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Authors: Steve Himmer
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punctuating sound.
“But the Georgians, Mr. Finch, the Georgians! They enjoyed nature for its own sake and in its own state. They liked it just as it was, though of course they made improvements to keep it that way.”
As he spoke, Mr. Crane pushed a button set into a brass plate on the wall, and an opaque screen slid down from the ceiling to cover the window and block out the light. I heard humming behind me, and looked up to find a data projector suspended from the ceiling. A photograph of an elaborate garden developed before me on the screen, then faded as another one took its place.
More gardens came and went before he continued. “This house,” he said, “I could take it or leave it. It serves its purpose. But my garden, the grounds, are the reason I stay.” He looked toward the window as if to admire his garden, but because of the screen he looked instead at a photograph of some other garden in some other place, an example (I assumed) of whatever the slides were meant to be showing me. I wasn't sure if I should be seeing differences between the slides and the gardens they offered, or if these were all examples of the same thing, whatever that was.
“Do you know, when I bought this house—not this house, but the one that was here before I removed it to have my own built—it only came with two acres. Two acres! Hardly enough space to look out the window. So I bought out every landowner on this ridge, dismantled their houses, and turned the land into my garden.”
“I didn't know you could do that,” I blurted out, before I could stop myself.
“Anything's possible if you're willing to make it happen. It wasn't cheap, I can tell you that much. The stubborn held out, people who'd grown up in their houses or lived in them most of their lives, raised children and that sort of sentimental thing. But I convinced them, of course, and here we are. They were well-paid, Mr. Finch. I don't take advantage of people.”
Mr. Crane stepped in front of the screen where it covered the window, and the green of a lawn growing somewhere painted his face.
“It is quite a view,” I said.
He smiled. “It should be. There were a few rooftops visible in the distance, but I had those removed. Some others I lowered by a story or two. And now,” he said, and gestured toward the screen—at that moment showing a castle surrounded by hedges and fields—and I assumed at the gardens beyond. “Everything you see out there is mine. You'd never know we're so close to the center of one of the world's busiest cities.”
“No,” I agreed, “you really can't tell.”
He pushed the button again, and the screen climbed into the ceiling. The projector fell silent behind me, and light rose from several wall sconces. I looked through the window, and it was true: I couldn't see anything beyond the edges of Mr. Crane's garden. I could make out the shimmer of water far off without a roofline or streetlight between, and I took that water to be the ocean, all the way on the other side of the city, but after all he'd just told me, how could I be sure?
He turned from the window to face me and set the book on his desk before sitting down. “You've been working in marketing, Mr. Finch. Most recently at Second Nature Modern Greenery, which I happen to own.”
He looked up. “In fact, you've worked for a number of my interests in the past. Though I don't suppose you knew that. I work hard to keep my holdings... discreet. Doing business quietly is the nature of my business.”
I'd been about to ask what his business was, but after he said that I held my tongue.
“I imagine you use items manufactured by my companies more often than you realize in the course of a day. Most people do.” He turned in his chair to look out onto the garden. “Though I suppose you're still wondering what all this has to do with my email, and with the position you've come to discuss.”
He didn't wait for me to answer before he went on.
“The Georgians, many of
“But the Georgians, Mr. Finch, the Georgians! They enjoyed nature for its own sake and in its own state. They liked it just as it was, though of course they made improvements to keep it that way.”
As he spoke, Mr. Crane pushed a button set into a brass plate on the wall, and an opaque screen slid down from the ceiling to cover the window and block out the light. I heard humming behind me, and looked up to find a data projector suspended from the ceiling. A photograph of an elaborate garden developed before me on the screen, then faded as another one took its place.
More gardens came and went before he continued. “This house,” he said, “I could take it or leave it. It serves its purpose. But my garden, the grounds, are the reason I stay.” He looked toward the window as if to admire his garden, but because of the screen he looked instead at a photograph of some other garden in some other place, an example (I assumed) of whatever the slides were meant to be showing me. I wasn't sure if I should be seeing differences between the slides and the gardens they offered, or if these were all examples of the same thing, whatever that was.
“Do you know, when I bought this house—not this house, but the one that was here before I removed it to have my own built—it only came with two acres. Two acres! Hardly enough space to look out the window. So I bought out every landowner on this ridge, dismantled their houses, and turned the land into my garden.”
“I didn't know you could do that,” I blurted out, before I could stop myself.
“Anything's possible if you're willing to make it happen. It wasn't cheap, I can tell you that much. The stubborn held out, people who'd grown up in their houses or lived in them most of their lives, raised children and that sort of sentimental thing. But I convinced them, of course, and here we are. They were well-paid, Mr. Finch. I don't take advantage of people.”
Mr. Crane stepped in front of the screen where it covered the window, and the green of a lawn growing somewhere painted his face.
“It is quite a view,” I said.
He smiled. “It should be. There were a few rooftops visible in the distance, but I had those removed. Some others I lowered by a story or two. And now,” he said, and gestured toward the screen—at that moment showing a castle surrounded by hedges and fields—and I assumed at the gardens beyond. “Everything you see out there is mine. You'd never know we're so close to the center of one of the world's busiest cities.”
“No,” I agreed, “you really can't tell.”
He pushed the button again, and the screen climbed into the ceiling. The projector fell silent behind me, and light rose from several wall sconces. I looked through the window, and it was true: I couldn't see anything beyond the edges of Mr. Crane's garden. I could make out the shimmer of water far off without a roofline or streetlight between, and I took that water to be the ocean, all the way on the other side of the city, but after all he'd just told me, how could I be sure?
He turned from the window to face me and set the book on his desk before sitting down. “You've been working in marketing, Mr. Finch. Most recently at Second Nature Modern Greenery, which I happen to own.”
He looked up. “In fact, you've worked for a number of my interests in the past. Though I don't suppose you knew that. I work hard to keep my holdings... discreet. Doing business quietly is the nature of my business.”
I'd been about to ask what his business was, but after he said that I held my tongue.
“I imagine you use items manufactured by my companies more often than you realize in the course of a day. Most people do.” He turned in his chair to look out onto the garden. “Though I suppose you're still wondering what all this has to do with my email, and with the position you've come to discuss.”
He didn't wait for me to answer before he went on.
“The Georgians, many of
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