What Alice Knew (16 page)

Mrs. Abrams, whose presence had been inconspicuous, suddenly spoke. “Do you have a family, Professor James?” she queried.

William noticed what he sensed from the portrait—that she had, beneath her timidity, something of the same shrewd perspicuity as her husband.

“I do,” said William, looking down at his plate as he spoke. “I have three children. A fourth was lost to us three years ago. Otherwise, a healthy brood, I’m pleased to say, like yours.”

“And your wife joins you here?”

“No,” said William, wondering if he was speaking with more emphasis than the question demanded. “She is at home with the children. Our youngest is barely two and therefore in need of her care.”

A bread pudding arrived, followed by coffee and liqueur. Alfred, who had pushed away his food and leaned back in his chair, announced that he wanted his father to contact a dealer in Paris on his behalf.

“You can contact him yourself,” said Abrams irritably.

“But he won’t listen to me,” retorted Alfred.

“He’ll listen if he thinks you have talent.”

Alfred’s face hardened. “That’s hogwash.” He spoke scornfully. “Everyone knows that success in the art world is about money. Get someone rich and powerful to back you, and everyone concludes you’re a genius.”

“I beg to differ with you,” said Abrams. “Success as an artist requires talent and work.”

“And
I
beg to differ with
you
,” mimicked Alfred. “What do you know about art? You know how to buy and sell things, I admit. You know what will bring a good price and how to wrangle it from your clients. But you wouldn’t understand a work of originality and vision that has not acquired a niche in your marketplace. So don’t start giving me lectures on my career. If you want to help, contact your friends on my behalf. If not, keep quiet. I don’t need your philistine advice.”

There was something so harshly denigrating in this speech that even the formidable Asher Abrams seemed cowed. “I’ll make some calls,” he muttered, at which Alfred rose abruptly from the table, kissed his mother perfunctorily on the cheek, and left the room.

Watching this embarrassing scene, William was reminded of how cruel life inside a family could be. Alfred Abrams might seem, to the untutored observer, to be spoiled and ungrateful, but he knew how a formidable father could sap the manhood and confidence from a sensitive son. The scene disturbed him, because he knew that blame could not be neatly apportioned. Both parties had suffered, and both had inflicted injury.

After Alfred left, the twins clattered to be excused, and Fiona, after some additional quarreling about her curfew, also took her leave. Mrs. Abrams began supervising the clearing of the plates, and Abrams was diverted by the entry of a bespectacled young man who seemed to be relaying information regarding the framing of some paintings that he was putting up for sale. Business did not wait, apparently even for the Sabbath.

In the midst of all this activity, William felt he should turn to Ella and make conversation. It was something he profoundly wanted to do, yet he had avoided turning his head to look at her during dinner. Her beauty and intelligence unnerved him and made him feel like he ought to say something important or brilliant. Looking at her now, however, he saw that the sharp, inquiring expression that had infused her features earlier in the evening had been replaced by a soft, dreamy look. He guessed that she had gone off into a reverie during her father’s unpleasant exchange with her brother, and she had not yet returned from her escapist dream. The expression made her look distant but also vulnerable, and he felt more emboldened to address her. “Do you study philosophy?” He hit on this as a way to begin, since she had spoken so knowledgeably about his work earlier in the evening.

She met his eyes, and he felt her seriously considering her reply.

“I don’t know that I study,” she finally said, “but I read.”

“Isn’t it the same thing?”

“I don’t think so. Study is a concentrated activity in which the subject matter is allowed to take precedence over everything else. I don’t have the luxury of that. I spend most of my time in more practical occupations.” She motioned vaguely to the room around her. Whether she was referring to household management or to the paintings on the walls was not clear.

Abrams, who had finished his consultation with the bespectacled young man and seemed to have caught the tail end of this reply, directed a look of pride and affection at his eldest daughter and clarified her response. “Ella is my trusted assistant,” he interjected. “My son has relinquished that role in the hope of becoming the next Whistler…or Monet; his style changes so often, it is hard to tell. But Ella serves in lieu of a son. That is, until she is married and settled.”

Ella gave a slight grimace, but Abrams appeared not to notice. He lit a cigar and took a contented puff, settling back in his chair. He then gave William another appraising look. “So tell me, Professor. What can I do for you?”

William had placed his satchel, which contained the De Quincey volume, under his seat, and he reached down to take it out. He almost regretted having to get to the point of his visit; it meant that it would soon be over. The meal was done, though, and it was clear that Abrams expected to do business.

As William took the volume out of the satchel, Ella, who had bent her head to look down at what he was doing, suddenly moved quickly back and straightened in her chair.

“I wonder if you know anything about this volume?” He handed it to Abrams, who gently rubbed his fingers on the binding, opened it, and examined the inside cover, where the imprint of his shop was stamped.

“It passed through our hands, obviously,” he murmured, “but I see so many things. Ella, do you recognize it?”

