Girl Reading (23 page)

Jem appears at her elbow. He is grinning.

What are you so happy about?

He shakes his head. ’Stonishing.

Apparently he does not mean the proof, he means the lady standing in the studio.

Rosemary, startled: Why are you here? You said you would send someone.

I sent myself. Are you glad?

Yes, I am rather.

Jem looks at the two women, shakes his head again.

Rosie, we have not been formally introduced . . . ?

Flossie, may I present my youngest, Jem. Jemmy, this is my sister, your aunt, Mrs. Mortimer Solomon-Black.

He dips in a bow. How d’you do?

Florence says, What a handsome man you have grown into. You were a baby when I last saw you. Now look at you.

He blushes at this—and coming from such a lady in jewels and polka dots—he finds the resemblance intriguing. Would you like some tea, Mrs. Solomon-Black?

That would be very nice. (Jem goes to boil the water, Florence follows him out with her eyes.)

You have made a beautiful boy. He looks exactly like her—does he sound like her too?

He would be horrified at the very notion of singing on a stage. Thankfully none of my children was that way inclined. He likes this—Rosemary gestures about her.

I am surprised you told him about me.

Well, why shouldn’t I?

What about the girls? Do they know about me? about us? about
you
?

Rosemary is nettled. They know what they need to, which is more than they care for. If you try to see them, of course I would not presume to prevent you. On the other hand, you oughtn’t take it to heart if you find they are not at home.

They would turn me away . . . ?

I doubt it would be their decision. One is married to a lawyer, the other to a man of industry. They are directed by their husbands, as they were brought up to be, and have reputations to maintain. Mary read that you were coming to London. She hopes your trip is a success, but said it was a shame that your public engagements would keep you from visiting her.

Florence wonders how Rosemary could have permitted this, yet her sister is unrepentant. Rather than forcing the issue, Florence says, I have brought you and your son an invitation to dine. (Gives her sister the short letter in a looping script.) If you decline, I shall not question it.

Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer Solomon-Black present their compliments to Mrs. Amos Featherstone and Mr. James Featherstone, and request the honor of their company to dinner on Thursday,
et cetera.

Rosemary notes the venue, replies quietly, The gesture is extremely kind.

It was Mortimer’s idea. For some reason he wants to meet you before we leave.

I intended to invite you both to our home.

You did not mention it yesterday.

No, I suppose I did not get to it. Your
cartes
are printed. Rosemary lays the letter down, shows Florence a finished picture mounted on a card from a boxful.

Florence opens her tortoiseshell lorgnette. Superb. This is much better than what I have been using.

Rosemary offers to send a bill, but Florence wishes to make payment now. The transaction is done. Rosemary wraps the box in paper.

It is while she is doing this and counting out change that Florence notices the Lennox proof and examines it through her spectacles, remarks, This photograph is postmortem. She looks as though she is sleeping peacefully.

Rosemary represses the urge to take it back. That is our job, sometimes.

My God.

Florence gazes hard at it. The recognition is twofold; what is on the proof and what Rosemary is now doing to the negative. You are unbelievable.

It is just a mistake on the film.

It is not. If it were, it would appear only in one place, but it is identical on each image. Do you know what you have got here?

Give it to me, please, Florence.

Do you know how many fakes are out there? Photographers making double exposures, painting in figures on the plate, lurkers in bedsheets coming out from behind curtains when the subject’s head is in a posing apparatus and he cannot see what is going on behind him. And yet, here you are—

Rosemary snatches the print away at last.

Let me buy it from you. You can name your price.

No.

You have a responsibility.

No such responsibility exists. She is someone’s child, the parents are grieving. It would be indecent.

Are you going to show it to them? They have the right to know.

Rosemary does not answer.

I assume this has happened before. How many times, Rosie? Rosie, how many times?

I have said it is a mistake on the film, and I have said no. I am sorry, you will have to do without.

Florence sighs, knows she cannot change her twin’s mind, collects her package. As you wish. Let me know about Thursday, will you?

