Angelology

by Danielle Trussoni

  “Not directly,” Verlaine said, “but there might be something in the sequence that points to an address.”

  “Or coordinates on a map,” Saitou-san suggested.

  “But where?” Vladimir said, his brow furrowing as he thought of the possibilities. “There are hundreds of thousands of addresses in New York City.”

  “This is where I’m stumped,” Verlaine said. “Obviously these numbers must have been extremely important to Abigail Rockefeller, but there is no way to know how they’re to be used.”

  “What sort of information could be conveyed in eight numbers?” Saitou-san asked, as if running the possibilities through her mind.

  “Or, possibly, four two-digit numbers,” Bruno said, clearly amused by the dubiousness of the exercise.

  “And all the numbers are between twenty and forty,” Vladimir offered.

  “There must be more in the cards,” Saitou-san said. “These numbers are too random.”

  “To most people,” Gabriella said, “this would seem random. To Abigail Rockefeller, however, these numbers must have formed a logical order.”

  “Where did the Rockefellers live?” Evangeline asked Verlaine, knowing that this was his area of expertise. “Perhaps these numbers point to their address.”

  “They lived at a few different addresses in New York City,” Verlaine said. “But their West Fifty-fourth Street residence is known best. Eventually Abigail Rockefeller donated the site to the Museum of Modern Art.”

  “Fifty-four is not one of our numbers,” Bruno said.

  “Wait a moment,” Verlaine said. “I don’t know why I didn’t see this before. The Museum of Modern Art was one of Abigail Rockefeller’s most important endeavors. It was also one of the first in a series of public museums and monuments that she and her husband funded. The Museum of Modern Art was opened in 1928.”

  “Twenty-eight is the first number from the cards,” Gabriella said.

  “Exactly,” Verlaine said, his excitement growing. “The numbers two and eight from the lyre etching could point to this address.”

  “If that is the case,” Evangeline said, “there would have to be three other locations that match the three other lyre renderings.”

  “What are the remaining numbers?” Bruno asked.

  “Three and eight, three and zero, and three and nine,” Saitou-san replied.

  Gabriella leaned closer to Verlaine. “Is it possible,” she said, “that there is a correspondence?”

  Verlaine’s expression was one of intense concentration. “Actually,” he said at last. “The Cloisters, which was John D. Rockefeller Jr.’s great love, opened in 1938.”

  “And 1930?” Vladimir asked.

  “Riverside Church, which, to be honest, I have never found interesting, must have been completed around 1930.”

  “That leaves 1939,” Evangeline said, the anticipation of discovery making her so nervous she could hardly speak. “Did the Rockefellers build something in 1939?”

  Verlaine was silent, his brow furrowed, as if he were sifting the multitude of addresses and dates cataloged in his memory. Suddenly, he said, “As a matter of fact, they did. Rockefeller Center, their own Art Deco magnum opus, opened in 1939.”

  “The numbers communicated to Innocenta must refer to these locations,” Vladimir said.

  “Well done, Verlaine,” Saitou-san said, ruffling his mess of curls.

  The atmosphere in the room had shifted drastically to a buzz of restless anticipation. For her part, Evangeline could only stare at the cards in astonishment. They’d rested in a vault beneath her and the other unsuspecting sisters for more than fifty years.

  “However,” Gabriella said, breaking the spell, “the lyre can be in only one of these four locations.”

  “Then it will be most expedient if we divide into groups and search them all,” Vladimir said. “Verlaine and Gabriella will go to the Cloisters. It’ll be packed with tourists, so getting anything out of there will be a delicate procedure. I believe it best accomplished by one familiar with its conventions. Saitou-san and I will go to Riverside Church. And Evangeline and Bruno will go to the Museum of Modern Art.”

  “And Rockefeller Center?” Verlaine asked.

  Saitou-san said, “It’s impossible to do anything there today. It’s Christmas Eve, for God’s sake. The place will be a madhouse.”

  “I expect that’s why Abigail Rockefeller chose it,” Gabriella said. “The more difficult it is to access, the better.”

