Just to warn you: I was not connected to my inner peacefulness when I wrote this. To those of you who love snow, I guarantee your love will greatly diminish once you have to shovel 5 inches of it off all cemented surface around my house. This freaking snowstorm is really getting on my nerves. It is still snowing out there!! Other than that, expect the usual boredom. If you'll excuse me, I'm going out to make some snow angels. That might calm me down … marginally.
Disclaimer: If the world is truly my oyster, I would've lay my hands upon an anatomically correct HA action figure (That's a shout out to you, Jamie), daydreaming possible adventure between me and mini-HA. Instead, here I am, dreaming up possible interaction between characters that I don't even own. I'm cold, I'm alone, and I ran out of ice cream! Man, my life is tragic. *sigh* Btw: the title was paraphrased from Sinatra's New York, New York. I'm hoping neither him nor ASP will sue me for using their work.
It was spring in New York, midway in a string of pleasant days. A vibrant shade of green had taken over the park and there's a gleam of freshness everywhere she looked. The sheer beauty of the scenery brightened her heart. Rory couldn't help but whistle Sinatra's New York, New York as she walked down the street to her office. The neo-gothic New York Times Building still loomed over the pedestrians beneath as she last saw it. Just a look at the exterior reminded her why the previous editors had boldly claimed the building to be the "monarch of Times Square."
By the time she got there, the office had already settled in a steady rhythm of productivity. Swift fingers tap danced upon keyboards as the reporters frantically rushed to meet their deadlines. The phones, photocopiers, and other electronics stroke up a symphonic blend of bleeping background noise. One could overhear people talking, people gossiping, people pleading and people yelling. The latter was most likely her temperamental editor, Tim "intimidator" Eaton.
At 10:00, she was late by conventional standards and most people would get fired on the spot if they followed suit. But her morning didn't go to waste. She already did an interview for her upcoming article. The person who mattered most, Tim, knew she didn't spend her time aimlessly loitering around the streets. He had long accepted her rather chaotic, if not unorthodox, time schedule. He didn't mind, as long as Rory continue to produce her brand of quality reporting. But to the innocent glance of passersby, she had the uncanny power to defy authority.
As usual, Steph, the receptionist's cheerful smile greeted Rory when she stepped out of the elevator.
"Morning, Rory!" She beamed at her. Sometimes Rory wondered if Steph's face was permanently fixated on that saccharine expression. Maybe staples were involved. The overtly sunny personality aside, Steph was not a bad person. She's actually half decent when it came to relationship advices. Talk about unlikely source.
"Morning, Steph." She paused for a second, then added, "Hey I got a question. How long should you call a person back after a date?" The concept had irked her throughout the weekend. She didn't want to come off as too aloof or too needy. She heard enough stories to know that either impression could seriously jeopardize the prospect of a second date. And she wanted a second date with Tristan.
"Don't call. Wait for him to call you. Only call if that doesn't happen within a week and a half." Steph said with a tone of expertise accumulated from years of Cosmo reading.
"Thanks."
But instead of ending it there, she gave her a once over for a second too long. Something about being on the receiving end of that look unnerved her. This was a reason why she seldom consulted Steph for advice. Rory would normally run to her mother or, lately, Jess for advice. Unfortunately, the former was too busy for her first-born and the latter was tucked away in a Southeast Asian country.
"Oh my god!" Just when she thought the girl had gleamed some brand of cosmic revelation off her, Steph proclaimed, "You cancelled your Cosmo subscription." Unbelievably, she said it with a genuine straight face.
"Yeah. Too little time to read all my subscriptions and it just end up sitting on the coffee table with no purpose whatsoever." She smiled. It was the best reply she could've come up with for someone who worshiped it.
"Too bad. It got some good stuff in there sometimes."
Rory was having trouble keeping a straight face at the comment. She could feel her left eyebrow twitching but she doubt that it's noticeable. Just when she was ready to head off to her office, Steph waved a post-it note in her face.
