Bristol House (44 page)

“Really?” She opened her eyes wide. “Dark glasses at that hour?”

“Metaphor,” he said. Then: “You’re winding me up, aren’t you?”

“Pulling your leg. Maybe a little.”

Anything to make him smile. It was after ten. Most of the evening he’d spent with his mother. Maggie was in an oxygen tent. First time. Geoff stopped talking about MI6 or whoever the spy types had been, pulled inevitably back to his own reality. “According to the nurse, the oxygen’s only so she’s more comfortable. It won’t prolong anything.”

“Did they say how long she—” Annie broke off and wished for the words back.

He shrugged. “The only thing they can tell me is that she’s stable, and it may still be a number of weeks.” The place they’d put her, he added, was crawling with grief counselors and bereavement gurus and various other people eager to talk about death and dying. Geoff wanted no truck with any of them. He was sure if Maggie were conscious, she wouldn’t either.

Annie tried some gentle hints about the value of support groups, “a subject on which I am something of an expert,” but he looked as if she’d grown a second head.

“Change of topic,” he said. “I take it you haven’t heard from Clary? I’ve had my mobile off all evening. I thought if he couldn’t reach me, maybe—”

Annie shook her head.

“Shit,” he said. Then: “Let’s get out of here. Unless you’re still hungry.” He indicated her half-eaten pork chop.

“Past it,” she said.

Geoff motioned to the waiter.

***

He marched them back to his place at a virtual trot and for once didn’t head for the espresso maker the minute they closed the front door. Instead he pulled her close for a hungry, demanding kiss, at the same time shrugging off his suit coat and tugging at his tie. Sex as an antidote to terminal cancer. Annie got it. She dropped to her knees and reached for the zipper of his fly. A couple of explosive minutes later she said, “Let’s go upstairs. I’ve got a surprise.”

He was sitting up in bed waiting for her when she came out of the bathroom. The lights were on but dimmed. Natasha Bedingfield was singing about needing some inspiration . . .
It’s who I am, it’s what I do . . . gonna lay it down for you.
Annie was wearing the red stilettos and nothing else, except her Ari bracelet and, nestled in the hollow of her neck, the crystal heart on a golden chain.

Geoff grinned. “Love the shoes,” he said. “New?”

“Yes.”

“I hope you were thinking of me when you bought them.”

“I was.” The two words came out husky because there was a sudden lump in her throat.

“Me and no one else?”

“Positively no one else. These are strictly ‘for Geoff’ shoes.”

She walked closer to the bed, and he reached up and traced the outline of the necklace. “I heart you, Annie Kendall.”

She opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, the iPhone on the night table played “Soul Power” and drowned out the thudding heart in Annie’s chest.

He grabbed for the phone.

It wasn’t the hospital, as it turned out. It was Clary. Geoff put him on speakerphone. Clary said he’d been incommunicado for a couple of days because the woman in Alsace, the one who had produced the record proving Philip Weinraub wasn’t circumcised until he was fifteen, had been murdered. “Her throat was slit ear to ear. Seems it happened a couple of hours after we left, but her body wasn’t found for a couple of days.”

Annie felt her bile rise and dashed for the bathroom. She could still hear their voices.

“So how come,” Geoff asked, “no one in that entire godforsaken village reported a black criminal type driving a late-model Peugeot? How come you’re not in the Bastille? How come we’re not screaming for our solicitors? Do they take a vow of
omertà
in Alsace?”

“At least three people reported seeing us,” Clary said. “Your man in Strasbourg took care of everything. Had to be cash money right away, so there’ll be an extra three grand on my expense sheet. He says he’ll bill you for the ordinary services.”

“What about the money we gave her? Where’s the ten thousand quid?”

“Either the killers took it or the cops did. Near as we can tell, there’s no mention on any official record.”

Annie lost whatever came next because she had to flush. And run the water to rinse her mouth. She got back to the bedroom in time to hear Clary say, “One more thing. Really weird. They found a raw quail egg in her mouth. The whole egg, shell and all. Has to have been put there after she was dead.”

