Wedding Season by Darcy Cosper

dramatically for or against us. Chance is an observable universal law. Fate isn’t.”
    “Some people could argue with you, Vern,” Charles says. He shoots for the wastebasket and misses.
    “Some people believe in the infallibility of the pope,” I say. “That’s the difference between science and religion. Certain things exist whether or not we believe in them. Others exist only by our faith. Like Tinkerbell. Do you believe in fairies, Vern? Clap your hands if you do.”
    “And you know how to tell the difference?” Charles claps vigorously.
    “Hector called again.” Pete knocks on the door frame and shuffles in. “He wants to know if we’re going to do that letter to his mistress or not.”
    Charles and I exchange glances. I nod.
    “You sure?” Charles asks me.
    “Why wouldn’t I be? Go for it,” I tell Pete. “We’ve never done infidelity before.”
    Pete grins significantly at us from underneath his hair.
    “She means as an organization, you little hack,” Charlessays, trying to sound stern. “It’ll be a learning experience. Get to work.”
    Pete bobs and shuffles out. A moment later Myrna sticks her head into our office.
    “If a spurned wife brings charges against us, I sincerely hope that I will have the good grace not to say I told you so. But I doubt it very much.”
    “You don’t suppose Myrna’s father cheated on her mother, do you?” Charles asks after she has disappeared, widening his eyes and putting one finger under his chin, an ersatz ingenue.
    “Shut up, Vern. Personal anguish isn’t always at the heart of an ethical position.”
    “Not always.” Charles looks at me hard. “But often, don’t you think, dear?”
    A T A QUARTER TO ONE I leave the office and head downtown on foot. It’s a clear, cool spring day, the sky pale blue and the sunlight a watery gold on the streets and crowds. I cross through Washington Square Park, passing the corner where old men pair up at stone tables to play chess, with small groups of acolytes, still as statues, gathered around them. The park is full of tableaux like this—lovers on the benches, knots of college students tightening around earnest young men who strum guitars. Near the center of the park, a couple on Rollerblades are skating their hearts out in a fantastic duet around the broad circle of the empty fountain. I move through the shadows of the hulkingly ugly buildings of the university where James works and onto the busy sidewalks of Soho, weaving between laden shoppers and aspiring models, past shiny boutiques where bright dresses and trinkets fill the windows, tempting passersby. Iturn onto a side street and nearly walk past the entrance to Boîte, the door to which is marked only by a tiny engraving of a female figure, holding in her hand a box from which a mysterious ether drifts. The door is locked. I search for and find a small buzzer to the left of the door, press, and wait. I think briefly of the Prohibition era, and the strange pleasures of exclusivity, which have never held much charm for me. The door is opened by a neat young woman in black who eyes me silently.
    “I’m with James Silverman,” I tell her, and she waves me in. I follow her up a narrow set of stairs to a waterfall of velvet curtains. We push through them into a large, high-ceilinged room with a wall of windows at one end. The decor is minimalist opium den crossed with 1940s grand hotel lobby. Tall frondy plants in giant urns cast shadows on the flocked metallic wallpaper. Black velvet couches, strewn with tiny embroidered throw pillows, cluster around low, faux-Oriental tables, at which diners are forced to hunch and lurch over their meals. Along one wall stretches a long bar, painted black and lacquered to a frightening brilliance. At the center of the room are a cluster of round banquettes elevated on daises and generously draped in canopies of sheer gold fabric.
    My silent escort points, and at the far side of the room, crowded with people who all