“So I accepted the deal,” Charlie was saying, “and they delivered on their end of it right away. Every bit a pressure from a bank we owed hundreds of millions to—hundreds of millions—stopped all of a sudden, and on the day they said it would. How they did it, I don’t know, but they did it. Like I was saying, it was like magic … All I’had to do was …”

  In Buckhead, on Valley Road, in Martha Croker’s house, in the library, Peepgass sprang to his feet from the easy chair—or for Peepgass it qualified as springing—and stared at the TV screen with his two hands raised before him as if he were about to strangle somebody.

  “I knew it!” he exclaimed. “I knew the whole damned thing was strange! Nobody ignores a defalcatory loan of that magnitude unless something very strange is going on!”

  Martha looked at him, but said nothing. Inwardly she prayed that he wouldn’t spell out this whole situation in front of Wallace. Ray gave way to his emotions too easily. He wasn’t very dependable in that sense.

  “For Christ’s sake,” Peepgass said bitterly, “Arthur Lomprey and his macro-decisions. Meeee-yahh! A humpbacked macro-weakling is all he is if you ask me!”

  “ … say the right things at this press conference,” Croker continued. “But I haven’t done that and I can’t do that. One of the few freedoms that we have as human beings that cannot be taken away from us is the freedom to assent to what is true and to deny what is false. Nothing you can give me is worth surrendering that freedom for. At this moment I’m a man with complete tranquillity. After all, what is tranquillity? Tranquillity is a mind in accord with nature … a mind in accord with nature … I’ve been a real estate developer for most of my life, and I can tell you that a developer lives with the opposite of tranquillity, which is perturbation. You’re perturbed about something all the time. You build your first development, and right away you want to build a bigger one, and you want a bigger house to live in, and if it ain’t in Buckhead, you might as well cut your wrists. Soon’s you got that, you want a plantation, tens of thousands of acres devoted solely to shooting quail, because you know of four or five developers who’ve already got that. And soon’s you get that, you want a place on Sea Island and a Hatteras cruiser and a spread northwest of Buckhead, near the Chattahoochee, where you can ride a horse during the week, when you’re not down at the plantation, plus a ranch in Wyoming, Colorado, or Montana, because truly successful men in Atlanta and New York all got their ranches, and of course now you need a private plane, a big one, too, a jet, a Gulfstream Five, because who’s got the patience and the time and the humility to fly commercially, even to the plantation, much less out West to a ranch? What is it you’re looking for in this endless quest? Tranquillity. You think if only you can acquire enough worldly goods, enough recognition, enough eminence, you will be free, there’ll be nothing more to worry about, and instead you become a bigger and bigger slave to how you think others are judging you. ‘You have priceless silver and goblets of gold,’ said the philosopher, ‘but your reason is of common clay.’ As of this morning, I am as rich as the richest of you, for I am hereby handing over everything I own, the Croker Global Corporation, every last branch of it, my houses, my plantation, my horses, my car, if anybody wants it—I’m handing them all over to my creditors. They can rummage through these trifles any way they see fit. My keys are on the table, boys. Go to it. They’re all yours. I’m happily turning over these trifles to whoever wants to claim them. I won’t try to hold you back in Chapter 11 or any other chapter of the bankruptcy code, either.”

  Peepgass was on his feet again, this time in a state of exultation. He held both fists over his head, pumping them for all he was worth, his eyes pinned on the screen.

  “Yes! Yes! Yes!” he said. It was close to being a shout. Then he looked at Martha and said, “He’s handing’em over! The buildings! Croker Concourse! Deeds in lieu of foreclosure! I can’t believe it—the syndicate lives!”

  Martha tried to join in his happiness, but she couldn’t. What she was watching on that screen made her inexpressibly sad.

  “I don’t know what you’re like,” Croker was saying, “but if you’re like most uv’us here in Atlanta, you’re driving yourself crazy over possessions. Just think about that for a second.”

