The Language of Paradise: A Novel (31 page)

Slipping and sliding, they struggled up an ice-crusted path, planting their feet in ruts etched in another season by wagon wheels. Even Leander was winded when they reached the top. “Well worth the effort,” he gasped. “But why here, of all places? Why not in Concord? Or Boston?” He grinned at Gideon. “I love a mystery, don’t you?”

They circled around the perimeter, marveling at details of construction and the quality of the work. However improbable its setting, the house had been built to last. The frame was solid and looked to be complete, but along one side they discovered the skeleton of a porch, stretching across the width of the façade. Its floor had been laid, the boards patchily visible under a thin carpet of snow; a couple of rocks served as makeshift stairs, and its roof was only a promise, the beams widely spaced, open to the weather.

“A veranda! Our mysterious builder must have fancied himself the master of a fine plantation in the north country,” Leander said. “Can’t you just see him in his rocking chair with a cheroot in one hand and a glass of hard cider in the other, contemplating his domain?”

Gideon gazed at the cleared land sloping into tiers of trees, and in the distance, on another plane but not as remote as he had feared, the village. He saw someone else entirely.

“Not ‘veranda.’
Piazzer
,” he corrected, skimming over the
z
’s, mimicking Caroline’s nasal, Yankee-inflected Italian. “This must be the house James was building for his fiancée. She was forever nattering about her grand porch, driving poor James mad with her demands. He worked on this place every spare minute he had—even at night, if there was a full moon—but I had no idea how close he’d come to finishing. I’m ashamed to say I never helped him, though all the others did. When he spoke of it, it was always ‘half-built.’” He paused. “After she left, he used to spend days there. But now he won’t go near it.”

“Ah, yes. The tragedy.”

Gideon had informed Leander of James’s history weeks ago, aiming to forestall awkward moments at the dinner table. Now he judged from his friend’s thoughtful expression that Leander must be as moved by the poignancy of the snow-covered porch as he was. The very landscape seemed to be suffused with elegiac sorrow: the anguish of lost love hallowed by the stately descent of the afternoon sun. He was startled when Leander clapped his hands, as though summoning a groggy student to attention.

“Well! Shall we avail ourselves of James’s hospitality
in absentia
, and cross over the threshold as the avaricious young lady did not? I don’t know about you, but I could use a little refreshment.”

Gideon stared. “You can’t mean that we should break in.”

“Ought such a vulgar term apply? Strangers break in. Friends and family
visit
.” Leander sighed. “We put such faith in barriers in this country. I suppose we inherit that tendency from our English forebears. In the warmer climes, a weary traveler can knock on any door and be feted like the Prodigal Son. I remember one evening in Napoli . . .” He rambled on, as he crossed the porch and tested his weight against the planks that blocked the entrance. “This is firmer than it looks, but if I can loosen the nails with my knife, I think we can pull it free.”

The room they found themselves in echoed the length of the porch; a fireplace, naked without a mantel, presided over its elegant sweep. James had done a thorough job of sealing the house: once the planks had been propped back in place, the space was snug, if not warm. A thin, sweet reek of resin hung in the air. Gideon blinked as his eyes adjusted to the muted light. He thought he could sleep where he stood.

“I see you’re as tired as I am,” Leander said. “Let’s rest first and look around later. Over here, by the hearth.” He brushed sawdust away with his foot and waited for Gideon to sit before dropping down beside him. “With a little help we’ll soon conjure a roaring fire.” He reached under his coat and brought up a flask, passing it to his companion. “You may find it strong at first, but it is wonderfully warming in the belly.”

Gideon was not used to drinking from a flask. He put his head back, took a large swallow, and choked. The Hedges’ cordials were mild as milk compared to this; the liquor seared his throat and burned all the way down. Leander took the flask from him while he was still coughing, swigged, and passed it back. The gesture was so comradely that Gideon drank, and drank again, stoked by a dawning wonder. This is what men do, he thought. This is what it is to have a friend.

