(“Oooooh, I should get a prize,” the doll named Prim announces. “I should get a prize for not asking which one you lost your virginity to, Mother-of-Perdita.”
“More like a prize for presumptuousness,” says the doll named Lollipop.
The doll named Bonnie has something to add: “While we’re at it, let’s give Perdita a prize for not asking which one’s her father.”
“Never-ending spiral of presumption,” says Lollipop.)
The younger boy, Gabriel, asked Harriet if there was anything he could get her, and she asked for a piece of paper. He gave her a whole blank notebook, the nicest notebook she’d owned to date, its pages flecked with papyrus pith. Handmade and heartfelt; Harriet wanted everything she did to be like this. Each time she opened the book and saw Gabriel Kercheval’s monogrammed initials, there was an instant, the briefest instant, in which it seemed to her that a note from Gretel had been slipped in among her own.
Harriet started out using her notebook for new words but soon switched to keeping a weekly ranking of the members of the Kercheval household. Margot was number one week after week, though the list didn’t run in order of liking—Harriet liked most of her housemates about the same. She slept well in that house even though it took her by surprise at first—Er, when will it be finished? Margot asked as Ari pulled up in the driveway. It looked like a Brutalist building site, a single block of checkered granite with a number of deep gaps and crenellations that seemed to think they answered the need for windows and doors. The white squares glared . . . perhaps it was a Kercheval rule always to conceal the extent of one’s wealth, whether in Druhástrana or abroad. Exteriors aside, the Kerchevals’ was a household that made room for them. Its members carried furniture from spot to spot in order to get what Margot called “the vibe” right, and they drew alternate floor plans for Margot and Harriet when they got lost due to certain qualities of the building itself. Ari did most of his work from home and liked to move his office around at the press of a button, so the staircase that ran through the center of the building was the only fixed unit, and all the other rooms slid up and down like beads on an abacus. Harriet would knock on what she thought was Gabriel’s bedroom door only to find herself chatting with Margot or Rémy, as Gabriel’s room had gone up or down a floor.
Every now and then the adult Kerchevals would make offhand references to a collective good deed they carried out annually. The less traceable it was in terms of possibility/probability, the more likely they were to take it on. One year it might be the seeding of a long-term investment, and another year it was a question of stopping something from happening . . . blocking somebody else’s move. You’d be surprised how taxing that can be . . .
From this talk Margot inferred that taking in the Lees was that year’s good deed, and also that the annual good deed was meant to be therapeutic for the family conscience. Tamar and Kenzilea were noticeably defensive about practicing medicine in the private sector, and Ari and Ambrose were cagey about the source of their wealth, so it was probably exploitative, true to known Kercheval form. This had no effect on Ari’s ranking in Harriet’s list of household members.
“Let’s have this list, then,” says the doll named Prim, and the doll named Sago says: “Oh no, not a list.” The doll named Lollipop agrees: “I wasn’t going to say anything about this, but lists—you shouldn’t do that to people . . .”
The doll named Bonnie wants to hear it and says Lollipop and Sago can just cover their ears if they’re so much against cataloging people. She, Bonnie, will listen carefully because it’s like a list of suspects, only rather than being suspects connected to a murder they’re suspects connected to a birth. One of the people Harriet’s about to list might be Perdita’s father, and another two of them might be Perdita’s grandparents on the paternal side. Speaking on her own behalf the doll named Bonnie would like to know what kind of people the English Kerchevals wanted the Lees to think they were and what kind of people the Lees actually ended up thinking they were. Furthermore, Perdita has her pen poised over her notebook and looks ready to take notes, and the doll named Prim repeats her, “Let’s have this list, then,” adding that she’s already decided who she thinks Perdita’s father is (!), but she doesn’t mind hearing about the rest of the household since these people were good enough to take Mother-of-Perdita in.
“If the list isn’t in order of dodginess, how does it run? In order of how much you liked or disliked each household member?”
