by Kathy
"I don't read horror stories," Karen said.
" 'The Yellow Wallpaper'?"
"Oh, but that isn't . . . Well, yes, it is; but the horror is psychological; it is a brilliant study of a woman retreating into madness from—"
"Ah, bah. More of your feminist jargon. What does it matter if the victim is a woman being driven mad by the constraints of male-dominated society or an unbeliever tormented by a narrow concept of religion?"
"It isn't a question of better or worse," Karen protested. "You can't compare absolute evil; all you can do is fight it whenever it manifests itself."
"Precisely what I was saying. The agony is the same and the cause is the same: a rigid moral absolutism that inflicts pain under the pretext of kindness."
"What story are you referring to? Sounds like Poe."
"No; I doubt you have heard of the author. The story is called 'The Torture of Hope.' It is about a prisoner trying to escape from the cells of the Inquisition, only to find, just as he seems to reach freedom, that his captors have allowed him to hope as the ultimate torture. And the worst thing about both stories is that the tormentor is not a perverted sadist. Quite the contrary; the husband and the Grand Inquisitor have noble motives. They wish to save their victims from damnation, by society or by God."
"Simon, I promise I won't steal your precious surprise. Please let me
see it."
"Not just yet. First you must listen to this. Where did I put that book ..." Turning, he ran his finger along the shelf behind him.
Karen bit her lip. Simon wasn't being deliberately sadistic either. His attitude was typical of the world from which he had come—Europe between the wars, sophisticated, intellectual, more than a little decadent. Though he had never told her his precise age, he must have been in his teens when his native Vienna had fallen to the forces of evil and his family and friends had vanished into the death camps. The values of that vanished age, remembered by an impressionable boy, were all the more to be cherished because of the horror that had swept them away. Whatever their failings, the aristocrats and intellectuals of old Europe had realized that the deliberate, delicate prolongation of pleasure was an art to be cultivated in all aspects of life, from the enjoyment of sculpture to the appreciation of music, from dining to making love.
"You are flushed," Simon said, turning back to her with the book in his hand. "Is it too warm? Old people have cold bones; I will lower the heat."
Karen wiped the smile off her face. Maybe Simon was right; she had been "alone" too long. "I'm not too warm," she assured him. "I was thinking about . . . something else."
"If it makes you blush I don't want to hear it," Simon said reprovingly. "Now listen."
He had only read a few sentences when the shop door opened again and he went out to attend to the customer, leaving the book open on his chair. This time he was gone for some time. Karen picked up the book. When Simon returned she started and let out a strangled shriek.
Chuckling, Simon took the book from her hands. "Where had you got to? Ah, yes. 'He pressed forward faster on his knees, his hands, at full length, dragging himself painfully along, and soon entered the dark portion of this terrible corridor.' "
"You startled me," Karen mumbled. "Creeping in like that."
Simon raised an elegant eyebrow at her and went on reading. " 'Oh Heaven, if the door should open outward. Every nerve in the miserable fugitive's body thrilled with hope.' "
He started to close the book. "You see what I mean. The physical tortures inflicted on the rabbi are never described in detail, only hinted at. It is his mental suffering—"
"Okay," Karen said. "Finish it. Please."
"I wouldn't want to bore you with third-rate fiction."
"You did that on purpose. I know he doesn't make it, but I'll never sleep tonight if I don't find out what happens."
Simon did as she asked. He had a sonorous, flexible voice and he knew he read well. He gave the dreadful story everything he had. Scarcely had the poor rabbi reached the gardens and raised his eyes toward Heaven to praise God for his escape than he was clasped in a tender embrace and he realized that "all the phases of this fatal evening were only a prearranged torture, that of hope." "The Grand Inquisitor, with an accent of touching reproach and a look of consternation, murmured in his ear, his breath parched and burning from long fasting: 'What, my son! On the eve, perchance, of salvation—you wished to leave us?' "
Karen shuddered, then laughed—at herself. "I concede your point. But I'm afraid modern readers wouldn't be affected."
