Emerald Aisle (7 page)
“Do you know the essay called âThe Vice of Gambling and the Virtue of Insurance'?” Wyser in Philosophy had once asked Roger.
“I must read it.”
“The title is the best thing about it. But you see the analogy.”
“Individual vices are institutional virtues?”
“Not much of a title.”
A feature of this institutional practice was that it led to a kind of boredom with the current faculty and a tendency to be disproportionately impressed by a scholar whose achievements had hitherto been unknown. He must be hired!
Greg listened to Roger, enjoying his giant friend's wit and wisdom even if he doubted its consolations would survive their lunch. Afterward Roger gave him a ride in his golf cart back to the library. Waldo Hermes was waiting for him in his office. The big question was: Would he or would he not stutter. Hermes turned from the window that gave a panoramic view of the northern Indiana countryside.
“Everything is so flat.”
“That is how it struck me at first. You get used to it.” He hadn't stuttered.
“I don't think I could.”
“What will you do when the Primero Collection is brought here?”
Hermes looked like a shy animal peering from the underbrush. “That isn't going to happen tomorrow, you know.”
“But when it does?”
“How old do you think I am?”
There were flecks of gray in the facial hair, but atop Hermes's head the luxuriant growth showed no streaks of silver.
“About my age?”
“Are you fifty-eight?”
“Are you?”
The eyes twinkled through the underbrush. “On my next birthday. So I am in my fifty-eighth year.”
“I would never have guessed.”
“In any case, I will at last be in a position to concentrate on my own collection.” He coughed. “Or my soul.”
“You're a collector.”
“In a modest way. I could become immodest in retirement. Mr. Primero has provided me with a very handsome retirement package.”
All this was music to Greg Whelan's ears. The threat to his own custody of the Primero papers once arrived at Notre Dame was lifted. Every barrier to the two curators becoming real friends had been removed.
“I envy you,” Greg lied. “Retirement” as a word was in the same class as “terminal illness” so far as he was concerned. Like an eminent predecessor when the library was new, Greg Whelan would have been content to be found at his desk some Monday morning, gone to his reward without a fuss.
Memories of Waldo Hermes's visit came to him now with the Newman letters before him. How reluctant he felt to surrender them. Almost without thinking, as if to avoid catching the eye of conscience in the mirror of the moment, Greg slipped the letters under his desk blotter. They were far safer there than they would be lying on the director's desk awaiting her return. He would make photocopies, of course, but for now he wanted to keep these treasures to himself.
WITH NANCY BEATTY ON THE seat beside him, Roger Knight maneuvered his golf cart along the campus walks in the direction of the Grotto. Nancy had wanted to hear about the trip to Minneapolis, given the anxiety the absence of the Knight brothers had caused her, and Roger suggested an excursion in his cart to the community cemetery. After a stop at the Grotto, where Roger somewhat apologetically said his prayers without getting out of the golf cart, they headed up the road toward Saint Mary's under the great trees that formed a canopy above them.
“Larry was out of town too,” she said. “He still is.”
“Oh?”
“A wrinkle has arisen about where our wedding will take place.”
And she told Roger the story as she had gotten it from Larry. Of course undergraduates fall in love, and often; but from time to time a couple was formed that was destined to last a lifetime. Apparently Larry had thought he and the girl he was going with were such a couple. He'd proposed, she'd accepted, they'd agreed that they would marry three years after graduation.
“They actually scheduled a date at Sacred Heart?”
“June 17, 2002.”
“That's when you're getting married!”
“In order that we might take advantage of the reservation at the Basilica.”
“Larry had more foresight than he knew.”
“Not quite. The date has already been claimed by his old girlfriend. Larry is furious and went to Minneapolis to beg her to get married somewhere else. He was sure we had the better claim on June 17.”
The situation could be amusing only to those not involved in it, and Roger felt involved because of his friendship with Nancy and Larry. What would be the likelihood that two people who had decided on their wedding date would, when they broke up and formed new alliances, both decide to marry on that very date? Surely Larry had been justified in thinking the date was free. Just as surely the former fiancée had been justified in thinking the same.
“That must have been an interesting encounter.”
“Not too interesting, I hope.”
Roger stirred on the seat and lifted his brows. He drove the slowmoving cart as if he were at the wheel of a race car at Le Mans, two hands gripping the wheel, never looking anywhere but straight ahead where any contingency might suddenly confront him.
“How so?”
“He was engaged to her, you know.”
“But she's engaged to someone else now.”
“I know.” Nancy's voice carried a little thread of worry. “But he's got a low boiling point.”
“When will Larry return?”
“The firm that hired him wants him to spend some time there, and he agreed to stay over. He called this morning to tell me all about it.”
