Manipulating Desmond

Manipulating Desmond.

                                                        Old Hull. March 15, 2004.


Le Gastronome International is an intimate French restaurant on the main street of Sutton in Quebec's Eastern Townships, ten minutes north of the Vermont border. It was only an hour's drive from the small country town of Saxton where I lived, but I couldn't eat there as often as I would have liked. My little trust-fund income didn't run to much elegant dining, and most of the supplementary income I made from the occasional land deal I spent either on books or at the local diner.

That day I wasn't thinking about expense. Michael Donovan was paying. He was an old friend of mine, a big, jovial fellow about ten years younger than I, still in his forties at that time. He was a fairly prosperous real estate agent --- the only one in Saxton, since my small deals were strictly on my own account --- and he had offered me my choice of restaurant.

I had steered some business his way recently, and at first I thought this dinner had something to do with that; but his silence during the trip gave me the idea there was something else on his mind. Michael had the ready conversation of a natural salesman: it was not like him to remain silent for long.

On that warm evening in late August, most of the guests had chosen to sit outside on the terrace. Michael opted for a table inside, presumably to ensure privacy for our conversation.

"Why don't we leave the choice of food to the chef?" Michael said.

"That's fine with me, Michael." I am always willing to settle for the best. They knew my tastes there anyway.

He ordered a bottle of excellent Bordeaux. Then he put his tensions aside and we both settled down to enjoy the meal.

Michael was smooth enough to leave any discussion of business until the coffee and brandy came. Top-quality brandy, I noticed. Whatever Michael had brought me here to discuss, it had to be something bigger than I usually had anything to do with. There was the scent of important money in the air.

"I've come to you, Brendan," he began, "partly because we are old friends, and there might be something in it for you; but also because I don't know where else to turn. I'm acting on behalf of a consortium that plans to build a huge shopping center on the edge of town. The whole deal has to be settled before the end of this year, or they will look for another site on the other side of the city.

This is our big chance for local development to take off; and we mustn't miss it. It will be the making of this town. To tell you the truth, it will mean a whole lot to me, personally, as well."

I wondered where I fitted in. I didn't have to wonder for long.

"I've taken out options", Michael continued, " to buy all that strip of land along the south side of the highway from the crossroads right down to the edge of that piece of land of yours next to the bridge. There's only one problem about building a shopping center there: all that land is zoned for farming.

When the proposal to approve the proposed site for commercial use comes up for consideration before the town council's zoning commission, there's one very influential councilor who will stop the project dead in its tracks. You know who that is: your brother Desmond. Desmond has always been dead set against commercial development. He claims it destroys the moral values of country life."

"He does say that. Indeed he does!" I said. "That's the influence of our Huguenot mother coming out, you know. After Father lost the old family business to the competition, she was always dinning into our ears that successful businessmen are all a bunch of dishonest cut-throats. She was right about one thing, though: Father certainly didn't have the the temperament to run a competitive business.

It wasn't for nothing that my grandfather had set up the trust fund for him --- the one that is now split between Desmond and me. The old man could predict what would happen when his son took over. He may have been a cut-throat in business, for all I know --- he was successful enough --- but he made sure to leave his son something the banks couldn't take away from him when the crash came."

"Wherever he gets it from," said Michael, "Desmond is adamant on that subject. Trouble is, the decision of the zoning commission will be binding. The full council won't be able to overturn it afterward. A dumb rule, but there it is. Together with the two members that are totally under his influence, Desmond will defeat the proposal with a majority of one.

The remaining two members will vote the other way, of course, but that won't affect the outcome. The mayor is ex-officio chairman of the commission, and he certainly doesn't agree with Desmond --- not many do any more --- but, unfortunately, the chairman doesn't have a vote."

Even with the air-conditioning on in the restaurant, Michael's face was getting redder than usual with frustration. He pulled out a big colored handkerchief to mop his brow, took a deep breath, and went on with what he was saying.

"Desmond is bound to be defeated at the next election. Farming is doomed around here: nearly everybody realizes that now. But the consortium won't wait that long. It's now or never. Somebody will have to get Desmond to vote the other way. There's no point in my approaching him or his clique: he'd get his back up right away. But you're his brother. You're the only person in the world who stands any chance of influencing him. Will you see what you can do, Brendan? As a favor to me?"

I thought it was a pretty forlorn hope, but he didn't give me time to say so.

"It wouldn't be just a favor, mind you, though it would certainly be that. There's a lot of money hanging on this, I can tell you. It's a multi-million dollar project. I don't really know how to say this to you, Brendan, but the fact is that, if you could get this past the zoning commission for us, you could practically name your price."