"They have become jaded—too many chain saws, too many decomposing corpses. And few comprehend that mental torture is the worst of all—the constriction of hope and of ambition."
"But that's what women's writing is all about," Karen said. "That's the theme of Ismene's poem. 'They have shut me in a house of stone.' She wasn't talking about a physical prison."
Much of Simon's business was conducted by mail; drop-in customers were rare, and the dismal weather did not encourage shoppers. They were not interrupted again. However, Simon waited until the stroke of twelve before locking the front door. Karen preceded him up the stairs at the back of the shop, moving slowly so that the necessary deliberation of his own ascent would not humiliate him.
The apartment over the shop was small and a little shabby, but it was impeccably neat—except for the books. They lined the walls, covered all the flat surfaces, stood stacked in uneven piles beside chairs and sofa. Simon turned on the lights and led the way to the kitchen.
The rich, spicy smell of the goulash filled the room. Simon held a chair for Karen and moved back and forth with wineglasses, a basket of bread, and the steaming tureen. She knew better than to offer assistance.
After they finished eating Simon took out one of his thin black cigars. "May I smoke?" he inquired.
Karen jumped up. Snatching his plate and hers, she carried them to the sink, and finished clearing the table. Then she sat down and stared fixedly at him. "Now, Simon."
With a sigh Simon rose and left the room. The set of his shoulders expressed the resignation of a long-suffering male yielding to feminine whims. When he came back he was carrying a parcel and a clean white cloth, which he spread carefully across the table. "Now may I smoke?" he inquired, handing her the parcel.
He took her silence for consent; she had realized early on that he would be unmoved by lectures on the dangers of smoking and would regard any comment on his habits as rude and impertinent. In fact, she scarcely heard the question. She was too intent on the parcel.
It was small but bulky. Carefully Karen removed an outer covering of padded cloth to disclose a layer of the inert plastic used by museum conservators. Unlike ordinary plastic, it would not react chemically with fragile substances such as paper and cloth.
Her mouth was dry and her hands shook as she unwrapped the plastic. The object felt like a book. Well, she had expected that, hadn't she? Something old, something rare . . .
It wasn't a printed book. It was a pile of loose papers—a manuscript. If there had been covers, they were missing. The pages were raveled along one side, like mouse-nibbled wool, and the corners were so worn that the shape was more elliptical than rectangular. The lower edge was black and crumbling. She could just make out traces of writing on the topmost sheet, though it was so darkened by time and by disfiguring spots of brown—a condition known in the trade as "foxing"—that only a few words were legible.
Karen tried to control her voice. "I can't ... I don't ..."
"Don't be afraid to touch it, it is not as fragile as it appears," Simon said. "Except along the edges. The paper is handmade, lacking the destructive chemicals modern paper manufacturers employ. Well? What are you waiting for? All morning you nagged me to see it, and now you sit with folded hands staring at a blank page."
"Not . . . completely blank. I can read a few words." She turned to face him. "Simon. This isn't a joke, is it? You wouldn't . . ."
"No." A single sharp wor
d; the accusation had hurt and angered him. She held out her hands in silent apology, and his stiff features relaxed as he took them in his. "Well, I can hardly blame you. I could not believe it myself at first. But the name is there. Ismene."
"Maybe it's not the same woman. Maybe some other writer used that name. Maybe this isn't . . . What is it? More poems? A diary?"
"Why don't you look for yourself?"
"I'm afraid to. I'm afraid I'm imagining this. I'm afraid it will crumble when I touch it."
"It is not a diary," Simon said patiently. "It appears to be a novel, or part of one. The first pages are missing, and so are the last."
"I don't believe it!"
"What don't you believe? As a literary form, the novel is two and a half centuries old. Richardson's Pamela was published in 1740. Also eighteenth-century in date were The Mysteries of Udolpho and The Castle of Otranto. This appears to be an example of the latter genre—the true Gothic novel, as opposed to the so-called Gothics of this century, which bear little resemblance to—"
"Don't you dare lecture me on my own subject!"
