Angelology

by Danielle Trussoni

  “Perhaps,” Verlaine said, looking more closely at the letters and noticing that they had been stitched with golden thread. “But look: The letter E is turned backward in each instance. The letters have been inverted.”

  “And if we flip them,” Gabriella said, “we have E A.”

  “Ex angelis,” Verlaine said.

  Verlaine stepped so close to the tapestry that he could see the intricate patterns of threads composing the fabric of the scene. The material smelled loamy, centuries of exposure to dust and air an inextricable part of it. Sabine Clementine, who had been standing quietly nearby, waiting to be of assistance, came to their side. “Come,” she said softly. “You are here for the tapestries. They are my specialty.”

  Without waiting for a response, Sabine walked to the first panel. She said, “The Hunt of the Unicorn tapestries are the great masterpieces of the medieval era, seven panels woven of wool and silk. Together the panels depict a courtly hunting party—you can see for yourself the hounds, knights, maidens, and castles, framed by fountains and forests. The precise provenance of the tapestries remains something of a mystery, even after years of study, but art historians agree that the style points to Brussels around the year 1500. The first written documentation of the Unicorn Tapestries emerged in the seventeenth century, when the tapestries were cataloged as part of the estate of a noble French family. They were discovered and restored in the mid-nineteenth century. John D. Rockefeller Jr. paid over one million dollars for them in the 1920s. In my opinion it was a bargain. Many historians believe them to be the finest example of medieval art in the world.”

  Verlaine gazed at the tapestry, drawn to its vibrant color and the unicorn that reclined at the center of the woven panel, a milk-white beast, its great horn raised.

  “Tell me, mademoiselle,” Gabriella said, a hint of challenge in her voice, “have you come to help us or to give us a guided tour?”

  “You will need a guide,” Sabine replied pointedly. “Do you see the block of stitches between the letters?” She gestured to the E A initials above the unicorn.

  “It looks like there was pretty intensive restoration work,” Verlaine replied, as if the answer to Gabriella’s question were the most obvious one in the world. “It was damaged?”

  “Extensively,” Sabine Clementine said. “The tapestries were looted during the French Revolution—stolen from a chateau and used for decades to cover peasants’ fruit trees from frost. Although the fabric has been lovingly, painstakingly restored, the damage is apparent if one looks closely.”

  As Gabriella examined the tapestry, her thoughts appeared to take a new turn. She said, “Mrs. Rockefeller was given the enormous challenge of hiding the instrument, and according to the clue she gave as instructions, she indeed chose to hide it here, in the Cloisters.”

  “It would seem that way,” Verlaine said, gazing at her expectantly.

  “To accomplish this she would have needed to find a location that was well guarded and yet exposed, safe yet accessible, so that the instrument could eventually be recovered.” Gabriella took a deep breath and looked about the room—crowds had gathered in clusters before the tapestries. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “We can see firsthand that hiding something as unwieldy as a lyre—an instrument consisting of a large body and crossbars, which are generally of sizable proportions—in an intimate museum like the Cloisters would be almost impossible. And yet we know she has managed it.”

  “Are you suggesting that the lyre isn’t really here?” Verlaine asked.

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying at all,” Gabriella said. “It is exactly the opposite. I don’t think Abigail Rockefeller would send us on a wild-goose chase. I have been thinking over the dilemma of there being four locations for one instrument and have come to the conclusion that Abigail Rockefeller was extremely savvy about hiding the lyre. She found the safest locations, but she also put the lyre in its more secure form. I believe that the instrument may not be in the form we expect.”

  “Now you’ve lost me,” Verlaine said.

  Sabine said, “As any angelologist who has spent a semester in Ethereal Musicology, the History of the Angelic Choruses, or any of the other seminars that focus upon the construction and implementation of the instruments would know, there is one essential component to the lyre: the strings. While many other heavenly instruments were fashioned from the precious celestial metal known as Valkine, the lyre’s unique resonance arises from its strings. They were made of an unidentifiable substance that angelologists have long believed to be a mixture of silk and strands of the angels’ own hair. Whatever the material, the sound is extraordinary because of the substance of the strings and the way they are stretched. The frame is, for all intents and purposes, interchangeable.”

