Founder, Installment 17

Chapters 33 and 34

Chapter 33: Pygmalion, December 2021

When Tullia showed up at the bar tonight, her entrance was uncharacteristically low-key. She came with the same two friends as always, but they didn’t step off the lift as boldly as they usually do. And when the hostess went to seat them, Tullia pointed at a booth in the corner, which means she’s not interested in being on display. Maybe that accounts for her more casual clothing—she and her friends aren’t hitting the clubs tonight.

While Tullia and her friends place their order, Hugh finishes preparing a vodka martini. Eventually Tulia excuses herself and makes her way over to the bar. After sliding onto the barstool opposite him, she says Hi, Huwarding in her typically breathless way, then leans forward on her elbows.

He asks where she’s been for the last few weeks.

“We were in Lanzarote,” she replies, then seeing him raise his eyebrows, adds, “In the Canary Islands? My parents have a place there.”

Of course. Lanzarote.

It’s odd to see her tonight because he doesn’t feel the usual moth-flutter in the pit of his stomach, nor the standard jolt of adrenaline. It’s not that she doesn’t look amazing; she’s actually more appealing dressed this way—with toned-down makeup, a sleeveless black top, and a low knot of golden hair at the back of her head. Just a few weeks ago, this version of Tullia would have had his stomach turning cartwheels. Maybe, after all that’s happened recently, his body has a higher bar for adrenaline rushes. That’s not such a bad thing, though he misses the thrill he used to feel when he saw her.

“Nice tan,” he says as he checks his POS terminal.

“Am I too dark?” she asks, holding her arms out and inspecting them.

“Nah. You look great.”

She laughs and takes an olive from his condiment tray, then watches as he rummages in the cooler for a bottle of Chimay. He opens the bottle, sets it on a tray with a chilled glass, and waves the server over.

“It’s slow tonight,” says Tullia, looking around the bar.

He nods. “What’re you up to tonight?”

“We’re just having some drinks and heading home. What about you?” She reaches for a slice of orange and strips it clean with her front teeth.

“Got a friend coming by for a drink after I get off,” he replies.

“The law-student?”

“No,” says Hugh. “She’s out of the picture.”

From her table, Tullia’s friends gesture for her to rejoin them, but she waves them off. “So what’s up with your ancestry thing?” she asks. “Are you a Godor now?”

Her question lands badly with him, particularly her saying Godor loud enough for anyone to hear, and for inquiring so casually.

“I hit a dead end,” he replies flatly. “It’s a long story.”

Tullia frowns. “Still can’t find someone for a DNA match?”

“That and other stuff,” says Hugh.

“Aww, that’s too bad…”

Hugh thanks her for the sentiment, but volunteers nothing more. He has no interest in rehashing the past few weeks or explaining why, after hyping his claim so much, he won’t be changing his class affiliation.

“So, who are you meeting tonight?” she asks. “You’ve got me all curious.”

“Just a friend.”

In the past, he would have answered this way as a tease. Not tonight, though. For whatever reason, he’s not finding the energy required for their usual repartee.

“Well, come join us when your friend gets here and we can have a drink.” With that, she slips off her barstool and returns to her table.

Watching her go, he again finds himself missing the old spark. He can trace the change back several weeks, when he told Tullia he’d filed a claim at the Ministry, and he detected in her face a strange uneasiness. He understood the look as proof she hadn’t thought through the real-life implications of their modern-day Pygmalion story, that he might someday be her social equal and not a block of stone to shape as she fancied. The epiphany wasn’t so much painful as disappointing, recalling his early years in NCA when Maggie would forget his birthday—when Hugh caught his first glimpse of human conditionality.

Seeing Tullia rejoin her friends Iris and Julia, he is forced to acknowledge that the pilot light of his ardor has been snuffed out. Their entanglement, from this more detached perspective, now looks like the wet dream of a feegie teenager—and the attention Tullia paid him like an exercise in her own vanity. The worst part is that, by showing interest in his claim, she held a mirror to his own childish vanity.

He can’t forgive either of them for that.

Another hour passes before Hugh logs out of the POS system, removes his apron, and takes a seat at the end of the bar. Across the room, Tullia and her friends are still at their table eating bruschetta and drinking prosecco. Eventually, the lift doors open and Dory steps out, moving more like himself now, without the hitch in his gait from the broken ribs.

Seeing his friend arrive, Hugh calls out to Oliver for two Redbreast whiskeys. As Oliver goes about fixing their drinks, Dory makes his way over to the bar, looking at ease in a tight v-neck sweater and smelling of aftershave.

“Isn’t that Tullia Bruggen over there?” asks Dory.