After finishing off the last few drops, Leander produced a cloth-wrapped hunk of bread and cheese, which he sliced deftly on his palm. He was no prophet, he insisted: only a seasoned traveler who never set off on a journey without carrying provisions on his person. “Now,” he said, “I am ready to listen.”

A childlike comfort stole over Gideon. His limbs were loose; honey dripped, slow and sweet, in his veins. Leander was right, as he always seemed to be. The fiery liquor had banked to mellow warmth inside him. He chewed his bread and cheese, debating which trouble he should launch into first. The words that burst out of him seemed to have nothing to do with his present state of well-being.

“I am a miserable failure as a husband,” he said.

“Such a statement! You damn yourself and dismiss your partner, all in one blow. When I look at Sophia, I see a woman whose affections run deep and steady, though in a narrow bed. She is perhaps overcautious in her expression—a pastor’s daughter, after all—but I have no doubt she feels more than she is free to reveal.” Leander wiped his hands with the cloth and put it back in his pocket. “Of course, I haven’t seen the whole of her. I’ve done my best to win her trust, but she keeps her reserve around me.”

“I wish you could know her as she was when I first met her,” Gideon said, “dancing in the meadow when she thought no one was watching. Her freedom enchanted me. I thought I was spying on a woodland sprite—so rare is it to find a true child of nature. There was an innocence about her, a frankness . . .” His eyes stung with tears again, and this time he couldn’t hold them back; his emotions surged, too profuse to be contained. “If she had married a man who could love her properly, she might still be that joyful girl.”

Leander moved closer and covered Gideon’s hand with his own. “We tread in delicate territory, my friend. I wouldn’t pry for the world, but I want you to know that you can tell me anything. If it is a matter of, shall we say, mechanics, many men have such problems. You have only to avail yourself of a few simple techniques. In the East, poets write manuals on the art of love. Here, in the Vale of Righteousness, marriages founder for lack of a little knowledge.”

“It is not . . . mechanics.” Gideon’s pride overcame his sorrow. “I don’t claim expertise, but whatever I—we—do seems to make her happy. The trouble is in me. I try to share Sophy’s rapture, but the worst of it is that each time we join, I feel less for her.” He turned away from Leander’s level gaze to focus on a pile of planks stacked in a corner. “I saw a girl in a blue dress dancing for her own pleasure, and I wanted her—more than I have ever wanted anything in this world. Even now, when we’re intimate, I close my eyes to the woman in my arms and think of that girl. It may be that I’m only capable of loving from afar.”

“Earth and air,” Leander murmured. “The elements meet, but do not blend. How should they combine?” His face went slack.

Gideon felt the withdrawal of the other man’s attention, with some relief. The effect of the liquor had lifted slightly; he was already wondering if he’d said too much. His eyelids had begun to droop when Leander’s booming voice brought him back.

“How else should a visionary love, but from afar? It’s your nature to take the long view, you cannot change it. I don’t believe you two are mismatched. When I saw you sitting side by side, I knew you were paired for a reason. The qualities that beguiled you are still there. But Sophy stands outside your vision now; she is knocking at the door and you’ve shut it in her face. You must expand your vision to include her. Imbue her with the passion that is in you.”

Leander had been speaking with great energy, waving his hands about and spreading them wide to illustrate his point. Now he seemed to contract to a cylinder of intensity. “She is necessary, if anything is to happen. Don’t you find it curious that the Bible tells us Adam is made of earth when it is woman who is the ground of all being? She is the one who receives the seed and grows it in her body. Without her, a vision is only an aimless fancy.”

“I don’t see how an infant will help me to realize my vision,” Gideon said, “whatever form that might take. It will just be another responsibility, and I can’t manage the ones I have.”

Leander banished all impediments with another wave of his hand. “This is not the time to be timid,” he said. “You and I have met! Our Eve is ripe and waiting! If we’re to carve out a new kingdom, we must have as much audacity as pharoahs and kings and Holy Roman emperors.”

