The Book of Illumination (2 page)

In it, a man had gotten sick on a trip and had found himself completely at the mercy of strangers. As his homebound plane cleared the clouds, the sparkling lights of his city came into view: lining the streets and lighting the hospitals and the pools, the ball fields and bridges. Seeing them, he was overcome by tenderness at all the things people come together to do with, and for, one another.

The Athenaeum was only a few blocks away and I was early, so I took my time walking up Park Street. As usual, a van from one of the local TV affiliates was parked within sight of the golden dome, and a reporter I recognized was interviewing a cluster of protesters on the State House steps. It was a scruffy bunch and none too well organized, judging from the size and illegibility of their signs. I hazarded a guess: the legalize pot lobby.

Sylvia must have been watching for me, because the front door of the Athenaeum opened before I even had a chance to scan the granite for a doorbell.

“Thanks for coming, Anza,” said Sylvia quietly.

“That’s okay.”

I stepped inside and she locked the door behind us, then proceeded to an alarm panel in the adjoining coatroom and punched in a code. Six years’ time and gainful employment had done little to dispel her timid and furtive air. She was dressed in fawn wool slacks, a pale pink turtleneck, and a beige cardigan. I couldn’t be sure, but I would have bet she had a couple of crumpled Kleenexes tucked up her sleeve.

We stood awkwardly for a moment before she said, as though asking my permission, “We could go to my office?”

“Sure.”

She attempted a smile, then led me through a succession of rooms right out of
Masterpiece Theatre
, rooms lined with marble statues and gilded portraits, leather wing chairs and highly buffed mahogany tables.

“Have you been here before?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“I could give you a tour,” she offered. Anything to delay the conversation we were about to have.

“Maybe later,” I said.

“It’s beautiful.” Her tiny office was painted a pearly sage, and two tall windows offered a view of the old Granary Burying Ground and King’s Chapel.

“Thanks. This whole floor was a painting studio, lit by skylights. They added on the fourth and fifth floors in the 1900s.”

I walked to the windows and gazed out, feeling centuries away from the cheerful throngs on the common.

“How long have you worked here?” I asked. I crossed the room and sat down in a wooden armchair by her desk.

“A few months. It’s not permanent; at least not yet.”

My ears pricked up. I could
really
see myself in this office. “What do you mean?”

Sylvia didn’t sit at her desk, choosing instead one of two upholstered chairs that formed what decorators call a “conversation area.” I wasn’t sure if I should move, but she patted the seat beside her, in a curiously personal gesture that made me feel like a cat or a two-year-old. I hopped up obediently and toddled over.

“I was working for John Winslow,” she said.

“Winslow, as in Winslow Paper?”

“And the Winslow Building at Mass. General, the Winslow gym at Harvard …”

“The Winslow Room at the MFA?” I asked.

She nodded. “He died in January. His collection came here and I came with it. I was restoring about forty volumes, and he left a fund in place for me to finish the job. Once his kids donated the books, it just made sense for me to work out of the bindery here.”

“What’s in the collection?” I asked.

Her smile became conspiratorial. “Daniell’s
Oriental Scenery
, for starters.”

“No!”

She smiled, with a hint of satisfaction in her eyes. “Gabriel Lory’s
Swiss Illustrations
, Gould and Elliot plates.”

I caught my breath. “Plants or birds?”

“Both!” A little color had come to her cheeks. For book geeks like Sylvia and me, these were emeralds and rubies. She paused, savoring the moment. She pulled her chair a little closer and leaned in.

“And something else,” she whispered, her gaze meeting mine full-on for the first time, as though she was trying to decide whether she could really trust me with what she was about to reveal.

I waited for her to go on, but instead, she sat back. “You’ll think I’m crazy.”

“No, I won’t.”

She didn’t seem convinced. “Look,” I said, “I’m the one who talks to ghosts!”

She laughed and I saw her relax a little. There was another long pause before she spoke.

“Finny bought it in the sixties. In Switzerland.”

“Who’s Finny?” I asked.

“Oh, sorry—Mr. Winslow. His middle name was Phineas; he went by Finny.”

I nodded.

“An illuminated manuscript,” she continued.

This got my attention. These manuscripts dated from the Middle Ages and had been calligraphed and painted by monks in scriptoriums on the skin of calves, sheep, or goats. Most were religious, many were painted with real gold, and all were priceless.

“We think it might be the Book of Kildare,” she whispered.

I stared at her. She
was
crazy. She had to be. The Book of Kildare, said to be the most splendid illustration of the Gospels ever produced, was created in the twelfth century by monks at Kildare Abbey, founded by Saint Brigid in County Kildare, Ireland. Reputed to be even more magnificent than the legendary Book of Kells, it disappeared during the Reformation and was never seen again.

“What makes you think …?”

“A few things,” she answered. “We were in touch with some art historians at Yale and The Cloisters. They led us to the writings of a medieval ecclesiastic called Gerald of Wales. He saw the manuscript before it disappeared and wrote about it in detail. He described some pretty unusual images.”

“Such as?”

“A snake devouring a lion cub. An eagle wearing a bloody crown. Pages that look like oriental carpets, with intricate coils and knots.”

“How many of the things he described are in your book?”

“All of them.”

“Wow,” I whispered.

