Truth in Advertising Page 0,90

they knight the Spice Girls or George Michael.”

He says, “Do you know what Roger Bannister wrote of that day? He said, ‘I felt at that moment that it was my chance to do one thing supremely well.’”

Stefano raises his glass to mine, gently taps it against the lip, the quietest click amid the conversations and music, and takes a slow sip off the old-farm-table-colored scotch.

“Fin, I turn forty soon. This is a milestone. Most surely the end of any hint of youth. This is a sobering thought for a man. One’s erection will never quite be the same. I read this in a magazine. Tragic to me, this is. Of course, as an Italian I am very different.” He winks. “Fin, would it surprise you to learn that I intend to break the four-minute mile on my birthday?”

“It would, yes.”

“Do you think it’s possible? Do you think by sheer force of will a man can transcend his shortcomings and do this great thing?”

Several thoughts go through my head.

Depends upon the man.

Absolutely not.

It would be lovely to think so.

And then I say what he wants to hear. “Definitely.”

• • •

I’m thinking about leaving without saying good-bye to anyone when Phoebe comes up behind me.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi.”

We both look around.

Phoebe says, “Last night was weird, right?”

“I’m a fan of pretending things never happened.” I’m wincing.

She nods, a fake smile. “I know. I’m not, though.”

The words sting.

I say, “I’m sorry. It was dumb and selfish and . . . I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. You confused me a bit there.”

“I said I was sorry.” A little too much edge.

“Don’t get mad. It’d been a weird day for me. I mean, I know you’d been through a lot in Boston and that’s why I came out to meet you. It’s just that . . . the Frenchman sent me a ticket to Paris. And it was just . . . it was a weird day and it’s not like . . .”

Ian comes over and puts his arm around each of us. He’s had a few drinks.

He says, “My favorites. My Scott and Zelda. My Nick and Nora. My Sacco and Vanzetti. How are we?”

I say, “Good. All good.”

Phoebe says, “Did you hear that Stefano wants to run a mile in four minutes?”

Ian says, “You said ‘run.’ You mean ‘drive,’ right?”

I say to Ian, “Martin said the meeting didn’t go so good.”

Ian says, “Not so much. Who cares. How are you? How was yesterday?”

I say, “Fine. It’s all fine. Did I mention the ashes?”

Ian says, “What ashes?”

“In my father’s will.” To Phoebe: “I didn’t mention this last night.” To both of them: “This lawyer reads a letter. My father wants to be cremated. And he wants his ashes spread out over the Pacific near Pearl Harbor. And he wants one of us to do it.”

I say this to them with an attitude in my voice, a tone that suggests, Can you believe he’s asked for that? I hear my voice. I hear it as if I am someone else listening to me. And I think, That guy’s an asshole.

Ian says, “So wait. Are you going? I’m confused.”

“No. No.” I want to say more, but that’s all that comes out.

Phoebe says, “So what happens to the ashes?”

I say, “We’re sending them to the VA. They take care of it.”

Ian says nothing but I know his expressions. Phoebe’s, too.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he says. “It’s sad.”

“What’s so sad about it?”

“It’s just sad.”

I say, “It’s not sad so much as insane.”

Phoebe says, “Why is it insane?”

I say, “Because . . . it’s . . . he was . . .”

The knot in my stomach has grown tighter and there’s something about the condescension in Phoebe’s voice. Or am I putting the condescension there, the way you do with sarcasm in an e-mail that wasn’t meant to be sarcastic? I’m suddenly very tired and drunk. Who the hell is he, after all these years, to tell us we have to do this thing for him? Why the fuck should any of us bring his ashes to the middle of the goddamned Pacific Ocean?

One of the young creatives comes up to Phoebe. He is younger than I am and probably more talented and certainly better looking and he was making Phoebe laugh earlier.

He says to Ian and me, “What up, dawgs?” Then to her: “A bunch of us are heading over to this place in the East Village. Thought you might want to come along.”

I want to punch his handsome face, his confidence,