  “You have attended the academy in Paris,” Gabriella said, impressed.

  “Bien sûr, Dr. Valko,” Sabine said, smiling slightly. “How else would I be entrusted with such a position as this? You may not recall, but I attended your Introduction to Spiritual Warfare Seminar.”

  “What year?” Gabriella asked, studying Sabine, attempting to recognize her.

  “The first term of 1987,” Sabine responded.

  “My last year at the academy,” Gabriella said.

  “It was my favorite course.”

  “I am very glad to hear it,” Gabriella said. “And now you can repay me by helping me solve a puzzle: ‘As a hand at the loom wove this mystery, so a hand must unravel it.’ ” Gabriella watched Sabine as she repeated the line from Mrs. Rockefeller’s letter, searching for a spark of recognition.

  “I am here to assist in the unraveling,” Sabine said. “And I now know what it is that I’m meant to free from the tapestry.”

  “Mrs. Rockefeller wove the strings into this tapestry?” Verlaine said.

  “Actually,” Sabine replied, “she hired a very adept professional to do the work for her. But yes, they are there, inside the Unicorn in Captivity tapestry.”

  Verlaine stared at the weave skeptically. “How in the hell will we get them out?”

  Nonplussed, Sabine said, “If I am informed correctly, the procedure was skillfully performed and will leave no damage whatsoever.”

  “It is odd that Abby Rockefeller would choose such a delicate piece of art as a shield,” Gabriella noted.

  Sabine said, “You must remember that once upon a time these tapestries were the private property of the Rockefellers. They hung in Abigail Rockefeller’s living room from 1922, when her husband bought them, until the late 1930s, when they were brought here. Mrs. Rockefeller had a very intimate knowledge of the tapestries, including their weak spots.” Sabine pointed at a heavily repaired patch on the weave. “See how it is irregular? One snip of the repair thread and it will open in a seam.”

  A museum security guard stationed at the far side of the room walked casually over to them. “Are you ready for us, Ms. Clementine?” he asked.

  “Yes, thank you,” Sabine responded, her manner becoming crisp and professional. “But we will need to clear the gallery first. Please call in the others.” Sabine turned to Gabriella and Verlaine. “I have arranged to block off the area for the duration of the procedure. We will need complete freedom to work on the tapestry, a task that would be impossible in such a crowd.”

  “You can do that?” Verlaine asked, looking at the congested hall.

  “Of course,” Sabine said. “I am the associate director of restorations. I can arrange repairs as I see fit.”

  “What about that?” Verlaine asked, nodding to the security camera.

  “I have taken care of everything, monsieur.”

  Verlaine gazed at the tapestry, realizing that they had very little time to locate the strings and remove them. As he’d originally suspected, the repaired fabric above the unicorn’s horn, located in the upper third of the tapestry, contained the largest defect. It was high off the floor, perhaps six feet. One would have to stand upon a chair or a stool to reach it. The angle wouldn�
�t be ideal. There was every possibility that the seam would be too difficult to open and that it would be necessary to remove the tapestry from the wall, spread it flat on the floor, and work it open there. This, however, would be the last resort.

  A number of security guards entered the gallery and began directing people from the room. Once the space had been cleared, the guards stood watch at the door.

  With the gallery emptied, Sabine escorted a short, bald man past the guards and to the tapestry, where he placed a metal case on the floor and unfolded a stepladder. Without so much as a glance at Gabriella or Verlaine, he climbed the stepladder and began to examine the seam.

  “The glass, Ms. Clementine,” the man said.

  Sabine opened the case, revealing a row of scalpels, threads, scissors, and a great magnifying glass, the last of which collected a bright swirl of light from the room and condensed it into a single ball of fire.

  Verlaine watched as the man worked, fascinated by his confidence. He had often wondered at the skills of restoration and had even been to an exhibit that demonstrated the chemical processes used to clean fabrics such as these. Holding the magnifying glass in one hand and a scalpel in the other, the man worked the tip of the blade into a row of tight, neat stitches. With the slightest pressure, the stitches split apart. He opened one stitch after another in this fashion until a hole the size of an apple appeared in the tapestry. The man continued his work with the concentration of a surgeon.

