Kitabı oku: «Gramercy Park», sayfa 3
“Hardly that, Mr. Chadwick. I merely wish you to tell me if the house is for sale, and, if it is, whether or not you will see my attorney if I send him to you.”
There is another pause in the darkness; then: “I will see your attorney, Signor Alfieri.”
“Thank you. I am grateful to you.”
“I have not said that the house is for sale, signore. Merely that I will see your attorney.”
“But you have not said that it is not for sale, Mr. Chadwick, and I am an incurable optimist.”
“Then I will take my leave now,” Chadwick says, with another bow.
“Forgive me, Mr. Chadwick,” Alfieri says as the attorney turns to go. “There is one more thing I must ask you.”
“Yes? What is it?”
“I met Miss Adler today.”
There is a brief silence. “That is not a question, signore.”
“No, Mr. Chadwick, it is not.”
“Would you care to tell me the circumstances of your meeting?”
“Gladly. Miss Adler was feeling better than usual this morning, or so she told me. She thought that a walk, to build up her strength, would do her good. You know, of course, that she will not go outside—not even into the garden—for fear that someone will see her unfortunate hair. She decided, instead, to walk in what she calls the ‘shut-up’ part of the house. I fear that she is not so well as she tries to be, Mr. Chadwick. She became tired and could go no further, entered the music room and fell asleep. And that was where I found her.”
“You would make an excellent trial witness, signore. You are succinct and very clear. Did you speak with Miss Adler?”
“We had tea, Mr. Chadwick, and spoke, yes.”
“In her room?”
“In her sitting room.”
“Of course. And just what is it you wish to ask me about Miss Adler?”
“Just this: I am prepared to make over one whole wing of the house for her exclusive use, and to provide her with a staff and a companion—a duenna, or chaperone, if you will—so that she need not leave the home she is accustomed to. She told me that you have made arrangements to have her moved elsewhere once she is strong enough to leave. She is frightened, Mr. Chadwick, and very much alone, and she does not wish to go. She is not of age, and you are her late guardian’s attorney, and so I appeal to you. Will you permit me to do this?”
“Signor Alfieri, if your attorney comes to see me, and we find that the house is in fact for sale, and we discuss terms, and you are able, somehow, to meet those terms, and you buy the house, then you may do whatever it is you wish to do with it, including pulling it down around your ears. Miss Adler, however, is another matter entirely, which I have no intention of discussing with you, either now or in the future. I bid you good night, sir.”
Alfieri listens to Chadwick’s departing footsteps until they are lost against the distant sounds of a waltz coming from the ballroom beyond the conservatory. After several minutes, another figure disengages itself from the shadows and takes Chadwick’s vacated seat.
“Forgive my intrusion, Mario, but when I saw him leave and you did not follow …” Alfieri does not answer, and the speaker says quietly: “Is it that bad?”
Alfieri shakes his head. “I fear that Mr. Chadwick and I will never be friends, Stafford. He is not an agreeable man and I—stupidly—let him provoke me.” His tone is bitter. “You said your attorney was eloquent? He will have to be a perfect Cicero to win for me now.”
“You tried your best, Mario.”
“And failed.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Oh, yes I do. He will not discuss the matter with me under any circumstances. That is what trying my best has led to—”
“Then let Buchan handle it. I have seen him win the most amazing battles. Leave it until tomorrow.”
“—I could cut my tongue out!”
“Mario, Buchan knows him. Let him deal with it.”
“He does not care that she is afraid. How could he not care? How could anyone be harsh with her? Such a small child, Stafford … such eyes. Did I tell you about her eyes?”
“All afternoon, Mario.”
Alfieri turns to his friend, his smile returning. “You think I have gone mad.”
“I think you have been struck by lightning, as they say in Italy. Are you in love with her?”
Alfieri’s laugh is incredulous. “I? In love with a child? My God, Stafford, are there not women enough in the world? You think that now I must start with little girls?”
“She’s not a child, Mario … I understand she’s nearly twenty.”
“An old lady, certainly! But only if one is your age, ragazzo.” Alfieri shakes his head again. “Stafford, you know my family. My youngest sister—the baby, Fiorina—will be twenty on her next birthday. When she was born I was twenty, and already singing leading roles. How could Miss Adler be anything more than a child to me? And a little child, at that … when I first saw her I thought she was fourteen and no more.”
“Then why this concern for her?”