"Somebody called twice this morning. A certain Mr. Tristan DuGrey called, but he didn't leave any messages." She delivered her line with a hint of natural curiosity. A good reporter can detect the scent of a good story. Although Steph was not exactly a reporter, she did work in The New York Times Building. There's something about the atmosphere that made you sniffed around for stories.
"Thank you." She replied politely as she looked at the childish round scribble on the paper. To Steph's disappointment, she didn't add on to that. Rory was one of those who liked to keep her private life private. Step was one of those who liked to keep other people's private life public.
Just then, as if on cue, the shrill ringing of the phone captured the receptionist's attention. Rory picked the moment to slip away. She really had to start working before somebody spots her and accused her of slacking off. It's one thing to do an early morning interview before you hit the office; it's another to engage in mindless chatter in the office.
She barely got away when Steph exclaimed, "Tristan Dugrey is on line two. Are you in?"
Rory nodded her head in affirmation, "I'll take it in my office." She thanked her one last time before she went off into her office. A modest office with a modest view. She worked hard for it and contrary to an early strain of vicious rumor, she got this with her own bare hands. It was rather surprising for Rory to find out that in this day and age, men still held an archaic believe that the only way women could gain power was through the bed sheets. But her work spoke enough volume to dispel the rumors.
Rory stroke a comfortable pose in her chair before picking up the receiver. She didn't understand why bubbles of excitement were cursing through her. Nor did she understand why she's this anxious to pick up the phone. This never happened to her since … high school.
"Morning."
"Morning, Rory." Tristan's excitement was clearly audible on the other end. Then again, what else was to be expected from someone who called twice already?
"How did you get this number?"
"The phonebook. It has the numbers of all commercial organizations in New York City arranged in alphabetic order. Isn't it a nifty notion?" There was lightness in his tone that Rory was no doubt reciprocating.
"You sure that's not a violation of privacy." Rory mock gasped.
"I don't know. Maybe you should look into that for your next attention-grabbing front page headlines, Miss Gilmore."
"Thinks for the tip." Rory picked up a pencil and fiddled with it. She does that when she's nervous. And Tristan made her nervous. Strange. "Now why don't you tell me why you are so anxious to find me, Mr. DuGrey."
"I was not anxious."
"Two calls before 10:00am is considered anxious in my book."
"I just wanted to see you."
"I have a home phone number with a voice mailbox. My casual acquaintances can reach me by leaving a message on it without going through the gossip queen of the office. Isn't it a nifty notion?" She lightly chided him but one could clearly hear from her voice the way she relished the attention.
"I really wanted to see you."
She paused for a second before giving him a very unlikely reply, "Are you dying from terminal illness?"
"Excuse me?" Too bad Rory couldn't see it. He actually slipped from his chair and fumbled. Even after he regained his posture, his eyebrows remained knotted in a quizzical manner.
"That or you're insane. Either way should adequately explain your current behavior."
"No. I'm not dying and I'm not insane."
"You're not making your case any stronger with the way you enunciate that sentence."
"I just thought maybe we can have lunch together."
"Lunch?'
"Yes."
A brief pause of hesitation went by. "Today?"
"Yes."
She pretended she needed the extra minute to think about it when she had long made up her mind. "Well, I do have to eat sometime. How about I'll come over. I have to do some follow-up work at that part of town in the afternoon." Maybe she shouldn't be so quick to point her finger when she was equally insane to agree to lunch on such short notice.
"Great, we can meet at the lobby then. There's a deli around the corner. It has the best roast beef on rye in the city." This lasted with soft, almost imperceptible, juvenile excitement.
"That's a pretty tall claim consider the sheer onslaught of delis around the city."
"You won't say that once you've tasted it. Anyways, I'll see you later."
"Wait a minute. Get out you pen and paper; I'm giving you my private line. The next time you really want to see me, you can call this number. It even has a voice mailbox, so you can leave a message if I'm out."
"What a nifty notion!"