“Will the girl concede the date to you and Larry?”
“She hasn't yet. But Larry hasn't given up hope. Now that he will be in Minneapolis a few days, he thinks he can persuade her.”
“Let's hope so.”
“I don't like him seeing her that much.”
“About their different weddings!”
“A girl has a right to be foolish once in a while.”
“A duty I should say. But I wouldn't worry about Larry.”
“What, me worry?” She looked at him cross-eyed.
“Phil has gone back to Minneapolis. Maybe they can get together.”
This was at Roger's suggestion. Greg Whelan had checked the inventory of the Primero Collection he had on his computer and was surprised to find that the Newman letters sent to the Archives were not listed.
“I was as surprised as I was delighted,” he told Roger. “I suppose I should log them in here. Maybe that was the intention.”
“You haven't yet?”
Greg look shamefaced. He lifted his desk blotter, giving Roger a glimpse of the letters as if they were postcards sold along the Seine.
“They're still a secret. Wendy has been so busy, I haven't told her yet. Meanwhile ⦔ He lifted a corner of the desk blotter and sighed.
Phil's excuse for going to Minneapolis was to get a full and accurate list of the missing items. But the point was to speak with Waldo. Primero had suspected Waldo when the theft occurred, but who wouldn't? But the case against it being Waldo was stronger than the affirmative case. Unless of course it turned out that he had intended to sell the missing memorabilia.
They had arrived at their destination, and Roger brought the golf cart across the gravelly little arc that served as a parking lot for visitors to the community cemetery. Then began the major operation of getting unbuckled and out of the cart.
“We must visit the grave of Father Sorin.”
But on the way to the grave of the founder of Notre Dame, Roger was distracted by crosses bearing the names of other figures from the university's past.
“Father Zahm!” he cried, and for a moment he seemed about to sink to his knees. “The great scientist. The friend of Teddy Roosevelt. He wrote a book on women in science. Most important of all, we owe the Dante Collection to him.”
How could Father Sorin compete with this?
WHEN HE WAS TOLD THAT A Mrs. Primero was on the line, Dudley had to make an effort to retain the authoritative aplomb that was an essential part of his office persona.
“Tell her I will call her back in ten minutes.”
He got up and shut his office door and, once more behind his desk, took a cell phone from his briefcase and then sat for a moment, trying to rehearse the call he was about to make. It had been two weeks since he had spoken with Bianca, and that had been to tell her he would be out of town and unable to see her. It was stupid to put off the evil day when he would tell her it was all over, but he did not quite know how to break the news to her.
Early on in their relationship he had thought she would tire of him and everything would simply drift away, leaving little trace on either of their souls. But something had happened to their affair. At first he had been merely a diversion, a way to stave off the boredom that haunted Bianca. He had felt like someone sent to her from a male escort bureau and had little illusion that she had any real interest in him. He imagined himself to be one in a faceless series of mindless tumbles in the hay, the toy of an older woman of incredible yet oddly charming egocentricity. But her talk had been largely weary narratives of her trips and cruises. Any friends she had during the marriage from which she said she was on leave had been abandoned for the strangers she met on boats and in the far corners
of the world, aged swingers like herself who made no real claim on her.
of the world, aged swingers like herself who made no real claim on her.
It had seemed so casual at first.
“Tell me all about yourself, Dud.”
The nickname was both intimate and derisive. “You would find it all impossibly dull.”
“Would I?” She lit an elongated cigarette and expelled a cloud of mentholated smoke. “Sometimes I envy you your scheduled day. Freedom is overrated.”
A new Bianca emerged. The woman who had everything now realized she had nothing.
“Maybe you should go back to your husband.”
“Do you think so?” She had turned to look at him.
“I really know nothing about it.”
“No, you don't. But I have thought of it.”
“Oh?” He tried to conceal his joy.
She drew on her cigarette. “Till recently that seemed a possibility.”
Her tone was meaningful, and he felt both flattered and frightened. What there was between them was in the nature of things temporary, a finite affair, destined to be ended and probably sooner rather than later. He sat in silence, not wanting to encourage this mood.
“You're such a dud.”
“Only nominally.”
An odd prelude to her opening her arms and drawing her to him. He was very conscious of the lighted cigarette in the fingers of one of the hands behind his head. He reached for it and stubbed it out in the ashtray. She watched him do this, then lifted her lips to his.
Passion seemed the best postponement of any discussion of her mood.
Passion seemed the best postponement of any discussion of her mood.
He pushed these memories away. Now in his office, he punched her number on his cell phone. She answered immediately.
“Is that you?”
“Yes.”
“How was your trip?”
