The Unquiet Dead (10 page)

She paused in her work. “I don't know that I would call seven hundred years of Moorish influence on Spain ‘soon.' All history is eventually extinguished, but its monuments may well endure. Like the Alhambra. Or this one.”

She placed the photograph intended for the steel frame before him on the table. Forgotten, Rachel peered over his shoulder.

It was an exquisite Spanish building with a cascade of horseshoe arches in white.

“A mosque,” Rachel said.

“A synagogue,” Mink corrected. “Actually, this is Sinagoga de Santa Maria la Blanca, or Saint Mary the White, a structure that seems extraordinary to us now, though it was perfectly appropriate to its time.” Her fingers brushed Khattak's at the edge of the photograph. “It was built by Mudejar architects for the Jewish community of Toledo, at their request.” She placed a special emphasis on the last words. The smile that edged her lips was wistful. “Muslims,” she elaborated for Rachel's benefit. “Moorish architects designing a Jewish place of worship on Christian soil. Can you imagine such a sharing of religious space today?”

Khattak had once prayed at the Dome of the Rock next to a Syriac Christian, a fact he was willing to discuss, if not advertise.

“I think they did it on
Little Mosque on the Prairie
.” Not Rachel's most brilliant offering, but true as far as it went.

“Saskatchewan—the new Andalusia.”

Mink said it gently enough, but Rachel caught the undertone of mockery. Khattak was slow to remove his hand, she noted.

“Where do the exhibits come from?” he asked Mink.

“I've been collecting little bits of history ever since I can remember. Nothing very valuable—most of it is just a translation of poetry and religious manuscripts, which, thanks to Hadley, we've prettified. The forecourt exhibits are a series of ring songs, a tradition that began with the Andalusian Arabs who had a genius for assimilating cultures and ideas. Arabic was the lingua franca of Andalusia—admired, almost venerated for its great poetry and expressiveness, not feared and despised as it is today. The ring song rejuvenated Europe's indigenous tongues, gave voice to feelings and ideas that Latin couldn't begin to grapple with. The ring songs from our exhibit are from Arabic, Hebrew, and Romance. It's a remarkable synthesis. Andalusia was a remarkable synthesis.”

She would have made a great teacher. Her passion for her subject, her ability to slice through centuries of history to the shimmering idea at the heart of it, would inspire the museum's visitors: it was more captivating than her remarkable endeavor.

But it was a humble project as far as museums went. Scattered objects. More description than representation. For the life of her, Rachel couldn't see why Christopher Drayton would have been prepared to make such a major donation. Just to put his name on a wall or a plaque? If David Newhall's thinking was illustrative of the museum's directors' position, they hadn't wanted his money. Yet a hundred thousand dollars might have purchased more than a few trinkets or seen to the upkeep of this fabulous house.

Where had the funding for the museum come from? Surely not from a librarian's salary. And did she live here? Had she been prepared to turn down Drayton's offer? Rachel's list of questions was growing longer.

“So what happened to Andalusia?”

“Fanaticism, fundamentalism of all kinds. Petty-minded rivalries from within, ignorance and fear from without. The Inquisition. The Reconquista. Before you knew it, Iberia's Jews and Muslims had vanished into history. We think of it commonly as a case of Christians expelling or forcibly converting the peoples of the peninsula. In fact, there were all kinds of alliances between the communities and they changed frequently. It wasn't Christians who burned the Great Library of Cordoba.” Mink looked pained at the mention of it, as if it were a loss that had occurred only yesterday. “It was Berbers riding an orthodox tide that swept the Muslim world.”

Book-burnings. Those inveterate moments in history when knowledge and the transmission of it was the most dangerous currency of all.