  Despite himself, Roger thought of his gorgeous house on Niskey Lake, that and his Lexus and the suit he had on today, a fabulous single-breasted blue-and-gray Glen plaid, which Gus Carroll had charged $3,500 to make.

  “I’m older than mosta you,” Croker continued, “and I can tell you that the only real possession you’ll ever have is your character, that and your ‘scheme of life,’ you might say. The Manager has given every person a spark from His own divinity, and no one can take that away from you, not even the Manager himself, and from that spark comes your character. Everything else is temporary and worthless in the long run, including your body. What is the human body? It’s a clever piece a crockery containing a quart a blood. And it’s not even yours! One day you’re gonna have to give it back! And where are your possessions then? They’re gonna be picked over by one bunch a buzzards or another. What man’s ever been remembered as great because of the possessions he devoted his life to ’cumulating? I can’t think of any. So why don’t we pay more attention to the one precious thing we possess, the spark the Manager has placed in our souls?”

  Roger looked at the Mayor, and the Mayor was looking at Roger. The Mayor twisted his lips in a way that as much as said “This dishonest bastard! Double-crossing us isn’t enough! Now he’s got to preach a sermon!”

  Meantime, a low buzz had started in the ranks of those shaggy mutts, the Press. Roger turned his head and looked about. The journalists were pulling faces at one another and whispering. Maybe they knew of the treachery Croker had been guilty of in this performance of his, calling Fareek Fanon arrogant, obnoxious, impertinent, and voracious, and maybe they didn’t. But they could all tell he’d turned into some kind of religious nut. The Manager. The Manager, indeed!

  “But you say, ‘Be serious, Croker. With no money, no possessions, how am I supposed to eat? Where can I stay?’ Well—have you ever seen an old beggar? Of course you have. We’ve all seen’em. How’d they get to be so old? They all ate somehow, 365 days a year, most likely, and they all stayed somewhere, too. But you say, ‘I’d rather die than sit down beside the road with a Dixie cup, begging.’ Do you realize what you’re really saying? You’re saying, ‘It ain’t what I’m gonna eat or where I’m gonna stay I’m worrying about, it’s saving face, it’s what everybody in Buckhead’s gon’ think about me, that’s what I’m worrying about …”

  Charlie’s voice trailed off. He realized something was going terribly wrong. Far from winning his audience with the words of Epictetus and Zeus, he was losing them. They were restless, they were whispering, they were smiling and sniggering. He looked over to the side. Connie had a look of grave concern and was slightly crouched, as if ready to spring into action. In the first row Serena looked petrified. She had shrunk back alarmingly into her chair. If there had been a crack in the marble, she would have gladly slipped through it. The black lawyer, Roger White, was glaring pitchforks at him. Charlie’s voice faltered as he tried to resume:

  “What are we? We are born with two elements: the body, which we share with the animals, including the lowest animals, the weasel and the snake, and the mind and reason, which comes from that spark the Manager has given us. Now, which—”

  Charlie was suddenly aware of a firm, steady pressure against his left arm and elbow. He glanced over—and there was Mayor Wesley Dobbs Jordan. The Mayor was elbowing him aside! Amazed, Charlie gave way slightly—and that was all the Mayor needed. He leaned over the podium and put his head between Charlie and the microphone and said, “Thank you, Mr. Croker. Thank you very much, thank you, Mr. Croker”—all without looking at him even once.

  The audience erupted with sniggers and ironic applause.

  Stupefied, Charlie began limping away from the podium. He felt no pain yet. He was aware only of the crowd’s scorn and the Mayor’s scorn.

  Connie was by his side. “Lean on my shoulder, Charlie, and watch out, we got some stairs coming up.”

  Now people seemed to be rushing in from all over, blurting out questions.

  “You said Fareek Fanon is obnoxious, arrogant, and a couple other things like that. Then why wouldn’t—”

  “You say somebody put pressure on your creditors in exchange for your appearance here today. Why do you think—”

  “What did you tell—”

  “You really mean you’re giving away—”

  “Mr. Croker, are you saying that Fareek—”

  “Hey, Charlie, Sam Frye, Channel 9!”

