The Map of the Sky

by Félix J Palma

  Very well, Mr. Gilmore. Does five o’clock seem like a good time for you to learn that you cannot get everything you want?

  Daisy set off with the question to Gilmore’s house. She halted at the front door and straightened her little hat. Then she rang the door chime, which summoned the footman with a pleasing trill. As he opened the door, Elmer gave her a knowing grin, which she liked, for it wiped away his ordinarily stern expression. After depositing the envelope on the tray with a theatrical gesture, Elmer vanished upstairs, though not before inviting her to some muffins he had ordered to be left on a pedestal table.

  Gilmore held the envelope for a moment before opening it. Perhaps it wasn’t a refusal, he thought optimistically. He inhaled sharply and took out the note. He read it again and again to make sure he wasn’t dreaming: Emma had accepted his invitation! Yes, she had accepted that desperate invitation. A joyous smile spread over his face. He had guessed right, he had known how to read between the lines: Emma wanted to see him again. He was sure she had liked him calling her by her Christian name. His challenge had in fact been a pretext, a pleasurable, amusing game designed to conceal his true intention. And Emma, skilled in the art of flirtation, had gamely pretended to accept it in a spirit of competition. What a truly adorable creature she was! Gilmore conceded, feeling that his devotion to her was boundless. He reached for another card and let out a sigh of love. It was his turn once more, but there was no longer any need for pretense; all he had to do was play along with Emma. He wondered whether there was anything in the world he could not attain, and decided there wasn’t. He sat hunched over the card and, feigning the requisite smugness, wrote:

  I fear you will be the one who discovers that you lack the necessary imagination to conquer a man in love, Emma. And five o’clock seems an ideal time. Only death will prevent me from being here to receive you tomorrow.

  He slid the card into its envelope and handed it to Elmer, who hurried downstairs almost at a trot. Waiting for him in the hallway was the grateful Daisy, who was still savoring the delicious muffins. They were almost as good as the blueberry jam beignets she bought as a treat on payday from Grazer’s bakery. Thirty minutes later, a few crumbs the wind hadn’t dislodged still sprinkled around the neck of her dress, Daisy delivered the note to her mistress.

  Emma tore open the envelope and read Gilmore’s reply, her lips pursed as she stifled a cry of rage. How dare he question the power of her imagination or the ambitiousness of her desires! Although the message didn’t require answering, Emma could not resist responding. There was no sense in wasting any more ink discussing a contest she knew she would win the following day as soon as she revealed what she wanted. It was best to be humorous:

  In that case, Mr. Gilmore, I advise you not to practice any dangerous sports until tomorrow.

  She placed the card in the envelope and gave it to her maid. Daisy dragged herself over to Gilmore’s house, only to find a plate of blueberry beignets awaiting her. Before she could recover from her surprise, Elmer held out the little tray with an affectionate smile, and she placed the envelope on its polished surface, stunned yet touched. How could he have had time to go Grazer’s bakery and back? she thought; it was some distance away. That diligent, thoughtful young man must be quick on his feet. With a pompous bow, Elmer took his leave of her momentarily and went up to his master’s study, while she waited below overwhelmed by a feeling of gratitude verging on love.

  When he saw the footman enter, Gilmore snatched the envelope from him and tore it open eagerly. Emma had refused to be provoked by his first sentence and, under the guise of her usual irony, now appeared concerned about his health. Gilmore grinned and shuddered with delight. Could she be any more adorable? He took up another card and wrote:

  Have no fear, Emma, besides wooing you, dangerous sports have no appeal for me.

  Ah, if only he was as witty when he was in her presence! Elmer hurtled down the stairs and handed the envelope to Daisy, boldly brushing his fingers against hers and causing the girl’s face to flush with confusion. Trying not to swoon from the sudden rush to her head, the maid thanked Elmer for the beignets, and, as a way of breaking the awkward silence that had descended between them, she told him how amazed she was that he had produced them so swiftly. Elmer gave a little cough and, like a child reciting Shakespeare from memory, said in a monotone, “I can make any wish of yours come true, unless you desire my beauty to be more than it is.” Daisy stared at him bewildered, unclear why he thought she would find his looks wanting. Elmer gave another cough and, turning his back to her, consulted the words scrawled on the palm of his hand. Then he turned around again, and, in the same dispassionate tone, said, “I can make any wish of yours come true, unless you desire to be more beautiful than you already are.” Daisy instantly turned bright pink, stammered a farewell, and walked back to her mistress’s house floating on air, wishing she knew how to write so that she could tell the increasingly attractive footman how she felt at that moment, unaware that he had already seen it in her eyes.

  Some forty minutes later, she delivered the card to Emma, who realized despondently that Gilmore also had to have the last word. She tore open the envelope. How could anyone be so brazen? she thought after reading his reply. Did Gilmore have no limits? Emma took a deep breath, exhaling slowly to try to calm herself. She would have liked to reply, but the maid was fidgeting impatiently, as if she had sore feet, and sending her to Gilmore’s house yet again seemed too cruel a gesture, even for Emma. She comforted herself with the thought that, as Oscar Wilde had said, better than having the last word was the prospect of having the first.

