Agnes Among the Gargoyles (6 page)

   Anger and shock at the fate of the Anacosta, pride in Agnes , loathing of Agnes—many emotions percolate through the room. The big dog bays. Malthus Grosvenor vows to investigate the illegal razing. Greta Anselm, professor of Comparative Lit. at Sarah Lawrence, asks Agnes for lessons in Tae Kwon Do.

   "Are you sure it was 44th Street?" says Isabel in desperation. "Of course you are, Agnes."

   Into this hubbub comes Jessica Sanborne, one of the Telamones Society's special guests for the evening. She is followed by a pair of Japanese men in navy blue suits. Jessica's family made its fortune in brewing, and Gotham Amber, Gotham Lager and Gotham Premium Porter—the Sanborne line—are the only beers still brewed in New York City. A regal woman of fifty, Jessica is dressed in a hooded sweatshirt and Reeboks. That's how I would dress if I were rich, thinks Agnes. Nothing fancy but everything new.

   Jessica Sanborne is a famous New York personality. She is heavily involved in architectural preservation as well as various left-wing causes that don't interest Agnes in the slightest. Agnes's approach is one of aesthetics and reverence for tradition; Jessica has more complicated notions of urban space and the New City and the right of the people to define their own environment. She spoke at Francine Geister's funeral. She fought Wegeman tooth and nail over the old Customs House Annex in Tribeca. When the Federal Government moved their offices elsewhere, Wegeman wanted to buy the property from the city for luxury apartments. Jessica Sanborne put together a coalition that matched his offer; she wanted to set up an AIDS hospice.

  "This city needs luxury housing," said Wegeman. "And with me you'll get your hospice, too. I'll give you a property outright. I'll even do the renovations."

   Jessica Sanborne wasn't happy about that. The property Wegeman was offering was an art deco apartment building on the Grand Concourse in the Bronx.

   "It's too far for the patients to travel," said Jessica.

   "They only have to make the trip once," Wegeman pointed out. "Look, Tribeca is a very hot neighborhood. I'm not sure the poor and the dying are entitled to a hot neighborhood."

   The Customs House was sold to Wegeman.

   Jessica introduces the Japanese gentlemen, Mr. Kamakura and Mr. Li-te.

   "Can we get started?" she says. "Mr. Kamakura and Mr. Li-te are going back to Tokyo tonight."

   Jessica makes a few opening remarks.

   "I think you should know," she says, "that the preservationist movement in New York has spawned similar groups all over the country. They are doing marvelous work."

   There is tepid applause. No one in the room really cares about the rest of the country. Who gives a shit about a few clapboard houses and Bullfinch city halls? New York is where the architectural action is.

   "We have won many battles," says Jessica. "But we must never grow complacent. The great structures are, for the most part, safe. But cities are not just collections of great structures. Cities are tapestries of the great, the near-great, the downright sickening. The ill-conceived, the grotesque, the mediocre—these are as much a part of our heritage as the Woolworth Building."

   Jessica Sanborne puts on her glasses. One of her hands is palsied; she thrusts it into her pocket. She scans the room, and finally her eye settles on Agnes.

   "The bad news that our heroic Miss Travertine delivered to you is quite correct," says Jessica. "The Anacosta is gone forever. Yes, it was a welfare hotel, but I happen to know that the residents were sensitive to its beauty. They appreciated the moldings and the carvings and the dumbwaiters. They loved the high ceilings. And they were heartened, if only subliminally, by the societal message that everything—old hotels and the poorest among us—is worth saving."

   She continues matter-of-factly: "The Anacosta was demolished in a midnight raid by the Czacki Corporation, recently acquired by, well, I can't say the man's name."

   Mr. Kamakura and Mr. Li-te sip the tea that Isabel has brought them.

   Jessica says, "I submit for your approval a three-point plan for preservationist groups nationwide. One—the preserving of second-level structures to complement our already landmarked masterworks. Expect resistance from landlords and greedy speculators. Two—preservationist groups must act as watchdogs to prevent the alteration of protected structures. Hard economic times are coming; regulations will be ignored. One Grand Central is an outrage. Three—new and vibrant architecture within the classical traditions must be encouraged; this architecture must awe and inspire and quicken the pulse while taking the hand of the populace."