Michael was smart enough to shut up then and let me think. He got interested in the old coaching-era pictures hanging on the wall, and then peered through the window at the lights of the buildings across the street. I just sat there and sipped my brandy.

It wouldn´t be hard to get used to brandy of this quality, I thought. Michael ordered another, with more coffee. I could feel the faint vibration of a late train pulling out of the station at the other end of the village. I pondered the symbolism of that.

Michael's news had come at just the right time to engage my attention, for a couple of reasons.

The first was a conversation I had had a couple of weeks earlier with Tim Murphy, my father's old accountant, who still insisted on looking after Desmond's taxes and my own. Tim had warned me that I was leaving it very late to put some money together for my retirement.

"And your brother is in exactly the same boat," he said. "There'll only be that little trust fund left for him to live on when he loses the nominal salary he's been getting as a town councilor. Now it´s no secret that Desmond wouldn't be able to turn a dollar if he tried; but you could do something to help him. You're a smart fellow when you want to be.

You've done a lot of off-beat thinking and reading, I know. Right here in front of me, on top of your desk, I can see a philosophy book by Santayana with the council's rules of procedure slipped into it to keep your place, for heaven's sake! Maybe the mayor has read the rules, but you can bet there's not another soul in Saxton who has read either one of those things!

More to the point, you've been dealing in land off and on most of your life. If you would only put your mind to it, it wouldn't take you that long to make enough money for the two of you."

"I have no doubt you're right, Tim," I said. "I'm sure that, if my father had only listened to you, we wouldn't have this problem in the first place. But you know that I'm no more of a hot-shot businessman than he was. I'm just a bookish introvert, just like him. I have the know-how all right, but I'm not sure I can bring  myself to concentrate that hard on making money."

"That's all very well, Brendan," he replied," but it's one thing for you both to live on a shoe string now. You're going to need quite a bit more later on, if you want to keep your independence. Think about it, Brendan! You don't have all that long."

I had taken Tim's words seriously enough to keep my eyes more open than usual for money-making opportunities. Recently, I had come across an ad in the city paper by a fellow looking for land to turn into a hobby-farm on which to raise horses. My bit of property on the highway that Michael had referred to might suit, but it wouldn't be large enough by itself for the purpose, so I had taken an option on the property behind it. It was hardly ideal; but it was the right size and not too far from the city; it might appeal to him for that reason. I had called the man to tell him I might have something for him, but so far the matter hadn't gone any further.

The second reason that my interest was awakened was the book by Santayana that Tim had seen on my desk. Its title was Skepticism and Animal Faith, and I was particularly fascinated by what the author had to say about skepticism.

He claimed that seeing is not necessarily believing. "Nothing that I actually see," said Santayana, "is ever there, (...)Therefore, if I regard my intuitions as knowledge of facts, all my experience is illusion, and life is a dream."

No hard facts, I thought. Just images and feelings, "the stuff that dreams are made of". Oh, to be able to see the world like that, as Santayana says poets and artists do --- to break out of the "prison-house" of everyday life!

"The life of reason as I conceive it is a mere romance, and the life of nature a mere fable...."
Hardly the way I was brought up to conceive it!

I had been playing around with these ideas in my mind for the last few days as a kind of antidote to the repressive world-view that had been instilled into my brother and me from childhood, and that still haunted me.

The result of all this was that I didn't tell Michael Donovan to go fly a kite, the way I would normally have done in response to such a suggestion.

"Give me a few days to think this over, Michael," I said. "Right now, I don't have a  notion how such a thing could be accomplished. Desmond is never going to change his mind about commercial development just because somebody talks to him. I exert the same degree of influence over my brother as anyone else, namely, none whatsoever. But, just maybe, something will come to mind. I'll certainly give it my best shot."

Neither of us said very much on the way home. If I can only learn to see life as a dream, I was thinking, maybe I can dream it a different way. Maybe I can rewrite Desmond's part in this fable; bring it up to date a little bit.

The next morning I went for a walk in the country. The trees were just beginning to take on their fall colors. As I got higher, I looked out over the valley, and it occurred to me that my habitual vision didn't seem to include depth. It was as if I saw with only one eye.

I made an effort to get a better look, to bring the scene down off the vertical theatrical back-drop and flatten it out horizontally. I had never thought of trying this before. I was amazed when it worked. Suddenly my whole view was transformed. The world rolled out ahead of me like a richly colored carpet. I could see the "planes" that painters talk about; I could see and feel the spaces between the nearer and the more distant planes. Colors became vivid, alive as I had never seen them before. I could see and respond emotionally to shapes and colors ---a world of vivid images and feelings, in place of my usual drab world of 'things-out-there' making demands on me that I felt I couldn't meet.

