City of God (30 page)

Nick caught sight of Manon moving toward the front of the room to confront the aldermen. “I can attest to what Dr. Turner says. I frequently visit Bellevue to nurse the poor and—”

“We are not accustomed to hearing from ladies in this chamber, madam. Please take your seat.”

“But I have important evidence to offer.”

“Take your seat, madam.”

“But—”

The chairman banged his gavel. “Sit down or I’ll end this meeting right now. Ladies speaking in this chamber without being called. Ain’t never heard of such a thing. Sit down!” Then, turning to Nick, “Seems to me, Dr. Turner, all this talk of invisible stuff that makes folks sick is a diversion. You’re here for the very reason my colleague stated originally. You’ve come to complain because the man who hired you, believing you would be a trustworthy and competent Senior Medical Attendant for Bellevue Hospital, found you to be wasting the taxpayers’ money on pie in the sky nonsense such as hand-washing and surgery that causes no pain. And as was his duty, he fired you. So you’ve come to complain. Isn’t that true, Dr. Turner?”

“No, it is not.”

“I say it is.”

A number of the others were nodding and murmuring assent. The one alderman Nick thought to be on his side leaned forward. “Suppose my colleagues and I all keep quiet for a bit”—glaring down the table as he spoke—“and you tell us exactly why you’re here, Dr. Turner.”

“Thank you, sir. Gentlemen, a terrible injustice is being committed. The taxpayers’ money is indeed being wasted, but not by me. It’s being siphoned off for his own use by that man there.” Nick swung round and pointed a finger at Tobias Grant, then turned back to face the aldermen.
“The conditions at the almshouse are a disgrace, gentlemen. A travesty of any kind of human decency. There are not enough beds for the sick in the hospital, medicine is compounded not to cure disease but to enrich the chief apothecary, who incidentally sits over there as well. And tiny children are flogged almost to their death in that appalling institution that calls itself an orphan asylum when it is no asylum at all but quite simply an antechamber of hell.”

The passion of his accusations stunned his audience into silence. Then Tobias Grant was on his feet, along with Potter, Clement, and even Monty Chance. “Gentlemen, I have been blamed for heinous crimes. I insist on being heard.” Grant’s voice was the one that carried, though Potter and Clement were also clamoring for recognition.

The chairman banged his gavel. “Your turn, Dr. Grant. What do you have to say?”

“I hired Dr. Turner precisely because of the distinguished lineage he mentioned. Naturally it was my hope that he would bring honor to our city and our venerable charitable institution. Instead he brought disgrace. I believe some of you witnessed the fraud he perpetrated last week. And if you did not, you were able to read about it in the newspaper. Painless surgery indeed. Those who were there heard the patient’s screams of agony when they had been promised a dignified—”

“Hey!” Patrick Shaughnessey had broken free of the restraining hand of the porter who brought him and was on his feet. “It’s me what was doin’ all the screamin’, and thanks be to Almighty God I was. Dr. Turner here worked a miracle. Ask anyone who seen me before about the bloody great lump on me shoulder what wouldn’t let me hold my head straight. Ain’t got it now, has I? Just this here bandage on me neck, and that’ll be comin’ off soon. All thanks to Dr. Turner.”

“That man is a prisoner! He has no business being here,” Potter shouted. It was Tobias Grant, Nick noted, who pulled him down to his seat. As he’d expected, the director didn’t want the porous nature of the almshouse custodianship brought to the attention of the council.

“Dr. Turner.” The man behind Nick took advantage of the commo
tion to again offer advice. “Ask Shaughnessey if he was asleep during the early part of the surgery.”

This time Nick didn’t hesitate. “Patrick Shaughnessey.” He bellowed the man’s name and Shaughnessey jumped to his feet. “Tell these honorable gentlemen if you felt any pain when the surgery began.”

“Absolutely none whatever. So help me God.” Shaughnessey was obviously delighted to be called on. “Slept like a baby I did. At least at first.”

“Then what happened?” one of the aldermen who had not yet spoken asked.

“Then I woke up.”

“And suffered the terrible agony of the surgeon’s knife. Is that not correct?”

“Yes, but—”

“So calling it painless surgery is a lie of the basest sort.”

“No!” Nick shouted. “It’s a simple enough procedure now that we know what went wrong. We just didn’t have enough of the sulfuric ether for our needs. Next time we will.”

