The Wolf Gift (40 page)

Reuben nodded. He couldn’t suppress a smile.

“ ‘Evil is inevitable,’ ” Reuben quoted, “ ‘in the course of a creation which develops within time.’ ”

The man was speechless. Then very softly, with a radiant smile, he said, “Amen.”

Arthur Hammermill was staring at Reuben as if Reuben had lost his mind. Reuben went on:

“Marchent painted such a vivid portrait of Felix,” he said. “Everybody who knew him enriches it, deepens it. He’s part of the house. It’s impossible to live there and not know Felix Nideck.”

“I see,” said the man in the softest voice.

The lawyers were about to attempt another intervention. Reuben raised his voice slightly.

“Why did he vanish like that?” Reuben asked. “What became of him? Why would he leave Marchent and his family the way he did?”

Arthur Hammermill immediately interrupted. “Well, all of this has been investigated,” he interjected, “and actually Felix here does not have anything to add that would help us with this—.”

“Of course not,” said Reuben under his breath. “I was asking him to speculate, Mr. Hammermill. I just thought he might have some sterling idea.”

“I don’t mind discussing it,” said the man. He reached over to his left and patted the back of Arthur’s hand.

He looked at Reuben.

“We can’t know the whole truth of it,” he said. “I suspect Felix Nideck was betrayed.”

“ ‘Betrayed’?” Reuben asked. His mind shot at once to that enigmatic inscription in the Teilhard book:
We have survived this; we can survive anything
. A jumble of fragmentary memories came back to him. “ ‘Betrayed,’ ” he said.

“He would never have abandoned Marchent,” said the man. “He didn’t trust his nephew and his nephew’s wife to raise their children. It wasn’t his intention to drop out of their lives as he did.”

Bits and snatches of conversation were coming back. Abel Nideck had not gotten along with his uncle; something about money. What was it? Abel Nideck had come into some money, right after Felix went away.

In a low rumbling voice Arthur began whispering in the man’s ear, cautioning that these were all serious questions and such, and should be discussed in another place and at another time.

The man nodded absently and dismissively. He looked again at Reuben.

“It was undoubtedly bitter for Marchent; it must have cast a shadow over her life.”

“Oh, without question, it did,” said Reuben. He was powerfully excited. His heart pounded like a drum, setting the pace of the conversation. “She suspected something bad had happened, not only to him but to his friends, all of his close friends.”

Simon tried to interrupt.

“Sometimes it’s better not to know the whole story,” the man said. “Sometimes, people should be spared the whole truth.”

“You think so?” said Reuben. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe in Marchent’s case, and in the case of Felix. How can I know? But right now, I’m a guy who is craving the truth, craving answers, craving some understanding of things, an insight, any insight, a clue—.”

“These are family matters!” said Arthur Hammermill in a deep, crushing voice. “Matters in which you have no right—.”

“Please, Arthur!” said the man. “It is important for me to hear these things. Please, if you will, let us continue?”

But Reuben had come to an impasse. He wanted to leave the room, to confront this person alone somewhere no matter what the danger. Why must they go through this little drama in front of Simon and Hammermill?

“Why did you want this meeting?” he demanded suddenly. He was trembling as badly as ever. His palms were wet.

The man didn’t respond.

Oh, if only Laura were in this room. She’d know what to say, Reuben thought.

“Are you a man of honor?” Reuben asked.

The lawyers were beside themselves in a frenzy of mumbling that made Reuben think of kettledrums. That’s just what it sounded like, kettledrums at the symphony, rumbling under the music.

“Yes,” said the man. He appeared utterly genuine, sincere. “If I were not a man of honor,” the man suggested, “I would not be here.”

“Then will you give me your word of honor you’re not offended by my dealings with your friend? That you mean me no harm on account of what happened to him, that you’ll leave me and my lady friend alone!”

“For the love of heaven!” declared Arthur Hammermill. “Are you accusing my client—?”

“I give it,” the man said. “You undoubtedly did what you had to do.” He reached across the table. But he couldn’t reach Reuben’s hand. “I give it,” he said again, his hand still open, helplessly.