He had to remind himself of his make-believe trip that had gained him a weekend with Dolores. “The usual thing.”
“And what is that? Dudley, I want to hear all about it. Let's have dinner tonight.”
“I'll make a reservation.”
“Please don't. I want to cook for you.”
He agreed. It would be the grand finale. A sentimental evening, remembering old times, the fun they'd had, and then he would explain to her how it was. There was no future for them. He couldn't mention the discrepancy in their ages, but the fact that she was a married woman was decisive enough. If she had intended to get divorced, she would have done so long ago. There must be advantages for her in remaining the legal wife of a man she could no longer abide but who himself seemed still hopelessly in love with Bianca. Or at least hopelessly committed to her. Divorce would never be proposed on his side. “He's very Catholic,” Bianca had told Dudley, making a sour little face.
Well, if Bianca was married and no divorce was in prospect, there was no need to say that no amount of cosmetic surgery could erase the gap between their ages. And he would appeal to her better side. She must have one. He was a young man. It was time that he married. Should he tell her the whole truth, that he was now
engaged to Dolores? I'll play it by ear, he told himself after he had parked his car and was heading for the door of Bianca's building.
engaged to Dolores? I'll play it by ear, he told himself after he had parked his car and was heading for the door of Bianca's building.
The meal was a triumph.
Saltimbocca alla Romana,
with a sauce that was so succulent Dudley sopped it all up with garlic bread. The wine was a Barolo. It amazed him that Bianca could cook so well.
Saltimbocca alla Romana,
with a sauce that was so succulent Dudley sopped it all up with garlic bread. The wine was a Barolo. It amazed him that Bianca could cook so well.
She dismissed his flattery. “Men are better cooks than women.”
“Not this man and this woman.”
“Have you ever tried?”
He shook his head. He knew what he thought of men who cooked and baked. “This has been a wonderful evening.”
“My dear, the night is young.”
“We have to talk, Bianca.”
“What have we been doing since you got here?”
“About us.”
He had helped her carry things into the kitchen, where she rinsed dishes and put them in the washer as if she were determined to continue in her role. This whole domestic persona was new to Dudley. She turned to him and her carefully shaped brows formed crescents above her eyes. “You sound serious.”
“Let's sit down.”
She permitted him to lead her to the couch. She sat at the far end, facing him. “I won't let you steal my thunder, sweetheart. The whole point of this evening was to have the proper setting for my announcement.”
“Announcement?”
She smiled tenderly, dipping her head and peering at him. “I have decided to ask Joseph for a divorce.”
Dudley sat in stunned silence.
“I have felt your discontent with the way things have been. And
you're right. Oh, I confess it. At first I thought of you as a diversion. A handsome, intelligent, affectionate diversion, but nothing more. It has long since passed the point where I can deceive myself that this is the case.”
you're right. Oh, I confess it. At first I thought of you as a diversion. A handsome, intelligent, affectionate diversion, but nothing more. It has long since passed the point where I can deceive myself that this is the case.”
“Bianca ⦔
She held up her hand. “I have the floor. It broke my heart when you would complain of the impermanence of our arrangement.”
Had he ever complained of that?
“I will not come between a man and his wife.”
“But, darling, you already have. The deed is done. And now I am prepared to accept the logical conclusion. Away with impermanence; I intend to be free and then ⦔
“Will he grant you a divorce?”
“Ha. How can he stop me?”
“But what would be your reason?”
“Marital infidelity.”
“Joseph?” Had Primero been driven to a compensatory affair?
“No, my own. Ours. If he should make any trouble, I will make public our love and our intention to marry.”
“Is this a proposal?” he asked, in a strangled effort to be jocular. “Bianca, you can't just make such decisions for other people.”
“What do you mean?”
“That I don't want you to get a divorce.”
“You wily thing.” She smiled a naughty smile. “Do you prefer me in the illicit mode?”
He grasped at this as a check on her plans, if not a way out. “Why change such a good thing?”
She was touched. She slithered toward him on the couch, and he took her in his arms as the means of preventing her from going on with her absurd plans. Did she seriously think that he would marry her?
“You want a mistress rather than a wife.”
“I want you just the way you are.”
The evening had been anything but what he had intended when he drove to Bianca's apartment. But then it had not been what she had intended either. They remained mistress and gigolo, and in an odd way that seemed an achievement.
But when he left, she said something that made it clear that she had known what she was forestalling when she announced her intention to get a divorce.
“Give little Dolores my best.”
“Dolores?”
“Your assistant, isn't she?”
On the drive to his own place he wondered if her talk about getting a divorce was merely an ad hoc defense against what she feared he would say. What had he told her of Dolores that had prompted that final exchange?
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