this trip.
“Then, Ann Grant is coming by herself,” Gloria goes on, now listing the participating trustees, “Dr. Liebstein with Billy, and the Silvers. That’s it.”
And there it is. I knew it… “The Silvers… All five of them?”
“Yes, sir,” Gloria confirms listlessly.
Joel Silver, his edgy wife, and their brood… In such a small party… More than one-third of the group… They’ll suck the air out of the experience even if it is under the open sky… Fuck that noise…
Joel Silver’s inability to catch up with McGrath’s contributions to STAMP added fuel to the animosity between them, but it wasn’t at the core of it. The older man was a PE operator since two generations back and his ruthless ways made him William’s natural-born enemy. Like a young lion and an old jackal, they were predators of entirely different makeups and purposes, and they stayed away from each-other’s paths as much as they could.
“I’m sorry, Gloria. I’ve been trying to tweak my schedule while we talked and I just don’t see how I can fit this trip in; even if I shorten it just to Shakespeare. International travel, you know – day in, day out, day there, and before you know it, it’s a week, which I simply cannot spare in August. Very sad, very-very sad. I wish I could…”
“Oh, well,” Gloria sighs, “maybe the next trip, then.”
“Are you planning something already?” McGrath is grateful for her efficient curbing of the enthusiasm.
“Just ideas at the moment – London, or Paris, or both…”
“Well, you keep me informed, then.”
“I will. Thank you for your time, William.”
“No, thank you, Gloria. Enjoy the rest of the day.”
“You too, sir.”
He hangs up first.
* * *
“William?”
“Who is it, Allison?”
“It’s Marvin Dean of DBD Brokerage…”
What the fuck does this schmuck want? To report in person that he executed my order? I hope he is the only one with such zeal… This should be quick…
“Okay, Allison, but this will be the last one for now… If something else comes up, it will have to wait until I’m in the car.”
“Yes, sir…”
The line switches, “Hey, Marvin! How is it going?”
“Everything went swimmingly, Mr. McGrath. The purchase was completed as per your request at the price…”
“Excellent news, Marvin. Thank you for your assistance. We may do more business in the future…”
“Yes, thank you, sir. We appreciate it very much… May I ask you? Did you go to the opening of The Nippon in Vegas? They say it’s something else…” words are spilling out of the broker in an exasperating succession…
What the fucking fuck‼‼ “How do you know about my involvement with The Nippon?” McGrath cuts through the chase in a steely voice.
Dean is intimidated a bit by the sudden change on the other end of the line, but he holds his own, “Hospitality is one of the divisions reporting to me. I get all industry press releases on the new developments. The Nippon listed you among their private investors.”
Look at that! The guy turned out to be useful twice. “I see,” William withdraws the steel, “No, I didn’t go to the opening. Thanks again for your business. Take care.”
As soon as he disconnects, he gets Allison back on the line, “Allison, please remind me who handles our privacy issues at Cattrall’s?”
“It’s Oliver Drought.”
“Right. Please see if he is available?”
“Right now?”
“Yes… I know I’m cutting it close, but this will be brief…”
She connects him in less than a minute.
“What can I do for you, Mr. McGrath?”
“Hey, Olly, somebody just told me that they saw The Nippon’s press release with my name explicitly listed in it.” McGrath hears the keyboard clicking. “Are you looking for it now?”
“Already found it.”
“Get rid of it. Get it off the net completely, will you? Including all reposts, saves, even pdfs, if you can. Get in touch with Robert Levitt in White & Case’s commercial litigations if you need any legal involvement. Allison can help you with that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Just trawl the whole damn thing, Olly. Alright?”
“Will do, Mr. McGrath”
Privacy. It’s paramount. In equity, in business, and in life. William McGrath always thought it to be one of the keys to entrepreneurial success. He hates random curiosity even more than stupidity. Sticking their noses into his business – commercial or private? Begone, gawkers! Especially in this deal. Private equity clubs is not something he does on a regular basis. It’s an exception. And it’s no one’s concern.