Alfieri shrugs, his smile fading. “Can you see a child in pain, and not try to help it? Some can, maybe … Mr. Chadwick, perhaps. But I cannot. And then …” He stops, thinks, shakes his head again. “I tell you, Stafford, there is something about her. She is so like … and yet not …” He raises his hands, then lets them fall, helpless, to his sides.
“Let it go until tomorrow, Mario; wait and see what Buchan can accomplish. There is nothing more to be done, certainly not tonight. Besides, all of New York must be wondering where Mrs. Astor’s guest of honor has gone.”
“You are right, my friend,” the tenor says, as they make their way back to the ballroom. “At least I know that little Miss Adler is not in any distress now. Only musicians—and the very rich—turn night into day. At—what time is it?—two o’clock in the morning?—most of the world, and especially children, are in their beds and fast asleep.” He lifts two glasses from the tray of a passing waiter and hands one to his friend. “To our success, Stafford, and her sweet dreams.”
REST OF ANY KIND, whether of mind or of body, has always eluded Clara. She cannot remember a time when sleep has come easily for her; perhaps it never has. Even in childhood, in the many beds and the many rooms of the many houses in which she had passed her years—more than a visitor, less than a guest—sleep had been a stranger. What wonder, then, that now, in her forfeited bed, in the room that is no longer hers, in the house she will soon leave forever, it should continue to pass her by.
She has left her childhood very far behind her; but she lies now, in her warm bed, as she did then, under the thin blankets and the mended sheets, in the hot rooms or the drafty ones; lies awake and staring at the chink in the curtain where morning glimmers like a star, listening to the birds wake and call—such a lonely sound—in the twilight world outside.
What was it he had said that morning? “You deserve a better life.” She had thought so, once. “My dear child,” he had said. “Have you no family to return to? No one at all?”
“No one.”
“No parents? No brothers or sisters? No relations of any kind? All dead?”
“Yes,” she had said. “All dead.”
“Then where will you go? Has anyone told you?”
“No.”
“How can you bear not to know?”
“They will tell me when it is time.”
“Haven’t you asked?”
“No. It doesn’t matter.”
“My dear, if that doesn’t matter, then what does?”
“Nothing.”
He had looked at her so pityingly. He had been so kind. He will take the house—he had told her so—and she will move on once more.
It occurs to her, now, lying in the gray light, that he must think her mind unsound; must believe her despair to be both symptom and proof of madness.
Not so. Her mind has already passed through that shadowy realm, like a soul sinking into hell, and fallen out the other side. To go mad again would mean an ascent, an upward journey; but she has tumbled out of madness onto a plain of such pitiless clarity, and there is no escape.
Madness would be a relief. Madness, at least, being shadowy, had offered her places where she could hide. But it has all come back to her now, one death resurrecting another, grief reviving grief … and here, in this boundless desolation, the vision stretches endlessly: the past remembered clearly, the present lived clearly, the future—oh, not the future of his tea leaves—seen clearly.
What she has done is always with her now, as is what is left to her; and the two are joined inextricably, the one engendering the other, and both are linked through what she is. It is like being the point where two lines cross; like peering through the wrong ends of telescopes into remote distances on both sides of her life at once; like looking forward and backward together.
There is no forgiveness in either direction. No pity. No hope.
She wipes her eyes. Waking to the sound of his voice, she had thought, at first, that she had died, and for the moment she had felt such joy, knowing that her misery was over at last. And then she had opened her eyes and seen him, and he was his voice made flesh, dark and beautiful, and she was glad she was not dead … forgetting, as she watched and listened, that alive or dead is the same to her now. If she were different, if she were not who she is …
Never mind. He had been kind. He had kissed her hand and read her tea leaves. How could he know that there was nothing to see in them because she had ceased to be long ago?
If she were different, if she were not who she is …
Alone in the dawn, Clara curls herself up, and cries.
Chapter Four
THE GRAY LIGHT WARMS and turns to gold, the creatures of the night melt away like dew, and the pace of the city quickens with the progress of the new day. Clara sleeps at last in her sun-warmed room and, mercifully, does not dream.
Thaddeus Chadwick, although he had bidden Mrs. Astor adieu only shortly before dawn, rises at his usual hour, which is eight o’clock. Chadwick needs little sleep—an advantage, perhaps the only one, of advancing years—but even in his youth sleep had been a luxury he could forgo at need. Far more important to him is the orderly management of time. If Mrs. Astor’s life is measured in cotillions and balls and levées, Chadwick’s is measured in hours and minutes and seconds, each day being so finely calibrated that one can be certain of exactly where he is at any given moment, just by looking at a clock.