Harriet’s list ran in order of readability, and Margot Lee was number one. The rest of the list generally went like this:
Mr. Bianchi the cook and Ms. Danilenko the housekeeper took joint second place. They were happy when Harriet and Margot stayed out of their way and unhappy at all other times. But at a meeting held in Margot’s bedroom on their first evening in the house, the Lees decided that signaling their desire to earn their keep was more important than warding off the combined hostility of the cook and the housekeeper. They rolled up the sleeves of their silk pajamas and got down to work. Margot did a lot of late-night cleaning and laundry, and Harriet sneaked into the kitchen in the earliest hours of the morning to bake gingerbread for everybody, even though Ari and Tamar told her she was free to develop other interests and Mr. Bianchi had plenty of derisive things to say about the fruits of her labor.
If you wanted proper gingerbread, you should have told me. Are we treating this as a rare delicacy best prepared by small hands? Where is the complication in this? Is this pashmak, I ask you . . . is this patisserie? I can make gingerbread like this with my eyes closed, with my hands tied behind my back; I can make this kind of thing in my sleep!
If Harriet were ever to accept an award for her gingerbread, her first shout-out would be to Mr. Bianchi. He was such a perfect hater. His denunciations of “this basic snack” never stopped him eating it, and for all that he went on and on and on about how easily he could match Harriet’s gingerbread, he never let anybody taste the batches he turned out. Gabriel took to studying in the kitchen while Harriet was baking. He’d seen Mr. Bianchi on the prowl with a rolling pin and thought Harriet needed a bodyguard. Margot joined them as additional backup and pored through job listings while waiting for the wash cycle to come to an end, and Rémy joined as a supplementary buffer between Margot and Ms. Danilenko. He was also helping Margot to craft a perfect(ly fictitious) CV for the jobs she wanted but didn’t have the experience for yet. Harriet looked around at her sleepy companions, each one insisting that he or she felt wide awake, Gabriel reluctantly posing as this or that former employer in order to field inquiries from American companies that were considering Margot’s latest job application across time zones, and she felt she had Mr. Bianchi the angry cook and Mrs. Danilenko the even angrier housekeeper to thank for the 3:00 A.M. kitchen team.
Ari Kercheval was the next most readable. Ari was happy with you as long as you didn’t need something it was not in his power to give. Rémy’s independence put a great big smile on his uncle’s face, though at times it seemed to arise from a determination to neither give nor take that struck Ari as unsuitable for—well, a human being. Margot made Ari happy too: he found her requests moderate. Tamar, Kenzilea, and Harriet made Ari about 78 percent happy . . . he understood them; he mostly understood them. Ambrose and Gabriel were bothersome. They hid things from Ari, and even when he was able to discover what it was they had hidden, there didn’t seem to a sane rationale for the hiding. For instance, why did Gabriel hide his perfect school reports? Really it was self-effacement that Ari Kercheval couldn’t understand. Besides, there was nothing to be gained from parading the reports around, since the C’s Rémy earned without studying got more praise than the A’s Gabriel went flat out for.
The problems between Ari and Ambrose and the problems between Ari and Gabriel didn’t just stay between them . . . for instance there was the way Rémy couldn’t seem to let a day go by without offering his father some token of disrespect
. This wasn’t something Ari liked to see, and he kept having ineffectual heart-to-hearts with Rémy about it. There were other nasty episodes, like the tearful drunken rages during which Tamar would repeatedly ask Ari if he didn’t wish he’d fathered Rémy himself, or the time Tamar consulted inheritance lawyers behind Ari’s back about how to proceed in the event of a nephew being made chief beneficiary of a will instead of a biological son. Margot assured Ari he wasn’t overreacting to Tamar’s level gaze as she’d said: What if your nervous headaches are an undetected tumor—what then? As if she was wishing it on him . . . what dangerous place was this stuff coming from, and how could this be the same Tamar who still sent Ari love notes via homing pigeon . . .
So Ari’s readability was affected by his wariness. There was rarely a day when he didn’t have to prepare for the next trap that was going to be set for him as a father/husband/brother/brother-in-law/uncle, though not, thankfully, as a benefactor.