Five hours and an unforgettable lunch date later, Tristan found himself fixing his tie before he went towards the meeting room. He had to admit he was extremely out of character to be that impulsive. But he didn't regret it. And by the looks of it, Rory didn't regret it either. He chuckled briefly at the memory of the joke she made. Something about her experience with a hotdog vendor.
He straightened out his lapels and took a deep breath before he stepped into the room. He had fun, but now, it's crunch time.
A Botticelli painting had recently resurfaced in the market. It was a part of a private collection in Europe and presumed lost in the war and the subsequent looting. People were justifiably sceptical and it took a group of experts to dispel any doubt. They poured their attention all over it, eyeing every fleck of paint with scrutiny, taking advantage of the latest technologies. CAT scans, X-rays and god knows what else were taken to prove its identity.
Now, they have to decide if they'd want it. And more importantly, could they afford the price tag.
Tristan was, after all, only a junior curator and the Botticelli was way out of his league. He was in charge of doing the necessary researches. The rest is up to his boss. Michael would be the one to deliver the speech. He would be the one to explain why this was not the best time to make a new purchase. He would be the one to go into battle. All signs of failure or glory will be associated with Michael, not Tristan. Consider the circumstances, it was not expected, nor was it necessary, for Tristan to take it this seriously.
It was all because of her.
Carmen Dowling was known to take a more artistic approach to things. She held a master in Renaissance art history and if possible, she'd like to see the entire world appreciate the exquisite brushstrokes of Vermeer. Tristan was one of the few among his field to hold and MBA and he frequently applied it to his decision making process. Fortunately, he was not a scrooge, going around yelling bah–humbug into other people's faces. He recognised the subtle shades of grey between art and business. But Carmen still had trouble agreeing with him.
They were doomed to be enemies. The board of director loved him, because he helped them stay within budget. Carmen hated him, because he often ended up compromising their artistic integrity. To her: art should never attach to dollar signs. To him: they lived in a realistic world where dollar signs involved everything, directly or indirectly. Art included. He was merely acknowledging a fact.
He probably would've liked her if they weren't taking opposite stances. She had a head of jet-black hair and twinkling green eyes. A face that belonged to the silver screen and a mind that processed information in a phenomenal speed. She approached her life and her work with savage enthusiasm. Indeed, Tristan could've learned to like her if she didn't try to kill him every time their eyes met. Yes, she hated him that much.
During the meeting, he watched her carefully. The way she blatantly scrunched up her face whenever Michael pointed out the hidden cost of the painting. He saw her jotted down points of interest during the presentation. Just like Tristan, she didn't have to devote this much energy as a junior staff. Just like Tristan, she did.
He paid attention to her team's presentation. They rose a few valid points and he mentally made notes. The painting, on Apollo and Daphne, was heartbreakingly beautiful. But the sheer beauty of it still couldn't justify its astronomical sum. It was too much. This came from a guy who grew up in his grandparents' terrible tasteful house furnished with small paintings by Renoir and Monet.
No conclusion was reached by the end of the meeting. Tristan expected that. Carmen did not.
Somewhere along the way, she had psyched herself to believe that someone would give her a solid affirmation. She, perhaps more than anyone, was determined to make it a part of the Met's permanent collection. She approached the painting with heavy-duty blinders. Just liked the way she approached Tristan with heavy-duty blinders.
He took a deep breath. Maybe a pot of money would appear in front of him and help unload his burden.
He went to get a glass of water in the break room. A place where he could spend a few seconds away from the he scrutiny. Unfortunately, she soon followed. Despite all the warning bells, Tristan didn't bolt when she walked towards him.
"What do you have against Botticelli and his work?"
"None. He was a brilliant artist and he inspired many followers. Myself included." He looked right into her eyes. No sign of backing up from her intimidating glare.
"Then why wouldn't you agree to the purchase?" He could hear the smidgen of accusing tone. Wars were fought for less reason than that. But He tried to display a calm facade.
"I believe it is a financially reckless move." It was a clear-cut, rational answer. If somebody else said that, she would've backed down and let it go. But it's not somebody else.