He grabs his coat and rushes through the door of his office. “Allison, I’m finally leaving. I have to go to the cemetery first.”
“Yes, William.” She hands him a large bouquet of red and white carnations.
“Thank you, Allison. That’s very thoughtful.”
“It’s no problem, sir. Have a good flight. If there is anything, I’ll email. And, sir…” she hesitates.
“Yes?”
“Happy birthday.”
“Thank you.”
William likes driving fast sleek cars. If he could, he would get behind the wheel every time he needed to go somewhere. Driving is relaxing, even meditative.
Yet, chauffeured limousines are a necessity. They save time – you can just get in and get out. They also function as mobile offices. McGrath never just sits idly in the backseat: he makes and answers calls, reads emails, reviews documents, writes down ideas that explode out of him at most random times… Sometimes, he even holds in-person meetings on wheels. Not always business ones.
A lot is happening in McGrath’s world right now. Seven years of titanic efforts, channeled into multitude of strategic directions, have achieved their critical mass and started converting into one breakthrough development after another with exceeding acceleration, materializing his aspirations into tangible realities. The key is to keep moving forward, to ride the momentum…
“We are here, Mr. McGrath,” the driver’s voice makes him look up from his laptop.
The car stands still right by an opening in the dense evergreen hedge at the beginning of the walkway that leads to the Palmers’ family plot and mausoleum. It was near 60° in Manhattan, but here, in Suffolk, it’s cold and the ground around the naked tree trunks is covered in ice and little patches of snow.
This is William’s annual ritual. Seventeen years ago, on the day of his mother’s and sister’s funeral, he promised himself that he would come here every year on his birthday. To commemorate his mother on the day she brought him into this world. So far, he has kept his promise without failing.
The driver opens the door for him. He gets out, puts his coat on, and takes the flowers. His mom’s grave comes into view practically as soon as he steps onto the walkway. A seven-foot-tall misshapen slab of black marble and in front of it a gleaming pure-white statue of a woman with fragile shoulders, her head bent, face hidden in her hands. It’s only when you get close you can see a small grave next to it. The one with a tiny baby angel of exactly the same marble, sitting with her legs crossed, holding a ball in front of her.
The only interactive times William has had with his grandmother, let her rest in peace inside that mausoleum, were the twice-a-year trips during school breaks when she let him tag alone on her endless foreign travels. They were not intimacy-inducing. Nevertheless, he loves her with all his heart for creating this memorial.
He lays down the flowers at his mother’s feet and sits down on a small stone bench. Then he does what he always does. He thanks his mother for his life. Asks forgiveness for not being there. Pleads for the tranquility of their souls and for the strength of his own…
* * *
By the time he is back at the car he has four missed calls. As the driver pulls away, he dials back the first number…
“Dude!” Rob hollers, “Seb just told me! You’re bailing out on us? On your birthday? Breaking a lifelong tradition? It’s outrageous!”
“I have to go to Vegas and it must be today. We will go out when I come back… A makeup birthday…” Will chuckles.
“Vegas, uh? Does it have anything to do with your Nippon deal? I saw the contracts sitting on one of the senior partner’s desk,” Rob rushes to clarify. “Can you explain to me, by the way, why you, like, totally bypassed me?”
“Sorry, bro, if it were just me, you would’ve been involved. But it’s an investors’ club. The consensus was that it should be handled at the senior level. When you grow up to set up your own shop…”
“Yeah, I know… So, what about this place? Fake Japan?”
If it was anyone else, William McGrath would be livid at a suggestion that he got involved with something that subpar. But Rob is his best friend and a superb lawyer – getting better and better by day. As such, he picks up on Will’s own subterranean concerns.
“They promised me that it’s absolutely authentic. No faux accents and bullshit like that. Of course, if it does well, eventually they probably will be tempted to give some of this authenticity up – for the sake of higher margins, you know,” Will sighs, “when my fellow equity owners will get greedy as they tend to do. So, now is the right time to taste the full experience at its best.”