“Yes,” said Reuben, struggling to find the words, “I did what I had to do. I did what I felt driven to do. I did this—with Marrok and in other pressing matters as well.”

“Yes,” said the man softly. “Truly, I understand.”

Reuben drew himself up in the chair. “You want Felix’s possessions?” he asked. “You can have them, of course. I only moved to purchase them because I thought it was what Marchent wanted me to do, to take care of them, to see that they were protected, preserved, donated to a library, to the academy, I don’t know. Come and get them. Take them. They’re yours.”

Both lawyers began speaking at once, Simon vigorously protesting that it was too early to reach such an agreement, that sums of money had changed hands having to do with these possessions, that some sort of new inventory was required, something a lot more detailed than had been done; Arthur Hammermill was averring in low, quasi-hostile tones that no one had ever told him that the artifacts were of museum quality, and that they would have to discuss this in detail.

“You may have the possessions,” said Reuben, politely ignoring both men.

“Thank you,” the man said. “I appreciate this more deeply than I can say.”

Simon started shuffling his papers and making notes, and Arthur Hammermill was texting something on his BlackBerry.

“Would you allow me to visit you?” the man asked Reuben.

“Of course,” said Reuben. “You could have come anytime. You know where we are. You’ve obviously always known. I want you to visit. I want you to come! I would love—.” He was almost stammering.

The man smiled and nodded.

“I wish I could visit with you now. Unfortunately, I have to go. I haven’t much time. I’m expected back in Paris. I’ll call you very soon, just as soon as I can.”

Reuben felt the tears threatening, tears of relief.

Suddenly the man rose to his feet, and so did Reuben.

They met at the end of the table, and the man clasped Reuben’s hand.

“The young reinvent the universe,” he said. “And they give the new universe to us as their gift.”

“But sometimes the young make terrible mistakes. The young need the wisdom of the old.”

The man smiled. “They do and they don’t,” he said. Then he spoke the words that Reuben had quoted from Teilhard only moments ago. “ ‘Evil is inevitable in the course of a creation which develops within time.’ ”

He left with Arthur Hammermill rushing to overtake him.

Simon was in a paroxysm. He attempted to coax Reuben back down into a chair.

“You know your mother wants you to see this doctor and frankly I think that she’s got a point.” He was winding up for a huge lecture and a full interrogation. This had not gone well, they had to talk about this, no, this had not gone well at all. “And you should call your mother right away.”

But Reuben knew it had been a victory.

And he knew as well that there was nothing he could do to clarify things for Simon, or to mollify him, or to reassure him. So he went directly to find Laura, and to leave.

When he came on Laura in the waiting room, the man was with her, holding her right hand in both of his, talking to her in a soft intimate voice.

“… you will never be in danger from such an intrusion again.”

Laura murmured her thanks for his assurances. She was slightly dazed.

Flashing a smile at Reuben, and making a small bow, the man withdrew immediately and disappeared down a corridor of dark paneled doors.

As soon as they were alone in the elevator, Reuben asked, “What did he say to you?”

“That it had been an extraordinary pleasure to meet you,” Laura said, “and that he’d been shamed by the actions of his friend, that we’d never be visited by someone like that again, that—.” She broke off. She was a little shaken. “It is Felix, isn’t it? This man is actually truly Felix Nideck himself.”

“Without doubt,” said Reuben. “Laura, I think I won the battle, if there was a battle. I think we’re in the clear.”

On the way to the restaurant for dinner, he recounted the entire conversation as best he could.

“He had to be telling you the truth,” Laura said. “He would never have sought me out, spoken to me, if he weren’t sincere.” A shudder passed through her. “And perhaps he knows all the answers, the answers to everything, and he’ll be willing to tell you all he knows.”

“Let’s hope,” said Reuben. But he could hardly contain his happiness and his relief.

They hit the North Beach café well before the dinner rush, and easily scored a table by the glass doors. The rain had slacked off and a blue sky had broken through, which was wonderfully in keeping with Reuben’s mood. People were sitting at the outdoor tables in spite of the cold. Columbus Avenue was busy as always. The city seemed bright and fresh, not the grim nightscape he had fled.