Hugh nods. “First time she’s been here in weeks. She said we should join them for a drink when you get here.”

Dory glances back at Tullia’s booth but says nothing.

Just then, Oliver sets their drinks on the counter. Dory takes his glass in hand and raises it to Hugh. “Auga mora,” he says, and drinks. It’s a popular figan toast—in death’s eyes—from an old Bressenian ballad, in which a wounded warrior, chased by Death, turns and challenges his pursuer to a fight.

“Auga mora,” says Hugh as he drinks. Now setting his tumbler down, he asks, “How’re the ribs doing?”

Dory smiles. “Better. I can actually sleep again. And training’s a lot easier now, too.” Then he gives Hugh a probing look and asks, “What about you?”

“You know?” says Hugh, “I’ve been pretty good.”

“Yeah?”

Hugh sits up straighter and looks around the bar. “It’s strange,” he begins, “After all the shit that went down, I thought I was gonna have all these panic attacks and that my OCD would be out of control. Especially not knowing what would happen with the Sikkies and everything.”

“That didn’t happen?”

“No,” Hugh whispers. “Not at all.”

Dory smiles. “So what’s up with that?”

“I have no idea, but the text from Tommy didn’t hurt, yeah?”

Tommy’s text message, received the morning after the assault, confirmed that his father had contacted Propago, and that Hugh could expect to be left alone in the future. The text had gone a long way to restoring tranquility to his life. Strangely, though, the calm began even earlier than that—minutes after he shot the man on Terrence Road. At the time, he figured the sensation was a result of a post-adrenaline crash. But the feeling stayed with him, even as he walked to 175 Moore Street and, later, sat in hiding with Bruce and Dory. Then, in the days afterward, when he noticed that the voice in his head had gone silent and his various tics had been quelled, he fancied the gunshot had scattered his anxieties like crows from a tree. He knows better than to trust any of these improvements; he’s seen his anxiety ebb and flow over the years. But for the first time since the Peugeot followed him—maybe for longer—he’s been able to think about the future without his usual apprehension.

“I’m glad you’re doin’ better,” laughs Dory. “But I think Brucie’s disappointed we didn’t start some sorta revolution.”

Hugh nods and takes a drink. “I get that, but I’m glad we didn’t.”

“Yeah,” says Dory. “And when the shit actually starts, I don’t wanna be flat on my face after some jimmy blindsided me, yeah?”

Hugh chuckles.

“You gonna try to fix things with Sil?” asks Dory.

“I don’t think there’s anything left to fix,” Hugh replies. “I never really considered the possibility she’d just take off, you know? But that’s where things stand, and I gotta deal with that.”

“I hear you,” says Dory, swirling the last few drops of whiskey in his tumbler.

Hugh drains his drink and rises. “You ready to head out?”

Dory gestures at Tullia’s table with his eyebrows raised, but Hugh shakes his head.

“Nah, not tonight.”

“Alright then,” says Dory, rising as well. “Let’s roll.”

Chapter 34: Home Again, December 2022

The occupational therapist comes five times a week to lead Maggie through his exercises—forming fists, bending his thumbs, tapping his fingers on the countertop. When the old man first began therapy, his face would contort in pain as the exercises intensified, and tears would stream down his cheeks. Now, though, he seems more comfortable with the routine, even completing the afternoon and weekend sessions on his own. It’s not like Maggie to be a good patient, but he’s shown a surprising commitment to this process, his forced hiatus having reminded him what he loved—or needed—most about painting. His face has largely healed now, though the wound above his right eye left a pink halfmoon-shaped scar. The blows to his jaw loosened two teeth, which his dentist has begun replacing with implants. Now, aside from the scar, the titanium in his hands, and two new molars yet to be installed, you’d never know he’d been so savagely beaten.

Hugh doesn’t bother knocking when he arrives at Maggie’s flat. It’s just past noon and his uncle, a creature of routine, will be sitting down to lunch. The door lock is new since the attack, as is the deadbolt and the wifi-enabled security system, all of which Hugh had installed when Maggie was still in the hospital. Knowing that Maggie mostly ignores the security system and sets the deadbolt only at night, he lets himself in, announcing himself as he does.

“In here,” calls Maggie from down the hallway.

Hugh makes his way down the hall to the kitchen where he finds his uncle sitting at the harvest table, smearing liverwurst on a piece of baguette. The old man is wearing his usual t-shirt and khaki pants. He is freshly shaved; his gray hair has grown even longer during his nearly month-long recovery. His horn-rimmed readers are halfway down his nose, the pink tip of his tongue visible between his teeth as he prepares his meal.

“You eat?” asks Maggie without looking up.

