The soft cafe lights illuminate the early morning mist of Paris as the sleek Mercedes limousine moves swiftly down Rue Saint-Dominique past the red awnings which depict a unique French cafe culture. Au Canon des Invilades, then left on Le Boulevard De La Tour-Maubourg past Le Centenaire and Le Recrutement.
The iconic Haussmann apartment buildings stand close to Rue Saint-Dominique. The high ceiling ground floor “mezzanine” for shops. “Noble” second floor, with balconies and richer window frames. Third and fourth floors more conventional, with poorer windows frames. The Fifth floor is not “noble”, but the balcony offers aesthetic balance as seen from the street. The classic 19th Century architecture is capped with a mansard roof, with its small attic rooms and dormer windows. Suitable for storage, and where the servants once slept.
These buildings are home for most of the people living in the third most densely populated city in Europe. The universal freedoms of liberté, égalité and fraternity was the revolutionary promise. The inalienable rights of all men they proclaimed. But the revolutionists took off Robespierre’s head and replaced the tripartite motto with a forty square metre apartment, bright orange walls and a shower curtain with the faded image of Marilyn Monroe.
The Mercedes pulls quietly to the curb and stops. The placard mounted on the limestone casing of the recessed doorway reads Flaneur Enterprises. The driver turns to the man in the back seat.
“Here’s the code, Mr. Coleman.”
His gate was strong and erect with a long steady cadence. His thin black features well defined and clean. The Cordone classic white Italian collar is finished with a single knot Salvatore Ferragamo cravat. The six eyelet Christian Louboutin oxford buffed to a soft black blush. No accessories except for a single princess-cut sapphire in 14k White Gold set in a Celtic knot design on his left ring finger. He continues past a 9 square metre window to Bob Fey’s office without looking inside.
At the end of the long and plush promenade running the length of the west wing he turns into the reception area. Diana waves him through, something like a traffic cop at a busy intersection. Her deportment is welcoming and unassuming. She had never set herself up as the keeper of the gate. Although she could. Open access had always been Fey’s policy. Diana was the one that made it work. The arched opening to Fey’s office was commonly called the Nether Portal. For some it was the “event horizon”.
Fey was there to greet Scott. The large office is abundant with an elegant touch of scarcity. A small Persian rug centred an array of richly upholstered seating in the middle of the room. The custom smoked wing style lectern which served as a standing work station stood discreetly to one side. Meticulously positioned indirect lighting reflected the abstract genius of Pollock, Kandinsky and Brice Marden through the hard finish of a cherry parquet floor.
“Good morning Scott.” Fey’s hand shake was firm and ingratiating.
“Good morning, Bob.”
“Help yourself, Scotty?” Fey motioned towards an alcove near his desk where there was a complete wet bar that always included something appropriate for the hour of the day.
“Good flight.”
“Long.”
Scott looked over the array of cream filled napoleons, fruit tarts topped with chocolate and raspberry-almond glaze, an assortment of breakfast rolls and some English short bread. The subtle aroma of the pastries leaked into the air and filtered through the caramel bouquet of a sweet Chilean roast. He stood there for a moment hoping his olfactory response would provide some vicarious satisfaction. Sometimes it did. Sometimes it didn’t.
“Tempting, but I’ll pass.”
He continued to the couch where Fey had preceded him, and sat down. The couch was situated just in front of the picture window Coleman had passed in the corridor. Many of the employees found this disconcerting. They didn’t like the idea that Fey could watch them come and go so easily. Fey reasoned, however, that they had the same advantage.
Fey had graduated from MIT without any particular distinction. Average student and regular guy, he spent five years completing a four year chemistry program. Sometime during his third year he was told by his faculty advisor that in the absence of a miracle or divine intervention he should plan to finish his engineering program at an auto repair school. Fey left nothing to fate and, even then, he considered prayer an act of desperation. He claimed that he never really thought of cheating, but later as the founder and CEO of one of the world’s largest developers of industrial resins he would describe his decision as being for some greater good.
Fey, however, had a way of understanding technical data quickly, but he knew there was no future for him in the lab. A practical man with an effusive flare, he learned early in his career that bold and innovative ideas rest upon the mantle of public acceptance only through political persuasion, and to that end he had become the practiced master. He knew where every body in every political, economic and social venue of the industry was buried. He also took delight in setting little traps intended to surprise the company’s scientists, revealing that he had a much greater awareness of the plot and direction of their work than any of then suspected.
“How’s your tennis game?”, Fey asked. “Still having trouble reaching your backhand side.”
“To tell you the truth Bob, these days I’m having trouble covering the line on both sides.”
Fey knew the weakness of Scott’s game. Seeking vulnerability, finding the soft spot, was Fey’s business strategy. It was a skilful game from which he derived extraordinary pride and satisfaction. But on the tennis court he sought out only the most worthy of opponents. For that reason he and Scott rarely played. He wasn’t a bully. However, when he found one they would be forced to endure a slow and deliberate beating.
Early in his career Scott had been looking for an opportunity in research. All of his preparation had taken him in that direction. A chance to be a role model,some said. He never thought of himself as being particularly suited to that task. Or, for that matter, why the should feel any sense of responsibility at all.
His father had provided him with all the enlightenment he ever needed. “If ya’11 want the favor of white folks, he said, then you gotta know the formula, and it ain’t too discreet. A little humility added to massive amounts of the coin of the realm and you can have all the respect you want.”
