Nijinsky thought his watch- ful biot would allow him to see and understand what Burnofsky was doing. Foolish boy. Male model. I’m one of the great minds of the cen- tury, and you think I can’t carry out my work right under your nose? “Karl, it’s good to see you,” Charles lied. Benjamin’s one-eyed stare would freeze lava. “It’s good to have you gentlemen back,” Burnofsky said. “I’m, um, well, sorry for your . . .” “Defeat?” snarled Benjamin. “Are you sorry for our defeat?” “Your loss,” Burnofsky said, finding the right word. “I’m sorry for your loss.” “Fuck your sympathy,” Benjamin snapped. Charles intervened smoothly. “My brother and I are both griev- ing. You can understand our . . . impatience.” “What can I do for you?” Burnofsky asked. Benjamin’s anger had sent him back in his mind to Carla. To his daughter. It had been in this room, just over there, closer to the desk. That’s where he had come to them—drunk, stoned, filled with sorrow so deep and shame so dark that it would poison him as surely as a dose of strychnine.