  Standing on tiptoes, Verlaine peered up at the unbound fabric. He could see nothing but a fray of colored threads, fine as hair. The man requested a tool from the case, and Sabine handed him a long, thin hook, which he inserted into the hole in the fabric. Then he slipped his hand directly between the A and the E. He tugged, and a bright spark caught Verlaine’s eye: Twisted about the hook, there was an opalescent cord.

  Verlaine counted them as the man handed him the strings. They were capillary-thin and so smooth that they slid between Verlaine’s fingers as if waxed. Five, seven, ten strings, limp and sumptuous, draped over his arm. The man climbed down the ladder. “That is all,” he said, a look of sobriety upon his face, as if he had just desecrated a shrine.

  Sabine took the strings, rolled them into a tight coil, and zipped them into a cloth pouch. Pressing it into Verlaine’s palm, she said, “Follow me, madame, monsieur,” and led Gabriella and Verlaine to the entrance of the gallery.

  “Do you know how to attach them?” Sabine asked.

  Gabriella said, “I will manage, I’m sure.”

  “Yes, of course,” Sabine said, and with a snap of her finger the security guards collected around them, three on each side. “Be careful,” Sabine said, kissing Gabriella on each cheek in the Parisian manner. “Good luck.”

  As the security guards escorted Gabriella and Verlaine through the museum, pushing past the ever-present crowd, it seemed to Verlaine that the studies he had undertaken, the frustrations and fruitless searches of academic life—somehow, all of it had delivered him to this moment of triumph. Gabriella walked at his side, the woman who had brought him to understand his calling as an angelologist and his future—if he dared to hope—with Evangeline. They passed under archway after archway, the heavy Romanesque architecture yielding to the light trelliswork of the Gothic, the pouch containing the strings of the lyre held tightly in his hand.

  Riverside Church, Morningside Heights, New York City

  Riverside Church was an imposing Gothic Revival cathedral rising above Columbia University. Together Vladimir and Saitou-san mounted the steps to a wooden door adorned with disks of iron, Saitou-san’s high-heeled boots crunching upon the salt-strewn ice, a black shawl wrapped snugly about her shoulders.

  As they walked inside, the light diminished to a honeyed glow. Vladimir blinked, his eyes readjusting to the ambience of the foyer. The church was empty. Straightening his tie, Vladimir walked past an alcove with an empty reception desk, up a set of steps, and into a large antechamber. The walls were creamy stone that rose to a confluence of jointed arches, one meeting another like wind-filled sails hoisted in a crowded harbor. Beyond, through a set of wide double doors, Vladimir ascertained the deepening hollow of the church nave.

  His first impulse was to search the church, but he held back, his attention drawn to two copper plaques hung on a wall. The first commemorated John D. Rockefeller Jr.’s generosity in the building of the church. A second plaque was a dedication to Laura Celestia Spelman Rockefeller.

  “Laura Celestia Spelman was Abigail Rockefeller’s mother-in-law,” Saitou-san whispered, reading the plaque.

  Vladimir said, “I believe the Rockefellers were devout, especially the Cleveland generation. John D. Rockefeller Jr. paid for the construction of this church.”

  “That would explain Mrs. Rockefeller’s access,” Saitou-san said. “It would be impossible to keep anything here without inside help.”

  “Inside help,” a whining, high-pitched voice said, “and a lot of cash.”

  Vladimir turned to find that a toadlike old man in an elegant gray suit and neatly combed gray hair had appeared in the hallway. A monocle encircled his left eye, its gold chain hanging over his cheek. Vladimir stepped back instinctively.

  “Forgive me for startling you,” the man said. “My name is Mr. Gray, and I could not help but notice you here.” Mr. Gray appeared to be half blind with anxiety. His eyes bulged wildly as he looked about the hallway, his gaze settling at last upon Vladimir and Saitou-san.