Ella seemed hardly to glance at the volume. “I don’t know,” she said abruptly. “It’s probably part of a set we got years ago. I don’t recall seeing anything in red leather recently.”

“There was the Coleridge,” said Abrams ruminatively. “And that set of Dryden. Both were red leather.”

Ella shrugged. “I can’t say I recall.”

Abrams looked at the book again. “If you’re looking for a set of De Quincey, I can put word out and see what I can find.”

“No,” said William. “I want the particular set associated with this volume. I have my reasons.”

Abrams examined the book again, and William could see him riffling his memory as Ella shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “I remember,” Abrams said finally with decision. “It came with the Coleridge and the Dryden from that Cheshire estate sale a year or so back. I remember it because it was an American edition. I hadn’t seen a full set of De Quincey before and was surprised the Americans had put one out. Don’t you remember, Ella, you were especially eager to acquire it?”

“No,” said Ella curtly. “I really can’t say I do.”

William leaned forward inquiringly. “How might this volume have found its way into a Whitechapel bookstall?”

Abrams shrugged. “There, I can’t help you. I buy only complete sets. A collector wants completeness, whether in china or etchings or books; it represents a level of control. If a set is dispersed—and a missing volume is all it takes—the items become virtually worthless. I can surmise only that we sold the set to someone who was careless with it. It’s not uncommon for an unscrupulous employee to lift a volume and then conspire with a confrere to sell it back to the owner for a substantial sum. Perhaps the thief in this case misplaced the merchandise, got sidetracked, or was sent off to prison. We can certainly tell you to whom we sold the set, if that would be helpful. Abrams & Son—or rather Daughter—keep excellent records, don’t we, Ella?”

“We try,” said Ella, her voice uneasy.

William glanced at her. He could tell she was undergoing a disturbance that the book had initiated. It struck him as both unsettling and intriguing. What could the volume possibly mean to her? “I would greatly appreciate knowing to whom the set was sold,” he said to Abrams.

“Then you must visit the shop Monday morning and have my clerk review the records. You will have only to tell him that we have spoken, and he will be sure to accommodate you.”

Out of the corner of his eye William could see that Ella had regained her bearings and was sitting less stiffly in her chair. “I would be glad to assist Professor James,” she announced lightly. “It would give me the opportunity to continue our discussion of philosophy.”

“I should like that,” said William, realizing that he would like it more than he wished to admit.

She gave him a quick sidelong glance and removed a card with a gold border and black script from her waistband. “Here is the address of the shop. I shall see you Monday at eleven.” She rose, a cue for him to do the same. “Be sure to send my regards to Mr. Sargent. Tell him I shall be over next week to dress as a Persian princess, as he requested.”

Abrams laughed and added, “You can tell your friend Sargent that he must paint me again as well. He’s already represented me in the proper costume of an English gentleman.” He motioned to the portrait behind himself. “Now I should like one in the more splendid accoutrements of a Venetian doge. We could place it in the shop, don’t you think, Ella? It might encourage trade.” He laughed again, and William thought that the cunning businessman was perfectly aware of how he was perceived by the society in which he lived. He would play the expected role, but he would not be a dupe to it or pretend to take it seriously.

It was past ten p.m. when William left the Abrams home on Connaught Square, and it was a beautiful night. In general during his visits to London, the weather was foggy or rainy, a contrast to the refreshing climate that he associated with his own country. But tonight was an exception; the gray limestone of the buildings, so different from the bold newness of Boston’s red brick, shimmered under the soft moonlight.

He considered hailing a cab and then decided that he would walk to Henry’s flat across Hyde Park. It was not a long walk, and he felt energetic and ebullient as he strode under the lush autumn foliage. He knew, the habit of self-scrutiny being well developed in him, that his high spirits were the result not only of the weather but also of the feelings engendered in him by Ella Abrams. Her vibrant beauty had impressed itself upon him forcefully. Even her unease with regard to the De Quincey volume intrigued him, suggesting something withheld and secretive that added to his fascination with her. He was a husband and a father, a devoted one on all counts, a man who would never dream of wandering from the path of righteousness, yet he felt, as he strode into the park, that there was no harm in the feeling of attraction he was experiencing. So long as it was not to be acted upon, it was a natural sort of thing. Ella Abrams, with her dark eyes and full mouth, her darting intelligence and humor, her exoticism and mystery, stoked his imagination and made him feel vital and glad to be alive. He would see her again on Monday, and the thought pleased him—that was all there was to it. There was a degree of self-deception in his thinking—he knew that—but he did not care.

It was quite dark as he entered the park and made his way along the main path. A few couples were walking arm in arm, and there was a smattering of beggars of the West End variety, well brushed in the manner of gentlemen fallen on hard times. They murmured discreetly their need for a bit of assistance, and William gave each of them something; he was in a magnanimous mood.