  Gabriella took the leather case holding the plectrum and the angelological notebook in hand. She gave each group the card associated with its location. “I can only hope the cards will assist us in finding the lyre.”

  “And if they do?” Bruno said. “What then?”

  “Ah, that is the great dilemma we face,” Vladimir said, running his fingers through his silver hair. “To preserve the lyre or to destroy it.”

  “Destroy it?” Verlaine cried. “From all that you’ve said, it’s obvious that the lyre is beautiful, precious beyond all reckoning.”

  “This instrument is not just another ancient artifact,” Bruno said. “It isn’t something that one might put on display at the Met. Its dangers far outweigh any historical importance it may have. There is no option but to destroy it.”

  “Or to hide it again,” Vladimir said. “There are numerous places in which we could secure it.”

  “We tried this in 1943, Vladimir,” Gabriella said. “It is plain that this method has failed. Preserving the lyre would imperil future generations, even in the most secure of hiding places. It must be destroyed. That much is clear. The real question is how.”

  “What do you mean?” Evangeline asked.

  Vladimir said, “It is one of the primary qualities of all celestial instruments: They were created by heaven and can be destroyed only by heaven’s creatures.”

  “I don’t understand,” Verlaine said.

  “Only celestial beings, or creatures with angelic blood, can destroy celestial matter,” Bruno said.

  “Including the Nephilim,” Gabriella said.

  “So if we wish to destroy the lyre,” Saitou-san said, “we must place it in the hands of the very creatures we wish to keep it from.”

  “A bit of a conundrum,” Bruno said.

  “So why hunt it down it at all?” Verlaine asked, dismayed. “Why bring something so important out of safety only to destroy it?”

  “There is no alternative,” Gabriella said. “We have the rare opportunity to take possession of the lyre. We will have to find a way to dispose of it once we recover it.

  “If we recover it,” Bruno added.

  “We are wasting time,” Saitou-san said, standing. “We will have to decide what to do with the lyre once we have it in our possession. We cannot risk the Nephilim’s discovery of it.”

  Looking at his watch, Vladimir said, “It is nearly three. We will meet at Rockefeller Center at exactly six. That gives us three hours to make contact, search the buildings, and reconvene. There can be no mistakes. Plan the quickest route possible. Speed and precision are absolutely necessary.”

  Leaving their chairs, they put on jackets and scarves, preparing to face the cold winter dusk. In a matter of seconds, the angelologists were ready to begin. As they walked toward the staircase, Gabriella turned to Evangeline. “In our haste we must not lose sight of the dangers of our work. I warn you—be very careful in your efforts. The Nephilim will be watching. Indeed, they have been waiting for this moment for a very long time. The instructions Abigail Rockefeller left us are the most precious papers you have ever touched. Once the Nephilim understand we’ve discovered them, they will attack without mercy.”

  “But how will they know?” Verlaine asked, coming to Evangeline’s side.

  Gabriella smiled a sad, significant smile. “My dear boy, they know exactly where we are. They have planted informants all over this city. At all times, in all places, they are waiting. Even now they are near, watching us. Please,” sh
e said, looking pointedly at Evangeline once more, “be careful.”

  Museum of Modern Art, New York City

  Evangeline pressed her hand to the brick wall running alongside West Fifty-fourth Street, the icy wind searing her skin. Above, sheets of glass reflected the Sculpture Garden, simultaneously opening the intricate workings of the museum and presenting the garden’s image back upon itself The lights inside had been dimmed. Patrons and museum employees moved through the interior of the galleries, visible at the outer edge of Evangeline’s vision. A darkened reflection of the garden appeared in the glass as warped, distorted, unreal.

  “It looks like they’re closing soon,” Bruno said, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his ski jacket and walking to the entrance. “We’d better hurry.”

  At the door Bruno swept through the crowds and made his way to the ticket desk, where a tall, thin man with a goatee and horn-rimmed glasses was reading a novel by Wilkie Collins. He looked up, glanced from Evangeline to Bruno, and said, “We’re closing in half an hour. We’re closed tomorrow for Christmas, but open again on the twenty-sixth.” With that he returned to his book, as if Bruno and Evangeline were no longer there.