  “I would ask who you are,” Mr. Gray said, pointing to Abigail Rockefeller’s card in Vladimir’s hand. “But I know already. May I?” Mr. Gray took the card from Vladimir, looked it over carefully, and said, “I have seen this before. In fact, I helped arrange for the printing of these cards when I worked as Mrs. Rockefeller’s errand boy. I was merely fourteen. I once overheard her say that she liked my obsequious manner, which I tend to believe was a compliment. She had me running her errands—downtown for paper, uptown to the printers, downtown to pay the artist.”

  “Then perhaps you will tell us the meaning of the card?” Saitou-san said.

  “She believed,” Mr. Gray said, ignoring Saitou-san, “that angelologists would be coming.”

  “And we have arrived,” Vladimir said. “Can you tell us how we’re meant to proceed?”

  “I will answer your questions directly,” Mr. Gray said. “But we must first go to my office, where we might speak with more ease.”

  They descended a stone staircase off the antechamber, Mr. Gray moving downward at a rapid pace, skipping steps in his haste. At the bottom a darkened hallway opened before them. Mr. Gray threw open a door and ushered them into a narrow office piled high with papers. Stacks of unopened mail tipped from the edge of a metal desk. Curled pencil shavings were scattered across the floor. A wall calendar from the year 1978 hung next to a filing cabinet, the month of December left open.

  Once they were inside the office, Mr. Gray’s manner became one of indignation. “Well! You have certainly taken your own sweet time in coming,” he said. “I was beginning to think there was some misunderstanding. Mrs. Rockefeller would have been furious at that—she would turn in her grave if I’d died without delivering the package in the fashion she wished. An exacting woman, Mrs. Rockefeller, but very generous—my children and my children’s children will feel the benefit of the arrangement, even if I, who have been waiting half of my life for your arrival, will not! I was but a young man when she hired me to oversee the workings of the church office—fresh from England, without a position in the world. Mrs. Rockefeller gave me my place here in this office, instructing me to await your arrival, which I have done, ceaselessly. Of course, provisions were made should I have expired before your arrival—which I must say could have happened any day now, since clearly I’m not growing any younger—but let’s not allow ourselves to ponder such morbid thoughts, no, sir. At this important hour, it is only the wishes of our benefactress that must concern us, and her thoughts turned upon a single solem
n hope: the future.” Mr. Gray blinked and adjusted his monocle. “Come, let’s get down to business.”

  “An excellent idea,” Vladimir said.

  Mr. Gray went to the filing cabinet, pulled a ring of keys from his pocket, and proceeded to work through the number until he discovered the match. With a turn of the key, the cabinet drawer popped open. “Let me see,” he said, straining to see the files. “Ah, yes, here! The very documents we need.” He flipped through the pages, stopping at a long list of names. “This is a formality, of course, but Mrs. Rockefeller specified that only those appearing on this list—or the descendants of these persons—would be authorized to receive the package. Is your name, or the name of one of your parents or grandparents, or indeed your great-grandparents, among this number?”

  Vladimir scanned the list, recognizing all the major angelologists of the twentieth century. He found his own name in the middle of the final row, next to Celestine Clochette’s.

  “If you don’t mind, you will sign here and here. And then once more here, on this line at the bottom.”

  Vladimir examined the paper, a long legal document that, from a cursory view, affirmed that Mr. Gray had performed the task of delivering the object.

  “You see,” Mr. Gray said by way of apology, “I receive my remuneration only after the delivery has been performed, as evidenced by your signature. The legal document is quite specific, and the lawyers are unrelenting—it has been inconvenient, as you might imagine, living without recompense for my labors. All these years I have scraped by, waiting for you to arrive so that I might retire from this wretched office. And here you are,” Mr. Gray said, giving Vladimir a pen. “Simply a formality, mind you.”

  “Before I sign,” Vladimir said, pushing the document away, “I must have the object you’re holding for me.”

  An almost imperceptible chill hardened upon Mr. Gray’s features. “Of course,” he said tersely. He slipped the contract under his arm and tucked the pen into the pocket of his gray suit. “Just this way,” he said, his voice clipped as he led them out of the office and up the stairs.