She nodded, scanning my face. “We were so close to proving it. We only had to verify a few more details. Hardly anyone knew about it, because if word got out too early, before we’d really built an airtight case, well, you know how it goes with the art establishment.”

She was giving me way too much credit. I had no idea how it went with the art establishment.

“You read about that Caravaggio,” she prompted, apparently assuming that I just needed to be reminded of how much I actually knew. “The one in that monastery?”

I dimly recalled an article in
The New Yorker
, years ago.

“The
experts
don’t like
amateurs
claiming to have discovered long-lost treasures,” she explained.

“Why not?”

“They spend their lives hoping to make those headlines. And God help you if you poke your nose in before you’ve got absolute proof. They’ll pick you apart. Besides, if the manuscript really is what we—”

She broke off. There was no more “we.”

“What it appears to be, Finny wanted the right thing done with it.”

“What would that be?”

“I’m not sure.”

I nodded. We sat quietly for a few moments.

“Does anyone else know about it?” I finally asked.

“Only Sam, Sam Blake. He ran the bindery here for forty years. He retired in August.”

“You felt you could trust him?”

“Oh, completely.” She smiled. “Sam’s life is books. I was nervous about the manuscript being here in the bindery, so he kept it at his place with his own collection, in this little room he’s outfitted for climate and humidity control. He made me take it back here when he retired, though.”

“Where is it now?” I whispered.

“Downstairs.”

“On the
shelves?”
I dearly hoped not.

She shook her head. “I’ve hidden it. In the bindery.”

“Didn’t they inventory the collection when they took possession?”

“I made a false cover.” Her eyes were shining brightly. “For all intents and purposes, there
is
no illuminated manuscript. There’s just a newly rebound second edition of Hoeffler’s
Mysterium Musicum.”

Well, well. Furtive, yes. Timid, no.

“But why?”

“Because I promised Finny I’d see it through. Tad would probably have sold it to the highest bidder, and that’s not what Finny wanted.”

“I take it Tad’s his son.”

“Son, and executor. Finny also had two daughters, Josie and Esther. Josie’s all right. As long as she can go to Kripalu and Aspen, she doesn’t really care what Tad does. But she would never stand up to her brother. Esther I like. She’s much younger than the other two. She’s a sculptor in the Berkshires.”

“Is Finny’s wife still alive?”

“She died a long time ago.”

Neither of us spoke for a few moments. The sun had shifted, and it suddenly felt much later in the day.

“This may be a stupid question,” I finally said. “But why didn’t Finny just leave the book to you?”

She appeared surprised, then smiled sadly and shook her head. “Oh, no, he wouldn’t have done that. He didn’t feel that anyone should own it—not me, not his kids, not even him. He felt it belonged to the world. Besides, he died very suddenly. He’d been sick for a while, but in the end, he went in two days.”

No doubt this was all true, but I had a nagging sense that if Finny had felt for Sylvia what she so obviously felt for him, he might have entrusted her with the disposition of the book. Time might tell if my hunch was correct.

“So,” I said, changing the subject. “You heard about me through Marcella.”

She nodded.

“What did she tell you?”

She shifted nervously and couldn’t seem to meet my gaze.

“That I can see ghosts? And talk to them?”

She looked up sharply. “Is it true?”

“It is.”

“How did you …When did you …?”She faltered helplessly.

Oh, good. She wasn’t going to put me through the usual tests. Though that sometimes comes later.

“My grandmother basically raised me. My mom died when I was a baby and my dad had all he could do to keep track of my two brothers. So I spent a lot of time with Nona. One day, when I was four, she overheard me talking to someone in the next room. She came in to see who it was, but there was nobody there. Just me. She asked me who I’d been talking to, and I told her he said his name was Vinny and his dog’s name was Lola and he came from Italy.

“She sat down and started to cry. She knew who it was, or rather whose
spirit
it was—that of Vinny Sottosanto, a boy she’d been in love with but wasn’t allowed to marry. Her cousin called her an hour later, but Nona already knew—Vinny had died of a stroke. What broke her heart was, he could have come to her, talked to her.”

“Your grandmother can … do this, too?”

I nodded. “She was so upset. She knew he had seen her as an old woman, but he hadn’t wanted her to see him as an old man. He broke her heart all over again.”

“So he just … flew over the ocean?” Sylvia asked softly. She wasn’t being snarky, just struggling to understand.

“Spirits can do that after they die.”

She stood up. She crossed the room to the window and struggled to open it. She flipped on a table lamp, then turned and sat down on the windowsill, searching my face.

“I know it’s a lot to take in,” I said.

“No, no.”

I proceeded gently. Some people find this to be terrifying, and I can understand why. But for me, it’s normal. Ghosts are just another category of people, with the same quirks and qualities they possessed in life.

“Some people aren’t quite ready to leave. When they die.”

“Like who?” she asked.

“Oh, parents of small children. Victims of crime, especially murder victims. They want their murderers caught. People get really attached—to places, to objects, to other people—and they just can’t give them up. But if they hang around too long, then they
can’t
leave. It’s like they’re
stuck
. Sometimes I can help them.”

“Leave?” She was pale.

“Deal with what’s keeping them from leaving.”

“Where do they go? When they ‘leave’?”

“That I couldn’t tell you.”