“I’ll have to consult our accountant,” Anna said, dreading the call. This was the guy who made sure that the Von Bizmarks did not give a single additional dollar to the government after taking advantage of every possible loophole and workaround. The Von Bizmark tax bill was an item of gossip among the staff, as it had been rumored that one year Marco had brought it down to zero. He was methodical. In love with tax law. Mr. Von Bizmark had hired him to manage his finances when they were both in college—Von Bizmark at Princeton and Marco at Rutgers. All those years of quiet math meant when Marco did get the chance to talk to a live human being, he ran with it.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, first of all, let’s go back to square one,” Marco said on the phone, which was how he responded to any question, ever. “So the Von Bizmarks are being honored by the New York City Opera.” She could hear him scratching at a legal pad. “And for this their name will be mentioned on all preevent materials, which could be viewed as publicity. Do they get to pick the opera? The cast?”
“That remains to be seen.”
“And they want them to pay twelve point four million dollars. What do they get in return? Do they get to invite their friends? Eat dinner? Yes, of course! It’s a gala!” Marco laughed at his own question. “There’s a lot here, Anna. I mean, could we find one or two things that they could pay for with foundation money? Sure. Probably. But, Anna, have I told you about—”
“Myron Moneybags?” Anna interjected. Marco had two parables he loved to employ, this one and the bagel story. Once he started, there was no point trying to stop him.
“Yes, exactly! Myron Moneybags gave a museum ten million, and they named it after him. Moneybags Museum! Anyway, the IRS takes a look at this: the big party they threw for Myron, the way he got to smash the champagne against the new sign with his name on it. And Myron didn’t have a good PA like you who made sure he had a letter from the museum that explicitly said, and I quote”—as he spoke these words, Anna mouthed along—“‘No goods or services were received in exchange for this contribution.’ Are you with me so far?”
“Yup,” Anna said.
“But what about the opera? If the Von Bizmarks pay for the costume tailoring, for example, it’s not like they actually received a good or service. Are you following me?”
“So closely!”
“Playbills, plastic cups at the bar . . . maybe they pay for the cleaning of the hall afterward. You see, we’re in a really murky area here. For example, did you know that if you buy a bagel, uncut, there’s no tax, but if they cut it, they add tax? It’s like that. We’re dealing here in the very, very gray area full of land mines, so it’s just not a great idea to push the envelope.” The only thing Marco loved more than a long tax discussion was a mixed metaphor.
“OK, so you’re saying maybe?” Anna said, egging him on.
“I’m saying no! No, no, no. No. It’s not worth the risk!” Anna felt Marco’s blood pressure rising through the phone.
“So you’re going to send me that list of things we can pay for with foundation money?”
“Not. Worth. It . . . don’t make me say that word . . .”
“Meatballs?”
“Audit!” Marco shouted. “Audit!” Anna imagined Marco bolting awake in the middle of the night screaming Audit!
“Look, I can’t stop her.”
“Hide the checkbook if you have to,” Marco suggested. Anna’s jaw fell open. This betrayal hung in the air between them. “Just joking! Ha ha,” Marco finally added nervously. When the back doorbell rang, Anna begged off the phone with Marco and went to find Cristina in the laundry room delicately ironing Mr. Von Bizmark’s boxers. Ilana sat at the washing machine sketching her hand in pencil.
“Hey, Anna, did you have to do this stupid assignment?” she asked without looking up.
“Every semester.”
As Cristina and Anna walked to the back door to let Miguel in, Cristina mumbled under her breath, “This guy’s no good.”
Miguel wore a khaki suit and paisley tie, which no one could explain since he was a superintendent meant to do things like fix leaky sinks, recalibrate expensive chef’s ovens, and quiet military-grade alarm systems.
“What’s up, girl?” he said with his characteristic sneer, and Anna grimaced. Cristina handed him blue booties to put over his shoes, although they were wing tips, not work boots.
“We’re having a lunch here, and everything needs to be shipshape, top to bottom.”
Miguel loudly rubbed his hands together. Cristina guided them through every detail and function of the ten-thousand-square-foot apartment. They started in the grand living room, half a city block long. Against the far wall, two identical slate couches abutted the marble mantel, creating mirror-image seating areas. A cream chenille ottoman invited you to warm yourself by the fire, which could be lit at any time with the toss of a single match. On the other side of the room, a massive custom sectional couch so large it had had to be constructed in the room sat before a wall that doubled as an enormous screen.
They traveled down the row of built-in climate-control units, turning them all on, feeling the heat and then flipping them over to air-conditioning until a crisp breeze flooded the room. Anna tested the cognac cabinet door, held closed by museum putty. Cristina produced a magnifying glass to inspect the detailed work of the hand-painted floors and walls while Miguel examined the seams in every corner, the function of every lighting fixture. Each faucet was made to run hot, cold, and the all-important full stop: no dripping sinks here. Cristina pointed out all the chips in the cabinetry, tiny stains nearly invisible to the naked eye on couches and pillows. Anna took notes. They skipped the Von Bizmark bedroom and finally arrived at the ninth and final bathroom, in the upstairs hall.
“The toilet doesn’t work so good,” Cristina explained. Depressing the silver handle resulted only in a stirring of the water. “You have to jiggle,” she said, wiggling the fixture and coaxing the water to swirl and drain away. “You could make a sign?” she suggested.
“That says what? ‘Please jiggle the handle a bit’?” Anna said. “Let’s just keep the door closed, and the chances are no one will even be up here.”
“I can fix it,” Miguel volunteered. “No problem.” Most people in fact would have loved their building superintendent to address broken fixtures so promptly, but in the Von Bizmark apartment, systems were so precise and rarefied (and generally made in Europe or Japan) it was risky to rely on house staff for anything beyond the smallest tweak.
Furthermore, each room was crowded with valuables, and Miguel was neither a talented handyman nor a graceful human being. The last time Miguel tried to deal with a minor plumbing problem in the Von Bizmark home, he had put his foot through a $50,000 piece of art deco etched glass, a momentary physical error that had taken many phone calls, drawn-out conversations, lengthy and repetitive emails, moments of doubt and anxiety, and months upon months just to get back to where they had started. Even though this bathroom had probably never been used in the two decades the Von Bizmarks had lived there, no expense had been spared in the mosaic floor and custom glass faucets . . . was that a real Magritte sketch on the wall? Anna was eager to avoid any sort of project with Miguel.