  XVI

  MONTGOMERY GILMORE LIVED IN A PARISIAN-style town house near Central Park. In Emma’s mother’s day, the area had been a wasteland, where the few houses belonging to wealthy residents floated like luxurious islands in a sea of mud. But now those splendid mansions were squeezed between new dwellings and stores of strained elegance. Emma rang the door chime at ten minutes past five—ten being considered in polite society the proper number of minutes to arrive late for an engagement. Accompanying her was her maid Daisy, whose dismissal had been revoked in return for her keeping quiet about the meeting. It was utterly unthinkable for a young woman of Emma’s social class to call at a bachelor’s residence without a chaperone. And so, much to her regret, Emma had been forced to lie to her mother and to offer that deal to her maid, whose joyful acceptance, as you will have guessed, was not entirely due to her regaining employment. Shortly after Emma rang the bell, she heard someone striding jauntily toward the door. Instinctively, she straightened her hat, which matched her crimson dress, and noticed with surprise that Daisy did the same. After admonishing the maid with a gesture, she waited for the door to open and put on her most insincere smile.

  The owner of the sprightly footsteps was a slim young footman, who bobbed his head in greeting, then led them to the library the long way round, no doubt at the behest of Gilmore, who wasn’t going to waste any opportunity to impress his guest. Emma followed the footman with an air of indifference, trying hard not to show the slightest expression of awe at the wealth of exotic, lavish objects. When at length they reached the library, lined with dark walnut shelves and exquisite cabinets filled with ancient volumes, Emma saw that the room gave onto a cool and shady patio, like a cloister, where the tea table had been laid. Shaded by an enormous oak tree, whose leafy branches scattered the afternoon light, the place struck Emma as a delightful sanctuary, which she would have liked to explore further had Gilmore not suddenly made an appearance. Dressed in an elegant dark brown suit, he was accompanied by a dog, which, after giving the two women a cursory sniff, slumped down in a corner and gazed at them wearily.

  “Sir, Miss Harlow has arrived!” the footman announced quite unnecessarily, causing his master to jump.

  “Thank you, Elmer, you may go now. I shall pour the tea myself,” Gilmore replied, glancing anxiously at the maid.

  Without taking her eyes off her host, who
was now staring at his shoes, Emma said, “Daisy, go with Elmer to the servants’ quarters and wait for me there until I call you.”

  “Yes, miss,” Daisy whispered awkwardly.

  Once both servants had withdrawn, the host, still visibly ill at ease, looked up from his shoes and went over to greet Emma.

  “Thank you for accepting my invitation, Miss Harlow,” said Gilmore, who apparently dared not call her by her first name except at a distance.

  Out of politeness, Emma offered her hand to the millionaire, who leaned forward awkwardly and planted a hesitant kiss on it. Then, unsettled by her proximity, he asked if she would have a seat.

  Once she had done so, Emma gave him a polite but defiant smile and declared, “Surely you didn’t imagine your presumptuous proposal would frighten me off?”

  “Of course not,” he exclaimed, pausing briefly before adding with a mischievous grin, “even though it can mean only one thing: that you don’t consider me a danger.”

  Emma did not acknowledge the jest but silently contemplated the awkward suitor Fate had decided to impose on her, trying her best to find something attractive about him. But she could find nothing: his cheeks were too chubby and rosy, his nose too small in proportion to his eyes and ears, while the sparse tufts of his blond whiskers and beard seemed to her a ridiculous adornment.

  “There’s another possibility that you have overlooked, Mr. Gilmore,” she replied coldly.

  “And what might that be?” he said with interest, trying to steady his hand as he poured her cup of tea.

  “That I’m quite able to defend myself against anything that might happen between these walls.”

  Gilmore set the teapot down on the table with an amused grin, pleased by the astuteness of her remark.

  “I don’t doubt it, Miss Harlow, I don’t doubt it. But have no fear, for as you can see we are all perfectly harmless in this house.” At which he gestured toward his dog, asleep in the corner beneath a stream of light filtering in through the window. “My dog is too old and, far from being fierce, responds to everything with complete indifference.” Then he gestured toward the door through which the footman and the maid had left the room moments before. “And what can I say of my faithful footman, Elmer? He takes his mission in life far too seriously to deviate from the proper behavior expected of a manservant.” Finally, after pausing for effect, Gilmore looked straight at Emma and said, “Besides, I am in love with you and could never do anything to harm you.”

  Emma had to mask her astonishment at Gilmore’s verbal acrobatics, which ended in such a passionate and startling declaration. Had he been rehearsing all this time? He, on the other hand, was incapable of concealing his excitement, and during the awkward silence that followed, he watched her expectantly, hoping for a response. Emma took a sip of tea to buy some time.

  “So, you would never do anything to harm me,” she repeated in an amused voice. “Not even if I were to tell you I could never return your love?”

  He gazed at her in amazement.