Tamar Kercheval was the fourth most readable. Tamar liked to be depended on and didn’t have Ari’s reservations regarding ability to follow through. When Ari had shown her three captive pigeons he’d just been given by a client and repeated the story the client had told him about their being Druhástranian pigeons, she’d said: You never know, it could be true, and had proceeded to bone up on pigeon husbandry. Had Maggie Parker seen the way those pigeons now doted on Tamar, she might’ve been upset—or she might have claimed Tamar as a Parker. Tamar remained mindful of the doctor-patient bond she’d had with Harriet, but she was slightly unhappy about having an attractive and unemployed woman (i.e., Margot) drifting around the house while she was away. For a while Ms. Danilenko was paid extra to send confidential daytime reports. But the Lees soon discovered that Tamar Kercheval resembled the God of the New Testament in that she was keen on anyone who was keen on her son—the boy had been brought forth for the sake of love and therefore ought to receive plenty of it. For Harriet and Margot, doting on Gabriel was very easily done, so they could count on Tamar for anything. She filled in all their immigration papers herself and had lawyers check them over. And she pressed Harriet to make free use of Parker’s Pigeon Post: Write anything you want . . . I won’t read it.
Harriet wrote in Druhástranian, just in case: Hi Zu, I’m staying with very nice people in Yorkshire and everything’s great except sometimes people try to act as if they don’t understand what I’m saying when I think they actually do understand but just think my accent should be more like theirs. Are you well? What about Dottie and Lyudmila and Suzy and Rosolio and Cinnabar and the rest of the GGs? Lots of love, Harriet.
Zu wrote back: Hi H, the GGs bought our farm! We’re doing well—busy—and it just so happens that we’re looking for somebody to come and read farmers’ almanacs to the cows; the job’s here for you if you want it. Our accent may not be the world’s most melodious, but English accents are annoying too, so if anybody makes fun of the way you talk, just give them one slap in the face with your foot! You have to do that for us. Sending love.
Harriet wrote: I’m well, and I’m glad you’re all well.
Zu wrote: We’re glad you’re well and glad that you’re glad we’re well.
They couldn’t write down all they wanted to; the pigeons couldn’t carry it all.
At least a few of the Gingerbread Girls would’ve liked to hear about Tamar Kercheval’s beauty spot. It was on her nose, just over her left nostril, and it was so vivid it looked drawn on. In the very early days of Ari and Tamar’s relationship, Ari told himself the beauty spot was the reason he kept asking Tamar out. He was so irritated by it, so irritated by the affectation of it . . . he couldn’t end things without telling her how much it pissed him off, but the occasion for criticism had to arise somewhat naturally. One day she’d forget to draw on the beauty spot, or it would be a little higher up or a little lower down than before, or lighter in color, or it would just have changed in some way, and then he’d pounce. But Ari was never able to catch Tamar out. Somebody must have told this woman she had a cute nose once, and she’d made the beauty spot a crucial step of her makeup routine ever since. Ari didn’t see anything wrong with playing up one’s best features, but Tamar’s nose wasn’t that distinctive. There were several far more advantageous locations for a drawn-on beauty spot. Her chin was nicer, as were her cheeks, the corners of her eyes and mouth. What was her nose compared to these? By their seventh date, irritation had become abhorrence, and Ari reached across the dinner table and tried to remove that attention-seeking little dot. He tried with a napkin first, then with a finger and thumb. To no avail, since the beauty spot was a birthmark. After about five minutes, Tamar said: I think I’m having the crème brûlée. What about you? She’d been looking down at the menu throughout.
Something else: Harriet’s mother was uneasy about Tamar. This came up as a topic during one of Harriet and Margot’s late-late-late-night consultations as the two lay side by side in Margot’s bed, shuffling and reshuffling the English-vocabulary flashcards they rarely remembered to actually test each other with. Whisper-gossiping in English served roughly the same objective anyway.
Want to see a couple who’s madly in love in very different ways that might cause big trouble?
Where do we go to see that? Harriet asked.
Not far—just watch Ari and Tamar for a while. Tamar Kercheval . . . why did I have to meet this woman . . . ?
Mum, you don’t like Tamar?
I do, actually. It’s more that I don’t like meeting her after meeting Clio Kercheval. We three . . .
What about you three?
You still don’t see it? Why do you think I forbade you to like Clio more than me? She’s just your type, Margot said. And so’s Tamar. Tamar’s take on being in love, for instance. I’ve worked her out there. Her “I love you” doesn’t mean “If you seem cold toward me for one morning I sleep poorly two nights in a row,” nor does it mean “I can no longer imagine a situation in which I choose self-preservation over whatever you need,” or even “If you look at anyone else the way you look at me I will almost definitely want to kill you and the person you looked at that way”—those are more Ari’s version of being madly in love.
