By Evander Lang

We got in at night. We meant to come earlier, we wanted to see the island in the light, we wanted palm trees, but we couldn’t get away. We were booked on one of those planes that look like they ran air support at Normandy. Crop duster-looking thing. The plane was loud and the flight was short, thirty minutes at a jog out of FCO. When we got there the hotel was all lit up, and there were nice decorative torches dotting the beach, blood orange flicker in the black surf. We tried to get a little look at the island past the hotel but there wasn’t much: you had your treetops and you had your rooftops. Past the shoreline all the lights were off. We wondered if they’d blacked the whole island just to zhuzh the torchlights. If that was the reason we thought it was a little much.

We were there to talk about a new corporate campus and distro center for our Mediterranean teams. Upstairs had offices in Frankfurt from the Zugfrau days, when we were running around the Balkans and all those other grim little countries putting in-ride concierge on all the big train lines, but that market was tapped now and these days it was all about bringing beachfront amenities infrastructure into the 21st century. Before we left we got someone from Ministry of Commerce on the phone and they told us the General wanted the island to be a tourist hotspot. We gave him a quick rundown and said we’d like to save the big pitch for in-person, maybe in front of the General even, think it’d be just right for his vision. The little Commerce guy – he sounded little on the phone – he laughed like he wasn’t sure if he could authorize that and said to come find him at the conference. He was stalling. We didn’t mind.

The plane made a water landing and we stepped out into a water taxi wreathed in fairy lights. We went to shore. We were met there by Customer Experiences, a tall thin guy with an Invisalign mouth. He called a bellhop and asked if we’d had a pleasant journey. When the bags were gone he walked us to the bar. Welcoming Cocktails were well underway and we wished we’d pushed Upstairs to put us on an earlier flight.

#

They hustled us inside for dinner. Customer Experiences whistled up some hostesses. We were seated. We sat in front of an empty salad plate and it got us thinking about pre-appetizers. It had to go beyond a simple basket of bread with its little dish of oil. It had to go even beyond a tasteful charcuterie board. It had to surprise and delight the guest, surpassing expectations and laying the foundation for a long-lasting gastronomic relationship. We jotted a few notes. Onto a stage that lined one whole side of the dining hall came a troupe of dancers.

House lights down, music up, light salads and ramekins of seasoned olives. We had a taste and found the flavors wanting. We considered the situation: before calling Commerce we’d called a land surveyor we’d worked with doing guided scuba tours of the Sea of Azov, and he’d told us they hadn’t let anyone scope the island since the purges ended, but the shop talk was that they’d sprayed so much gas they’d cooked everything within ten feet of the topsoil. Sampling the quotidian batavia, we came to some initial conclusions: the land was so shot they couldn’t even grow weeds, and they were shipping in the dinner service from the mainland; the General wanted to turn the island into Mykonos because that was the only kind of business it would still sustain; we should talk to Upstairs about pitching the General on an a la carte deal with comprehensive food and beverage pipelines to complement our flagship amenities package. We jotted a few more notes. It was a special evening.

The dancers were really trying. The costumes were Halloween store. The music was “He’s a Pirate” redone for techno.

#

We dug into our mains. Things were looking up: we suspected our rabbit had breathed the island air before expiring. The table was lively. Oberoi and Nestlé were comparing braised artichokes. Kuehne + Nagel was licking the cork from a Domaine Leflaive. Energy Transfer Partners was talking Simona Halep with Restaurant Brands International. The room was slick with chatter.

The dancers were gone. Onstage was Emeril Lagasse. He looked good. Nice wrists. They’d put a little cooking station up there where you could see the mise but not the grill and here’s what he’d do: next to him on one side was a big stack of steaks. He’d take a steak from the top of the pile, red and raw. He’d show it to the room, like a magician showing you a deck of cards. He’d put it where you couldn’t see it and you’d hear it sizzle. When it was done he’d take it off heat and hold it up again. He wouldn’t say anything. He’d just hold up the cooked meat with a look of awe on his face, swivel around so everyone could see what had happened. Then he’d add it to a different stack of cooked steaks on the other side. Periodically someone would hustle out from the kitchen, take all the cooked steaks, and throw them in the trash. He was twenty-five or thirty steaks deep.

Off to one side of the stage we saw a mousy guy in epaulets enjoying the show too much. Bald head glazed with a permanent sweat. Hands balled up twitching in his pockets. We smelled blood in the water. This was Commerce. We stood up and went over.

What a treat to see him up close we said. The master at work. Commerce grinned and grew a few new beads of sweat.

You’re a fellow admirer? he said.

Are you kidding? Emeril. The best. One thing’s for sure, pal. Those are some lucky steaks. Commerce liked that. We asked if he was Commerce and he was. We told him who we were and he remembered. We spoke on the phone, he said.

A few moments later we were joining his table.