  Bruno leaned on the counter and said, “We’re looking for someone who might work here.”

  “We are not allowed to disclose personal information about employees,” the man said, without looking up from his novel.

  Bruno slid two one-hundred-dollar bills over the counter. “We don’t need personal information. Just where we can find him.”

  Peering over his horn-rimmed glasses, the man placed his palm on the counter and slid the money into his pocket. “What’s the name?”

  “Alistair Carroll,” Bruno said, giving him the card included in Abigail Rockefeller’s sixth letter. “Ever heard of him?”

  He looked over the card. “Mr. Carroll is not an employee.”

  “So you know him,” Evangeline said, relieved and a bit amazed that the name corresponded to a real person.

  “Everyone knows Mr. Carroll,” the man said, walking out from behind the desk and leading them to the street. “He lives across from the museum.” He pointed to an elegant prewar apartment building, slightly slouched with age. A copper mansard roof punctuated with great porthole windows topped the building, a wash of patina streaking the bronze green. “But he’s hanging around here all the time. He’s one of the old guard of the museum.”

  Bruno and Evangeline hurried across the street to the apartment building. Once inside the entryway, Bruno and Evangeline found the name CARROLL written on a brass mailbox: apartment nine, floor five. They called a rickety elevator, the wooden cab filled with a floral powder essence, as if it had recently released old ladies on their way to church. Evangeline pressed a black knob stamped with a white 5. The elevator door creaked closed as the car lurched, grinding slowly upward. Bruno took Abigail Rockefeller’s card from his pocket and held it.

  On the fifth floor, there were two apartments, both equally quiet. Bruno checked the number and, finding the correct door—a brass number 9 screwed on it—he knocked.

  The door opened a crack, and an old man peered at them, his large blue eyes glistening with curiosity. “Yes?” the man whispered, his voice barely audible. “Who is it?”

  “Mr. Carroll?” Bruno said, personable and polite, as if he had knocked on a hundred such doors. “Very sorry to disturb you, but we have been given your name and address by—”

  “Abby,” he said, his eyes fixed on the card in Bruno’s hand. He opened the door wide and waved them inside. “Please, come in. I have been expecting you.”

  A pair of Yorkshire terriers with red ribbons tied into the fur over their eyes jumped off a couch and bounded to the door as Bruno and Evangeline stepped into the apartment, barking as if to frighten away intruders.

  “Oh, you silly girls,” Alistair Carroll said. He swooped them up, tucking one dog under each arm, and carried them down a hallway.

  The apartment was spacious, the antique furniture simple. Each object appeared both treasured and neglected, as if the decor had been painstakingly chosen with the intent that it would be ignored. Evangeline sat on the couch, its cushions still warm from the dogs. A marble fireplace held a small, intense fire that sent heat through the room. A polished Chippendale coffee table sat before her, a crystal bowl of hard candies at its center. Except for a Sunday Times folded discreetly on an end table, it appeared as though nothing had been touched in fifty years. A framed color lithograph sat upon the mantel of the fireplace, a portrait of a woman, stout and pink, with the features of a wary bird. Evangeline had never had reason or desire to seek out a likeness of Mrs. Abigail Rockefeller, but she knew in an instant that this was the woman herself.

  Alistair Carroll returned without the dogs. He had short, precisely clipped gray hair. He wore brown corduroy trousers, a tweed jacket, and had a comforting manner that put Evangeline at ease. “You must forgive my girls,” he said, sitting in an armchair near the fire. “They are unused to company. We have very few guests these days. They were simply overjoyed to see you.” He clasped his hands in his lap. “But enough of that,” he said. “You haven’t come here for pleasantries.”

  “Maybe you can tell us why we are here,” Bruno said, joining Evangeline on the couch and placing the Rockefeller card on the table. “There was no explanation—only your name and the Museum of Modern Art.”

