“Of course. I forget that you’re so young.”
Columbine didn’t know how to take that. She felt rather insulted, but whether it was for her physical vanity or her intellectual vanity, she wasn’t sure. Did he forget she was young because she looked older? Or did he feel that she was “so young” because she did not challenge him?
“You look troubled,” he said softly. “Forgive me. I invited you here for celebratory purposes, and I talk of war. I didn’t think about the war for years, I thought Look Away had purged me. But that was the book of a young man. I find I have quite different thoughts now, as the decrepit specimen I am.”
“Decrepit specimen? Hardly,” Columbine said. “Hardly,” she repeated irritably. The man with whom she was sitting in a puddle of longing over dared to call himself such a thing?
“Here, have more champagne.” Elijah poured her some, spilling a little on the tablecloth.
“I think you should finish it,” Columbine said gravely.
“The champagne? I intend to.”
“The novel. You know I meant the novel.”
“Yes. But that, my dear Columbine, so full of spirit and optimism, is not the easiest thing in the world to do.”
Columbine felt irritated again. “I know that,” she said. “I mean, I can imagine it. But if you were impatient with me once, I can be impatient with you. It’s time to do it. Maybe it’s past time.”
“Maybe it is.”
He frowned at her, but it was a tender sort of frown. Columbine’s irritation faded, and she smiled back hopefully. Then she saw a beautiful hand lay itself on Elijah’s broad shoulder.
“Elijah! So you’re here at Sherry’s. I must say I am surprised to see it.”
Elijah rose immediately. He bowed to a beautifully-dressed woman. “Elisabeth.”
The woman looked at Columbine pointedly. She was lovely, with wide hazel eyes and chestnut hair. Her cloak and muff were sable, and her hat, which was also trimmed with fur and perched prettily on her elaborate hair, made Columbine instantly, fiercely envious.
She had the look of a woman who is seriously dedicated to her beauty; her artifice was practiced and sure. Columbine imagined how all that calculated effect would capture a man, for he would instantly wonder what it would be like to muss that perfect hair, to undo that row of the tiniest pearl buttons to reveal a pink and powdered bosom. This was a woman, Columbine thought, who Ned would flirt with at parties, would enjoy. Perhaps this was the kind of woman he would end up with. In any case, she was the kind of woman Columbine had ceased to be jealous of, long ago.
But then, something about the way Elijah Reed stood and inclined his head, something about his voice when he introduced them, made jealousy burn its hot green way through Columbine’s heart. Suddenly, Mrs. Elisabeth Grey was exactly the kind of woman calculated to strike at her weakest point. She could not imagine Elijah in bed with such a woman, she couldn’t bear to imagine it, actually, but the way Elisabeth was looking at him made Columbine quite sure that Elisabeth was imagining it, and having a good time doing it, too. She felt stricken; just because she’d found Elijah such a powerful sexual presence didn’t mean that she expected other women would.
But Mrs. Grey was smiling at her now, and Columbine had to say something. “How do you do,” she said, smiling back pleasantly at Mrs. Grey, even while she wanted to pitch her glass at Elisabeth’s glossy head. Why was Elijah scowling so?
Columbine told herself that she could continue sitting here with this ridiculous polite smile on her face, and she would not betray one ounce of her jealousy. Elisabeth Grey smiled at Elijah Reed; that hot green poker seared her heart again. The woman had a lovely smile. Columbine realized that she had never felt jealousy before, only pique, only occasional envy. But this feeling was new to her; sexual jealousy of the most appalling, violent sort. It was horrible.
“Cornelius is arriving on Friday from school,” Elisabeth told Elijah. “You can imagine how I’m looking forward to that.”
“Oh, yes,” Elijah said.
“Shall I give him your best?”
“Please do.”
“Well,” Elisabeth Grey said, looking at Columbine and back to Elijah. “Enjoy your lunch.” She moved away with her tall male companion, to whom Columbine had also been introduced, but now, thirty seconds later, had no idea what his name was.
“Mrs. Grey is an old friend,” Elijah said, picking up his napkin.