#

These guys had no pull. We could tell that as soon as we sat down. This was Coterie. This was Hangers-On. We considered that maybe there ought to be some kind of rule about how many ceremonial sabres could be worn at the same table.

All the same we treated ourselves to some intel. It was the General who ginned up the gunmen drooping through the windows of the Treasury with their ludicrous rappelling gear and putting a bullet apiece high up into the crown molding they’d been meaning to have redone anyway, the General who found his van der Lubbe warbling Johnny Cash on the bench outside St. Gabriel’s Recovery. It was the General who paid McEnroe to lose to him in tennis, the General who daily ran his own scalp raw with his too-firm bristle brushes, the General with his lions sejant and his Prince of Wales, the General with his embossments, his exotic mustards, the General who thought that every painting was by Caravaggio, the General who wanted – this was news to us – the General who wanted his island to be dripping, overflowing, absolutely gargling with comely youngsters putting pictures of his island on the Internet. It was as simple as that: the boss craved bikini. We made a mental note to find out what the gap year set was drinking.

And we learned it was the General who’d put them in their epaulets and sabres. Coterie was a few accountants, some rear-echelon business types, a real estate operative in sweatstained Brioni, a kid who knew how to get the printer to show up in the dropdown menu. He’d put them in their knockoff tabs and scrolls, and now they swanned around the island, feeling dangerous.

Onstage, Emeril was nearing his centennial. He was sobbing while he cooked. The trash can brimmed over with meats. We sipped a little something and closed our eyes. We listened to the sizzle of the steaks.

#

Dinner was over. We were outside. Networking continued at rustic-chic tables splayed out on the beach. We sat and watched the waves churn. We counted our winnings: we’d had promising conversations with Molson Coors, GSK, XPO, Siemens, Point Nine, D&G, and the Daily Mail. We’d handed out 114 business cards. We’d hobnobbed with Coterie. Most of the right people had our number.

It was late. We heard junior reps at neighboring tables trying to close. We didn’t want the kind of business that got done at this hour. We got up. We wanted a walk.

Farther from the tables it got pleasant. The torches lined the shore a long ways up. We looked out across the waves. Miles off a cruise ship lolled. Tourism & Public Safety had said something about the General and cruise ships. He liked them a whole lot or he didn’t like them that same amount. We’d forgotten.

Upstairs was hot on cruise ships. Upstairs thought cruise ships were the future. They thought one day it would all flip around. We’d live full-time on cruise ships. We’d have citizenship aboard Symphony of the Seas or Carnival Conquest. Future humans would first touch solid land as grown adults, and they would feel it wobble underneath them. Upstairs wanted to get in on the ground floor with ship-to-shore wholesale grocery offerings. Warehouses in every ruined port town with bunkering tankers standing by to fortify the Dunkaroos reserves. Ovaltine trimaran. Lunchmeats tugboat. That was the big dream. That was what got Upstairs woozy. The General and his island were just a fuel stop along the way.

We turned. Farther up the beach voices muttered in the dark. They probably couldn’t see us. We sidled up. We listened.

You bring me up there like it’s some big joke. Like I’m nothing. I’m big time where I come from. I don’t have to be here.

No one is forcing you to do anyth-

You think I don’t have offers? My phone. Constantly. The Travel Channel. Luxury items. It’s different for people like me. OK? My watch. Discovery Channel will pay big. I make one call and it’s prime time.

We’ve provided you a car.

A Kia Sorento? You know who slobs the Sorento? You wanna know who’s putting out for the Sorento?

Please tell us.

Nobody! Bam! Nobody slobs the Sorento! I deserve the Bugatti, pal! The works!

We’ve provided you women.

Sludge trim, pal! No finesse! The other day I had to finish myself off! War of attrition, chump!

If you’re unhappy with your present arrangements –

Get me the big guy.

Sir.

Get me the General.

Mr. Lagasse, you have been with us long enough to know what a ferociously busy man the General is –

Well, hey, pal, buddy, that makes two of us! I cooked for Tim Tebow. I cooked a beautiful plate of fish. You know what he said to me?

Please tell us.

Where is the General tonight? Where’s the old man? I wanna speak to him.

Please finish your story.

You think I haven’t seen things? You think I don’t know what goes on here?

Please tell us what you think goes on here.

You’re a smarm. You’re a church mouse. I don’t have to talk to you. Get me the General.

Please tell us what you think goes on here.

I’ll crush you like a bug, OK?

Absolutely.

I’ll have you stocking shelves at Best Buy.

Yes, you will.

I’ll be in Tom Ford drinking Laphroaig Quarter Cask. You’ll be stocking shelves at Best Buy.

It’s inevitable.

You’ll be dreaming about my Kia Sorento.

He mumbled the last line. There was silence. The chef was gassed.

Bright ship he murmured. Big bright decks. Nice dancing. Khakis with the cuffs rolled up so you can sit with your feet in the pool.

The other voice said nothing.

