Irish Gilt (3 page)

Clare was unconvinced. “However much he admired those who sought it, he laments their greed.”

Kittock nodded. “Cupidity was his favorite word. The later popular account is even more moralizing. That was a screen.”

“I think the gold bug has bit you.”

But it was Cupid rather than cupidity that had come to his aid with Clare. The first time he tugged her to him, she had come easily into his arms.

“I can't believe you never married,” he said.

“Neither did you.”

“The navy kept me busy, and a war or two.”

“Maybe I've been waiting.”

If she had been, it must have been for Boris. Her boss was a widower, and she was his good right arm; she was a very attractive woman, and Boris, after all, was a man. But apparently nothing had happened. Was there an undercurrent of resentment in Clare because of that? As their friendship deepened, it became clear to Kittock that her loyalty to Boris Henry did in fact have bounds. Perhaps Kittock would marry Clare. For the moment, he seemed to be using her. Their alliance was sealed when she called to tell him about Boris's great find in Washington, the South American travel diary of John Zahm.

Kittock had flown from his home in Florida to Kansas City and exulted with his old roommate in his find. “Let me see it.”

“Maybe later.”

Later never came, and this had fueled Kittock's hunch. Perhaps the two of them, he and Clare, could become partners in the venture.

“He hasn't a cent to invest,” Clare said.

“He has the diary.”

“Yes.”

“Have you looked at it?”

She dipped her chin. “No.”

“Don't you have access to the rare book vault at the store?”

“It isn't there. It's in a safe-deposit box at his bank.”

Kittock knew a moment of panic. Had Boris been struck by the same epiphany he had? Kittock had on previous visits mentioned the expedition he had gone on.

“Sunken gold?” Boris had been skeptical.

“Some has been found.”

“Treasure Island,” Boris said dismissively. At the time he seemed to find the whole idea fantastic, but he could have had second thoughts. Now, his intention to visit Notre Dame on his return from Washington suggested that Boris had in mind a more immediate return on his investment. Investment! He had bought the box containing the diary for fifty dollars.

How had such a precious item ended up in such a box? Well, first, it hadn't been recognized as precious. As far as Kittock could guess, getting rid of the box along with many other things had been a result of the madness that had seized many religious houses after the Council. From Clare he had learned that many seminary libraries had ended up in bookstores all across the country, books gotten rid of with abandon on the assumption that nothing they contained was relevant anymore. Now, of course, there was a brisk trade in such items. Holy Cross College in Washington, where Zahm had lived after leaving Notre Dame in 1906 after his stormy term as provincial, was not exempt from this madness. After his death, many of Zahm's books would have ended up in the library there or in boxes consigned to the attic. Had anyone even opened the box before the auction? Actually, it had been called a garage sale.

After two days in the archives, it had been impossible to avoid the curiosity of Greg Walsh.

“If I knew what you were after, I could be of more help.” The archivist managed to stammer this out.

So Kittock told him a story. Walsh would know of Weber's life of Zahm. “It was originally his doctoral dissertation,” Kittock reminded him.

Walsh nodded. “It is a marvelous book.”

“I am thinking of a life of Zahm for kids,” Kittock told him.

The idea was prompted by an experience Kittock had had in the campus bookstore on a visit last fall. On game days, anything not nailed down could be sold to the visiting fans. At a table in the hallway, a woman author was signing copies of her book. Kittock drew near. He looked over the shoulder of a lady who had just purchased the book. Book! The pages were of thick cardboard, perhaps a dozen in all. There was a Notre Dame slogan on each illustrated page. It might have been the product of a few days' work, and here it was, selling like popcorn. Kittock wandered away, brooding.

Walsh seemed to find the idea of a life of Zahm for young adults plausible. “Good luck with it.”

“Kids would be particularly fascinated by his accounts of El Dorado.”

Walsh couldn't agree more. “There are letters, too, you know.”