Simon laughed aloud. "So, you are yourself again."
"Dammit, Simon, I've written two articles on the Gothic novel."
"And you are now wringing your hands," Simon said, grinning. "How appropriate!"
"I'm trying to keep them off that book," Karen said, returning his smile. He knew her well; he had chosen the most effective method of calming her. "I want to grab it and start reading."
"Go ahead. We have all afternoon. And if you care to spend the night, all evening."
"Not the original, it's too precious. I'll have a copy made ..." She broke off as she saw his face change, and a wave of genuine physical sickness swamped her. "Simon! You are going to let me have it? You wouldn't show it to me and then take it away? You haven't sold it to someone else? You couldn't!"
"Calm yourself," Simon exclaimed. "Let me get you a glass of wine, or—"
"Don't treat me like some Victorian lady with the vapors! Oh, all right. I'll have some coffee. Please," she added sulkily.
He filled two cups and joined her at the table. "My dear Karen, you are the first person other than myself to see this. How could I do less? But I can't let you have it—not now, at any rate. No, don't speak! You would only say something you would regret. Let me explain."
She seized on the words that offered hope. "Not now? When?"
"After the proper procedures have been followed. Listen to me! Do you have any idea what this battered object is worth? I am talking of money, Karen—crude and vulgar of me, no doubt, but this is how I earn my living, by buying and selling books."
"Well, of course. I expected to pay for it, that's the only way I would ..." She heard her voice start to rise, and fought to control it. This was business, not friendship. That was how she wanted it. One didn't take advantage of a friend. "How much are you asking for it?"
Undeceived by her pretense at coolness, Simon eyed her warily. "Are you familiar with the motto of antiquities dealers? 'An object is worth only what someone is willing to pay for it.' It is possible to estimate the value of a particular book by studying what comparable volumes have brought in the market. But that's the problem. With what can I compare this? I could make an educated guess as to what a Bronte or Dickens manuscript might bring; the original manuscripts of known works do appear on the market from time to time. But an unknown, unpublished manuscript by a little-known writer . . . who knows? The only way to find out is to offer it for sale."
"Where? At auction?"
He remained maddeningly calm. "I could do that, but I won't. If it sold to a private collector, he or she might not make it available to scholars, which would be a pity. I intend instead to invite bids from major universities and libraries."
"I'll top your highest bid. Isn't there a procedure for that in your business? Preferred bidder, or something?"
"Karen—" His eyes moved from hers. Following his gaze, she saw that, without being conscious of movement, she had placed both hands on the manuscript, fingers flexed, palms pressing down.
"I understand your position, Simon," she said steadily. "Now hear mine. The first person to get hold of this manuscript, by hook or crook or legal purchase, will be the one to publish it. If it goes to a university or library, they'll pick one of their own people to handle it. I wouldn't have a chance."
"You believe you can persuade your college to—"
"Simon, you're not listening! Even if the college would put up the money, which is unlikely, there's at least one other person on the faculty who would lay claim to it. He'd probably succeed, too, because he sucks up to the board and the faculty senate and I don't. Bill Meyer at Yale, and Dorothea Angelo at Berkeley—to name only two—would kill for the chance to get this. And both institutions have a hell of a lot more money than my college."
"Yes, I understand that. But you—"
"Let me finish." He hated being interrupted, and now she had done it twice. She plunged on, desperately seeking words that would convince him. "Do you know what a less scrupulous person would do in my place? Accept your invitation to spend the night, slip you a sleeping pill and sneak out, with the manuscript, to one of those all-night copying places."
Simon's eyes widened. "That would be a despicable act."