Nine o’clock finds him at his breakfast in the morning room. His house is one of a graceful row of houses fronting the north side of Washington Square, its red brick faded by time to a rosy hue, and the morning room, at the back, looks out onto his small garden, where the lately radiant dogwood trees are now losing the last of their pink and white blossoms.
This is his favorite room of the house: a sunny chamber filled with shining, dark furniture lit by the gleam of brass, the table laid with a snowy cloth and fine china. It is a room with a clear conscience, a room indicative of a healthy appetite and a good digestion, and it illustrates the guiding principle that informs every aspect of Chadwick’s existence: serenity. As a bachelor, he can shape his life to suit his wishes, and he does precisely that. No voice is ever raised in his presence; no untoward emotions ruffle his days or intrude upon his nights. He floats through life upon his small feet, his placid smile upon his lips, observing the world benignly, and the occasional furor—such as the sudden death of his friend Slade, or the equally sudden affliction of Slade’s little ward—falls into his life with no more effect than that of a pebble flung into a glassy lake: the ripples soon die away, leaving the water as tranquil as before.
Take, for instance, the unexpected approach of the tenor last night, with his ridiculous offer to buy the Slade house. He—Chadwick—had been irked at the time, it is true, but his annoyance was as much a reaction to the high-handed manner of the man who made it as it was to the proposition itself. Reflecting upon it quietly this morning, however, over his eggs and toast, it occurs to him that the Italian has done him a very great favor. The sale will do more than merely fill the coffers of the Slade estate to better than overflowing and relieve him of an unnecessary burden (as Alfieri had so astutely pointed out, to give the Italian devil his due); it will also provide him with the opportunity to bring to fruition a plan—a most important plan—which has merely been waiting for the right set of circumstances to occur before he could set it in motion.
And this is the time. He has not grown rich in the service of others by failing to know when the proverbial iron is hot enough to strike, and the tenor’s desire to own the Slade house has suddenly fired this particular metal to white heat. Chadwick is pleased, with himself as well as with events. Alfieri’s arrogance—and particularly his insolence in requesting the girl—is something he can easily put by … for now. It is important to maintain one’s mental balance, however, for the mind functions best when not clotted up with petty annoyances and ill humors; and besides, as the Italians themselves say, revenge is a dish that is best tasted cold.
But he is in no hurry. Nothing must disturb the routine—serenity, always serenity—and a glance at the clock tells him that he has the better part of an hour yet, before his scheduled arrival at his office. The documents needed to put his plan into effect are already prepared—they have been so for months—and are waiting to be filed with the courts; all that remains is for him to affix his signature.
With a small sigh of contentment, Chadwick folds back his newspaper, pours himself more coffee and, raising the cup to his lips, mentally salutes Alfieri. Because of the tenor, the greatest plum of his—or, indeed, anyone else’s—life is almost within his grasp. And if it takes a little time for his fist to close about it … well, what of that? Lighting his first cigar of the morning, he gazes out into the flower-decked garden, a happy man with all the time in the world.
The clock moves on, and noon finds Alfieri en route to his appointment with the attorney who will do battle on his behalf for the house of the late Mr. Slade. The morning has not been easy for him; he has had the curious sensation, since waking from a fitful sleep—and a brief one, as he, too, had left Mrs. Astor at dawn—that every passing minute poses some increasing threat to the solitary child in the great, empty house, and he keeps a preoccupied silence during the ride downtown.
He is accompanied by his friend of the previous evening, Stafford Dyckman, who has known the tenor long enough to recognize when speech will be unwelcome; long enough, indeed, to be quite comfortable in the complete absence of any conversation. He sits wordlessly beside Alfieri as their carriage threads its way through the noontime crush of lower Broadway, intruding only occasionally upon his friend’s thoughts to point out some feature of interest on the bustling New York pavements.
Their destination, the offices of Daniel Buchan, Esq., is very near Wall Street, and so close to the graveyard that surrounds Trinity Church that its second-floor windows look directly out onto the weathered, tilted stones of the green and quiet burial ground. Dyckman makes the introductions as the church’s chimes ring out a quarter past noon.
“Your view is quite beautiful, Mr. Buchan,” Alfieri says as he and the attorney shake hands, “but perhaps somewhat … suggestive for your clients?”
“Actually, Signor Alfieri, the view is for my improvement. I find it most helpful. On those occasions when I succeed for a client, this view helps me to maintain my sense of proportion. It serves the same function as the slave who would ride in the chariot with the hero during ancient Roman triumphs, whispering ‘Remember, you are mortal.’” He is as dark as Alfieri, but small and balding, and his brown eyes are bright and very shrewd.
