leviathan.
“Finch,” I replied, trying to be loud enough for him to hear me at the other end of the room, but it came out as a bit of a yell and he may have started in his chair at the sound. Or perhaps he was just leaning back; at that distance, it was hard to tell.
“Mr. Finch, yes.” He looked toward the doorway and said, “Thank you, Smithee.”
“Sir,” said the butler. He left the room and closed the door behind him.
“Come closer, Mr. Finch,” my host said. “Please sit down.” As I walked toward the desk for what seemed like millennia, he asked, “This room... it's intimidating, isn't it? Makes you feel small?”
“I... it's very nice.”
He laughed. “The room's meant to do that. According to my architect, anyone coming in should be so overwhelmed that they concede to what I ask of them before getting their bearings enough to bargain. It's built to be the seat of my power. Are you overwhelmed, Mr. Finch?”
I hesitated, concerned this was one of those trick interview questions I'd heard about, and I arrived at the desk before finding an answer.
My host rose from his chair and extended his hand, but I could only reach it by standing on my toes and stretching across the gleaming wood surface. “Wiswall Crane. Thank you for coming.”
I couldn't tell if he had an accent of some kind, perhaps European, or if he just spoke very clearly in a manner I wasn't used to.It seemed strange for him to thank me for coming when I'd had so little choice in the matter, when his driver had whisked me away half-asleep and still wearing the same filthy clothes I'd worn for weeks, but he sounded sincere. And I was in no position for making complaints, not knowing where I was, or how I'd gotten there, or—most of all—how to get anywhere else.
Mr. Crane wasn't much taller than I am, but his rigid posture made the difference seem greater. He filled space like a much larger man. He might have been in his fifties, or perhaps he was twenty years younger; it was hard to guess at his age because he gave the impression of having always been just as he was, never older, never younger, never out of his dark gray suit. His temples flared like white wings on his head and I thought of Mercury's ankles, wondering if those bright blazes were natural or artificial, strategically bleached to lend him a look of speed and distinction (which they did). Natural or not, he looked as much like a rich, powerful man as the butler had looked like a butler and the chauffeur like a chauffeur. I didn't know how Mr. Crane made his money, and I never found out, but I could tell right away that he made a whole lot. It wasn't the room, or not only the room, but the confident way he carried himself. This was a man with a good view of the world from his bathroom window.
He gestured toward a leather wing chair beside me, and I settled into it as gracefully as I could, crossing one leg over the other in what I hoped was a relaxed and confident pose, a pose capable of offsetting the trickles of sweat I felt on my face and dripping from my armpits down over my ribs. I tried to project a confidence that would draw attention away from my weathered flip-flops and filthy T-shirt and shorts and the bird's nest of hair and beard on my head. I pictured myself as a diorama caveman summoned to a meeting with the museum director, and it reminded me of my final day at Second Nature. I felt like I was about to get fired again rather than interview for what I thought was a job.
Mr. Crane spent a long time looking me over without saying a word, and consulting some papers far away from me on his desk; he looked back and forth between pages and person in a way that made clear the papers had to do with me, but what they said and where that information had come from was as mysterious as everything else about my morning so far. I didn't know if I was meant to speak, so I didn't. What could I say, except “Why am I here?”, and I knew he would tell me in time if he
“Finch,” I replied, trying to be loud enough for him to hear me at the other end of the room, but it came out as a bit of a yell and he may have started in his chair at the sound. Or perhaps he was just leaning back; at that distance, it was hard to tell.
“Mr. Finch, yes.” He looked toward the doorway and said, “Thank you, Smithee.”
“Sir,” said the butler. He left the room and closed the door behind him.
“Come closer, Mr. Finch,” my host said. “Please sit down.” As I walked toward the desk for what seemed like millennia, he asked, “This room... it's intimidating, isn't it? Makes you feel small?”
“I... it's very nice.”
He laughed. “The room's meant to do that. According to my architect, anyone coming in should be so overwhelmed that they concede to what I ask of them before getting their bearings enough to bargain. It's built to be the seat of my power. Are you overwhelmed, Mr. Finch?”
I hesitated, concerned this was one of those trick interview questions I'd heard about, and I arrived at the desk before finding an answer.
My host rose from his chair and extended his hand, but I could only reach it by standing on my toes and stretching across the gleaming wood surface. “Wiswall Crane. Thank you for coming.”
I couldn't tell if he had an accent of some kind, perhaps European, or if he just spoke very clearly in a manner I wasn't used to.It seemed strange for him to thank me for coming when I'd had so little choice in the matter, when his driver had whisked me away half-asleep and still wearing the same filthy clothes I'd worn for weeks, but he sounded sincere. And I was in no position for making complaints, not knowing where I was, or how I'd gotten there, or—most of all—how to get anywhere else.
Mr. Crane wasn't much taller than I am, but his rigid posture made the difference seem greater. He filled space like a much larger man. He might have been in his fifties, or perhaps he was twenty years younger; it was hard to guess at his age because he gave the impression of having always been just as he was, never older, never younger, never out of his dark gray suit. His temples flared like white wings on his head and I thought of Mercury's ankles, wondering if those bright blazes were natural or artificial, strategically bleached to lend him a look of speed and distinction (which they did). Natural or not, he looked as much like a rich, powerful man as the butler had looked like a butler and the chauffeur like a chauffeur. I didn't know how Mr. Crane made his money, and I never found out, but I could tell right away that he made a whole lot. It wasn't the room, or not only the room, but the confident way he carried himself. This was a man with a good view of the world from his bathroom window.
He gestured toward a leather wing chair beside me, and I settled into it as gracefully as I could, crossing one leg over the other in what I hoped was a relaxed and confident pose, a pose capable of offsetting the trickles of sweat I felt on my face and dripping from my armpits down over my ribs. I tried to project a confidence that would draw attention away from my weathered flip-flops and filthy T-shirt and shorts and the bird's nest of hair and beard on my head. I pictured myself as a diorama caveman summoned to a meeting with the museum director, and it reminded me of my final day at Second Nature. I felt like I was about to get fired again rather than interview for what I thought was a job.
Mr. Crane spent a long time looking me over without saying a word, and consulting some papers far away from me on his desk; he looked back and forth between pages and person in a way that made clear the papers had to do with me, but what they said and where that information had come from was as mysterious as everything else about my morning so far. I didn't know if I was meant to speak, so I didn't. What could I say, except “Why am I here?”, and I knew he would tell me in time if he
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