The Savage Girl - Alex Shakar [22]
But the operation takes too long. Cabaj and Javier have appeared. Cabaj is pressing close to Javier, asking him to explain what he means about something. Javier hesitates, then steps up to the bar.
“OK, this is kind of what I mean,” he says. “This is the world.” His hands pass over the glittering rows of bottles and then flutter over a silver serving tray, clearing it off. He picks up the tray and balances it on top of the bottles. He then begins to place things on the tray—the bowl of pretzels, the martini shaker, the plate of limes.
Cabaj laughs nervously. “That’s several hundred dollars worth of booze you’re playing with,” he says.
“Exactly,” Javier concurs. “And this,” he says, gesturing quickly at the upper level, “is the world above the world.”
Around the pretzel bowl he places four more bottles, then balances the cheese tray on top of those bottles. He does all of this quickly, recklessly, but the balance is perfect. Cabaj watches, hypnotized by the movement of his hands.
“You see? The world above the world,” Javier says. “Our world exists only to hold up this other world, this ideal world. It’s the world of our dreams, our desires. It’s elaborate, it’s heavy, and we carry it around with us everywhere. But we don’t mind. The more that’s up here, the better. Because up here is where we keep all that’s best in us. The more that’s up here, the richer our imagination becomes.”
Behind Ursula a small crowd of people has gathered. They all watch expectantly, murmuring and laughing, waiting for catastrophe to strike.
“Now the limes,” Javier says, leaning in and pointing, “and the pretzels, and the bowl and the plate, these are products. Products are the materials we use to build our world above the world.”
Cabaj nods, and Javier runs a hand through his tangled black hair, the two of them gazing teary-eyed at the ramparts and pinnacles of the wet-bar metropolis.
“It’s nice to hear someone talk about marketing positively for a change,” Cabaj says, reaching for a bottle safely off to the side and pouring out a couple of neat tumblers of scotch. “It’s refreshing. In this business it’s so easy to forget the bigger picture.”
Javier accepts a glass from Cabaj. “Market researchers are public advocates,” he says. “We bring consumers’ desires to the attention of private companies. We’re like congressmen: we represent the public.”
Cabaj nods, thoughtful, then looks to Ursula. “You think of yourself this way, too?” he asks.
“Not so much like a congressman,” she says. “More like . . . a missionary. Or maybe a saint. Like Mother Teresa, kind of, but with an expense account.”
Cabaj begins to smile, but she keeps a straight face, and the gears of his own face slip, leaving his mouth half open and his eyebrows half cocked.
Javier holds up his glass.
“So. Here’s to marketing,” he says cheerily. The glass trembles slightly in his hand, and he quickly brings it to his mouth. She remembers the bag of pills and the handkerchief in his pocket, and she wonders what’s wrong with him. The idea that he has some kind of terminal illness takes a sudden, frightening hold of her. As she watches him swallow the drink and wipe his forehead with his sleeve, the idea gains strength in her mind: his frenzied pace, his almost spiritual need to find meaning everywhere, his complete lack of cynicism—these could very well be the qualities of a man who knows he has only a short time to live, a man who’s determined to soak up all the love he can in the time remaining to him.
Javier and Cabaj look at her. She realizes she hasn’t joined in the toast to marketing. She raises her glass and drinks, inwardly laughing at herself. The fact that she can understand optimism only as a desperate response to terminal illness no doubt says more about her own cynicism than it does about Javier.
“So, Ed,” Javier says. “What’s this revolutionary new product of yours you mentioned?”
Cabaj hesitates, looking