The alderman leaned forward, peering across the table at Nick. “Next time,” he repeated. “Perhaps, Dr. Turner, perhaps. Now I would like to ask another question. Are you a papist, sir?”

“A papist? What has that got to do with anything?”

“I’m told, sir, that you have introduced Jews into the management of the hospital. That’s perhaps unwise given as how they need watching or they’ll steal you blind, but it is not so dreadful a thing as popery. Popery, Dr. Turner, is a religion founded on lies. It seems to me therefore relevant to this discussion. Are you a papist, Dr. Turner?”

“I am not a Catholic, no.”

“Then how is it that you spend so much time at St. Patrick’s Orphan Asylum? Perhaps the charms of the ladies who run the place are the reason. I’m sure we’ve all heard of Maria Monk.”

“The Sisters at St. Patrick’s are fine and admirable women. And that book is a pack of lies.” Nick broke off because it was clear the aldermen were no longer listening. “Gentlemen, please!” Nick tried again.

“Don’t waste your breath,” Nick’s anonymous advisor murmured quietly. “They’ve got the excuse they’ve all been looking for. You’re known to consort with Jews and papists, therefore nothing you say can be trusted.”

“But—”

“No buts. Look.”

Nick turned his attention to the platform. The chairman raised his gavel and brought it down with a decisive smack. “There is nothing to say except that Tobias Grant has acted exactly as he should and has the complete trust of this council. The meeting is declared closed.”

T
HE MAN HAD
obviously been waiting; he approached Nick as soon as he left City Hall. “Dr. Turner? My name is Samson Simson. I’m an attorney. Here’s my carriage. Please join me.”

Nick saw a silver-haired man who carried a walking stick and wore an old-fashioned cloak that swirled about his shoulders as he moved. “You were the gentleman seated behind me, weren’t you?”

“I couldn’t represent you in any public way. Whispered advice was the best I could offer.”

“It was good advice. I’m in your debt.”

“Hardly. Nothing I said had the least effect on the outcome.”

“I fear that was decided before I ever came here to City Hall.”

“Precisely so. Now, if you will, Dr. Turner.” Simson pointed his walking stick at the waiting rig.

“That’s very kind of you, but there were two ladies…”

“So there may have been, but there are no ladies here now.”

True enough. There had been no sign of either Manon or Carolina in the auditorium when the hearing ended, and they were nowhere on the street now.

“Dr. Turner,” Simson urged, once more pointing to the carriage. Nick took a last look around, then swung himself up. Simson entered behind him, leaned forward, and tapped on the window that separated him from the driver. It slid open instantly. “Take us to the Astor. That will do, won’t it, Turner? You look as if you could use a bit of supper.”

“I’m not very hungry, I’m afraid.”

“Nonsense. A young man like you should always be hungry. Now I propose we postpone our discussion until we are in more salubrious surroundings.”

Twenty minutes later they were seated in the dining room of the Astor House, sipping a quite decent claret and waiting for oysters and cold pheasant pie. Simson’s choice, since he apparently followed the homely custom of having a main meal at four and a light supper later. “Now, young Dr. Turner, I imagine you are curious as to why I turned up in your hour of need, as it were.”

“Frankly, I’m still a bit too bewildered to have thought about it. Those men represent the governing body of this great city, and they had their minds made up before I ever opened my mouth. It’s beyond belief.”

“My dear boy, it is no such thing. Not if belief is tempered with wisdom. Ah, here’s the food. Tuck in.”

Nick slurped down a couple of oysters, then took a forkful of the pie. He looked up to say how good everything was and found Simson observing him over the rim of his wine glass. The plate in front of him was untouched. “I thought you were hungry, Mr. Simson. It’s really quite good.”

“No doubt. But I am a Jew, Dr. Turner. I am forbidden to eat oysters under any circumstances. And since the pie will not have been prepared under our dietary laws, I must forego that as well.”

“I don’t understand. Why are we here, and why have you ordered all this if you cannot eat it?”

“To make a point, Dr. Turner, about Jews in general and myself
in particular. We refrain from oysters because in the holy book of Deuteronomy it says, ‘You may eat all that have fins and scales. And whatever does not have fins and scales you shall not eat; it shall be unclean for you.’ We are not, you will note, trying to make oysters forbidden food throughout the world.”