“She’s lovely,” Columbine managed to say, and she felt, to her horror, tears sting her eyes. Everything crashed down on her: her impossible, crazy love, Elijah’s distance, her own silly need of him. She felt like a fool. She was nothing like Mrs. Grey, and wasn’t she better than Mrs. Grey? She wasn’t nearly as silly, was she, and probably more interesting? Why didn’t Elijah want to pursue her, then? He hadn’t wanted an intellectual companion at all. He wanted a coquette!
Two tears slid down her face, and she ducked her head. She gripped her napkin, but she was too ashamed to raise it to her cheeks. Perhaps Elijah would not notice.
“Well, shall we order? I think—” Elijah stopped abruptly. “Columbine, what is it? Please tell me. Can I help you?”
“No, I’m so sorry,” she said, quickly dashing away the tears. Embarrassment had given her a measure of control. “I’m afraid I’m one of those people who is absolutely incapable of controlling her tears. I cry at the most inconvenient times and places.… You see, I haven’t been sleeping well, and then I didn’t eat breakfast this morning, and I’ve been working terribly hard—”
“I know. We should go. I’ll see you home, you need to rest, obviously.” Elijah looked around for the waiter.
“Please don’t,” Columbine pleaded quickly. “Oh, please don’t. I’ve been looking forward to this lunch for so long. I couldn’t bear to go home alone.”
Elijah stopped. He looked at her keenly, for there was something in her voice…. But Elijah told himself that he had imagined it. He had told himself, over the past weeks, ever since that night in the house on West Tenth Street, that he had imagined everything he thought he saw in her eyes. But how could he mistake this? For once, he had the courage to keep looking, not to make a casual remark, not to turn away with a old man’s throat clearing. He saw her heart in her eyes, and his own heart stopped.
“I didn’t know,” he said. “Forgive me. I thought it was only me. Sometimes I can be stupid.”
Sweet relief rushed through her. Her lips curved. “Yes, Mr. Reed, you can be stupid.”
“You see,” he said, “I wanted you so much.”
She was sure of her power now enough to flirt. She was too breathless at the moment to be serious, anyway. “Oh, dear. You used the past tense, Mr. Reed, and I know how exact writers are.”
He acknowledged her comment with a lift of his eyebrows, but he did not smile. “You see,” he said deliberately, “I want you so much.”
Her breath truly left her then, for the whole of Elijah Reed’s sexual presence was unfurled for her, and she had never felt anything so keenly. She was more excited than she dreamed it was possible to be, sitting here so decently in Sherry’s in her best dress and her new hat. Now she wanted to match him, plain words for plain words. There must never be any mistake with this man. She would have to be the best woman she could be; to keep up with him.
“Yes,” she said, holding his dark gaze. “I want you. I’ve wanted you for such a very long time.”
Elijah smiled. “Perhaps then, Mrs. Nash, we should go. We’ve wasted far too much time already.”
Fourteen
ELIJAH STILL HADN’T touched her; they stood in his bedroom awkwardly, a bit apart, still wearing their coats. The bare, cold room had stopped them in their tracks. The compulsion that had propelled them here so precipitately seemed to leave them as soon as they’d crossed the threshold. Columbine picked at a button. She’d felt so free in the restaurant; now her body felt like lead.
Elijah’s voice sounded hoarse. “Columbine, let’s sit
down.”
They perched on the edge of the bed. Still, he did not touch her. They stared in front of them at a blank wall. There were no pictures in Elijah’s room, no heavy masculine adornments. Just a chest of drawers, a desk, a bookshelf. A bed with a gray bedspread.
“I’m a widower, as you know,” he said.
She swallowed. “Yes.”
“I’ve had mistresses, after. But no love.”
“And Elisabeth Grey?”
“Yes,” he said softly, “Elisabeth was my mistress.”
“When did it end?”
“A few weeks ago.”
She swallowed again; her mouth felt terribly dry. “Weeks?”
“Yes. After that night in Safe Passage House. Do you remember?”