As she turns to go, Jem returns with the tea tray. Are you leaving already, Mrs. Solomon-Black? I was looking forward to hearing about your life in the United States. It does sound a fascinating place.

Florence and Rosemary exchange glances.

I was looking forward to telling you about it. Regrettably, I have more engagements.

The shop bell rings downstairs. Jem, unable to hide his disappointment, says, I should see to that anyhow.

His mother intercedes. I shall see to it. My sister has a few minutes to spare for some refreshment before her next appointment. You two can stay—

Rosemary takes the proof with her, out of temptation’s reach.

Mortimer Solomon-Black shuffles off his frock coat, undoes his floppy cravat, discards it, groans as he pulls off his shoes. He takes off his waistcoat, undoes the studs on his stiff collar and some more on his shirt. He has muttonchop whiskers and a resonant New Yorker’s diction.

Fire is going out. I’ll do it. Got to do something—so damnably damp in this country.

He rebuilds it with coal and a poker while his wife, sixteen years his senior, begins to undress—peeling off her outer layers, stepping out of the dress, out of the crinoline, plucking hairpins from her hair—remains in her corset and undergarments. The fire grows lively, warming the room.

Mortimer admires his wife, her shapely body, her hair long and loose. You were a marvel tonight. There wasn’t an empty seat in the house.

That was your doing.

Your
doing. They were captivated.

Florence settles on one of the chairs, rests her feet on a stool. Without being asked, Mortimer kneels down to remove her boots. He kisses one of her ankles and begins to massage her tired foot. They stay this way for a while, Florence growling with pleasure, the tension dissipating. Perhaps Mortimer does not want to chat, wants to go straight to bed . . . ?

Mortimer would like that very much. But he is the kind of man who likes to have his mental faculties as well as his physical senses stimulated. His wife was sensational this evening, note-perfect, saw off an attempted sabotage by a heckler, hit each target first time, every time, like a sharpshooter. The audience was spellbound. He loves how they admire her, the stirrings of awe, the way doors open for her and people jostle to be near. All the same, he loves to have her for himself and when they are touring these hours become rare and precious. He will make love to her, but first they will have this—their conversation, when they share or spar or pontificate. Mortimer shows her an emerald bottle—she smiles, removes her earrings—then pours an ounce of absinthe, dragonfly green, into the bulbous reservoirs of two glass goblets. The scent of the holy trinity, aniseed, grande wormwood, and fennel, escapes. He
balances a perforated spoon on the rim of each vessel, and on the spoon a lump of sugar. Slowly, hardly more than a drop at a time, he pours iced water from a carafe over the sugar, which begins to dissolve, the white solution dripping into the absinthe at the bottom, swirling and merging as the liquids meet like living creatures. He does this for her, this ceremony; they are forced to wait until the transparent green spirit is absorbed by white cloudy water. When the last trace of liquor is gone, the process is not yet complete, for three more parts of water must be added, gradually, until the drink is a fluid fog with a faint green tint.

To us.

They sip.

He says, I have begun to wonder whether it is time to phase out the smaller venues. No more parlors and tea parties, except for patrons of quality who can be a help to us. We can do private demonstrations at the beginning of a tour, find a scientist or conjuror who wants to test you, to generate some publicity, but that is it. Focus on larger venues—800 seats minimum—1,500 seats should be the norm, not the exception. You can do it. You outshine anything to be seen onstage in Britain or the United States. No intimate gatherings anymore, unless we can have who we want and charge what we like. We need you to conserve your energy. Do bigger shows, better shows, fewer of them.

Florence visualizes it in the mist of her glass.

He continues: I wonder if it is time to revisit the idea of a bill of acts, with you at the top?

I have been doing this on my own for a long time now. I don’t need anyone else.

That’s fine by me, if it’s what you want. But it will be hard to grow if we don’t make some changes.

Look at me, Mortimer. How much more growing do you think I have left to do?

He sneers at the implied suggestion. You are svelte-like, and young and beautiful. You also have a special talent, and you owe it to the world. You can become the most famous spiritualist who ever lived if you want to. Nonetheless, I think we should talk about touring with other psychics. Lesser-knowns, up-and-comings. They provide the support act—they will be inferior to you, of course—they will do it to make their own names and to learn from the best.