Gideon was struck dumb. Pharoahs and emperors? New kingdom? Leander’s thigh had relaxed against his, but he felt powerless to move, helplessly aware that he was alone with a very large man in an isolated place. His mother had told him to be calm and slowly inch away should he ever have the misfortune to encounter a lunatic. For several heartbeats, that warning, and the fear that he would never find his way back to the village alone, were the only coherent thoughts in his mind. Then he remembered his thesis. He had given it to Leander weeks ago, and had been intending to ask him if he’d finished it. The section dealing with the sequestered infants had been marked.

“You can’t mean . . .” he said again.

“Did you think we would play with words forever? Spend our dotage sniffing out buried roots like the good Reverend? Why not take up coin collecting or spaniel breeding? Nice tame occupations for the seer who does not see.” Leander was drawling, tossing the words away. “I could teach you more about the spirit of the letters. Introduce you to their numerical equivalents, initiate you into their mysteries. But it would take years, and the results would not be certain. I traveled the world seeking out the masters, studied till my brain ached, meditated till the top of my head opened, and what have I to show for it? A few tricks to amuse my students. Even the holy men sometimes fail to gain access, and few stay in that hallowed realm for long. No, my friend, if we are to live in the land you covet, we will have to re-create it ourselves. And a little child shall lead us.”

Gideon reached for the flask, though he knew it was empty. “You’re not suggesting that I make a child for the sole purpose of experimenting on it. Only a madman could be so cold.”

“I see I’m rushing you again,” Leander said. “I agree—it’s too soon to think in such grandiose terms. We must proceed confidently, one step at a time. For now, your only concern should be to renew your courtship—and with such a charming object, I can’t think it will be very difficult. Use your wits, my friend. Sprites are shy of men. They must be lured. When you approach Sophia, try to look beyond the construct that society calls a ‘wife.’ The word evokes those dreadful iron maidens that compress a woman’s waist to a size nature never intended. Imagine that you are loosening the laces, one by one, releasing her from matronly armor. Perhaps . . . perhaps the marks of the boned stays are still imprinted on her delicate ribcage. Her white throat arches, her bosom expands.” He touches his chest. “Two dear little birds are released to the air. She takes a full, free breath, her first in hours, a wild creature restored—and looks to you, her liberator.”

Leander’s voice had lulled, but now his tone turned crisp. “I suggest you give some thought to what the French call
ambiance
. Do you and Sophia have a retreat, a sanctuary that evokes thoughts of love? Women are more attuned to their surroundings than we are. Our mother Eve was the first to occupy that small red room, you know, when she was only a rib under Adam’s heart.”

“She used to come to the study every night. It was quite a little home for us, the only private place we had.” Gideon could barely hear himself for the blood drumming in his ears.

“And she feels that I’ve displaced her. No wonder she is cold to me. What a cloddish old bachelor I am. You can be sure I’ll be more discreet in the future.”

He stood, vigorously slapping at his seat and the back of his thighs, as if to shake off any traces of regret with the clinging sawdust. “Shall we explore the rest of the house while we still have some light? Now I would guess that this imposing room was intended for a
grand salon
, or a banquet hall. Can’t you see Miss Caroline admiring her
piazzer
as she picks at her dainties?”

CHAPTER 26

____

HABITATION FOR GHOSTS

S
OPHY IS NOT SUPERSTITIOUS, BUT THIS AFTERNOON SHE TAKES
the jade rabbit out of her ring box for the first time since Leander gave it to her. She keeps the box in a corner of her bureau drawer, tucked under her linens. Leander’s other offerings have been trussed up in a handkerchief in the opposite corner. A turkey feather, a red-and-gold button, a flat white stone, a speckled bird’s egg—they simply appear at her place at the table or on top of a book she is reading. She never acknowledges the gifts and doesn’t want to look at them; yet she can’t quite toss them out. Hiding them seems the best solution.