   Jessica Sanborne has lived an enviable life, thinks Agnes. Her husband, a rakish aviator from Brooklyn, died when they had been married barely a year, and thus she had what Agnes has always wanted—an early tragedy that absolved her from responsibility for anything she might do for the rest of her life. Jessica, faithful to her husband's memory, has never been even remotely associated with another man. She is aloof and alone. She is a monument. Agnes Travertine is aloof and alone and no one gives a shit.

   Jessica and her companions begin a slide show.

   The first slide is of the old Pennsylvania Station, 1910-1963,
requiescat in
pace.
Mr. Li-te runs the projector; Jessica and Mr. Kamakura stand on either side of the screen.

   "Mr. Kamakura and Mr. Li-te represent the Shoso-in syndicate," says Jessica. "Shoso-in has acquired some property that it would like to develop. The name of the syndicate is significant, isn't that so, Mr. Kamakura?"

   Mr. Kamakura speaks softly. "The Great Hall of the Shoso-in, near Kyoto, is said by many to resemble a phoenix with outstretched wings."

   "I beg to differ," says Malthus Grosvenor. He reluctantly stands up. Jessica shields her eyes to see him.

   "You might as well nail these things down correctly," says Grosvenor. "The hall that looks like a phoenix isn't the Shoso-in. It's the Byodo-in. The Shoso-in is in Nara."

   Mr. Kamakura looks confused. Grosvenor speaks to him in Japanese. Mr. Kamakura replies in Japanese. Mr. Li-te joins in. All three laugh in Japanese.

   Grosvenor explains. "Mr. Kamakura just said to me that, in their haste to embrace all things Western, the Japanese may also have embraced Western ignorance and carelessness."

   Mr. Kamakura's joke doesn't go over very well. There is a rumble of indignation.

   "That poor Oriental man," says Marty thickly. "They'll tear him apart. I must help him save face."

   Marty rises. "May I humbly suggest that our honored guest was actually speaking Chinese, and was misunderstood." He sits down. A foolish, drunken look of satisfaction brightens his face. His wife reels with embarrassment.

   The presentation eventually gets back on track.

 "Mr. Kamakura's syndicate is interested in developing our West Side waterfront," says Jessica. She waits for the appropriate slide. "This is the former site of the Cunard Line pier, from which I, as a young and foolish thing, set off on my first tour of Europe."

   Jessica married a war hero from Red Hook and mocked the opulence of her own wedding and won the hearts of the poor. Hannah Travertine has paid more attention to Jessica's life than to her own daughter's, or even to her own. If she saw a picture of Jessica at a banquet, Hannah would say to Agnes, "I don't envy her, having to eat that rich food all the time," and Agnes would point out that what Jessica ate was no doubt easier to digest than the tuna casserole the Travertines lived on.

   Agnes can't help but have a soft spot for Jessica Sanborne. Hannah's virtual obsession with the woman has made her a familiar, cozy figure to Agnes, almost like a distant relation. Agnes would love to tell Jessica that she wasn't trying to save the Great Man, that piece of vermin, but take him out of the picture for good.

   "The lack of a vibrant waterfront in our city is a disgrace," says Jessica. "Mr. Kamakura and his people have envisioned a shopping /dining / entertainment complex, but one with a difference, and one that should be of great interest to the membership of the Telamones Society. Imagine seeing a movie, having dinner, eating an ice cream cone, buying a shirt—all in the old Pennsylvania Station, one of the most beautiful structures ever to grace New York City."

   Joy erupts.

 There are confused questions. Did I hear correctly? The
old
station? But it doesn't exist anymore! Jessica and Mr. Kamakura outline the scheme. When Penn Station was demolished in 1963, the pieces were hauled out to New Jersey and dumped in the Meadowlands swamps. The cost of reclamation would be less than the cost of new materials. The plan has already been approved by the Shosoin board of directors; approval from the New Jersey Governor's office is pending. The station's original blueprints have been found, and what cannot be dug up and restored will be rebuilt. As if to demonstrate the legitimacy of the enterprise, Mr. Kamakura holds up a leather-bound prospectus.