“Yes. Elijah, what do you want to say to me?” Suddenly, Columbine felt afraid. Her hands felt very cold. She’d thought him solitary and proud; she’d thought him a man of ideas, not of love. But she should have realized that despite his absence of sexual suggestiveness, other women would find him as sensual as she did. She wouldn’t be the first to discover the sexual being in him. Why had she thought, like a dizzy adolescent, that she would be the first?
“I haven’t had much success in my personal life, Columbine. I’ve become reconciled to being alone. I’m better so. And it’s good for my work. I find that my feeling for you goes beyond anything I’ve felt in a long, long while. But I want to be honest with you. With the other women in my life, if I may be frank for a moment—well, we both knew the rules from the beginning. Most of them were married. You see, I’m not looking for a partner.”
“Only a lover.”
“Yes.”
Columbine sat, staring at the white wall. She wanted Elijah so much she could hardly breathe. But could she enter into relations with him, knowing that she loved him without limitations, when from the start he outlined those limitations? She saw heartbreak ahead of her, and she knew she should walk away. She should say no to this temptation, this man. She did want a partner. She could do without a man, but she could not do without commitment if she did have one she loved.
“I’ll understand if you can’t accept it,” Elijah said. “I should have said all this before. But I was out of my mind at the restaurant, all I wanted was you in my bed. But Columbine, I’ll be your friend, I’ll respect you, I’ll love you. But I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to stay. And I most likely won’t be able to give you what you want. I have always been able,” he added with a wintry smile, “to control my heart’s urges, I’m afraid.”
Barely hearing him, Columbine still stared ahead. She told herself to get up, to tell him they could be only friends, that what he was offering was not nearly enough for her. But some voice was telling her in a seductive whisper that things could always change. That he could come to love her enough to stay with her. That she could live day by day, and not think of the future. Wasn’t that what she had begged Ned to do? Wasn’t that what she had always done? Was it just a temporary mad love, tied to her lust, that was telling her that she wanted more from this man? Was she counting too much on that mystical moment in the house on West Tenth Street? Hadn’t she always been in Elijah’s position, gently trying to convey to a man that her work came first, that she would always be poised for flight?
How had anyone been able to stand her?
“Columbine, please say something. I won’t be able to bear not touching you much longer.”
Her breath caught. His voice spoke of such hunger. She turned to face him. The look in his eyes took her breath away.
“Touch me, Elijah,” she said.
He reached over and took her cold hand. He breathed on her icy fingers, then kissed her palm. Then he took her pale face in his hands and kissed her. She felt his rough fingertips against her cheeks, and his lips and tongue were warm. There was not an ounce of hesitation in his touch, not a particle of doubt. She bent like a lily on a fragile stalk underneath him, and he lowered her to the bed, hat, coat, and all. Decisions and consequences flew from her head. I don’t care, she cried silently, as he unbuttoned her dress with practiced hands. I don’t care, sang in her blood as he gently uncoiled her hair and breathed in its scent. She opened herself to him with the same absence of doubt she felt in his touch.
They were naked and entwined on the bed; he cradled her, warming her with his large body. He was brown and sturdy, the hair on his chest a mixture of silver and black. The lines around his eyes were exquisite to her, and she traced them with a fingertip. He was on top of her now, and she felt him, urgent and hot, between her thighs. Still, he hesitated, and looked down at her. Lover to lover, they stared into each other’s eyes and found love there. They did not need to know, just then, how far that love would take them, or if it would take them anywhere at all. It was enough to see it. And then desire overtook them again, and, fierce and aching, they knew each other completely at last.
It took Lawrence most of the month of April to assemble the pieces for the bomb. It had to be done carefully, and he had not picked the most reliable of associates. Chaim Lepinsky was not a diligent anarchist; he was also a poet by trade. He had connections to get explosives, and his prices were cheap, but he was often forgetful and made excuses time after time. Lawrence would have found someone else, but he trusted Chaim’s discretion and he wouldn’t improve his chances by involving someone else at this stage.
Fiona was now working as a downstairs maid in Ned Van Cormandt’s house. She knew the routine of the household; she knew where the housekeeper kept her keys, and how heavily she slept at night. They fixed on the library as the perfect place for the blast; when Ned was in town he went there punctually every night at eleven to work for a few hours before retiring.