Florence shakes her head. She says, If we put other mediums up there, we run the risk of being undermined. They will overreach, crack under pressure, especially in front of large audiences. At the very least they will steal my best marks from the front three rows before intermission, and then I will have to work twice as hard. We are as likely as not to get some magician’s apprentice trying to make a name for himself by disproving me, like that fellow tonight.

You handled him splendidly.

I don’t care for it.

As you please. No other spiritualists, then: they are your rivals, they are unreliable or they are frauds. There is not anyone we can trust enough. So be it. (Mortimer drinks from his absinthe.) You have not told me how the second encounter with your sister went?

Ha. Florence feels the absinthe filling her, tingling. Unbelievable.

Why so?

She looks at her husband over the rim of her glass, perceives something in his attitude, makes a decision. My nieces are prigs, is all. I have been waved off. She practically forbade me from trying to contact them while we are here. She said they will not be at home to me.

Preposterous. Shun you? You are the toast of the town. I’m astounded.

It is not important. Her son is a decent sort, anyway.

Did you give her the invitation after that?

Yes.

Will she come?

Who knows? I think she is lonely, I sense that from her.

Mortimer begins to feel the absinthe taking effect. It makes him bold. He ventures, I did have another thought about the act.

Florence leans her head on her hand to listen.

What if the Gault twins were to make a comeback . . . ? Eighteen months in the United States, starting in the small towns and backwaters to correct any teething problems, then Canada, nine months in Europe and then Australia. Then we’ll take six months off for a vacation and to perfect a new routine, followed by a second tour of just the very finest venues in the finest cities of the world, and the odd audience with royalty thrown in for good measure. In four years, maybe less, we’ll all be millionaires. What do you think?

To his chagrin, Florence bursts into laughter. When she comes to herself again she says, That’s it? That’s the big idea?

Is it so absurd?

I’m afraid it is, Mortimer. My sister would be appalled. (She drinks more absinthe.) You should ask her at dinner, though, then I can sell tickets for people to watch that.

I was only trying to help.

You are a help, I could not do it without you (she reaches forward to tweak his chin, pouting her lips at him). And if Rosie says no, you can always go back to catching bullets and pulling doves out of your sleeves.

Mortimer Solomon-Black sulks. Well, there’s no need for sarcasm.

Poor old Rosie. You know, she is still cross with our mother. Florence dips her finger into her glass and sucks the end of it.

He answers, It can be hard on a child from a theater family. You are either center stage, a part of the act, or you are in the wings of your parents’ lives.

Like my brothers were. Like my father.

My folks made me perform practically from the day I could stand up. I whistled tunes and took the cap around the saloon while they did the songs and skits.

How old?

Four? Honestly, I don’t know.

I bet you were darling.

Difficult to leave it behind, though. Incredible she managed it after all those years—such success, such an ingrained way of life. She must have hated it.

She did. It was why she left, but not why she got so angry. I thought so at the time, but now . . .

Mortimer frowns. What else happened?

Rosemary broke Isabella’s heart . . . and then Isabella died. I have come to realize my twin hates her even more for that.

Guilt is a sickness, it can kill you. What about you? You could have given up this game years ago, enjoyed comfort and respectability.

There is wickedness as Florence makes her answer. But I settled for you, didn’t I?

Florence’s first marriage was adequate in many aspects, except for her husband’s habit of beating her. After this experience she resisted overtures from a number of bachelors and spurned two proposals. Then it dawned on her that Mortimer Solomon-Black, her trusted business associate, was also pursuing her. He did not press the matter—or rather, pressed it lightly, indirectly, deferred his own gratification. She kept him at arm’s length for several years, insisting she would never remarry, while always keeping him near at hand. Out of pity maybe, out of grace for his tortured heart, and somewhat against her better judgment, the wedding came to pass, in a green haze like the one surrounding them now. How startling to discover marriage to Mortimer had an unexpected recreational quality.