  “How would you respond then, Mr. Gilmore?” Emma went on. “Aren’t crimes of passion committed for that very reason, because one is unable to win another’s heart and decides no one else should have it?”

  “I guess so . . . ,” Gilmore admitted, at a loss.

  “Consequently, you could quite easily hurl yourself at me right now and try to throttle me with those strong hands of yours,” she said with a dreamy voluptuousness, “and I would have nothing but my poor little parasol with which to defend myself.”

  Emma had scarcely finished her sentence when she chided herself for her attempt at flirtation. Why torment the poor man like that when she had gone there with the intention of freeing herself from him? She felt a pang of compassion as she saw Gilmore’s bewildered face darken. Despite his apparently relaxed demeanor, it was obvious he was stifling a desperate urge to leap up and satisfy his desire without wasting any more time talking. She imagined him clasping her in his thick arms and, in keeping with his outlandish wooing methods, covering her arms with kisses like an eager puppy.

  “Oh no, Miss Harlow,” Gilmore replied, his voice faintly shrill, “I assure you I would never behave in such a manner.”

  His unease made Emma vaguely uncomfortable, but she had not gone there to be overwhelmed by pity.

  “I see: you are not the reckless type driven by passion like a leaf borne on the wind,” she persisted. “I suppose that if I rejected your love, you would prefer to think of me with the fatalistic indifference of the romantic hero. And, having overcome your brief sorrow, you would transfer your affections to some other young woman.”

  Gilmore looked at her, suddenly solemn.

  “You are wrong, Emma,” he said with ridiculous earnestness. “I would go on loving you for the rest of my life in the hope that one day you might change your mind.”

  Emma pretended not to notice he had called her by her Christian name.

  “You would sacrifice your life for such a slender hope?” she said, unsure whether to feel flattered or appalled. “Would you never marry, for example?”

  “No, I wouldn’t,” he replied in the same solemn tone. “I would simply wait, removing any obstacle in my life that might stand in the way of my love for you, should you one day return. I would do no more than stay alive.”

  “But why?” Emma asked, trying to conceal the strange agitation Gilmore’s words were beginning to cause her. “New York is full of young women every bit as beautiful as I, if not more so. Any one of them might—”

  “I could spend the rest of eternity traveling the world,” Gilmore interrupted, “admiring all the paintings and sculptures in the great museums, and nature’s most magnificent landscapes, but I would never find a greater beauty, or anyone who could move me as much as you, Emma.”

  Emma remained silent, taken aback by Gilmore’s reply. That didn’t sound like an experienced ladies’ man making a calculated speech, but like someone saying what he truly believed. A man, in short, who has fallen in love for the first time and is incapable of expressing his overwhelming emotions in anything other than grandiloquent, ridiculous, and naïve phrases. Gilmore had not used such language during their two other meetings. However, the man in front of Emma now had nothing in common with the clumsy, boastful companion whom she had left in Central Park. Her host possessed a quality she could not comprehend, for she had never encountered it in any of her other young suitors. Gilmore looked at her with passionate sincerity. He wanted to lay at her feet a love so generous that he would give his life for her without expecting anything in return, except the hope that she might one day love him. But was she painting a true picture of Gilmore, or was she in the presence of an inveterate charlatan? And why should she care either way, since she could never love him?

  “I confess you have a way with words, Mr. Gilmore,” she said. “You could convince anyone of anything.”

  He smiled modestly.

  “You exaggerate, Emma: I can’t convince you to marry me, for example.”

  “That’s because I’m not seduced by words that dissolve in the air as soon as they are uttered,” she retorted. “The way to win my heart is through action.”

  Because actions do not lie, she almost added, but halted herself. Gilmore played with his teaspoon for a few moments, before venturing:

  “And what if I fulfilled your wish; would you marry me then?”

  Emma pondered her response. She wouldn’t marry a man like Gilmore for all the tea in China, but what she intended to ask him for even he was incapable of achieving.

  “Yes,” she replied, with absolute conviction.

  “Do you give me your word?”

  “Yes, Mr. Gilmore,” said Emma. “I give you my word.”

  “Mmm . . . that can mean only one of two things: either you are certain I cannot possibly achieve what you want, or you want it so badly you are willing to pay any price, however high,” Gilmore reflected with an amused grin. “Or is there a third possibility I have ove
rlooked?”

  “No, this time there is no other possibility,” Emma replied coldly.

  “Good,” said Gilmore impatiently, “then let us unveil the mystery once and for all: what is this wish I cannot fulfill?”

  Emma cleared her throat. It was time for her to put the man in his place. Gilmore was expecting her to ask him for some priceless jewel, a horse that never lost a race, or a house that could float on a river, or in the air, held aloft by a flock of birds. But she wasn’t going to ask him for anything like that. She was going to ask him for something he could not possibly do. Something only one exceptional man had achieved, a man whose blood also ran in her veins. She was going to ask him to make the whole world dream. And Gilmore could not even make her dream.

  “Sixty-three years ago, in 1835,” she began, “an editor on the Sun convinced everyone that the Moon was inhabited by unicorns, beavers, and bat men. Did you ever hear about that?”