34

Dom Justin

From the Waiting Place

On the July morning when Rebecca and I, along with Diego di Mantova and all who traveled with him, left the home of his brother Giuseppe, the church bells of Metz pealed joyous sounds to announce a feast of the Blessed Virgin. I set out on the next leg of our journey placing myself and all of us under her protection.

We were on our way to Strasbourg. It was a city some distance away, but our journey took many days more than it might have, because we stopped frequently to allow Diego to visit one or another town along the route and make trades or arrange for others in the future. On most of these excursions, he took with him a servant whose job was to seek out a market and buy provisions for our journey while Diego did his more important business.

While I had heard the names of the towns that the Jew her father listed for Rebecca to commit to memory, I could not have recited them back to him as she did. But frequently I would recognize a name along our route. In such instances, I noted, Rebecca was the one to accompany Diego into the city. I had no doubt she quickly obtained the wine or cheese or bread she had been sent to find, then used her father’s instructions to go among the Jews of the place and deliver one of his gifts. But I had sworn an oath, and I required to be certain.

When we first traveled with the Lombard, on the journey from Calais to Metz, Rebecca had walked as did most of the party. The horse carried Diego, and the donkeys were loaded with the goods that accompanied us. On this shorter journey, Rebecca was sometimes permitted to ride one of the donkeys. I suspected that to be a mark of her changed status in regard to Diego—he seemed to prize her company and sought out occasions to be with her. But it was not in my mind to speak of that when I managed to place myself in the position of holding the donkey’s halter, a task usually performed by one of the boys who looked after the Lombard’s animals.

I hung back until no one was near enough to hear, then asked the question that was troubling my conscience: “We swore to place the treasures with Jews. Do you—”

“Silence!” Rebecca leaned forward and spoke directly in my ear: “Take care, or priested monk though you claim to be, you will never see the Rhenish Charterhouse.”

“Why? Are these not all Diego’s servants? Which one do you fear?”

“The bald one called Josef,” she whispered, speaking of a man who had joined our party when we left Metz.

“Giuseppe said he belonged to the household we go to in Strasbourg,” I said. It had seemed an innocent enough explanation for placing this Josef in our midst. “You think he lied?”

“I do not know, but he watches me, and I do not trust him. Diego and his brother are Mantuans,” Rebecca said. “I do not think this Josef is even a Lombard.”

Just then the boy who usually led the donkey approached with the message that he was again to take the donkey’s halter, since we were falling behind the others. I had no choice but to yield my place.

After that I watched Josef more closely. I soon realized he did indeed keep a sharp eye on Rebecca. As a result, I too began to watch her more closely. Thus I discovered that during the night, when all but the guards were asleep, she slipped between the folds of Diego’s tent and remained with him until nearly sunrise.

Her own father had called her a whore. I could not bring myself to think of her so. Her beauty—in no way diminished by being nearly four months with child—was the only weapon she possessed. She had used it to procure a measure of safety for herself and for me, as well as the unborn babe, and to execute the charge her father had laid upon her. God would judge her. I could not.

Perhaps the Holy Virgin viewed Rebecca’s sin with the same indulgence, for it seemed to me the Mother of God certainly had taken us under her protection. After a fortnight and without incident (gradually carrying fewer and fewer of the secret treasures while Rebecca’s belly swelled to conceal their loss), we arrived at our destination of Strasbourg.

Whatever I have said about the other great cities we had seen, and whatever praise might be heaped on the splendid churches frequently found at their center, nothing could compare to the exquisite Cathedral of Notre Dame that was the heart of the most beautiful city I expected ever to see. Only a poet could describe either or both. As I do not have that gift, I will not attempt the task.

The Lombard with whom we were to stay was called Jacopo. He was a cousin of Diego and the owner of a number of boats. That was a fine thing to be in a city sitting beside the mighty Rhine. The household of Jacopo of Strasbourg was if anything grander than that of Giuseppe of Metz.