"Is it possible for you to stop approaching art without a calculator at hand?"
"No. That's the way I'm trained and that's the reason why I'm hired. I'm able to observe the same object as you do under a different filter. I provide the second opinion and whether you like it or not, it is still a valid opinion." His volume raised along a steady crescendo as he spoke. Tristan was sick of it. He was sick of Carmen's tone. He was sick of the way she made him ashamed of doing his job.
"But this is not the best place for you to assign nominal values to objects. For heaven's sake when we talk about Raphael and Michelangelo, we're not talking about the teenage mutant ninja turtles. I'm not questioning your training, but it is not entirely an absurd notion to think that your MBA may not fit well into this organization. Maybe your talents will be better appreciated in you Daddy's company." Tristan grimaced. That was a low blow.
"As much as you hate to admit it, this organization needs me. You all allow your reverence to old masters cloud your judgement. The world is full of treasures, Carmen, and we can't just acquire all of them without considering the consequences!"
"The only consequence we're dealing with here is seeing our history, the history of mankind, drifting off before our eyes. All because somebody like you stopped caring!"
"Look. I care. I care just as much as every single person in this office. But, we're dealing with a zero sum game here. How much you take from the pot depends on how much is available in the pot. By getting that Botticelli, we're sacrificing the budget for various restoration projects. By giving in to one, you take away from another."
A small crowd had steadily precipitated around them. Few winced at the words they toss out, some took sides, most chalked it up as part of the blood feud between the two. All of them saw it a part of their daily ritual. A day was not complete without the sight of them lunging at each other's throat. There's an almost rhythmic quality to it.
Kevin finally had enough of it and stepped between them. Today's fight was more intense than its predecessors. Call him crazy, but he did not look forward to cleaning out the blood splatter once the two killed each other.
"You two, calm down. It is not up to us to decide the fate of the painting. Each of you provided a strong case backed by facts. The rest of the decision process will be determined by someone above the glass ceiling." There was something about his delivery that command their attention.
"We're just presenting our point of view. There is nothing wrong with that." Carmen protested weakly.
"You're right. But you're done presenting your point of view in the meeting, behind those doors. Don't need to extend it beyond professional capacity." The last sentence was especially for Carmen.
"But …"
"I know the two of you are extremely devoted to your job." Kevin cast them a look that stopped them from rebuking his comment. "But enough is enough. Let's call it a day."
Carmen started walking away, but not without letting out an audible huff to display her irritation. She headed towards her office, smashing her stilettos against the floor with every step she took as if she's channelling all her rage against the carpet. The crowd dissipated once they realised show's over.
Kevin felt like he should stay behind to dispense soothing advice to an obviously dejected Tristan. But he failed to find the proper words. After patting Tristan's back in what he hoped to be a comforting manner, he too, left for his office.
Tristan was left standing. Alone.
The rest of the day went along without a hitch. No more bickering were heard between the two.
That evening, Kevin managed to slide past the closing elevator doors on his way home. He was surprised to find Carmen there. Upon seeing it's him, she replaced her masked expression with a cordial smile. A smile that reminded him the she's only 28. A girl that had yet to see the world or acquire the tolerance for opposition. He always wondered why she had to carry that mask around. Especially around DuGrey.
He finally broke the silence, "It had been three months Carmen. Why can't you accept him?" Both knew whom he was referring to.
"I just don't like his approach to things." Her voice was steady, almost monotonous.
"Why? Carmen, he's doing his job. I'm not taking sides, but he was right. He and his colleagues are just following their job description. That means keeping everyone on track and no impulse purchases. Besides, it's not as if the Botticelli would miraculously dissolve if we don't pick it up. I hear The National Gallery is interested." He looked at her intently. "Don't make this a personal vendetta"
"Kevin, I'm not carrying out a personal vendetta. I was merely …" The elevator chime interrupted her.
"Don't hate him because he replaced Ryan." He took off, leaving Carmen alone in the elevator to mull over his final remark.