  Alistair Carroll unfolded a pair of spectacles and put them on. Picking up the envelope, he examined it closely. “Abby wrote out that card in my presence,” he said. “But you have only one card. Where are the others?”

  “There are six of us working together,” Evangeline said. “We split into groups, to save time. My grandmother has two envelopes.”

  “Tell me,” Alistair said, “is your grandmother named Celestine Clochette?”

  Evangeline was surprised to here Celestine’s name, especially from a man who could not possibly have known her. “No,” she said. “Celestine Clochette is dead.”

  “I am very sorry to hear that,” Alistair said, shaking his head in dismay. “And I am also sorry to hear that the recovery effort is being done in a piecemeal fashion. Abby made specific requirements that the recovery would be accomplished by one person, either Mother Innocenta or, if time went by, as it most certainly has, a woman named Celestine Clochette. I remember the conditions very well: I was Mrs. Rockefeller’s assistant in this matter, and it was I who hand-delivered this card to St. Rose Convent.”

  “But I thought that Mrs. Rockefeller had taken permanent possession of the lyre,” Bruno said.

  “Oh, my, no,” Alistair said. “Mrs. Rockefeller and Mother Innocenta had agreed upon a set time to return the objects under our care—Abby didn’t expect to be responsible for these items forever. She intended to return them as soon as she felt that it was safe to do so—namely, at the end of the war. It was our understanding that Innocenta, or Celestine Clochette if need be, would care for the envelopes and, when the time came, follow their instructions in a particular order. The requirements were made to ensure both the safety of the objects and the safety of the person engaged in recovery.”

  Bruno and Evangeline exchanged glances. Evangeline was certain that Sister Celestine had not known anything about these instructions.

  “We didn’t get specific directions,” Bruno said. “Only a card that led us here.”

  “Perhaps Innocenta didn’t relate the information before her death,” Evangeline said. “I’m sure that Celestine would have made certain that Mrs. Rockefeller’s wishes were followed, had she known.”

  “Ah, well,” Alistair said, “I see that there is some confusion. Mrs. Rockefeller was under the impression that Celestine Clochette would be leaving the convent to return to Europe. It is my recollection that Miss Clochette was a temporary guest.”

  “It didn’t work out that way,” Evangeline said, remembering how frail and sickly Celestine had become in the last days of her life.

  Alis
tair Carroll closed his eyes, as if pondering the correct path to take in the completion of the matter at hand. Standing abruptly, he said, “Well, there is nothing to do but continue. Please join me—I would like to show you my extraordinary view.”

  They followed Alistair Carroll to a wall of large porthole windows, the very ones Evangeline had noticed from the street below. At their vantage, the Museum of Modern Art spread before them. Evangeline pressed her hands upon the copper frame of the porthole window and peered down. Directly below them, contained and orderly, lay the famous Sculpture Garden, its rectangular floor plated in gray marble. A narrow pool of water shimmered at the center of the garden, creating an obsidian darkness. Through wisps of snow, slabs of gray marble wept purple.

  “From here I can watch the garden night and day,” Alistair Carroll said quietly. “Mrs. Rockefeller bought this apartment for that very purpose—I am the guardian of the garden. I have watched many changes take place in the years since her death. The garden has been torn up and redesigned; the collection of statuary has grown.” He turned to Evangeline and Verlaine. “We could not have foreseen that the trustees would find it necessary to change things so drastically over the years. Philip Johnson’s 1953 garden—the iconic modern garden that one thinks of when one imagines it—wiped out all traces of the original garden Abby had known. Then, for some bizarre reason, they decided to modernize Philip Johnson’s garden—a travesty, a terrible error in judgment. First they ripped up the marble—a lovely Vermont marble with a unique shade of blue-gray to it—and replaced it with an inferior variety. They later discovered that the original had been far superior, but that is another matter. Then they ripped the whole thing up again, replacing the new marble with one that was similar to the original. It would have been most distressing to watch, if I had not taken matters into my own hands.” Alistair Carroll crossed his arms over his chest, a look of satisfaction appearing upon his face. “The treasure, you see, was originally hidden in the garden.”