He was elated; he couldn’t hide it. It was like the break in the rain, the sudden expanding of the blue sky.

When he thought again of Felix standing there, holding Laura’s hand and talking to her, he could have cried. He was quietly proud of how attractive she had been in that moment, in her gray wool pants and sweater, sleek and groomed and shining. She’d worn her white hair tied at the nape of her neck with a ribbon as was her custom, and she’d given a beaming smile to Felix as he’d withdrawn.

Reuben looked at her lovingly now.
And you are safe. He will not let anything bad happen to you. He stopped himself to reassure you. He saw how
beautiful and gentle and pure you are. You are not me. I am not you. He will not go back on his word
.

He ordered a big Italian meal, salad, minestrone soup, cannelloni, veal, French bread.

He was crunching through his salad, still going over the entire conversation to Laura, when Celeste texted: “SOS. About us.”

He texted back: “Tell me.”

She wrote: “Are we together or aren’t we?”

“The main thing I want,” he patiently tapped out with his thumbs, “is for us to remain friends.”

If this was brutal, he was so sorry, so very sorry, but he had to say it. It was completely unfair to her to continue as they were.

“Does this mean you don’t hate me,” she wrote, “for being with Mort?”

“I’m happy you’re with Mort.” He meant it. He knew Mort was happy; Mort had to be. Mort had always been fascinated by Celeste. If she’d finally accepted Mort in his dusty and wrinkled genius clothes with his bushy hair and forgetful expression, well, this was terrific for both of them.

“Mort’s happy too,” she shot back.

“Are you happy?”

“I’m happy but I love you and I miss you and I’m worried about you and so is everybody else.”

“Then you’re still my friend.”

“Forever.”

“What’s new on the Man Wolf?”

“Just what everybody knows.”

“Love you. Gotta go.”

He put the phone in his pocket. “That’s over,” he said to Laura. “She’s happy; she’s having an affair with my best friend.”

A little bit of gladness crept into Laura’s expression and she smiled.

He wanted to say that he loved her. But he didn’t.

He drank his soup now as slowly as he could force himself to drink it.

Laura was actually enjoying the meal too instead of picking at it. Her face now had that steady sweet radiance he hadn’t seen in her for days.

“Think about it, what it all means,” he said. “We just left a man who—.”

He shook his head. He couldn’t talk. Tears again. He’d cried more in
the presence of Laura than he had ever cried in his whole life in front of his own mother. Well, not quite. “I just want him to help me with this,” he insisted. “I want him to …”

She reached across the table and took his hand.

“He’s going to do that,” she said.

He looked into her eyes.

“You’d accept the Chrism, wouldn’t you?” he whispered.

She flinched, but her eyes remained fastened on him.

“You mean risk death for it?” she answered. “I don’t know.” She had a very grave expression on her face. “I share the power because you have the power.”

That’s not enough, he thought.

L
AURA WAS DRIVING
. With his head against the window of the Porsche Reuben slept.

They’d gone by the house before leaving San Francisco. Reuben positively knew that Simon Oliver would find some way to tell Grace or Phil that he’d been in town, and of course it turned out that he was right.

Grace had been fixing dinner, with Phil already at the dining table, and Celeste was there with Mort, standing around in the kitchen, all of them enjoying a glass of wine. A doctor friend of Grace’s, a brilliant oncologist whose name Reuben could never remember, was there too, setting the table with another female doctor Reuben had never seen before. The Stan Getz–Charlie Byrd
Jazz Samba
had been playing in the background, and the entire group was obviously having a good time.

Reuben had felt an acute longing for them all, for the cozy house, for the convivial life he’d left behind, but other than that it had been perfect: too many people for an interrogation or an intervention. Everyone greeted Laura graciously, especially Celeste, who was plainly relieved that Reuben was already with someone else, though Mort seemed predictably and loyally miserable, at least when he glanced at Reuben, who just made a fist and punched Mort lightly on the arm. Rosy threw her arms around Reuben.

Grace wanted to corner him, yes, but she couldn’t leave the steaks on the broiler, and the broccoli she was sautéing with garlic, and she settled for being kissed tenderly by him and the confidential whisper that he loved her.