“Is that why you bought into it,” Rob laughs, “for the authentic experience?”
“Fuck you, dude!”
“Fuck you, too! But seriously, I know you would never do it if it wasn’t a part of some bigger picture…”
“You know me well, mother-fucker… I can tell you this: Vegas may end up being very instrumental for a new branch of the business…”
Rob is not going to pry any further. This is not some personal secret. This is business, and, if he is deemed valuable, he may get involved on the legal side of it when the time comes. “Okay, but promise me that you think of Seb and me when you do whatever it is you plan to do to celebrate your birthday over there. Right in the middle of it. Promise?”
“Sure thing… I’ll even scream your names out…”
“Asshole. Well… Happy thirty-first! Fly, Superman, fly…”
William laughs and they both hang up. Robert Levitt and Sebastian Cattrall have been William McGrath’s best friends since they were six-year-old.
It’s a fact of life: William McGrath LOVES sex. Ever since he lost his virginity at fourteen to the French tutor his father was also fucking. In their tight and closed to the rest of the world circle of three, he used to say to Rob and Seb, “If there is any sport at which I really want to be the best of the best, it’s fucking.”
And he went out of his way to capitalize on his natural instincts and proclivities, continuously building his arsenal of know-how. In his youth, he looked at every one of his partners as a new study manual. The variety was crucial for the encyclopedic proficiency he was targeting. Thus, he never lingered after all the knowledge available to be taken from a subject was absorbed and stored for future applications.
Young yet grownup women, who already knew what they wanted in bed, were his most valuable educational resource. Then again, the inexperienced girls of his own age were just as important – his practice lab subjects. Everything that he read, watched, studied, observed in Indian reliefs and Japanese inks; all of the lessons he took away from his elaborate hands-on research; scenarios he formulated in his highly inventive brain – he would test them on those women who hadn’t have much of sexual history or any expectations.
Both his prep school and alma mater were teeming with competitive jerks who were McGrath’s peers in terms of their backgrounds but couldn’t possibly get anywhere close to his popularity with women. They were the ones who started derisively calling him Übermensch, daftly implying that he valued himself above everyone else.
Of course, it was true that his blistering sex appeal and animal-like magnetism were the God-given gifts he effortlessly exploited. They made the initial stages of his bedding endeavors short and easy. But those envious fools had no idea what attention he paid to his bed partners, how carefully he listened to every sound they made and watched their every move, how hard he applied himself to understanding what works the best for all women in general and each one of them individually. And maybe he was Superman, because the most important, the most fundamental principle he developed for himself through this very private university was the conviction that it was a woman’s pleasure that was the main focus of sex.
But the truth he never shared with anybody, the one that even inside his own being he let hover somewhere between emotions and dreams, away from the sharp focus of his consciousness was that more than anything else, more than sex itself and the championing highs it brought him, William McGrath loved to be loved. Nothing ever made him feel more content – not the achievements nor the unique ability of turning fantasies into reality – than the infrequent notion that there is a woman in his life who adores him.
In a way, it prevented him from turning into a man-whore who jumps from one conquest to another in pursuit of some meaningless record. He preferred to keep around women (and so, what?), who were genuine or convincing enough in their affections… Until, invariably, the spell would be broken – usually by something related to money, or nesting, or tying down, or whatever…
Even before David Foster Wallace entered the realm of William’s cultural awareness, he understood that this need grew out of some void inside and that it probably had a lot to do with his mother. Then, when he was twenty, someone gave him ‘Infinite Jest’ and it became his favorite book. He related deeply to DFW’s concept of unconditional love as an ultimate power.
When William was little, his father took him inside the giant glass cubes of Javits Center during boat and auto shows. Back then, it was the top destination for all major trade conventions. But by the time he and Seb, barely out of their teens, started their game-developing business, Las Vegas has already pushed New York way down on the list of the most popular locales for the giant business gatherings and started competing with Orlando for the leading spot. Now, McCarran International is a fairly regular arrival site for McGrath Frontiers’ various marketing teams. Nothing one can do about it – conventioneers love the Sin City.