As soon as we arrived, Rebecca, who had been feeling poorly the last days of our journey, was put to bed, while I was dispatched to live among the servants. The man who had previously been in charge of polishing the household plate had recently died, so I was to perform his duties. “That task will be yours,” the majordomo of the household told me, “until some labor can be found that makes better use of your muscles.” In Metz I had been given the job of emptying the chamber pots and cleaning the latrines. Shining silver and gold was a far more agreeable task.

I soon learned whom I had to thank for my assignment. In Jacopo’s household, the bald-headed Josef was assistant to the man the Lombards called the
scalco,
he who purchased the household foodstuffs. Being thus so close to the control of the kitchen purse gave Josef influence, and though he had ignored me while we traveled, in Strasbourg he appointed himself my friend and protector. Soon he began to seek opportunities when we could speak together in English, a language he claimed to have acquired years before while in service in the Pale of Calais. On one such occasion, with no prodding from me, he told the story of a bloody massacre of the Strasbourg Jews. “Cut hundreds of ’em into little pieces,” he said, waving in the air the cleaver with which he hacked apart carcasses of beef when they were brought to the kitchen. “’Cause they was bringing the plague down on the city and causing good Christians to die in agony.” At this he piously made the sign of the cross. “Was the butchers and the tanners what brought justice to the Jews. Killed every one they could find in the city.”

“I take it,” I said, “that means there are now no Jews in this place.”

Josef smiled. “Ever killed a rat?” he asked. I said I had. “Me as well,” he said. “Plenty of ’em. But if we go down to the cellars now, I warrant we’ll find plenty more to kill.”

It seemed his intent was to engage me in a discussion of Jewish perfidy and Christian virtue. As this was a conversation I did not wish to have, I merely listened, making as few comments as possible. Thinking on it later, I wondered why the assistant to the
scalco
in a household of such affluence as this should concern himself with Jews, who in Strasbourg as elsewhere occupied a section of their own, separate and apart from Christians. I was to learn the answer the following Sunday, when we had been two weeks in Strasbourg.

A celebrated preacher of the Dominicans, known for both their oratory and their learning, was come from Mantua to preach at the cathedral. After the midday mass and the much-anticipated sermon, Jacopo would give a feast for many noble and important visitors. Preparations for the occasion went on all week. We were told that most of the servants might attend the service, and I expected to be among them, but the day before the event, the majordomo told me I was not to go to the cathedral with the others. I must stay behind and polish the plate. I used what little of his tongue I possessed to say I had already done the job, but it availed me nothing. I had my orders, and there was nothing I could do but obey them.

As the noon hour approached, masters and servants alike left for the cathedral, and the house grew eerily quiet. For a time I thought I might be entirely alone. Then I heard noises in the kitchen, which was near the small room where I worked. I went to see what was happening and found Josef. He had also been left behind. His task was to tend the many kettles hanging above the hearths, the spitted fowls done to a luscious turn being kept warm beside banked embers, and the two whole pigs suspended high above a fire that occasionally sputtered from the fat dripping off their crisp and golden skin. “Come, Justin,” he said when he saw me. “Let us celebrate our luck in not having to listen to talk of life in the hereafter. What about this one, eh?”

“What about it?” I asked.

“Come closer,” he said, beckoning me forward. “What are you afraid of?”

I could not safely ignore the invitation. I took a few steps deeper into the kitchen, all the while suspecting they led to my doom.

Among the Lombards, even the servants ate food such as I had neither seen nor tasted in years, but since joining them, I had struggled to secretly adhere to the diet of a Carthusian. (It seemed to me that if I could be faithful in small things, I might be forgiven for betraying more important ones.) I could not any day eat only bread and water lest I attract undue attention, but I managed to shun meat and much of the time ate no fish. Now I had been lured into the place of ruination. The smell of sizzling fat and melting flesh nearly overwhelmed me.