  “Charlie! Over here! Just one!”

  The press … not yet capable of asking about the Manager and the message. And now Charlie could hear the voice of the Mayor over a speaker:

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Croker. I can’t say I detected the voice of the Manager. So it must have been one of the creatures you mentioned that just spoke here. Was it the weasel or the snake … the weasel or the snake … the weasel or the snake that just delivered that sneak attack on Fareek Fanon? What sort of creature was it that would come here under one guise and then vilify that beleaguered young man under another? Why would—” Now the crush of the press around Charlie was so great, he couldn’t even hear the Mayor over the speakers. The reporters, or whatever they were, were all yelling at him at once.

  “—say actually happened?”

  “—didn’t get along?”

  “—have any doubt that Fanon—”

  “—then what did you tell—”

  “—the one who set up—”

  And Connie was saying into his ear: “Don’t worry, Charlie, you delivered the message! They’re not going to understand it all at once!”

  When Connie said that, Charlie knew he had failed as a speaker. But he didn’t care, for the spark had been in him as he stood at that podium. That’s what he wanted to tell them, but he couldn’t, not yet, although the day would come. He could see that much already. He held his chin high. He looked through the mob, the blur of people around him, looked beyond this marble rotunda to a horizon more distant than these people, with their earnest questions of this moment, could possibly imagine.

  Charlie’s arm rested on Conrad’s shoulder as they made their way slowly through the crowd, and Conrad was filled with pity. They had laughed at him, mocked him. And yet he had done it. It was only a matter of time before thousands, millions, would know and understand. Epictetus had once spoken as Charlie spoke now. “I have not yet confidence in what I have learned and assented to. Only let me gain confidence, and then I will show you the statue as it is when it is finished and polished. In such a way will I show myself to you—faithful, self-respecting, noble, free from tumult.” Charlie did have the spark within him! Only another couple of weeks, or maybe a month, Conrad would stay with him, and his work would be done. He was only Zeus’ courier. After that he could return to California, to Pittsburg or Walnut Creek or wherever Jill and his children were. He didn’t have the slightest fear. He’d turn himself in to the authorities. In the very first chapter of the Book: “I will imprison you,” says Caesar. Epictetus says, “What say you, fellow? Imprison me? My bit of a body you will imprison—yes, but my will—no, not even Zeus can conquer that.”

  What was there to be afraid of, then? Epictetus and Agrippinus had been through much worse. No, he would not groan or whine. He would go with a smile, good courage, and tranquillity.

  Roger was stunned but on his feet, torn between anger and guilt, guilt at having failed to deliver to Wes the fully broken Charlie Croker he had promised, anger at Croker himself. The snake! Wes had that part right. Croker had attacked Fareek! Roger was so furious, he headed toward that 235-pound reptile. The old man was going to get a tongue-lashing he’d never forget! But he couldn’t get close enough to be heard. The crush of reporters was too great.

  “Counselor!” A big, hearty, cheery voice.

  Roger turned around. It was the congressman from the 5th District, a rotund young man, very dark, named Gibley Berm. Roger had never met him; he knew him only from his pictures.

  “You’re doing great work, brother! Oh, they’re after Fareek now! They’ll try any trick! Oh yeah. Don’t let up! You’re doing great things!”

  “Thanks, Mr. Congressman!” said Roger, genuinely surprised. “I won’t!”

  “Gotcha back, Counselor!” said Gibley Berm with the warmest smile imaginable.

  Gotcha back! You’re doing great work, brother! From Representative Gibley Berm, out of the blue! Gotcha back!

  There had never been sweeter music—not from Mahler, not from Stravinsky, not from Bach, Haydn, or Mozart—to Roger White’s ears.

  Gotcha back! Gib Berm had said. Gotcha back!

  For the first time in his life Roger entertained the thought of running for office.