   The society is delirious. Agnes gazes in rapture at the views of Pennsylvania Station that flash on the screen. The destruction of the station, which actually began the preservationist movement, has been called the worst act of civic vandalism in history. Agnes would love to see that grievous wrong righted. In one of the slides, a man drives a horsecar past the station, which is not yet finished—the clock has yet to be installed in the entablature. The man smiles at the camera, and waves, and leans forward as if to pat his horse's rump, seemingly unaware of the architectural masterpiece taking shape behind him.

   Isabel answers the doorbell. A man in a gorilla suit carrying a string of helium balloons rushes past her into the foyer. He turns on a tape recorder hanging from his waist. Jungle drums begin to play. The beast holds up an envelope marked GORILLAGRAM. Of course, thinks Agnes—Marty's birthday. His flinthearted wife actually came through for him. Agnes leads the gorilla over to Marty, who sits nearly passed out in a wing chair.

   "Marty, look," says Agnes.

   Marty says something that the gorilla doesn't understand. The gorilla shakes its head. Then the gorilla says something Agnes doesn't understand.

   "What? What?" says Agnes.

   The gorilla removes his head. "I hate to break character, but this shit happens all the time. It's hot in that head. I have a GorillaGram for Agnes Travertine."

   Agnes confronts the gorilla. "Not Marty Zollner?"

   The gorilla is offended. "This is a shit job, lady, but I can read."

   Agnes takes the paper from him. He pounds his chest lethargically.

   "You think I could get a soda?" he asks Isabel.

   Agnes reads the message.

   I don't know if you're shy or what but don't you think you should come see me so I could thank you? The last time I saw you there were bullets nicking my windpipe.

   Ron W.

   Agnes leaves with the gorilla. His name is Alex. He lives right near her in Washington Heights. He would give her a lift home if he weren't on his way to a party in New Rochelle. He drives her to the train station. He tells her that when he's not in a gorilla suit he studies painting and acting.

   He lets her out in front of the desolate commuter station. She sits down on a bench. There is no sign of a train. She checks the schedule, then remembers with an awful feeling that she left her wallet and her keys on a table in the Zollners' foyer. No one else would think of it, so she took out money to tip the gorilla and...oh, what misery! There is nothing to do but walk the mile back to the Zollners'. It is all uphill.

   The Zollners' house is heart-sinkingly dark. Agnes creeps around to the rear to see if anyone is still in the kitchen. There is a light on in an upstairs bedroom. Someone is moving around. Agnes takes a step backward. Gravel crunches beneath her feet. Agnes resigns herself to ringing the bell. There doesn't seem to be all that much love in the Zollner marriage, she thinks. It's a shame. They seem bound together mainly by their finances, their family, their possessions. Of course, that's plenty. When Marty throws up the sash and vomits a mixture of red and white wine the color of rose, it isn't his wife that he hits.

Barnett's Steak House sits rather sadly in a corner of the theater district, its awning torn, the neon bled from the letters of its sign. The reviews mounted in the front window were written by dead writers for defunct newspapers. For what it's worth, the reviewer for the Brooklyn Eagle thought it was a heckuva place to strap on the feedbag.

   Barnett's has survived escalating rents by cutting back on quality and service and amenities. There is nothing left to skimp on. The steaks are pounded. The vegetables are frozen. The napkins, water glasses, silverware and ashtrays sit misaligned on the tabletops to cover all the holes in the tablecloths.

   "Everyone in Liverpool knew the Beatles," says a waiter to a table of four tourists. The waiter's name is John Bezel. He is a muscular man of perhaps sixty. He was once a prizefighter. He has a spotted bald head and a pronounced limp. He is missing the ring finger of his left hand. His Northern English accent thickens as the anecdote progresses. "They were neighborhood kids. I heard them in 1962 at the Cavern Club. I thought they were right bloody awful, thank you."

   The diners laugh it up. This is Bezel's last table of the night. He delivers the check and the punch line. "And it is that sort of astute judgment that has kept me a waiter for lo these many years."

   The two couples dicker over the bill. A calculator appears. Worn singles are counted out carefully. Bezel knows that he will be tipped poorly. He can't watch. He retreats to the kitchen. The cooks have that crazy Dominican music playing. Bezel goes out the back door, pulls up a lettuce crate, and lights a cigarette. He sits happily alone. He is glad that it is too cold for the kitchen staff to be outside. They're used to tropical weather.