The best thing about Vegas is the convenient proximity and the compact density of its main economic muscle – The Strip, which actually happens to be outside of the city limits. Six minutes is all it takes to get from the airfield into the midst of all the hustling and bustling. The entire drive from the beginning to the end of it is only a minute longer. It makes the Mojave Desert experience this much easier.
In the clear evening air, William can see the curved pointy eaves and spiky sōrins of the astronomically tall pagodas as soon as the limo clears the death-starry bulk of Luxor. As they drive closer, old temples and palaces of more conventional proportions come into view. Live gardens and groves of Japanese pines are sprawled around them. The main entrance of The Nippon hotel is styled after the famous Zen temple in Kyoto. Its name escapes his memory for the moment. So far, so good… I wonder what they’ve got in the back…
Going through his decision-making process for this strategic investment, William thought a lot of how Japan was not a frequent foreign destination for American travelers. They prefer Mexico, Canada, UK, Italy, France… For good reasons too: It’s far, expensive, rarely has English signage on the streets even in Tokyo… Only very courageous adventurers travel to Japan by themselves – without tour groups or personal guides.
Yet, he anticipated a high volume of bookings for The Nippon. He knew that people would perceive it as an opportunity to venture into the mysterious land a little further than their favorite Japanese restaurants allowed them. He was right. The opening numbers simply destroyed all prior records. And it only got busier since. The lobby is flooded with guests being helped by men and women in traditional kimonos. And beyond the large koi pond in the middle, he can see Harajuku girls with drink trays traversing the frontline of the gaming area that bursts with excitement.
* * *
On his way to the Kyoto Teahouse – the site of the special opening event exclusive to The Nippon’s Partners – William makes a deliberate detour to walk through the area that recreates Osaka’s Kuromon Market. As soon as he steps in, his senses get overwhelmed by the smells and sounds of the street-food stands that seemed to be the exact replicas of the ones he enjoyed in Japan. A huge barrel of octopus next to a man frying takoyaki catches his eye. That’ll be tomorrow’s breakfast …
Turning back towards the teahouse, he passes through about a hundred feet of ancient Ninenzaka Street… The rollups can melt the walls, bringing in real Kyoto…
The teahouse itself sits in the middle of another old street. The actual time of day is recreated here. It’s dark – the only illumination coming from the numerous paper lanterns behind the tall wooden fence. An entrance gate opens at William’s approach. He steps into the traditional garden with a small hump of a bridge over a running spring. It’s enchanting and he lets himself forget for a second that he is inside a gigantic building in the basin of the Mojave Desert.
Young geisha meets him at the front door. Since he is already wearing his own blue nagagi with silver obi and gray haori over it, he is shown straight into the central room. There, the teahouse matron – a tiny woman of about sixty – welcomes him and introduces herself as Yua.
William steps out of his sandals and she beams at him, showing him in. He helloes his Nippon-venture partners and folds himself onto a cushion in front of one of the low tea tables set in a semi-circle. Some of the seats have wells in front of them – for those for whom the traditional Japanese sitting is an ordeal.
Three of the room’s walls are draped in textured pale-green silk. Thick poles of natural Japanese bamboo separate one panel from the other. There are two old bonsai trees in the corners – a Japanese pine and a miniature yuzu with tiny yellow fruit. The fourth wall is composed of sliding glass doors opening to the garden. William appreciates a barely audible sound of running water coming from the ‘outside’. Nice touch.
In the future, the teahouse will probably continue to be used as an exclusive club. McGrath identifies the two silk paintings hanging on the opposite walls as early eighteenth century. One shows a half-dressed courtesan applying her makeup in front of an elaborately encrusted vanity. The other shows a view of Fuji.