When he approached the center of the park, he veered off onto one of the side paths that would lead him to the avenue nearest to his brother’s flat. The gas lamps that lit the main path did not extend to this one, so the area grew darker as he moved farther along. The sounds of the street began to recede, and the trees seemed to grow thicker and more luxuriant. It was nice to have such lush greenery in the center of the city. New York had Central Park, and Boston had its Commons, but Hyde Park was different in the degree to which it could suddenly seem remote from the urban hubbub that surrounded it. Only the English could feel confident enough to allow the wild to encroach so far within a civilized space. It was the first time that he had acknowledged that this country might surpass his native land in some respect. Perhaps he would take a flat in London after all; so much coming and going to conferences and meetings was wearing. And it would be convenient to be near Henry and especially Alice, given her condition.

He paused to be sure that he still had the card for Ella Abrams’s shop in his pocket. It pleased him to finger it and remember its gold border and simple black script: “Abrams & Son.” Despite the appellation, the card put him in mind of Ella; gold and black were colors one would associate with her. He recalled the painting Sargent had done in which her arms were encased in gold bracelets, and her hair, emerging from a colorful scarf, was jet-black with flecks of white. It was Sargent’s hallmark to do hair that way so as to suggest thickness and glossiness and thus flatter his sitters, though in this case, there was no need to flatter; if anything, the representation fell short of the original.

He was thinking of how much nicer Ella’s hair was in reality than it was in Sargent’s painting, when he heard it, and the lurch of fear it precipitated was greater, in coming in the midst of such pleasurable calm. What he heard was breathing, soft and regular, faint yet distinct. There was no body attached to it, no evidence of anyone in the vicinity, no footsteps. If someone was near, it was someone who had matched William’s tread so as to follow unnoticed. Only now, pausing, he could hear the soft intake and outlet of breath.

Where was this person? William’s mind raced. He must be very near, in the trees a few feet away. He might be only a thief, he tried to assure himself, yet he knew it was unlikely. His mind had gone immediately to the letter Abberline had passed on to him. Until now, he had pushed that threat to the back of his mind. It was the familiar reflex of denial, a defense against the kind of morbid thinking that had engulfed him at the time of his breakdown, yet he ought to have understood that to push the possibility of danger out of consciousness was as foolhardy as to see danger everywhere.

He began to walk faster, panic beginning to mount in his body. No one was about. The prospect of calling out would be of no use. His hands reflexively burrowed in his pockets, but all he found there was the card for Ella’s shop. He felt a welling of sadness as the thought occurred to him that he might never see her again—not her, not his wife and children, not his brother and sister. He felt his shirt grow hot with perspiration against his chest, and for a moment wished only to be able to remove his coat and jacket. What a relief it would be to strip off these clothes, to stop planning and desiring and thinking, to be done with it all at last.

He realized that the predator was holding off attack until the edge of the path, where, at the turn, he would be enclosed entirely by trees. In the shrubbery, the violence could take place with no possibility that a passerby would see. He could picture his own death in his mind’s eye, the pale throat beneath the thicket of whiskers suddenly spurting bright red. His hand automatically went to his neck, touching the solid flesh that might, in a few seconds, be ripped open. The image brought a wave of pity for his own frailty. He felt his skin turn cold under the wetness of his perspiration; his teeth began to chatter, and his head grew light as the pressure in his body dropped.

He slowed his pace. He could make out over the din of his pulse that the person behind him was light-footed and agile. He could hear the other’s breathing, loudly now; he even imagined he could feel the breath on the back of his neck.

The turn was less than twenty feet away. He had perhaps three seconds before he reached the spot where he would be set upon. In the nightmare ordeal of his youth, when he had suffered from a lack of will, the crisis had been long and difficult, a slow and fitful return from numbness and inertia to active life. But there was no time for such a recovery now. He must either fight against what threatened him or succumb to it. It was the simplicity of the choice that galvanized him.

It happened with remarkable speed. He spied a large branch on the side of the path and made a quick lunge to reach it; then, with it firm in his grasp, he swung. It was the same movement he had once used in his youth to swing a baseball bat. The movement had been embedded deep in the memory of his muscles.

As he pivoted on his soles, turning his body almost completely around, he saw the figure who had stalked him, enveloped from head to toe in a thick cloak. From the folds of the cloak an object flashed, sweeping in countermovement to his own. There was a tremendous crack as he completed his swing. The figure staggered back.

William dropped the branch and ran, not stopping until he had reached the other side of the park. When he glanced down, he saw there was a tear of about four inches across the breast pocket of his coat. The copy of Marx’s
Capital
, the gift from Benjamin Cohen, had been sliced neatly in half.

Even as the horror of what he had escaped coursed through him, he felt gripped by a sense of wonder. How fortuitous life was, how sublime the conjunctions of divine intervention: American baseball and a German utopian philosopher had saved his life!