I felt the stirring of a creativity that had been locked up inside me all my life. This was a world in which a person could feel free. I didn't need Santayana any more.

When I got back to town, I had the beginnings of a plan.

My first move was to pay a visit to Desmond. I informed him of what Tim had said about our needing to get together some retirement money, and of the horse-farm fellow that I was in touch with.

"If you would come in with me on the purchase of the land behind mine," I said, "we could each go some way toward getting that kind of a sum together. It won't cost much. That piece of land is too small to be worth much by itself: I could buy it all by myself if I had to. I would have to take on a bit of debt to do it, but my credit is certainly good enough for that. So you don't need to concern yourself about security. I'd make sure you didn't lose any money if, for any reason, the sale were to fall through."

The idea of a horse farm coming in appealed to Desmond, as I knew it would. And he realized that Tim was right about our needing to set up a retirement fund. So he agreed to come in with me on the purchase. I had the appropriate papers already drawn up, so Desmond signed them and wrote me a check for his share. He didn't feel the need to read the papers too carefully. He wouldn't have known what to look for; and he accepted my assurance that he wouldn't lose in any event. So he didn't notice that there was nothing in the agreement that said I had to sell the land to anyone in particular, or that both the partnership and the power of attorney that he gave me were irrevocable.

A couple of days later, Michael Donovan paid a visit to my office on the ground floor of my modest clapboard house on Saxton's main street, to receive my answer, as I had invited him to do.

I have good news for you, Michael," I said. "When we were chatting the other day, you mentioned that little property I happen to own down near the bridge. Actually, it's a bit larger than it was then, since it now includes the land behind it, but that's of no consequence. I remember you said something about my being able to name my price. That was a rather ambiguous phrase you used there, mind you. A person who didn't know you as well as I do might have thought you were referring to my exerting some kind of improper influence. But I've known you long enough to understand that you were just making an offer for the land.

I'm thinking that the property you have already optioned for that shopping center is nowhere near big enough to allow for future expansion, or even for the extra parking that might be needed at any time. The site needs to be extended to cover the whole tract from the crossroads all the way down to the bridge. Naturally, it will cost your principals a bit more per square foot than the rest of the site; but I have to agree with your opinion that it will be a good investment for them. As a matter of fact, I don't really see how they could get on without it."

I could rely on Michael to understand that kind of language. The ease with which I used it surprised me a bit, considering I had never done so before.

"I'm not going to ask for anything unreasonable. What I suggest is that we draw up a bill of sale, conditional upon the town's deciding to issue the necessary zoning permission, and payable immediately when that decision is taken. Now that I've thought the situation over, I see no reason to doubt that the necessary permission will be forthcoming. The members of the commission are all reasonable people. My brother, Desmond, in particular, can be relied upon to do the right thing. You can take my word for that."

There was no doubt in my mind that Desmond would do the right thing --- as he saw it. I just hoped that it would be the right thing for the rest of us.

Michael got a big smile of relief on his face when he heard that. He knew better than to ask for details he might be better off not knowing. After a bit of negotiation between us, he trotted off to consult the company he was representing. Two days later he returned with a positive answer, and we dealt with all the paperwork. I now had in my hand a signed deal for the property. The sum involved was even slightly greater than the amount Tim Murphy had set as the objective I should aim at in order to finance Desmond's and my retirement.

You can imagine that the consortium didn't waste too much time before presenting its zoning application to the town council. The council duly referred it to the zoning commission in the form of a motion to approve the project.

The evening before the zoning commission was due to meet, I went to see Desmond at his cottage just outside the town. Desmond and I don't visit much. I find him moralistic, and he finds my ideas too wishy-washy, so conversation is not easy between us. But we´re not on bad terms. He doesn't keep spirits in the house, but he poured me a cup of tea. Nobody makes a better cup of tea than Desmond. I guess no one ever told him it´s a drug.

"It's a pity you are going to vote against this shopping-center project tomorrow, Desmond," I said," balancing the tea-cup on my knee. You and I could have made a heap of money out of that business."

He looked up at me sharply.

"And what do you mean by that, now?" he asked.

"Well, I couldn't be sure what the future might hold, could I?" I said. "I didn't expect that you would change your mind, of course; but who knows what could happen in this uncertain world? I'm legally obliged, as the representative of our partnership, to accept the highest bid available. I made a conditional sale to the development consortium, just in case the proposal should happen to be approved by the commission. It's an integral part of the project that you fellows are going to look at tomorrow morning. I suppose there's no way you could let it pass after all, is there?"