“Before we begin,” the matron speaks slowly, deliberately, “let me remind you, gentlemen, that geishas are entertainers who may or may not agree to accept your favors. You will have a chance throughout the evening to offer your patronage to one of the geishas by participating in a traditional silent bidding.
“There are scrolls on this table – one for each of the geisha. All you need to do is to write your name and the amount each time you bid. The preliminary bidding will end at 9:30 pm. We will then have thirty minutes to finalize the still active contests. When you are ready to bid, please just ask any geisha next to you to bring you the scroll you desire. Now, gentlemen, we would like to begin with our traditional dance presentation.”
Two geishas enter and unfold a sliver screen in front of the small audience. Another two sit down on their knees on the opposite sides of the screen. As soon as they strike the shamisens in their hands, the first dancer appears. She is wearing a bright red kimono embroidered in gold and a tiny fox mask slid to one side of her head. Kitsune.
The choreography of the dance constantly turns the performer in different directions – one moment it’s her human face, the other it’s the fox. Every time the viewer watches the cunning creature in her natural form, the string-strumming speeds up; when she turns herself into a shy woman, the music slows down. The painted fan – sometimes at the back, other times in the front – works its magic as the mythical nine tails.
William usually finds the traditional Japanese music a bit unnerving. Its expressionistic tension is too harsh for his receptacles. But it works perfectly with the story of the magical fox – the trickster, the lover, the wise advisor…
Two schmucks get into a loud whispering exchange somewhere in close proximity to William. Where the fuck is my wakizashi when I need it?
More metaphorical dancing and singing take place – performers disappear behind the screen in a fairly brisk succession and reappear in their conversational attire, folding themselves down next to one or another guest. They introduce themselves, refresh the drinks and the snacks, watch, exchange a few words between the dances, then change places in some pattern known only to them. It’s a dance in itself.
* * *
“My name is Ichica.” The accent is very Japanese, stronger than the matron’s polished pronunciation.
He notices that she brought a new tea tray and has started an elaborate process of making fresh tea, which takes much longer than one song or dance. She is not in a hurry. Her refined movements ignite a spark somewhere around his solar plexus.
“You performed the Kitsune dance?”
She bows deeply and whispers, “Yes.”
“I enjoyed that very much. You are very good.”
“Arigato, McGrath-san,” she bows even deeper.
The porcelain of the cup is almost translucent. Its fragility complements the subtle aroma of the tea – creating an emotional, stirring effect. William sips and closes his eyes in pleasure.
When he opens them, Ichica is no longer next to him. She is two places to the left and another geisha is sitting down by his side. She places a small plate of grill mackerel on his tray and pours two tiny cups of sake – one for him and one for herself.
* * *
William stays through two more rotations of the hostesses and asks the third one to bring him Ichica’s bidding scroll. There are already five entries there. He adds his name to the list and next to it writes an amount that is a multiple of the previous bid. He gives the scroll back, unfolds himself, and stands up. Ten minutes longer and I wouldn’t be able to get up. I should start doing slow burn yoga again…
He bows to the matron and leaves.
William’s suite, on the top floor of the Kyoto wing, is not listed anywhere in The Nippon’s directories except for the special roster at the Guests Services. There are no instructional plaques pointing to it either. His personal titanium key has a tiny map of the floor engraved on one side. The Rising Sun corridor branches out in the middle into a secluded walkway and a private foyer. The door carries a bronze plate – ‘McGrath Suite’.
* * *
The doorbell chimes. “It’s open,” William invites through the anteroom’s intercom and immediately goes back to the in-wall espresso machine right above the long dark tansu chest, which is outfitted here as a bar stand with a fridge and a microwave hidden inside. As the door is opening behind him, he takes the first sip of the extra dark liquid, then turns around.
“Ojama shimasu,” Ichica singsongs and bows very low. Her natural voice surprises him with its strength. She rolls in a black chest with stainless steel fixtures, closes the door, takes off her wooden sandals and lowers herself onto her knees. “I was hoping you would bid on me…”
“Why?”