“On the other hand,” he says, ushering his guests to their chairs, “on those occasions when I do happen to fail, I look out the window and take solace from the fact that, win or lose, we all come to the same end eventually.”
“A comforting sentiment, to be sure,” Alfieri says, smiling. “But as I am considering retaining your services, Mr. Buchan, I would be a great deal happier if you could assure me that the former occurs considerably more often than the latter.”
“Often enough to pay the rent,” the attorney replies with an answering smile. “Now, Mr. Dyckman has explained very briefly what it is that you wish to do, signore. Might I ask you to provide me with more detail?”
The matter is quickly explained.
“This is very intriguing. I know Mr. Chadwick well,” Buchan says, leaning back with his elbows on the arms of his chair and his fingertips pressed together, forming a steeple. “He and I have been on opposing sides many times over the years, and I know that he is not an easy man to sway. And yet you say that he seemed open to consideration?”
“Of the purchase of the house, yes.”
“But that is the important thing, surely?”
Alfieri shakes his head. “Important, yes. But not more important than the house’s current occupant. I do not wish to disturb her, or be the cause of her displacement.”
“And are you willing to make that a condition of the purchase?”
“Meaning do I wish you to tell Mr. Chadwick that if he insists upon moving the child I will retract my offer? If you feel that that will carry weight with him, by all means, Mr. Buchan, make that a condition.”
“And if he still insists, Signor Alfieri? If he calls your bluff? Will you then withdraw your offer?”
“Yes, Mr. Buchan, I will.”
“And yet you tell me that you want the house very much.”
“Very much. But not enough to cause a little invalid to be made homeless.”
Buchan sits up. “Signor Alfieri, there is one point upon which I must satisfy myself. I hope that you will not take offense if I touch upon a … well, a rather sensitive matter.”
“I am here seeking your assistance, Mr. Buchan. Ask me whatever you wish.”
“Thank you,” the lawyer says. “But perhaps Mr. Dyckman wishes his luncheon? It is unfortunate that we have to meet at such an awkward hour, but I see no reason to deny him his sustenance, signore, even though you and I may be here for some time, yet.”
Alfieri nods at the young man. “If Stafford wishes to leave, I certainly will not stop him. But I have nothing to hide from him, Mr. Buchan. We have known each other for years.”
“As you wish, of course. I will be blunt, then. Before I agree to represent you, I must be confident of your intentions in this matter. You see”—he hesitates, choosing his words judiciously—“your reputation for more than merely singing has preceded you across the ocean. The rumors of your, let us say, ‘expertise,’ signore, with the ladies have been making the rounds of every gentlemen’s club in this city for weeks.”
Alfieri says evenly: “And you wish to know if they are true, Mr. Buchan?”
“I wish to know if they have any bearing on your desire to have the late Mr. Slade’s ward remain in his house.”
Dyckman, silent until now, turns red to his ears and opens his mouth to speak, but a swift gesture from Alfieri checks him.
“My tastes do not run to children, Mr. Buchan, if that is your concern.”
“And Miss Adler is not a child, Signor Alfieri; she is a young woman, and therefore your tastes become very much my concern—especially as their catholicity has become a topic of general discussion.” He stops, shaking his head. “I am truly sorry, signore,” he continues more gently. “I do not enjoy treading on such delicate ground, nor do I wish to cause you undue embarrassment. But if I am to argue for Miss Adler to remain in your house, I must be absolutely certain that she will come to no harm.”
“She will come to no harm. I promise you that.” But Alfieri’s own words remind him of the unease that has plagued him all morning. Disturbed, he says quietly: “You say she is not a child, Mr. Buchan. But I have seen her, and I have spoken with her, and I tell you that I have known real children half her age who were better able to care for themselves than she is.”
“No doubt. But it is the duty of others to be responsible for her. That is frankly not your place.”
“Is it not?”
“No.” Buchan is firm. “Though you might wish to do it for the most unselfish of reasons, it could never appear other than highly improper. It is simply unacceptable, signore.”
“So much for our Lord’s teachings. Is it unacceptable to provide a haven for a bereaved child?”
“I repeat: she is not a child.”
“For a bereaved young woman, then. I would allow her to stay safely beneath her own roof, in her own familiar surroundings, with her own things about her. And you tell me this is wrong?”