It took a moment for this to sink in. Then he got it.

"Brendan, you idiot!" he exclaimed. "Do you not know what you've done? You've made me a part owner of a property that I have to vote on. You've placed me in a conflict of interest!"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Desmond," I said innocently. "You would only stand to profit if the motion happened to pass, wouldn't you? But you're not going to let it pass, are you? The land will go to the horse-farmer at a lower price. Where's the conflict in that?"

"It's not a question of which way I intend to vote, you fool," he shouted, "but whether it's proper for me to vote on the matter at all!" He hesitated, and lowered his tone. "On the other hand, you might have a point, at that. I suppose I might not absolutely have to say anything about it. If anyone complained afterward, it would be obvious that I had voted against my financial interest. I'd like to see them win an appeal on that basis!"

Desmond paused, smiling in relief. I didn't say anything. Slowly his smile faded, and his brow became furrowed in thought.

"But then again," he said, "There's still a profit in it for me on the sale to this horse fellow. That means I would be voting against the shopping-center project for the sake of a profitable sale. Even though that's not really my intention, it would be a legitimate interpretation. I can't deny that I do have a financial interest in the outcome of the vote! "

Desmond's conscience is not simply a bludgeon he uses to intimidate others. It is first of all a sharp-edged instrument of torture that he uses on himself. Machiavellian that I had become, I had counted upon Desmond's excessive scrupulousness to bring that objection to his mind.

I almost sympathized with him in his plight; but then it occurred to me that he would probably agree with Immanuel Kant that doing the right thing is not meritorious if it doesn't hurt. For the moral masochist, the pain of doing one's duty only heightens the exaltation of the thing.

"What a flaming mess you have made of things, Brendan! But there is still a way out. We have to to dissolve that damned partnership right away. Tonight!"

"I have a feeling that just might be against the law, Desmond. The partnership is bound by the contract for the sale. A party to a contract can't just decide to disappear into thin air, you know."

"Well, what if give my share of it to you? Or sell it to someone else?"

"I don't think you can do that, either, Desmond. The partnership as it stands is legally irrevocable. It has to remain the way it is."

I didn't bother to mention that I was the one responsible for that particular clause in the agreement. Nor that it only meant that he would need my consent to revoke it --- a consent which I didn't intend to give.

"Why do these things have to be so damned complicated? I wish I knew more about the law!"

I felt it was not a good time to point out that, for a man who had been a member of the town zoning commission for donkey's years, it was a trifle late to regret that he hadn't bothered to learn anything about the law.

"Well, I'll just have to explain that you acted in my name without consulting me. That has to give me the right to cancel the sales contract."

"We could try that, I suppose, Desmond. The explanation would certainly absolve you of any blame in the matter. But I don't know that it does give you the right to cancel the contract. I did have your power of attorney, after all. That's irrevocable too, as a matter of fact. That's all standard procedure, you know. The executive partner is not expected to keep running back and forth to consult when he's in the middle of negotiating a sale. The other party wouldn't stand for it!"

I was making all this up, of course. I wasn't sure whether what I was saying about standard procedure was even faintly plausible; but I was familiar enough with Desmond's ignorance of such matters to know that, with him, I was on safe ground.

Desmond finally had to admit defeat.

"I shall be forced to disqualify myself, then, damn it all to blazes! I don't mind telling you I was looking forward to seeing that proposal voted down by a majority. But at least I'll have the consolation that the vote will be tied. That will be enough for the purpose. It takes a majority on the commission to pass a motion. That confounded project will still be blocked."

"You won't hold anything against me, then, will you, Desmond?"

He had calmed down again by now.

"I confess I'm disappointed, Brendan, but I'm willing to overlook it. I don't suppose a man like you who's never held public office can be expected to know all the rules that a councilor is bound by. But you must promise not to risk putting me in a fix like this again."

"Ah, you're a forgiving soul, Desmond! I promise to be careful about that in future."

That should have been just about the end of the story, I guess. I was seated up in the visitors' gallery at the back of the chamber next morning to witness the meeting of the zoning commission. Michael Donovan came in looking very nervous, and settled his considerable bulk in the seat next to mine.

At ten o'clock, the mayor tapped the table with his gavel and called the meeting to order. Desmond immediately stood up and announced that he felt obliged to disqualify himself from voting on the motion that was to be presented by reason of an apprehended conflict of interest.

"Let me assure you, Mr.Chairman, that this is as much of a shock to me as it probably is to you.. My financial agent saw fit to involve me in the matter without consulting me beforehand. It was only yesterday that I learned, to my surprise, that I have a financial interest in the project that we are called upon to consider."