  There seemed to be a thousand people jammed in around him, and yet Charlie felt serene. He no longer felt pain in his knee. He still had his arm on Connie’s shoulder, but only the way one comrade might have his arm on another. Despite the shouts, which ricocheted off the marble walls of the rotunda and doubled, tripled in volume, Charlie felt … tranquil. That was exactly what he had found: tranquillity. That was exactly what he was blessed with: a mind in accord with nature. He was not yet a good speaker, but that would come with time, for as Epictetus had said, “Like the bull, the man of noble nature does not become noble all of a sudden; he must train through the winter and make ready.” He felt tranquil and … light. His feet only just barely touched the marble and the earth below. He felt as if he could run a hundred yards just the way he had forty years ago. Wouldn’t that amaze them all! He had shed all the shabby baggage of this life. He had become a vessel of the Divine.

  Peepgass was still on his feet, watching the television screen and rocking back and forth nervously, from his heels to his toes to his heels to his toes. The syndicate lives!

  “He’s gone gaga, Martha! Round the bend! Did you ever see anything like that in your life?”

  “No,” said Martha, all too quietly. Her eyes were misting. She fought to keep the mist from turning into tears.

  “What’s Dad talking about, Mom?” asked Wallace. “What’s gotten into him? He sounded … crazy.”

  Peepgass said, “That spark the Manager has given us? Did you get that part, Martha? … What’s the matter, Martha?” Peepgass hurried over to the easy chair where she sat. “What’s wrong?” She didn’t reply.

  “It’s Charlie, isn’t it,” said Peepgass. “You still have that much feeling for him, don’t you?”

  “No, it’s not that,” said Martha, bringing a lacy little handkerchief to her eyes. “It’s just that I know what he used to be. It’s hard to watch the disintegration of a human being who … who …”

  She didn’t dare try to finish the sentence, for fear she would actually break down and cry.

  Epilogue

  A Man of the World

  “I WON’T STAY LONG, WES,” SAID ROGER. “I KNOW YOU’VE GOT A whole waiting room full of people who want to see you, but I just had to come by and shake your hand. It’s just great. Congratulations. I couldn’t be happier if it was me who had done it.”

  “But you did do it,” said the Mayor. The two of them were standing in the mayoral salon, and Wes gestured toward the familiar white couch. “Come on, sit down, have a seat.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I am.” He gestured again. “I’ve been thinking about you all morning.”

  “Me?” said Roger as he took a seat. “How do I rate that on this day of all days?”

  At first Wes just smiled, and not ironically, either. His face looked ashen, despite his black-as-thou suntan. There were deep dark circles under his eyes, which were bloodshot. He probably hadn’t had a real night’s sleep for a week, maybe two weeks, and he must have been up all night last night, since the final tally hadn’t come in until 4 a.m. He had defeated André Fleet by less than one percentage point.

  For a moment Wes gazed pensively out the big plate-glass window behind the couch. It was a miserable November day with dark, low clouds, fog, and a dreadful level of humidity that made it seem warm one minute and cold and clammy the next. Then he pulled up his armchair and sat down and smiled some more and said:

  “I hope Gladys or Miss Beasley offered you something to drink. We’ve even got champagne. You may not see champagne in here again, unless you run for mayor.”

  Roger gave a laughing snort, as if the idea were preposterous. In fact, he regarded it as merely unlikely. “No, they were very hospitable. But I’m not sure I can take champagne at eleven o’clock in the morning.”

  The Mayor raised his right hand as if it held a glass. “Then I’ll toast you, one teetotaler to another. You were the turning point, brother.”

  “How so?”

  “The way you got the most hidebound Cracker in town to come to that press conference. Charlie Croker. That turned this election around.”

  “Are you being funny? We’ve talked about this many times, but I still feel terrible about what happened. I thought I was being so shrewd. I thought I had Croker right where we wanted him. And then he doublecrosses us! He as much as calls Fareek the sort of young black man who thinks with his groin and goes about deflowering the sweet young white flowers of the Piedmont Driving Club set. Frankly, I thought I’d managed to blow the election for you.”

  “Quite the opposite,” said Wes. “We now know—from the exit polling yesterday—we now know that every voter, or every African-American voter—”