“No. I tell you it would appear wrong. Consider those rumors about you. She would be compromised forever in the eyes of the world.”
“And what does it say for the world, Mr. Buchan, that it could read something indecent into the desire to do a kindness, or suspect the worst of a little invalid because she accepted it?”
Buchan says, almost sadly: “But that is the way of the world, signore. You know the world, perhaps better than most. Why do you deny what you know to be the truth?”
“Because”—Alfieri’s words are sharp, his face dark—“because the way of the world is paved with hypocrisy, Mr. Buchan, which we both know; and I find no virtue in celebrating that fact.”
Buchan leans toward him. “And do you speak of virtue, Signor Alfieri?”
Dyckman sucks in his breath. The tenor’s eyes widen and he half rises from his chair—only to sink back, looking at the attorney with a frown and a small, puzzled smile.
“Do you know, Mr. Buchan,” he says, after a pause, “I think you are trying to make me angry.”
“Why would I want to do that, signore?”
“Perhaps to hear me admit, in an unguarded moment, that I am Don Juan and Lothario and Casanova rolled into one, and that I plan the imminent seduction of little Miss Adler. Well, I am sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Buchan; truly, I am. But she is so small, and so very much alone. Only a monster would take advantage of her; and I am many things, but I am not a monster. I do not prey on the defenseless.” He spreads his hands helplessly. “I do not know what else I can say to convince you, and you must decide for yourself, of course. But if you could find it in your conscience to help her, I would be very grateful.”
The two men regard each other in a silent appraisal that ends when Buchan’s face relaxes. He extends his hand to the tenor.
“Signore, I will be pleased to speak to Mr. Chadwick on your behalf.”
The relief is plain in Alfieri’s face. “Thank you, Mr. Buchan, so very much. You cannot imagine how pleased I am.”
“But you must not be too hopeful,” the lawyer cautions. “You must realize that the odds are not with us.”
“As I told Mr. Chadwick last night, I am an incurable optimist.”
“Then let us hope that your optimism is justified.”
“Amen to that.” Alfieri rises and walks to the window, where he stands gazing out at the brown bulk of Trinity Church across the narrow street. “I should like, by the way, to speak briefly of those rumors you mentioned, if you would care to listen.”
Buchan looks surprised. “There is no need for that now, surely? I brought them up only because—”
“I know why you brought them up. But I would rest easier in my mind if I thought that you understood. You see, Mr. Buchan, very simply put … women make themselves available to me. They do it in embarrassing numbers and with a regularity that astonishes even me. But do not be fooled, Mr. Buchan; I am not so irresistible as the numbers would seem to indicate, although I would not be honest if I said that I did not sometimes flatter myself on that score. Nevertheless, what most of the ladies are seeking is the carnal equivalent of an autograph; and while most delude themselves into believing that they are in love in order to justify what they do, their real desire is not for me—it is for the heady experience of being in the bed of someone world-famous.”
He turns and faces the lawyer. “What is wrong, Mr. Buchan? You look uncomfortable. Are you having second thoughts about me? I have not yet mentioned the ladies who give themselves to me because they believe me to be Faust, or Hoffmann, or Lohengrin, or Otello. You think I should turn away all those eager ladies, and practice abstinence for the sake of their poor souls? But they do not care a whit for their souls, and I am no fool, to refuse a gift freely given. However, lest you think that I am utterly without self-control, I must point out that I do not accept the favors of every woman who makes her interest known: for one thing, there would not be enough time in this life; and for another, since I can pick and choose, I limit myself to those who are the most attractive.”
“Are you certain you should be telling me this, signore?”
“You are my attorney now. My confidence is safe with you. And someone besides Stafford should know the truth. And, just perhaps, when you are next at your club you could put in a kind word for me, to counter all those rumors: poor Mario Alfieri—so many women, and not one of them but sees only her own reflection in his eyes.”
“Forgive me, signore,” Buchan says quietly. “But isn’t that what each of us sees in another’s eyes?”
Alfieri shakes his head, smiling. “We must speak of this further sometime, Mr. Buchan, at length, preferably over dinner. But now,” he says, going to the attorney and holding out his hand, “I will leave you to your work. I am still unknown here, and free to walk about the streets like anyone else. I must take advantage of that happiness while I can.”
“But the rest of our discussion?”
“All the rest I leave in your hands, Mr. Buchan. I trust you wholeheartedly. Stafford will stay and give you any further information you need. No, please do not get up, either of you. The day is lovely, and my time has so rarely been my own …”
The door closes behind him.
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