Kittock wished he had thought of the excuse of a book earlier. Walsh proved very helpful now that he knew what sort of thing Kittock was after. Letters written from South America to Zahm's brother Albert seemed to contain hints of what Kittock was sure would be found in the diary.

*   *   *

He went to Grace Hall for lunch and was seated at an outdoor table pretending that spring had come when Greg Walsh joined him.

“Okay?”

“Sure. Of course.” Kittock was not pleased. He ate lunch here most days and had come to believe that his interest in one of the waitresses was returned.

Walsh seemed to speak more easily if he did so while chewing. It was the first thing approaching a conversation Kittock had ever had with the archivist. He was telling Kittock that Roger Knight was giving a course on Zahm.

“Really?”

“A crowded field. Do you know a man named Boris Henry?”

Kittock looked warily at the masticating archivist. “Why do you ask?”

“Another Zahm enthusiast.”

“Why do you say that?”

Because Boris Henry had called the archives, asking after the Zahm holdings. “He's coming this afternoon. You can meet him.”

“We were roommates.”

Thank God for the warning. Back at the archives, Kittock gathered his materials and took the stairway to the main floor, not wanting to risk running into Henry in the elevator. Outside, he took a circuitous route to his car. He thought of going to the Grotto and lighting another candle. To fend off evil.

5

Boris Henry had married well, the daughter of a senior partner—an equivocal blessing, since this seemed to lock him forever into the dull work of the law.

Max Munson had looked over his prospective son-in-law with controlled enthusiasm. “School?”

“Notre Dame.”

The frown disappeared and Munson beamed. That had been the open sesame. Dorothy, too, had gone to school in South Bend, but she and Boris had not known one another as students. They had met at a tennis club in Kansas City. The Munsons had the kind of lifestyle to which Boris aspired, and the dreariness of the law seemed the way to it. Marrying the daughter of a senior partner might speed up the process, of course, but that had not entered Boris's mind, at least consciously. He had examined his conscience on the matter many times, particularly after the private plane in which Dorothy and her father were flying crashed in the Kansas hills. Grief and anguish gave way to astonishment when the wills were read. Suddenly he was affluent.

He submitted his resignation from the firm, but this was refused. “Give it time,” he was advised. “The wounds will heal; life must go on.”

Boris had already made preliminary inquiries about buying out the proprietor of an antiquarian bookstore that occupied the ground floor of a downtown building. A year before, he had agonized about making a purchase there; now he was bidding for the whole business.

That had been fifteen years ago, and during that time the rare book business had changed dramatically. Boris Henry Rare Books now had a Web site, which effortlessly brought in both business and opportunities for acquisition. His stock was entered on a national database that consolidated the wares of hundreds of dealers across the country. While Boris still affected condescension toward the computer and the electronic revolution, in his heart of hearts he acknowledged that without such advances his business would be far more onerous than it was. It had become a pleasant, lucrative hobby that made few unwelcome demands on his time.

Clerks came and went, in the manner of clerks, but the principle of stability was Clare Healy. Once Clare would have been classified as a spinster; now she could be regarded as an independent woman. This was, of course, an illusion. She was a willing indentured servant to Boris, bearing the full brunt of the day-to-day details of the business. Where do such women come from? Businesses have them, and universities, too, unmarried women who devote themselves to their jobs so far beyond the call of duty that no salary could begin to compensate them for the work they do.

Had Clare entertained the thought that their relationship might rise above mere business? Boris certainly had. In the early years of her employment, Boris had taken her along on several business trips, and there had been a moment in New Orleans when, flush with wine and the exotic pull of the city, they came very close to becoming lovers. Ironically, it was the wine that saved Boris. Like Dr. Johnson, he found total abstinence less difficult than moderation in drinking. At a heightened moment, sitting in Clara's room, reviewing the exciting day, he had simply fallen asleep. On such contingencies does virtue depend.

He awoke to find that Clara had covered him with a blanket, leaving him in his chair. She was in bed asleep. He crept off to his room, and neither of them ever alluded to how closely they had fluttered to the flame. In the morning, Boris realized that he could never get along without Clara as manager of the business. Even a discreet affair would jeopardize that. From that time on, any overt affection between them was that of brother and sister.