Lawrence left Chaim’s rooms on Ludlow Street on a chilly April evening, adjusting his hat and scarf to cover his face. So far, he had limited his visits and always came at night. He covered his blond hair and kept his hat over his eyes, for his coloring made him stand out in this neighborhood.
He was so intent on keeping his head down that he almost missed it. Two women had paused ahead of him on the corner of Ludlow and Hester. They stayed in the shadow of a building, where the smaller one bent forward and kissed the other woman on the cheek. Something about the small, trim figure was familiar. The woman turned halfway, and Lawrence saw by the profile that it was Marguerite Corbeau.
He walked faster, keeping his head averted, as though he were looking for something in the market on Hester. But he came close enough to hear Marguerite laugh.
“Don’t worry. Goodbye, Mama. I’ll come again soon.”
“Goodbye, little one. Keep well.”
Marguerite turned and went down Hester Street. Lawrence crossed Hester, heading north; he did not want to take the chance of being seen. He felt exhilarated, lighter than air. The wind struck his cheeks, reminding him of the long scratch from her nails that had taken weeks to heal. He had had to make up a ridiculous story about a nasty cat for Bell.
He didn’t know how what he’d seen would come in handy, but he knew it would. It was always helpful to know a secret about another. Marguerite had lied for a reason she thought important. She wouldn’t want anyone to know what he saw. The little orphan had a mother. The little bitch was a Jew.
Bell had embraced a cause as well as a man. The sense of hopelessness that had dogged her days dropped away, and she found the exhilaration of purpose again. Anarchism brought together all the strands of her life and braided them into a coil of hard, steely joy.
Suddenly, everything made sense: what she’d read, what she’d seen, what she’d experienced. The way she’d been raised, her love of Thoreau, even the abuse she had suffered as a child. It all had a place in her new vision, and it all had a new meaning. She had a paradigm for looking at a cruel world that held out the possibility of beauty. She could even incorporate her religious faith, for what was anarchism grounded in but the belief in man’s essential good? Of course, anarchists were atheists—the Jewish memb
ers even went so far as to pointedly sponsor a dance on the sacred holy day of Yom Kippur—so Bell kept her faith a secret from everyone, even Lawrence. She did not find Christianity incompatible with her politics, and she would not allow anyone to preach to her that she was inconsistent.
She hugged it to herself, this new faith. Her work with Columbine still seemed important, in terms of individual lives. Despite the slight distance between them which had sprung up, despite Lawrence’s disapproval, Bell still felt happy there. One could not face that need every day and not feel necessary. She was still weak enough to need that. Lawrence claimed it was because she was weak in her faith.
Lawrence mightn’t understand it, but Bell got an unexpected source of strength for her position from Emma Goldman. They met every now and then for coffee; Bell would not tell Lawrence until afterwards, because of his inexplicable dislike for Emma. She was not the easiest friend to have, but she enjoyed teaching Bell her views on anarchism and class struggle. Bell was aware that Emma saw her as a child, even though she was older. But her new friend’s fierceness and wit kept Bell hungry for more. And Emma was strong enough to oppose Johann Most and work for the eight hour day. She also believed in Columbine’s work, to a point.
“Safe Passage House is a good idea,” Emma had said over a glass of tea. “I’ve seen what goes on down here, all over. Don’t listen to the men. We have to help our sisters, even as we fight for the revolution. Mrs. Nash might be cowardly in her politics, but I cannot say she doesn’t have good ideas.”
But when Bell told Lawrence this, after supper, when they were reading by the fire, it only irritated him.
“It is reformist gibberish she talks,” he snapped. “I should tell her hero, Herr Most, what the Goldman woman is telling you.”
“She’s not afraid of Johann Most, or of any man, I think,” Bell answered quietly. Her eyes returned to her book. She was studying Russian at night, at Lawrence’s insistence. There were many papers he needed to read, hot off the presses, to be current, and he missed many important discussions because he could not speak it. She was also learning Yiddish from Emma, but she wanted to surprise Lawrence with this. She planned to compose a birthday card for him in Yiddish in the fall.
The Gilded Cage Page 23