“Not yet,” replies Hugh. “But I’m not eating that.”

Maggie snorts and continues smearing liverwurst on the bread, his fingers moving stiffly.

Hugh removes his coat and sets it on the cowhide sofa, then goes to the table and pulls up a stool opposite the old man. As he does, Maggie reaches for a jar of gherkins and, after a tentative effort to unscrew the lid, hands it to Hugh.

“How’s PT?” asks Hugh as he opens the jar.

“Comin’ along,” replies Maggie. He takes the bottle and, with a fork, fishes out a half-dozen gherkins, setting them on his plate by the liverwurst sandwich. “Emma said I get a gold star for effort,” he laughs. “Fancy that.”

“You try painting yet?” asks Hugh.

Maggie frowns at his plate but does not answer.

“You gotta try, Mags. You never know, maybe you’ll develop another style, like Picasso or something. And a hundred years from now critics will call this your renaissance.”

Still the old man does not reply. He takes a bite of his baguette and then, with a flourish, pops a gherkin into his mouth.

“What about you?” asks Maggie, his mouth full. “You finally drop that claim?”

“I have an appointment in a couple weeks,” replies Hugh. “You gotta do the paperwork in person and have it notarized.”

Maggie nods approvingly as he chews. “That’s good.” Then, after a pause, he asks, “You’re sure them Propago fellas won’t be comin’ after us anymore?”

“Sure as I can be,” replies Hugh.

“And what about Silvia?” asks the old man.

“Apparently she’s in London.”

Maggie glances at Hugh over the tops of his readers, his eyebrows arched.

“For winter term,” Hugh clarifies. “She’ll be back in mid-January. I think she’s going to live with her parents after that.”

“So that’s that, eh?”

Hugh laughs cynically. “That’s that.”

Looking down at his half-eaten sandwich, Maggie shakes his head. “That’s a damn shame, Hugh Boy. She was a good one.”

Now Hugh rises, goes into the main room, and sits on the sofa; a moment later, Maggie follows him, plate in hand, and sits in the chair opposite him. For several minutes, Maggie eats in silence while Hugh gazes absent-mindedly at the archtop window on the southern wall. The sky is overcast today, but the light flooding the old warehouse windows is starkly white and intense—perfect studio lighting, Maggie used to say.

“How’re you feelin’ about dropping your claim?” Maggie asks. “I know you wanted some payback with the yazzers.”

“I’m okay,” replies Hugh.

Maggie reaches down and nudges his sandwich with his forefinger but does not pick it up. He sits there for a moment, looking at his plate, then takes another gherkin and chews it slowly. “You know, Hugh Boy, I always had my paintin’ when things got rough. And no matter how much went wrong in my life, I could go into that studio right there and lose myself in the work. Them canvases and brushes saved my life more times than I can say. You needed somethin’ like that in your life, and I shoulda helped you find it.”

Hugh is about to respond when Maggie continues.

“But I was already an old dog when your parents died, and I didn’t know how to be an uncle or a legal guardian, yeah? But maybe if I’d tried harder you wouldn’t have that big hole inside you—wouldn’t have felt like you needed to go lookin’ for a new family.” When he turns back toward the window, his eyes briefly catch the midday light; he blinks once, twice, then resumes speaking. “When I told you about Mossey I was tryin’ to say, ‘life ain’t always what it seems,’ yeah? But I didn’t mean to send you on a wild goose chase.”

“You didn’t send me on anything,” counters Hugh. “I got a little wound up, that’s all. Besides, you said it yourself—we’re not yazzer material.”

Maggie smiles at this. “Could be a lot worse,” he laughs. “You could’ve ended up a yazzer who talks like a southside feegie and doesn’t have a single upper class friend—except for that dipshit juner at your bar…”

“Right,” says Hugh. “It could’ve been worse.”

“Anyway,” continues Maggie, “I’m proud of you, Hugh Boy—for landin’ on your feet the way you always do. For rememberin’ who you are.”

Hugh smiles appreciatively and rises from the couch. “So I’m getting your groceries today. You make up a list?”

This appears to catch Maggie off-guard. “I forgot,” he replies. “Grab me a pen and I’ll write some things down.”

“Never mind,” says Hugh. “You always eat the same stuff. I’ll figure it out.”

As Hugh zips up his coat, Maggie watches him with a vaguely crestfallen expression. Maybe he wasn’t done with that last bit of encouragement, Hugh decides.

“I didn’t mean to cut you off, old man.”

Maggie smiles and looks at the tops of his hands. “Nah, you’re good, Hugh Boy.” Then, as Hugh turns to leave, Maggie adds, “But I am proud.”