It was Clare who had suggested making Notre Dame books and memorabilia a subset of their offerings. Boris, who had been a wannabe jock in South Bend—this a kind of mask of his wide-ranging intellectual curiosity—had never been personally in the grip of the kind of sentimental loyalty that characterizes so many Notre Dame graduates. Clare's suggestion had taught him how real that continuing interest in their alma mater was to the men and women who had spent four years at Notre Dame, years they invariably claimed were the best of their lives. Under the influence of this sentiment in others, Boris began to acquaint himself with his growing collection of Notre Dame items, and he read Weber's life of John Zahm. Inevitably, books about Notre Dame sports were well represented in his holdings, but it was the history of the university proper that began to interest Boris. He had been a resident of Zahm Hall as an undergraduate but had no curiosity about the Holy Cross priest after whom it was named. The biography opened his eyes.

The writings of Zahm himself were many and various. He had been philosopher and scientist; he began what would develop into the impressive Dante collection at Notre Dame. He had become embroiled in the early disputes over evolution, and he had written about women in science and about women who had inspired great men. But it was Zahm's surprising friendship with Teddy Roosevelt that captured Boris's imagination. Accounts of the journeys the priest and president had taken together intrigued him, particularly those to South America. He remembered Eggs Kittock's account of an expedition in which he had invested. A fantasy formed in his mind, fueled by the character flaw that he had imperfectly concealed from Clare. Boris Henry was a gambler. Casinos near and far drew him as nectar draws the bee. The money he had inherited had financed his book business, and thanks to its success and Clare's stewardship, that business had remained sequestered from his disastrous gambling habit.

An auction in Washington had caught Clare's eye, and when she told Boris why, he went with her. The random lot they were after stressed the printed volumes, some books in which the owner had inscribed his name. John A. Zahm, CSC. Those autographs would have justified buying the lot. They had it shipped back to Kansas City. Some days later, Clare called him and told him to come to the store. There was excitement in her voice. No wonder. At the bottom of the box that contained the books they had gone east for were loose papers and a manuscript tied with a ribbon that disintegrated as Clare attempted to untie it. It was the manuscript of
Up the Orinoco and Down the Magdalena,
the first volume of the two Zahm had written on the conquistadores. Clare looked at him and he looked at Clare. Things like this happened in the book business, but never before to Boris Henry.

“Don't enter it in our catalog,” he told her.

“Why not?”

“I think Notre Dame will be interested in buying this.”

There was more: Zahm's travel diary on which the books had been based. Boris felt that he had successfully drawn to an inside straight.

The last thing gambling is about is money, however necessary money is to its practice. To gamble is seemingly to take great risks in order to win, but that is only seeming. It is the risk that is the attraction. Winnings when they come never satisfy, save insofar as they provide the basis for further risks. One does not have to be a mathematician to know that eventually every gambler is on the path to penury. While still a young man, Boris had found himself in a financial position that would have permitted him to live a life of leisure. The fact now was that if it were not for his book business, he would be in a very parlous condition indeed. The fantasy he had formed when reading of Zahm's travels south of the border suggested a way out of his difficulties that would leave Boris Henry Rare Books untouched. So it was that he flew off to South Bend.

6

If there was a worm in the apple of Roger Knight's general contentment, it was the thought that his brother, Philip, was sacrificing his life for him. After their parents had died, Phil had taken responsibility for Roger. He had provided advice and support during the difficult days before it was established that Roger was a genius and not an idiot. After graduate school, Roger's doctorate proved no guarantee of an academic position; a three-hundred-pound genius was scant competition for the more conventional applicants. He drifted into the navy, his enlistment the joke of a recruiter about to be discharged. In boot camp, Roger lost weight, but not so much that he did not float successfully across the pool to qualify as a swimmer. Agility was never to be his. In the end, he was allowed to while away his days in the base library.