The mayor readily accepted this explanation, That should have been the end of it. But the mayor can never resist the opportunity to make a speech.

"In these days of declining moral standards in both the private and the public sphere, it is both heart-warming and uplifting to witness this example of a member's devotion to the rule of impartiality. In the name of the commission, let me, as chairman, express what must be the unanimous opinion, and say what a privilege it has been to serve with him on this commission."

There was a ripple of applause from the balcony, which the mayor allowed to go on for a moment.

Michael shot me a puzzled look. This didn't look like the "right thing" that Desmond was supposed to do. I just stared ahead with all the impassivity I could muster.

There were a couple of dull speeches on either side to which no one listened. The vote was all that mattered.

"I now call the vote on the proposal," said the mayor at long last.

"The members have voted," he announced a few minutes later "The vote is tied."

A sigh of disappointment came from the people around us in the gallery. They had all known what was coming, but they had been hoping against hope nevertheless. The mayor looked down at his papers. He seemed to have no more to say. My heart stopped beating. My nerves were stretched to an unbearable degree.

The mayor looked up. He had in his hand the booklet he had been looking for. My heart gave a lurch in my chest, and began to beat very fast. I hadn't been wrong about him after all.

Out of the corner of my eye, I got a glimpse of Michael. He appeared devastated. He made to stand up and leave, but I motioned him to wait. The mayor hadn't finished.

"It is now my duty as chairman to make a ruling on the final disposition of the motion before us. I do not believe that a tie of this nature has ever occurred before in the history of this commission. This should occasion no surprise, for it is precisely to preclude such a situation that the commission is composed of an odd number of members. It has happened a few times that a member has been absent from a meeting, and that a tied vote has resulted. In such cases, in accordance with the customary rules of parliamentary procedure, a tied vote is deemed to defeat an affirmative motion."

The mayor paused. There was a rustle of impatience in the room. This was old stuff. Would the mayor never stop speechifying?

"However," he went on, a fleeting smile crossing his face, "on this occasion there is an important difference. There can be no defeat by default, for today every member of the commission is physically present. In this situation, according to paragraph 125 of the rules of procedure, subsection 5, note 3 --- and I quote --- : 'When a tied vote occurs despite the physical presence of all the members of the commission, exceptionally, the ex-officio chairman is authorized and obliged to cast a deciding vote.' "

A gasp rose from the members of the commission. No one but the mayor had ever heard of such a rule. No one apart from me, that is.

Once again the mayor paused. This was his moment of power, and he was savoring it.

"I now announce," he intoned, " that I cast my deciding vote in favor of the resolution. I declare that the motion is passed."

The project was accepted. The shopping center would be built.

Poor Desmond was absolutely dumbfounded. He looked ready to collapse. But I knew he would soon recover. And then, maybe, he would come looking for me.

I slipped out of the building before Desmond could see me. Michael came up behind me and said, "You might have warned me! I had a few bad moments there. But aren't you the cunning one, though! How about a drink to celebrate?"

"Good idea," I replied shakily. "But not around here, if you don't mind. For the rest of the day, I won't feel safe in the same town as Desmond!"

All that was some time ago now. My brother and I are now both retired --- not without a certain degree of financial security and even comfort. It's true that Desmond threatened, at first, to refuse to accept his share of the proceeds from what he called 'that shameful sale'. I managed to overcome his reluctance, however, by telling him that in that case I would feel myself obliged to administer the money on his behalf.

"No, Brendan," he said. "I don't think I could let you take a big responsibility like that on your shoulders for my sake. Once was enough!"

Sometimes I think Desmond is not entirely devoid of humor. And unlike the mother from whom we both got our values, he's not resentful. He has forgiven me for my "unfortunate error". He doesn't suspect the truth, of course; Desmond has never really known me. Frankly, I sometimes wonder if I know myself any more.

Just the same, he hasn't really reconciled himself to the existence of the new shopping center, even though he's started to buy his groceries there like everyone else. Desmond still does his own cooking: he doesn't approve of dining out.

However, everything else seems to have turned out well. The town has stopped going downhill, and is beginning to develop. There are rumors of light industry being interested. Money is coming in, and there's a new sense of life in the town. City people are starting to build homes here. Michael Donovan is more prosperous than ever.

I get up to Sutton for a good meal a lot more often these days. And I still get that vivid, creative vision of the world, when I remember to make the effort. I'm even thinking of taking art lessons.

So why can't I get rid of this nagging feeling that I betrayed my brother?


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