Illuminated (3 page)

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Authors: Erica Orloff

BOOK: Illuminated
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“My father didn’t sleep last night, he was so excited.”
“I’m not sure if Harry did, either.”
“What about you?” He looked at me playfully.
Was he flirting with me? Guys never did this with brainy girls. I was on track to be valedictorian. My average was a 4.3. I was going to kill Uncle Harry. I tried to think of a snappy comeback, but settled on the very lame, “I slept fine. Well, except for waking up at six when I could have slept in.”
“I’m a vampire myself.”
“Really?” I smiled at him. “Should I be worried?”
Okay, not a bad line.
“No. I promise not to bite. But I will stay up all night and sleep all morning. Today was an exception—the palimpsest and all.”
“So you know all about them?”
“Yeah. But you don’t get to see one often. But I took you out here to escape boring book talk. All right, change of subject. Are you visiting, or do you live in New York?”
“Visiting. I spend every summer here. My dad and I live in Boston. What about you?”
“I was born here. In this house, actually. My mother did this weird bathtub birth.”
“Really?” I raised one eyebrow. I was quite positive that if I ever had a baby when I got married, I was going to ask for all the drugs the doctors would give me.
“Yeah. Born in the upstairs bathtub. My mother had two friends chanting, a midwife named Heavenly and my poor dad, who just wanted me born in a regular hospital. So yeah, I took my first breath in this house. Lived here my whole life, just like Dad. I take classes at NYU, work for my dad. He hopes I go into the family business.”
“Illuminated manuscripts?”
“Sort of. Manuscripts. First editions. Rare-book dealer.”
“The sign said ‘and sons.’ Do you have brothers?”
He shook his head. “My father is actually the ‘and sons.’ He and his brother went into the family business—that had been my grandfather’s. My uncle died ten years ago. So now it’s just my dad. And me. ‘And son.’ But I really want to be a writer. Write
new
books, not collect old ones.”
“But you’re his assistant.”
He nodded. “For now. I don’t know. I love the old books. But not the way he does. My father has his manuscripts.
This
is my passion,” August said. He folded his arms across his chest and smiled as he gazed across the gardens. “I write over there.” He gestured to a wooden table with a MacBook on it.
“It’s beautiful. Did you really plant all this, make this garden?”
“Sort of. My grandmother kept a garden, but it was neglected over the years. I guess I’ve just brought it back to life. I like being outside. Since my father won’t leave the house, I had to sort of make my own vacation spot. Right here.”
“Will he at least come out here?”
August shook his head.
I walked to the aviary, which was filled with birds as jewel-colored as the flowers. “They’re gorgeous. What kind of birds are they?”
The birds didn’t sing so much as titter. One landed on a branch near me, its feathers turquoise, emerald, and ruby-colored.
“They’re Gouldian finches,” August said. “From Australia.”
“But what about those?” I pointed to plain brown ones. They weren’t nearly as exotic.
In a quiet voice, he said, “Gouldians aren’t usually very good parents. So the society finches step in and raise the hatchlings. They’re like finch nannies.”
“Sounds like me. I had a nanny until I started high school. And even then, I had to beg not to have one.”
August looked at me. “Ah, we have more in common than a palimpsest. Me, too. My Gouldian mother flew the coop when I was ten. Divorced my dad.”
“So where’s your mother now?”
“California. She couldn’t handle Dad’s eccentricities. Or motherhood, for that matter. Bathtub birth aside, after that, she wanted to ‘find herself.’” He did the air-quote thing.
“And your dad . . . does it bother you . . .” I trailed off. I didn’t want to seem nosy. But
never
leaving the house?
He shook his head. “He’s brilliant, you know. And that’s just how he is. I guess I don’t know him any other way. So I don’t miss him being something else. What about your family?”
I nodded and pointed at a bird with an azure-crested chest. “My dad is the Gouldian then. My mom . . . she died when I was in kindergarten. So it’s my uncle Harry who’s like that one,” I pointed to a bird preening a baby. “He’s the one who takes care of me. Even when I’m in Boston, we talk almost every day. We Skype. He flies or takes the train up every couple of weeks. I come down on weekends when I can.”
I watched the birds dart from nest to nest. “I like this better than manuscripts. My uncle—you should have
seen
him when the words showed up in the margins.”
“If it really is a palimpsest . . . it’s the find of a lifetime. You can’t blame them.”
I smiled at him. “No, I can’t. I don’t know if I have anything that I would feel that way over. Kind of like finding a treasure chest.”
“It is. That’s the part of Sokolov and Sons I like
a lot.
The mystery of it all. Who owned the books, where they came from. Stumbling on a rare first edition. It’s kind of like there’s a story in every book. The story inside the pages, and the story
of
the book. The books remind me of my father. To know him, you have to come into
his
world. To know a book, you have to enter it.”
I heard a splash behind us and turned around.
“Someone’s hungry.” August laughed.
“What?”
“Come over here.” August led me to a huge industrial barrel, cut in half, with water flowing into it like a waterfall.
“My koi pond. Manhattan style.”
I watched gold-speckled fat fish swim lazily, occasionally flicking their tails and changing direction. I touched my fingers to the cool water.
“If I had a garden like this, I would never leave it. I can’t believe your father won’t come out and enjoy it.”
“He looks at it from the doors sometimes. He’s proud of me, of what I did out here.”
A fish came up to the surface and seemed to kiss the air.
“That’s Zen. He’ll eat from your hand. He’s the splasher. Here.” August opened a plastic container and handed me a few pellets of fish food. I took one and held it down to the water, and Zen kissed my fingertips with a puckered movement and took it from me. I forgot, for a moment, that I was in Manhattan, the city I love that never sleeps and is always moving and making noise.
“I would sleep out here, if I could. It’s so peaceful.”
“Sometimes I do.” August pointed at a hammock. “Want to take a nap?” he asked playfully.
I flushed. “Um, I just had Starbucks. Not sleepy.” I bit my lip.
Smooth one, Callie.
Fumbling for a recovery, I said, “You look like your dad a lot.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“So . . . how did your dad get that way?” As soon as I asked, I felt bad. Maybe he didn’t like talking about it. “I’m sorry. I just meant afraid of leaving the house.”
“No, it’s okay. It’s nice you ask. I think, for him, he had a panic attack one day. In the middle of Washington Square Park. For no reason other than . . . he did. And then he had another when he and I were eating pizza at this place down the street. And then he had another. And another. And once in a classroom. In the middle of a lecture. And about the only place he
never
had a panic attack was home. With his books. And so he avoided the park and then the classroom, and then the bodega down the street . . . and little by little his world got smaller. Until now he’s kind of like my birds. Trapped in his world, but happy, in a way. He loves his life.”
“Doesn’t he ever wish he could come out here and smell the flowers?”
August shook his head. “No. He’s gotten used to how he is. He likes smelling old books. He likes Eau de Musty.”
I laughed. “But this is so perfect. Harry’s apartment has a balcony, and we have one measly fern that the three of us forget to water. Then I’ll remember and practically drown the poor thing. That’s about it. But this . . .”
“Well, anytime you want to visit and lie in the hammock . . . you’re welcome to come. And I promise, not one word about old books.”
“Thanks. Maybe I will.”
“One more thing to show you.” He led me to the little greenhouse. He opened the door, and humid air enveloped me like a wet kiss. We ducked inside, my head bowing at the low doorway. Once inside, there was a quiet hum of a fan, and the door was shut, leaving the greenhouse so hot that droplets of humidity clung to me. We had to stand close, almost touching, because the pagoda was so small.
“These are my orchids,” he whispered, facing me, my chest almost touching his. The air was fragrant, and I could smell the flowers, but could also smell August, his own scent that clung to him. For a long moment, we stared at each other. I thought he might kiss me, and the thought made me panic. I looked away first.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go see what Harry and my dad are up to.”
We left the greenhouse, the outside summer air feeling cool after the pagoda. I followed August into the house, reluctantly leaving the bird sounds and the koi. Reluctantly leaving a place where I was alone with him.
3
 