“What they were striking at—as did the Inquisition centuries later—was a culture of enlightenment. Knowledge shared, refined, debated, and ultimately transformed. Ideas, books, histories could come from any source, and the Umayyad rulers of Spain had instantaneous access to everything created and translated in the staggering knowledge-production factories of Baghdad. Knowledge was priceless, whether religious or secular, indigenous or foreign. The prince of Cordoba housed countless scribes, editors, and bookbinders in his palace.” Her smile was reminiscent, her blue eyes alight. “They say in Cordoba books were prized more greatly than beautiful women or jewels. In Andalusia, the mark of a city's greatness rested on the caliber of its libraries and the quality of its scholars. That's what we're trying to re-create here, in some small part. That wonderful spirit of inclusion and mutual learning. The Library of Cordoba held over four hundred thousand volumes, with a catalogue librarians only dream of.”

Which was an interesting history lesson, and Rachel could see that the librarian was moved by it, but it still didn't explain Christopher Drayton's interest.

Or maybe it did. Khattak, who as far as Rachel knew had no particular attachment to Moorish Spain, was listening to Mink with the fervent attention of the masses in Saint Peter's Square on Easter Sunday. Maybe this idea of a vivid, elastic pluralism gave spark to magic. The kind of magic that opened wallets and turned serious men into dreamers. Or maybe it wasn't Andalusia at all, but the woman herself.

“What was Christopher Drayton's interest in the museum? We've learned that he was to make a significant financial contribution to it.”

Mink took a moment to slip the photograph of the synagogue into the steel frame she had prepared. When she looked up at Rachel, her face was composed.

“Chris was a neighbor and a friend.” She lowered her voice. “I think he was a little lonely and the idea of the museum was something that intrigued him. People who know nothing of Spain beyond Madrid and Barcelona are often captivated by their first venture into its Moorish past. By what the wonderful writer Maria Menochal has called palaces of memory.”

Rachel scowled. Was this a second dig the quiet librarian had aimed at her? Or was Rachel just being sensitive because she'd imagined herself on a sunny Mediterranean beach?

Her answer was overloud. “How could he be lonely with a bosom companion like Melanie Blessant?” She was quite pleased with the emphasis she'd laid on the word
bosom
. Until she saw Hadley and Riv's heads come up.

Mink shrugged, her face tight, searching for other work at the table to occupy her hands. They fell upon a small book of poetry, its author Arab, its title
The Neck-Ring of the Dove.
Fascinated by it, Khattak took it from her.

Her voice lowered further, she said directly to Khattak, “There are other needs men have beyond what Melanie offered. Understanding. Communication. A certain sympathy of thought.”

Khattak held her gaze without comment.

Rachel scratched at her neck. Her boss was being decidedly unhelpful during this interview, neither asking his own questions nor following up hers. Mink Norman was clever, but she was also ordinary to a fault: where was the distraction?

“Are you saying you possessed this sympathy with Mr. Drayton? Was that why he planned to make such a large donation?” Rachel asked.

“We never intended to be too ambitious with Ringsong. We hadn't expected the kind of budget that would permit us to purchase manuscripts and so on. I'm not a curator of objets d'art. I'm a librarian. I wanted to tell the story of a civilization of the word. A civilization in love with language and learning.”

“Would Mr. Drayton's money help with that or not? One of your directors, David Newhall, said that it came with a steep price tag. You'd have to rename the entire project after Drayton.”

Mink stiffened, bracing her hands on the table. Hadley and Riv looked up again, sensing that the mood had changed.

“We hadn't decided about the donation. As far as I knew, there were no strings attached. We'd already named the house, and the house is a public trust. We built it with a great deal of grant assistance.”

“We?”

“The Andalusia Society. We've over two thousand members.”

“Do you live here?”

“The house has a set of private rooms. That's part of my arrangement as librarian. Should I leave the job, naturally I'd leave the house.”

There was a thrust and counterthrust to her conversation with Rachel, a suppressed antagonism, as if she recognized in Rachel a cunning, obstructive enemy. There was something wary about Mink Norman, some powerful emotion tamped down beneath a calm exterior.

“If, as you say, there were no strings attached, why the hesitation? Surely the money would come in handy.”

“I have no fund-raising agenda,” she replied with dignity. “There's a process by which new members are vetted. The same is true of donations. Christopher did wish to help us, but we had to weigh this against his request to come on board as a director.”