“‘Unclean for you.’ I suppose you take that to mean for the Chosen People only, yourselves.”

Simson smiled. “So the rabbis tell us. Frankly, considering our history, being chosen sometimes seems a dubious honor. My point, however, is that our laws apply only to us, Dr. Turner. We are capable of cooperating with those who are not enjoined to follow them. You and I can sit as equals in this fine dining room, and you can take a nourishing supper while I sip a glass of wine and we discuss our common interests. Our differing religions do not enter into the matter.”

“Look here, Mr. Simson, that’s a fine republican way of thinking, but what’s this all about?”

“The future, Dr. Turner. The past, as you learned this evening, is not something that can be changed.”

“I’m not sure what my future is to be. Though I do feel damned bad about Ben Klein. He’s a fine young man and on his way to being an excellent doctor. Now, thanks to me—”

“Thanks to you, and I may say Dr. Tobias Grant, however much in spite of himself, Ben Klein will grow to be a man with an excellent position in society. His prospects are enormously improved now that he has been freed from his misplaced loyalty to the Almshouse Hospital.”

Nick put down his fork. It seemed he had little appetite after all. “His loyalty was to me, and I let him down. Ben wanted to be involved in research. I promised him he would be.”

Simson waved away a hovering waiter and poured more claret for himself and his guest. “Let me tell you something else about my religion, Dr. Turner. We prize scholarship and study. Of the holy and
divine word first and foremost, but of all things in creation as well. In that I believe we are quite different from most Christians. It does not seem to us to be a violation of the divine law to try to understand more precisely what it is. Particularly when such study leads to the good of mankind.”

Nick sat back and took another sip of his wine. “Just where is all this theology taking us, Mr. Simson?”

“Forgive me, I’ve been rambling. I have an offer to make, Dr. Turner. I wish you to set up in private practice with young Dr. Klein. The cost of establishing that practice, a quite decent office and a serviceable laboratory, will be arranged. A loan to be paid back on just and mutually acceptable terms. I can assure you that a number of the most respected and respectable members of the community are waiting to consult you both.”

“Do you refer to the Jewish community?”

“Yes. I have no doubt you will soon enough have Christian patients as well, but our people will start coming to you immediately, providing a firm base on which to build. So to speak.”

“Why involve me at all? Dr. Klein is now fully qualified.”

“He is. But he is also very young. Your experience will temper his youth, for one thing. For another, I’ve no doubt the pair of you will continue to spend some time in this research to which you are equally devoted.”

“You don’t think we’ll spend time in the laboratory rather than see patients?”

“I doubt that. There will be the matter of the repayment of the debt to keep you on the strait and narrow path. You are an honorable man, Dr. Turner. I have no doubt you will be sufficiently attentive to business to see that your monthly obligations can be met. Further…”

“Yes?”

“While I think this matter of painless surgery must perhaps be forsworn, since the fiasco of last week was so publically aired, if you and Ben Klein were to make other useful discoveries, Dr. Turner, it is very much in the interest of the Jews of this nation that those beneficial
advances redound to our credit. If Dr. Klein is working with you and can make an honest claim, that will happen.”

“Ben has a lively and inquiring mind. Given the opportunity, he may do grand things in research with or without me.”

“Fair enough. I am, however, offering the opportunity to you both. A practice with Dr. Klein, Dr. Turner, yourself to be the senior partner as befits your age and experience. Are you interested?”

“Do you have Ben’s agreement in all this? More important, do you have his father’s agreement?”

Simson smiled. “How, Dr. Turner, do you imagine I knew about this evening’s council meeting?”

“So, Mrs. Joyful, for some time I have wished you would come to see me.”

“Have you, Mr. Astor?”

“
Ja,
I have. Because the last time it was not so good a meeting. Always I have felt bad about that.”

Manon wanted to say that it was a thoroughly awful meeting. Because John Jacob Astor insisted on making money by smuggling opium into Canton, which her dead husband would have protested with every fiber of his being, as did she on his behalf. No point in saying any of that nineteen years later. “Let us then begin anew, Mr. Astor. I believe you and Mr. Simson would now like to have returned what you entrusted to my husband before his death.”

“Entrusted to both of you, Mrs. Joyful. It was the cleverness and good intentions of both of you on which Mr. Simson and I relied. But now, what you are thinking, it is not entirely correct.”

