New York_ The Novel - Edward Rutherfurd [438]
Back in New York, Gorham made a determined effort to keep his life on an even keel. He stood for the board of the building again, and was easily elected. He didn’t much like some of the other people on the board, but that wasn’t the point. He was determined to grasp everything about the life he had and hold onto it. He made a point of taking Maggie out to dinner, just the two of them, every other week at least. Time was compartmentalized in New York. At work, naturally, there was a schedule, but he tightened up his private life as well. Twice a week he played tennis at the Town Tennis Club near Sutton Place, or in the winter months on the covered courts under the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge. All through the rest of that year, he felt himself to be in control of the situation. Maggie seemed happy. His home life was exemplary. As the end of the year approached, Gorham was feeling rather proud of himself. So when the next blow struck, it took him by surprise.
It was at a cocktail party the week before Christmas, and Gorham found himself talking to a pleasant fellow who told him he was a historian at Columbia. They discussed the university a little, and then Gorham asked the man what work he’d been engaged in recently.
“I’m actually on a sabbatical,” the fellow announced, “so that I can complete a book I’ve been working on for a few years. It’s about Ben Franklin in London. Sets his life there in the context of everything that was going on in science, philosophy, politics.”
“That sounds incredibly interesting.”
“I think it is.”
“Tell me more.”
“Just stop me when you’ve had enough.” The guy was about his own age, Gorham supposed. Medium height, round-faced and balding, he wore metal-rimmed glasses and a bow tie. He was friendly and unassuming, but as he talked about the world Ben Franklin had known, and the lively intellectual tradition Franklin represented, one could feel his intensity and enthusiasm. It was infectious. “Am I boring you?” he genially inquired after a few minutes.
“Absolutely not,” said Gorham. And when the historian stopped and said he reckoned that was pretty much what his book was about and, with a twinkle in his eye, that maybe when it came out, Gorham would like to buy a copy, Gorham assured him: “I shall buy several and give them to friends. You have no idea,” he added, “how much I envy you.”
The man looked quite surprised. “You make far more money, and enjoy a lot more respect in the world than most authors do,” he said mildly.
“But what about the mind?”
“Many of the bankers I know, besides being highly intelligent, have jobs that require a full use of their intellect. The challenges of running a business are quite as great as those of mastering a piece of history.”
“I’m not sure that’s true,” said Gorham, “but even if it were, you’ll have one thing I never will.”
“Which is?”
“You will produce something that you can call your own. Your book will remain there, forever.”
“Forever is a long time,” the man responded with a laugh.
“Everything I do is ephemeral,” said Gorham. “When the banks get together to make a big loan, they announce the fact in the newspaper with an ad describing the loan and listing all the main participating banks. We call it a tombstone. So I guess you could say that my life has been preparing a bunch of tombstones.”
“They represent enterprises that wouldn’t be there otherwise. I see birth in what you do, not death.” The writer smiled. “An appropriate thought, as Christmas is approaching.”
Gorham smiled too, and they parted. But alone that night, he asked himself: What have I done that I can put my hands on? What can I look back on in my career and say, “This is mine. This is what I created and left behind”? And he could find nothing, nor could he feel anything but a terrible, spiritual emptiness.
In January 2001, Gorham Master signed on with a headhunter. He told no one, not even Maggie. Perhaps the headhunter could