And with Tamar?
With Tamar it’s more having the same plans. He comes up with a scheme and she makes it as watertight as possible, and they go on like that. His plans are her plans. But when she comes up with something—well, her plans had better be his plans too, or he’ll be in a world of shit. And why? Because she sees him as her equal. If only she could be more arrogant and try to do all the loving deeds by herself, just love him without respect, on the assumption that he doesn’t have the ability or the depth of feeling to match her. Instead, whenever he does anything to damage the equality between them, she . . . well, hopefully we won’t be around to see it. Well, you look well and truly horrified, daughter. But that’s the story of Ari and Tamar.
Harriet wiped cold sweat from her forehead and muttered: Does it even make sense to describe any of that as love . . .
* * *
—
KENZILEA KERCHEVAL RANKED FIFTH. Kenzilea lived for work, at-home facials, and cinema dates with her son, who encouraged all onlookers to continue misidentifying her as his sister. Though Kenzilea didn’t live with the other Kerchevals, she often requested that Rémy bring Harriet along when he was visiting her. Harriet had been her patient too, and Kenzilea had decided to let the girl in on all the skincare secrets she would have passed on to her own daughter. Harriet spent whole Sunday afternoons receiving instruction on the best way to wash her face. In between treatments Rémy and Harriet were unofficial home clinic receptionists, greeting an irregular stream of girls and women who’d been given Kenzilea’s address. Some were Traveler girls, many were not, but all had heard this doctor was good for non-surgical procedures that didn’t come with pointless questions or attempts to contact your family. Somebody would come in with a scared look, a split li
p, some uncertainty as to whether her arm was sprained or dislocated, and she’d find herself sat in an easy chair with a pair of cucumber slices over her eyes as she waited for Kenzilea’s next opening. Kenzilea’s son proved diverting too. He’d try to make small talk (Isn’t skin just a bit TOO absorbent, though? I mean, all that hand cream you just rubbed on three minutes ago . . . where has it gone?) and the oracular phrasing of his speech induced communal freak-outs.
The occasional lull between patients gave Kenzilea time to follow Ari’s directive and have Ambrose-related heart-to-hearts with Rémy: You shouldn’t talk to your dad the way you do; his whole life’s gone wrong.
When appealing to Rémy’s better nature, Kenzilea addressed her son by his middle name, which was Nearboy. This only gave Rémy a pretext to ask about the grandfather he’d never met, but one day Harriet jumped in before Kenzilea could begin retelling one of her father’s escapades and asked what had gone wrong with Ambrose.
I’ll tell you, Harriet. Rémy says it’s nonsense, but I’ll tell you. We weren’t allowed, him and me. He was just too brand-new as far as I was concerned, and vice versa. The way we felt about each other . . .
(Bye, Rémy said, walking out.)
OK, BYE—Yeah, the way we felt about each other made it seem like there was more to me than I knew, or more to him than he knew. We liked that feeling, but most of the people who thought they knew me well, or thought they knew him well, they didn’t like it at all, thought we were pretending, or building up what was basically a physical thing into some spiritual link. I mean, there’s Ambrose with these ultra-vintage supermodel looks. I was at this palace in Lisbon last summer and there’s a portrait there, of a black courtier . . . this friend of a friend of a very good friend of a friend of Luis I type sort of guy . . . but he’s Ambrose Kercheval to the life, right down to the frock coat. Ambrose was just about allowed, and me, this scrappy girl who sprang out of a caravan and used her own head as a battering ram until those medical-school gates buckled, I was just about allowed. But the two together . . . My friends were polite with him, but after he’d gone, they’d tell me, That one’s a no no—he’s the opposite of lively, and his friends were kind . . . well, patronizing, really, and they’d ask him, What do you two talk about? Our vocab was so different we needed dictionaries or UN translators or something. Even now . . . you just go and tell Ambrose the title of any book or film or TV show I like and he’ll tell you, in detail, just why it makes his eyeballs bleed. Dad didn’t mind him, though. Loyal bugger, idn’ he, that’s what Dad used to say. Once he’s on your side, he don’t care what anybody else thinks. Oh, Ambrose was shocked, really, really shocked, the first time I took him to McDonald’s. He took me to his favorite Michelin-starred joint, and I was like what the fuck is this and how come there’s hardly any of it?
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