“Because you are very beautiful…”
“And the youngest of the bunch…” William decides not to return the complement – she still has her geisha shield on and it’s difficult to decipher what she really looks like. The two things he is sure of is that she is tiny underneath those stiff layers of silk and cotton – could be a good thing and could be not – and that she is breathtakingly graceful in her movements.
“Do you need the bathroom for your makeup? It’s through there…” he points to the half-open door, basically instructing her that she should relieve herself of her role’s attributes and reveal the woman underneath. Maybe, if the logistics were reversed and he was coming into her chambers and it was just a wig and some sort of a negligee version of a kimono, he would actually enjoy keeping her like that, but that white paint…
“Thank you,” Ichica opens her chest, takes a leather nécessaire out of it and disappears behind the door, closing it shut.
The chest’s top remains unclosed and William takes a peek. He guessed correctly – it’s a pleasure chest, full of dildos, vibrators, clamps, an assortment of restraints, even a length of rope… Well, we shall see…
She comes out stark naked: no clothes, no makeup, no wig. She wears her hair in a thick short bob artfully died in various hues of blues, pinks, and purples. The narrow waist makes her body feminine in spite of the tiny breasts. Thankfully there are pubes, which are trimmed into a dense triangle. And her eyes sparkle with mature, shameless sensuality…
The truth is, William finds this Japanese woman incredibly fuckable. And he fucks her hard. Every which way.
They devour a huge plate of superb sashimi, washing it down with hot and cold sake. She feeds him the last raw shrimp by holding its tail in her teeth and they chew it down together – eyes, antennas, and pads – while he shoves his tongue down her throat, enjoying the taste of sea and rain.
She composes herself into a shoulder stand, scissoring her legs back and forth, side to side. He grabs her tiny ankles and fucks her standing up, while she moans her pleasure in response to every deep thrust, never distorting her position. He picks her up by the waist, flips her sideways, and sets her down on her hands and knees. Dropping to his haunches behind her, he spreads her wide, enters her ass, and relishes the tightness that throws him into a climatic spin once again.
He orders Cristal and Beluga. Flutes and mother-of-pearl spoons. They drink the champagne. She laughs when he tells her that he is not really who he appears to be and that his name is not William. He eats the chilled caviar off her hard nipples and clit, then feeds her off his even harder dick. She drinks him dry and he finally feels relaxed.
William reaches for his yukata and it’s the signal for Ichica to start collecting her stuff. Tying the light cotton sash, he walks to the low lacquered table at the head of the futon and picks a white envelope embossed with an image of a geisha standing by a tiny maple tree. He takes it with him into the dressing room. There, he activates a secret panel in one of the wall mirrors, revealing a safe door with a palm sensor. He takes a hundred-pack of Benjamins from the stack inside, closes the secret contraption, and places the money into the tip envelope.
By the time he walks back into the futon room, Ichica is ready – she is dressed in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, all her things are packed, and the futon is remade – ready for his rest. William gives her the envelope. She thanks him, bowing deeply.
On her way towards her chest, tempted by the heft of the envelope, Ichica looks inside. She stops, turns around, makes a few steps back toward William, kneels, and bows, her head touching the floor in the expression of special deference. “Arigato, McGrath-san,” she whispers, gets up and leaves.
William looks at the clock. It’s 8 am in New York. He silences his phone, and enters “Do not disturb” through The Nippon’s app. I almost wore myself out… But I need a bath.
As he soaks in the deep wooden tub, he watches the huge digital boards of the Strip through the panoramic window in front of him. His focus diffuses and he imagines Bellagio’s panel for Cirque du Soleil’s ‘O’ coming to life – the lonely punter slowly pushing his pole, gliding the giant O straight towards him through the sunrise.
“And it’s going to be paper-thin,” William tells the old bonsai standing on the floor next to his head.
Stretching on the futon and finally closing his eyes, he smiles and whispers to himself, “I am Superman.”
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