I’m gonna tell them everything Emeril said. I’m gonna tell them what I saw here.

The other voice said nothing. The chef was zoned out. The chef was altered.

New units. Hot part of town. Housing decks me out in Doshi Levien and tells me rent’s something other people pay. I’m courted. I let myself be courted. My mistake. The kid they sent me. Compliant. Always on time. Bad flinches. Just trying to hand him something. Just closing the door. He stays and stays. When he does go home it isn’t home he’s going to. He never talks. Growing up. Kids I knew. He reminds me. And once you know you see them everywhere. Those girls you had onstage before me. The kid who cleans the car. Who brings the laundry. Every corner. Every hour. Every age but grown. I found teeth behind the oven. Some woman’s picture in the medicine cabinet. Everywhere I go remodeled apartments hitting the market. One after another. Just like mine. Don’t explain it to me. You can have back all the stuff you gave me. Sobbing again. I’m not gonna chicken out this time.

Footsteps. The chef was mobile.

Whoever he confessed to hadn’t moved. The chef walked out into the torchlight. He was shaking. He walked out down to where the sand was wet. Then he walked out into the water. Then he walked until the water was at his knees. Then he walked until the water was at his waist. Then he walked until the water was at his chest. Then he was under. He never started swimming and he never lost his balance. He just walked.

When he’d been submerged a few seconds, Commerce walked out of the shadows into the torchlight. Customer Experiences trailed. Customer Experiences looked queasy. Commerce didn’t. We hadn’t recognized his voice. We were surprised. The mouse had spine. The mouse had sauce. We reassessed things.

Commerce snapped and a meathead with an AR-15 popped out from somewhere. Commerce pointed toward the waves. Be sure. The meathead walked the same steps the chef had. Down to the edge of the water, down into the water, then down beneath it. The waves were glass. The night was quiet. Customer Experiences coughed.

We got visible. Commerce squeaked.

There he is he said. His grin shook.

Taking the air we grinned back.

Be sure to put it back when you’re done he said. We laughed big. Customer Experiences was grey. We can have someone drive you around in the morning. You can go by the stables, even ride a horse if you like. People like that. Lot of fun. We made him nervous. We were business. We tapped the gas.

If only, brother. Off with the morning light. His grin curled. We floored it: HQ wants a full report by lunch.

Commerce got it. Commerce made calls. Commerce got a car to take us for a nightcap with the General.

#

When we first saw the General, he was sitting in his botanicals, stoking a fire. The setup was starter Versailles: damaged brickwork and dead dry leaves underfoot said he was spending it all on heavies and ammo with nothing left over for upkeep. We crossed a threshold or two. We reached the old man.

He was square in the center, poking a log with a stick. He was a vision in tassels and lampasse. He didn’t have much hair to brush. He had hound-dog eyes. When he saw us, he stood up on creaking knees. We shook. We sat. The fire blew his way. It was too hot for fire and too hot for parade dress. We watched him blink sweat and smoke from his eyes.

We pitched the amenities. He liked it. We signed him. We talked corporate offices. He liked that. We signed him.

#

We watched the road from an Audi A3 headed back to the hotel. Every other street we saw a black Tahoe parked by the side of the road with its windows smashed and its tires cut. One was in the dirt lot of a crummy church. One was at the edge of the beach, getting lapped by low waves. One was in the doorway of the post office. We thought: poor bastard got taken for a ride buying Turkish gasoline during the sanction days, and here was his elephant graveyard, his shining fleet beached by shortage and stripped for parts. The new stuff was compacts and midsizes. Let’s buy discreet this year sir said some dreamless freak in front of a spreadsheet, and the old man said OK. He’d mumbled into the smoke about Hellfire missiles and sales calls with Northrop Grumman. He’d pulled out a business card from Chiquita Banana and told us the rep was a hot ticket. He’d asked his security detail to get him a meeting with Swedish Fish. The General was in over his head.

We thought about the meathead in the waves. We thought about the sarin in the soil. We did some back-of-the-envelopes on the way back beachside. The upfront money to establish the supply chain. The shit, piss, and dick we’d eat trying to get financing for a dump like this. The insurance. The insurance on the insurance. The island would be ash before we got into the black. The NGOs would be burping up tourists to plant cabbages in fallout shelters and the General would be sundowning in Barcelona. We looked at his signature. It just said “General.” We wondered if Upstairs would even want it.

#

The water taxi was idling at the dock, the plane on the water.  It was dawn. We’d spent the last of the dark hours going around slipping twenties and business cards to bellhops and chambermaids. We wanted good intel, just in case we made a play here.

The bellhop brought our bags. Customer Experiences was nowhere. The bellhop said he’d called in sick.

We shook hands with the bellhop. We went to the taxi, to the plane, we flew home.

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Evander Lang is a film editor based in Austin, TX. Films he’s worked on have screened here and there. This is his first published story.