“Is it not? How so?”

“Mr. Simson and I, no longer we are working hand in glove, as the saying goes. Our interests have diverged. That is the English word, is it not?”

“It is.”

“So, if Mr. Simson has approached you to recover what is in your keeping, that is not any affair of mine.”

“Mr. Astor, are you asking me to believe you have no interest in something so extraordinary?”

Astor laughed. The dark eyes were every bit as piercing as they had been when she first met him, and the brain seemed just as active. Never mind that he had to be well over seventy. Perhaps having such incredible wealth kept him young.

When Manon visited him that first time, soon after Joyful’s death, Jacob Astor still lived on Broadway and Barclay Street in what was now the resplendent Astor House. She’d not been to the hotel, but she remembered Astor’s home as a palace. This one far up the town was if anything more grand. It overlooked the part of the East River known as Hellgate because of a confluence of currents, Eighty-eighth Street according to the grid. They were in a long parlor off the front hall. The walls were paneled in rare rosewood, on the ceiling was an elaborate mural of the Garden of Eden (three artists were said to have spent a month on their back to complete it), and seven enormous crystal chandeliers would of an evening cast shimmering light on furnishings of marble and gilt and intricately carved woods, the names of which Manon did not know.

“A little more wine, Mrs. Joyful?”

“Thank you, Mr. Astor.” She should refuse, but his Madeira was delicious. Besides, she needed fortification at least as much as a clear head. “You are not telling me you’ve no interest in the treasure, are you?”

“No, no. Much interest I have. Always. But with you it was infinitely more safe, Mrs. Joyful, because no one would expect you to have it. Lately my mind it has changed a little. Only I want to know why, since apparently you refused to give it to Mr. Simson, you are prepared now to give this thing to me.”

“I didn’t say I was, Mr. Astor.”

“No, but why else would you come here? Something you want, Mrs. Joyful, that you believe I can give to you and Mr. Simson can not. That is correct, no?”

There was no point in sparring with him. Joyful always said the man had a mind like a bear trap, wickedly sharp and always ready to spring. She must not make the mistake of thinking age had changed him. “Yes, Mr. Astor, that is correct.”

“Good, then you will tell me what you want and I will see if I can provide it for you. If I can, we will arrange to trade.
Ja?
”

“
Ja.
I mean yes. I didn’t intend to—”

Another burst of explosive laughter. “It is not to worry, Mrs. Joyful. In the Five Points there are one-eyed beggars who better than I speak the language. But still they are beggars, while I…” He shrugged. “My English to me has not been a hindrance, and sensitive about it I am not. Now, the terms.”

No hindrance indeed, at least not to the amassing of enormous wealth, which should make her request for land and a dispensary a trifle. Particularly considering what she could give him in return. Manon leaned forward and began speaking.

Astor insisted he would take her home in his carriage. “On Vandam Street you are living now.” She had not told him she’d moved, but Manon was not surprised that he knew. “So,” he continued as he helped her into her cloak and gathered up his hat and his gloves and his walking stick, “together there we will go and you will give me the Great Mogul diamond,
ja?
”

She had not heard it called by its proper name since her father died. To herself she thought of it only as a millstone, a responsibility she could not shake and did not know how to discharge. “I’m not entirely sure I should, Mr. Astor.”

“But you said—”

“I have no hesitation in giving you the stone. It has been nothing but an enormous worry to me ever since my husband died. But how can I be sure about the rest of our bargain?”

All the effusive bonhomie disappeared from Astor’s expression, and
Manon had some sense of the darkness of the man’s true character. Things were very bad in the town this spring, particularly for the working class. Astor was the landlord for a great many of them, and he was said to be putting at least a dozen families a day on the streets, as well as foreclosing on vast numbers of the mortgages he’d taken on in better times. Why not? He was rich enough to wait out the inflation-born depression and sell again later at an even greater profit. “You think I will cheat you?” he asked.

“I think my husband would suggest that I should have any promise in writing,” Manon said.

“Here you wait,” he said, and disappeared to another room. When he came back, he was carrying a piece of paper, blowing on it to dry the ink. “A fine lot it is,” he said, after he’d handed her the document. “On Waverly Place and Fourth Street, and a three-story building I am promising to build for you.”