The Apotheosis. Darrell Lee

number two: then don’t flaunt it, especially in America. If you buy a big mansion in Beverly Hills with a gold-plated Rolls Royce and throw extravagant parties for people you don’t know, get your picture taken by the paparazzi dating the latest supermodel, hanging out on your new yacht in Saint-Tropez—you’ll get noticed. And you’ll end up with a team of lawyers and a security detail just to go to the grocery store. That behavior is for movie stars and the simple-minded rich. Of the truly wealthy, the people in this world who have real influence, the large majority don’t do that. Get noticed and that will be the beginning of the end of your free money.”

      “Yes, sir, Mr. Silkcox.”

      “You can call me Lee. We’re going to be talking very often the next few years. Remember, I make my money by making sure you make the most money you can. We have something that is hard to find in the business world: a win-win relationship.”

      I couldn’t have been in better hands. He was my mentor of the financial underworld. He opened a whole new universe to me. One that operates beneath the seen world. Wall Street is peanuts compared to the volume of money that’s moved, unseen, by the tax authorities of the “free world” governments. These governments that tax over the purchase or sale of a stick of gum. Somehow, this has become acceptable to billions of people, to just give their money away to these entities.

      My father wasn’t a sheep in a herd. Neither am I. And neither is Lee Silkcox. I am proud to say that eventually, after many years, I was able to teach him a thing or two. And that’s really saying something.

JANUARY 30, 2019

      AMIRA

      She hadn’t wanted to move back to Boston. She wanted to be away from its neatly trimmed old houses on old shaded streets. It smelled of soccer games and PTA. A good place for a family. Not so much for an exciting life. Almost all her friends from high school had left. The few who remained had a couple of kids already and a schedule too packed with motherhood to socialize. Real friendships, ones close enough for her to share her problems, to find some sympathy, had been replaced with Facebook ones.

      Amira liked New York. She liked the fast pace and busy streets and bustling restaurants. She enjoyed the cultural shiny side and reckless underside of the city at night. It took four breathtaking years at New York University to obtain her journalism degree. A position waited for her at The New Yorker, where she had interned for two summers. Anticipating her career and life in the big city experience, her mood soared. One day, she knew she would write something important. An investigative piece perhaps, or maybe a novel. For her, New York City pulsated. From The Big Apple, she could springboard to anywhere.

      She met Ethan at the beginning of the last semester of her senior year. Unlike her friends who dreamt of meeting Mr. Right and marrying, she felt too young for long-term relationships. Life moved too fast for obligations. Certainly, Ethan wouldn’t be anything but another quick fling. She studied him while they were in line at the cafeteria. Tall, fit, and awkward. He was Jewish, like her, the kippah always atop his head.

      They lunched together for the next few days. Then a movie and dinner. His family had money. His body was muscular and lean. A touch socially awkward, but polite. Devoutly Jewish; his father was a rabbi in New York. He was graduating with his Ph.D. in Biomolecular Science at the same time as Amira. He had a job lined up in Boston. Perfect. She would be staying in New York. She knew she was out of his league; she would have the upper hand. She was sure the romance would be short-lived. The way she liked them. All her plans changed with two tiny pink lines on an early pregnancy test the week before graduation.

      Ethan argued that he had a good job at a growing company. And it was a good job; however, it was in Boston. He looked at her earnestly and told her she would be happy back in Boston. This relieved Amira’s parents, her mother really more than her father. One of her mother’s constant worries was that Amira would meet a man outside their faith and culture. Amira came back. To have his child, to watch it grow. They would raise a family. Spend fall afternoons at football practices or buy a prom dress. Whichever would be required.

      After Elona’s birth, Ethan wanted her to remain at home with the child. She didn’t have to worry, he would provide. Elona became Amira’s one true bright spot. A child-sized image of herself, with cream-colored skin, big brown eyes, and a mane of black hair. Full of energy, enthusiasm, and love. Amira returned to Boston for Ethan; she stayed in Boston for Elona.

      Slowly, over time, it became clear to her that Ethan expected her behavior to model the traditional housewife role. Dinner should be ready when he arrived home. He dictated the food acceptable in the house. Removing meat, eating only organically grown vegetables in very small portions. He said that through the pain of self-deprivation he desired to get closer to God. His hair and beard grew shabby.

      She resented how Ethan restricted her interactions outside the home and her access to unsupervised funds. Sex became infrequent and mechanical. She battled him for the first four years, with many tears from her, and many apologies from him. However, nothing obtained resolution, nothing changed. Ultimately it wore her down, like the unrelenting current of a river. Pulling her down and keeping her from breathing. Now, it was a movie now and then, when the tension between them abated.

      Her one time a year to dress up was the company’s holiday party. Only held a month ago, it seemed like a year. Now that the holidays were over, the forced amicableness for the sake of the season no longer held sway. Yesterday’s fight erupted over money she’d spent on makeup, or at least that was the pretense. But she knew the real reason, the root cause of all of Ethan’s tirades: control. A cloud hung over her life, like being homesick for a place that never existed.

      She looked around the dining room of the restaurant. Pale tablecloths, candle-lit tables, waiters in white jackets, crystal chandeliers, and tall wine glasses. She sat at a table alone, in her best cocktail dress, bought before she met Ethan. So stylish and trending then, but now it looked dated. She would order something expensive and have at least two glasses of wine. This passive-aggressive dinner would cost three times what she had spent on the makeup. That is what she had reduced herself to. She would deal with the consequences of an unapproved absence from the house later.

      She looked up from the wine list and saw the maître d’ leading him through the tables. He was dressed in a suit. She knew fashion and recognized an elegant designer suit when she saw one. She thought the same thing about the suit he’d worn at the holiday party. A red tie with that one; a light blue tie gave this one the right touch. He glanced around the room. Their eyes met for an instant, but his continued. She felt a twinge of disappointment. Then his head swung back to her and their eyes locked. He stopped, and a smile came to his lips. Hers too. He moved confidently through the tables to her. Soon he was standing on the other side of the table.

      “Good evening, Amira. It’s so good to see you again.”

      His eyes looked directly at her and her breathing paused for an instant. She felt the tension in her stomach she got when talking to a man she found attractive. She felt her face flush. He remembered my name.

      “Good evening, John. Very nice to see you again, too.”

      The maître d’ realized he’d lost his guest and made his way toward them. John noticed only one place setting.

      “Dining alone?”

      “Yes.”

      “Could I join you?”

      Yes. No. What if someone who knows Ethan sees us? How will I explain? Certainly, nobody from our building would be at a restaurant this expensive on a weekday night. They’re too busy paying for their kids’ braces or college. “Yes. I’d like that.”

      He sat across from her. He moved with grace, even in the simple act of seating himself at the table. His shoulders were broad under the light gray silky jacket. His white shirt was neatly pressed. She liked his looks, that he was taller than she; the sharp bone structure of his face and his thick brown hair gave him a dignified demeanor. She couldn’t discern any distinct feature