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By Root 6026 0

the handsome russet and glass skyscraper, and there was the insignificant Picasso sculpture with its struts and its sheet metal, no wings, no victory, only a token, a reminder, only the idea of a work of art. Very similar, I thought, to the other ideas or reminders by which we lived—no more apples but the idea, the pomologist’s reconstruction of what an apple once was, no more ice cream but the idea, the recollection of something delicious made of substitutes, of starch, glucose, and other chemicals, no more sex but the idea or reminiscence of that, and so with love, belief, thought, and so on. On this theme I rose in an elevator to see what the court, with its specters of equity and justice, wanted of me. When the door of the elevator opened, it merely opened, no voice said, “My Fate!” Either Renata really filled the bill, or the voice had become too discouraged to speak.

I got out and saw my lawyer Forrest Tomchek and his junior associate Billy Srole waiting at the end of the wide open light gray corridor outside Judge Urbanovich’s courtroom—two honest-looking deceitful men. According to Szathmar (Szathmar who couldn’t even remember a simple name like Crawley), I was represented by Chicago’s finest legal talent.

I said, “Then why don’t I feel safe with Tomchek?”

“Because you’re hypercritical, nervous, and a damn fool,” said Szathmar. “In his branch of the law nobody has more respect and clout. Tomchek is one of the most powerful guys in the legal community. In Divorce and Post-Decree these guys form a club. They commute, they play golf, they fly to Acapulco together. Behind the scenes, he tells the other guys how it’s all going to be done. Understand? That includes the fees, the tax consequences. Everything.”

“You mean,” I said, “they’ll study my tax returns and so forth and then decide how to cut me up.”

“My God!” said Szathmar. “Keep your opinion of lawyers to yourself.” He was deeply offended, infuriated really, by my disrespect for his profession. Oh, I agreed with him that I must keep my feelings to myself. I made every effort to be pleasant and deferential to Tomchek, but I wasn’t very good at this. The harder I tried, murmuring at Tomchek’s pretensions, saying the right thing, the more he mistrusted and disliked me. He kept score. In the end I would pay a heavy price, an enormous fee, I knew that. So here was Tomchek. With him stood Billy Srole, the associate. Associate is a wonderful word, a wonderful category. Srole was chubby, pale, his attitude highly professional. He wore his hair long and kept it flowing by stroking it with a heavy white palm and looping it behind the ears. His fingers bent backward at the tips. He was a bully. These were bully refinements. I know bullies.

“What’s up,” I said.

Tomchek put his arm about my shoulder and we went into a brief huddle.

“Nothing to worry about,” said Tomchek. “Urbanovich was suddenly free to meet with both parties.”

“He wants to wrap the thing up. He’s proud of his record as a negotiator,” Srole told me.

“Look, Charlie,” said Tomchek. “Here’s the technique Urbanovich uses. He’ll throw a scare into you. He’ll tell you how much harm he can do and stampede you into an agreement. Don’t panic. Legally we’ve put you in a good position.”

I saw the healthy grim folds of Tomchek’s close-shaven face. His breath was sourly virile. He gave off an odor which I associated with old-fashioned streetcar brakes, and with metabolism, and with male hormones. “No, I won’t give any more ground,” I said. “It doesn’t work. If I meet her demands she makes brand-new ones. Since the Emancipation Proclamation there’s been a secret struggle in this country to restore slavery by other means.” This was the sort of statement that caused Tomchek and Srole to be suspicious of me.

“Okay, draw the line and hold it,” said Srole. “And leave the rest to us. Denise makes things tough for her own lawyer. Pinsker doesn’t want a hassle. He only wants his dough. He doesn’t like this situation. She’s getting legal advice on the side from that fellow Schwirner. Completely unethical.”

“I hate Schwirner!