"Of course. I'd never commit it, but I can think of several other people who wouldn't hesitate for a second. You of all people ought to know that the definition of legal ownership with regard to old manuscripts is hideously complex. The pages themselves, the physical manuscript, can be bought or sold, inherited, given away. I would be guilty of theft if I stole it. But what about the text—the words? They can't be copyrighted, they are old enough to be in the public domain. If I had a copy of the text, I doubt very much if you could prevent me from publishing it. I'd sure as hell be willing to take that chance—and so would Bill Meyer, or dear old Joe Cropsey, my favorite departmental chairman. That's why I have to own it, Simon, and guard it with my life—to keep other people from getting their hands on it. It wouldn't take more than two hours to have a copy made."
She was breathless when she finished, but she had made her point. Simon was looking very sober. "I hadn't thought of it that way. It is true that there are other interested parties. Your own fault, Karen; you were the one who made Ismene famous. How many copies of your edition of the poems were sold? How many articles on her have appeared since then?"
Karen didn't answer. It was particularly embittering to realize that if she hadn't made Ismene famous, in the scholarly world at least, she wouldn't have to fear competition. On the other hand, Simon would not have called her first if she had not been the acknowledged authority. The manuscript itself might have been overlooked, discarded, if she had not publicized that vital name. The very idea made her break into a cold sweat.
"Where did you get it?" she asked.
"From a trunk in a dusty attic, of course. Isn't that the traditional source for such finds? In fact, most discoveries of this nature do come from places like that. Remember the first half of the Huckleberry Finn manuscript that was found a few years ago? Mark Twain had sent it to a friend, who evidently mislaid it; it remained in a trunk in Gluck's attic for over a century."
Karen smiled sweetly. "If you think you are going to distract me, Simon, you are sadly mistaken."
Simon sighed. "The house from which this manuscript came belonged to an old gentleman who was a pack rat, like his ancestors before him. When he died, the new owner called in a local auctioneer and told him to clear the place out in preparation for a sale. The auctioneer is a man with whom I've dealt before; local dealers often consult me about books and manuscripts. He and the owner agreed to let me handle this particular item, since it was—shall we say—somewhat esoteric."
"Who—" she began.
"You know I can't tell you that," Simon interrupted with a frown.
"Are you selling on consignment?"
"No. I bought it outright." He hesitated fo
r a moment, and then named a figure. It was less than she had feared, but more than she had hoped. Simon was too damned honorable; he could have told the owner the manuscript was worthless, and offered him ten dollars as a gesture of goodwill.
"I'll top your highest bid," she repeated. "Whatever it is." Reaching into her purse, she took out her checkbook. "I've got seven thousand, six hundred in my savings account. I'll give you seven thousand as a deposit. And yes, thank you—I will spend the night."
Chapter Two
All women, as authors, are feeble and tiresome. I wish they were forbidden to write, on pain of having their faces deeply scarified with an oyster shell.
Nathaniel Hawthorne, letter to his publisher, 1852
Darkness solid as stone weighted her limbs, filled her open mouth and flaring nostrils as she struggled for breath. Darkness like moist black earth, heavy, airless, imprisoning the hands that struggled to free themselves, pressing down upon her staring eyes . . .
She fought out of sleep into waking, the scream she had not been able to utter still trapped in her throat. The streetlight outside her bedroom window cast a pale illumination into the room. It was some time before her gasps settled into normal breathing; longer before she dared sleep again.
Karen had reached the faculty parking lot before she realized the sound— repeated, peremptory, vaguely familiar—was that of her own name. She turned. The form bearing down on her was also familiar: Dr. Margaret Finneyfrock, professor of American history, known to her friends as Peggy. She insisted on the diminutive, for reasons Karen had never understood; it certainly didn't suit her. Her crop of short gray curls looked as if it had been trimmed with garden shears, her weathered face was devoid of makeup, her stocky frame was clad in one of her legendary tweed suits. Her students claimed that when she bought a new one she weighted the pockets with stones and left it hanging in her closet until it had been suitably aged before putting it on. The skirts always bagged at the seat and the pockets always sagged and the fabric was always frayed by the claws of Peggy's cats.