Respectability had its cost, and he didn’t harbor any illusions. Even though society was pandering a new and enlightened social awareness, little had changed, except that no one called him Nigger anymore. At least not to his face.
Fey had recruited him hard. At first he thought Fey was in pursuit of an affirmative action commitment. But if that’s all it was he didn’t understand why Fey was trying so hard. A little effort was about all that was required. Fey proved to be an invincible force driven by compelling logic, with an argument that was simple enough; ‘You can jockey a work station and diddle with the “nerds” and “organic junkies” if you want. But, if you’re really going to make a difference in this business you’ll put your balls on the line with me. You’ll find out, in a hurry, if they’re made of brass, or made of glass.’
Fey wasted no time. “What’s the situation in Boston?”
“Tense.”, Coleman replied.
“The politics?”
“Changing rapidly with the new administration. The cultural revolutionaries think they have white European supremacy by the nuts. The corporate and media people are eagerly joining forces with them.”
“Smart move. Almost all of the world’s wealth is controlled by white Western Europeans . . . tell me Scott, do they really think the corporate behemoths are going to surrender their massive wealth and power acquired through a thousand generations of social and economic hegemony to a herd of university anarchists and “uppity niggers”.
Fey didn’t wait for the answer.
“They are just convenient props. Useful idiots. The’ll be disposed of sooner, or later.”
Fey never concealed his contempt, and there was no apology for the obvious lapse in social courtesy. Coleman didn’t appear to expect one, and dismissively advanced the conversation.
“The Woke culture and critical race theory seems to be consuming American culture with little resistance.”
“The new generation of Americans”, said Fey “will surrender their freedom for a swimming pool and three car garage.”
“It was Tocqueville . . . ”, Fey began.
“Tocqueville?”, said Coleman.
“Ya. Alexis de Tocqueville. He was an early French diplomat and political philosopher.”
Fey went on.
“He said that if despotism where to be established in the United States it would be to debase men in sort of a kind and gentle way, without tormenting them. He described a society awash in prosperity. Turning upon themselves in a restless search for petty and vulgar pleasures with which they fill their souls.”
“He said that?”
“According to Tocqueville “Man exists in himself, and for himself.”
“Do you believe that, Bob?”
“I do. If they become too restless, just give them another piece of cake.”
“Tocqueville didn’t say that.”
“No. That was someone else.”
Coleman continued.
“The government is also flooding the country with money, and the critical states with illegal immigrants.”
“The administration seems to be moving fast. Do you think if they repopulate Texas they can flip the politics.”, said Fey.
“Good chance.” “The Democrats may be close to generational control of the White House . . . There is also talk about the Court and, perhaps, beefing up the Senate.”
“They’ll probably try, but the House of Representatives is the wild card.”, said Fey.
“The future of American democracy will be decided there.”
Fay opened a gold trimmed dark brown leather contact file which he had placed on the couch between them. On top was a memo.
“I thought you might like to see this.”
It read: MicroMagic 1-1531-26.02229 CYCLOPS: IST; PVL; WT
!Magic APPROVED; 166.70 ->47 PTS. SEC TO JUST TRUSTCON. #45789/ 022294.
“So, We’ve got up to 47 percent of Magic.”, Scott said. “They were at 94 last week.”
How much do we have at the old price?”
“Sixty-six thousand shares.”, Fay said.
“Who’s Cyclops, IST and all the rest?”
“They’re our trading partners. They put up the money”
“It must be private money.”, said Coleman. “These aren’t SEC identifiers.”
“Right. The rest of it states terms and cites SEC approval based on a Department of Justice confirmation letter.”
“I’m going to need a point man.”
It sounded like a request, but it was really a directive. Fay never cast his line indiscriminately upon the pond.
“They have a serious security breech. You know how important they are to our supply chain. I need someone to get up there as soon as possible.”
Fey paused, briefly.
“Their people tell me that security is so bad that if a research group comes up with something in the morning it’s old news in the break room by noon.”
Coleman pondered the cryptic symbols in the message. He had visited MicroMagic just a few weeks earlier and nothing had been said. Unusual, he thought, for an industry where secrets are tough to keep.
“So Scott, what do think about all this stuff.”
“MicroMagic is probably going to . . .”
“No. . . . . American politics.”
“The Socialists are determined, Bob.”
Fey was quick to reply.
“If they want to test drive socialism, they should live here for a while . . . you know . . . The proof of the pudding is in the testing”.
“You mean the tasting.”
“Right. Wasn’t that Baltasar Gracián.”
Sensing that Fey had suddenly become distracted.
“No, Bob. The Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote; Cervantes Saavedra.”
“Right . . . That’s right. I guess we’re done. Get back to me as soon as you can, Scott”
Fey walked to the window overlooking the city. He could see the river, and just the tip of Le Dame De Fer. His youthful features were reflected, and he saw Scott looking back from the promenade. Their eyes seemed to meet just as Coleman disappeared from view.
Below he could see people cluster in idle chatter, a man leaned over the soufflé of a new croissant. There was an impatient horn. Someone stood casually in an open door. A child’s bicycle, delivery scooters, the Thai chef working at the back of an open kitchen, a shop with funny looking hats, a park with a small bench and large shade trees. In the distance people were resting their feet in the feculent waters of a small fountain pond. They lived in places with orange walls, faded shower curtains and attic rooms with dormer windows just under a mansard roof where servants once slept.