“So there
were
strings attached.”

It was the obvious conclusion. Drayton wanted more than the indulgence of a passing interest in a history entirely unrelated to himself. He wanted a role in directing the museum itself.

Rachel looked through the windows to the courtyard. Maybe it wasn't the museum he'd had an interest in. He'd chosen to live in an unprepossessing home on a pretty street with magnificent views. Maybe what he wanted was the house.

If Mink were no longer librarian, maybe a man of his independent means could talk his way into some form of guardianship.

House, kids, adulation, and Melanie.

The perfect life.

She changed tack.

“Did you see Mr. Drayton on the Bluffs on the night of his death?”

“No.” She answered exactly as Nathan Clare had. “You can't see the path to the Bluffs from these windows.”

But was it true? Rachel would have to get out there and walk it to discover just what could be seen of the museum and Winterglass from the Bluffs.

If everyone had liked Chris Drayton and no one had seen him on the night of his death, what did his death really signify? And yet, she couldn't shake the feeling that Mink was holding something back. Perhaps an affair with Drayton. Was she the reason he'd dragged his feet about Melanie's plans for an over-the-top wedding? Hadley and Riv were whispering to each other across the long table, the boy's hand caressing the girl's neck, another gesture Hadley ignored. She was watching the three of them with canny, glittering eyes.

The conversation was at a dead end. Unless Khattak had something to offer, Rachel couldn't think of anything else to add that seemed remotely connected to Drayton's death. Unless she simply came out and stated:
“Do you have any reason to suspect that Christopher Drayton was a Bosnian Serb war criminal?”

She was tempted, but she didn't want to tip her hand too soon. It was hardly something Drayton would have advertised if he were Dra
ž
en Krstić. And that was another thing—what rational reason could a man accused of exterminating Muslims and eradicating Bosnian history have for his attraction to the Andalusia museum? Weren't the two ideas fundamentally opposed? One a civilization of pluralism and tolerance, the other a culture of hate?

If she'd understood Mink's little lecture properly, the Andalusians had created something beautiful out of their divergent identities. In the hands of the Bosnian Serb Army, difference—whether Muslim, Catholic, or Jew—had meant destruction and death.

There were no personal items in the museum area of the house that could offer further insight into the character of Mink Norman and her association with Christopher Drayton. Rachel tried anyway.

“You mentioned your sister, Ms. Norman. Where is Sable now?”

Mink smiled with genuine warmth at the mention of her sister.

“The music you see everywhere? It's Sable's. She studies piano at the Mozarteum University of Salzburg. She'll be home again for Christmas break.”

One sister a librarian, one sister a musician. An educated family. Rachel envied their opportunities.

“Your parents?”

“It's just the two of us, I'm afraid.”

Another field of inquiry dried up. The only sensible thing to do was to begin a comprehensive investigation into Drayton's real identity. Without that information, there was little point to harassing those Drayton had known passingly or well.

The music reminded her of Winterglass and Nathan Clare. She mentioned him to Mink, watching her guarded face.

“Come on,” Riv said from his side of the table, his dictionary abandoned, one hand on Hadley's knee. “Everyone from here to Timbuktu knows Nathan. He's amazing. And he gives the best parties.”

“That's all right, Marco. And yes, it's true. Nathan loves the piano. He's quite proficient. He often loans us music.”

On the other side of the courtyard was a colonnade of arches through which Rachel glimpsed fountains that seemed to drop through the air to the lake. She very much wanted to explore further but could think of no reason to stay.

“Shall we go then, sir?”

Khattak caught her glance, moved away from the table. “I'd like to take a closer look at the exhibits. You've been up early, call it a night.”

Rachel cleared her throat. Had the museum and its proprietor so bewitched him that he'd forgotten? “You're my ride, sir. I'll need a lift to the subway at least.”

He straightened quickly. “Of course. Then I'll return later, if I may.”

The words were said somewhere in the vicinity of Mink's burnished hair. Her blue eyes encompassed Khattak, acknowledged a private communication.