Is love so different from a shooting star, passing violently through the night sky?
—A.
 
 
“
A
ugust?” Professor Sokolov looked up when we returned. “Where did you disappear to?”
“Garden.”
“I needn’t have asked.” He looked at me. “What better way to impress our beautiful guest. But August, Callie, this is the discovery of a
lifetime.
We have work to do.”
“We?” I looked at Uncle Harry. My skin still felt damp from the greenhouse, and my heart still pounded from being so close to August. I wondered if Uncle Harry could hear it beating. If August knew how he affected me.
“Professor Sokolov is going to help me research the origins of the palimpsest. Which means August here will be doing the actual research. And I’m sending
you
to represent the Royal Auction House and me. You
are
a summer intern after all.”
“But why me? Why not you?” I asked. I was a gopher. I got coffee. I made sure Uncle Harry’s Starbucks was made perfectly—caramel macchiatto with soy milk, light on foam, two raw sugar packets. I made copies. I sent e-mails. I typed reports. I had a job at an impressive place to make my college applications look really good—the Royal Auction House was legendary. But I wasn’t a researcher. Though the prospect of treasure hunting with August meant my summer just got a whole lot more interesting.
“My job is to continue to discover just what this mysterious A. has to say. Yours is to follow the trail. I trust you.” He stared at me meaningfully. Like,
Why are you arguing when you get to be with August?
“Uh, what sort of work are we going to be doing?”
“When a manuscript is centuries old, it has passed through many hands. Remember when I said it had secrets?”
I nodded.
“It has a story, too. And we need to know that story.”
Dr. Sokolov pulled a book off of his shelf. “You see this volume? It is a book of poems by Walt Whitman. A first edition.” He handed it to me. “Open the front cover. Carefully.”
The cover was worn and tattered, a plain brown with gold foil letters proclaiming
Leaves of Grass.
The spine was stiff and the pages very brittle. “How old is it?”
“It was published in 1889,” August said. He stood to my side as I opened the book.
On the front page was an inscription. At the bottom was a name in ink . . . Walt Whitman.
“He signed this?” I asked.
Dr. Sokolov smiled. “That little book is worth about thirteen thousand dollars. But the path we traveled to discover it and certify that it was truly signed by Whitman . . . well, that path was almost as worn as the book.”
I felt a tingle rush through me. “It really is like a mystery, isn’t it?” I shut the book and held it out. “Please take it before I accidentally rip a page.” I flunked out of ballet class—gracefulness was
not
my thing, Audrey Hepburn little black dress aside.
August leaned close to me. “We trust you,” he teased.
Uncle Harry said, “It’s like unraveling a secret thread through time. You start with what you know: The book was brought in by a family wanting to sell the entire collection. They acquired the palimpsest from someone, somewhere. We need to find out who and where. You start unraveling through history.”
I looked over at my uncle. “I’ve never done anything like this.” I’d helped at the auction house, and I’d helped him at home, doing a little fact-checking. I’d gone to the New York City public library, the big stone lions out front greeting me, and combed the reference section, but finding out where the palimpsest was from? I looked at August.

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