‘I don’t have one,’ said Vita, ‘but I can find one.’ Her voice, she noted with relief, sounded far more confident than she felt.
‘If you find one,’ said Samuel, ‘then I’m in. I’ll join your heist.’ And he wiped his chalky palms on his black trousers and stuck out his hand.
Arkady clapped his hands above his head and whooped, but an unexpected surge of hot guilt rose up in Vita’s chest. The two boys stood, shoulder to shoulder, identical grins. They had never seen Sorrotore, nor seen the ice in him. She had not told them about the newspaper headline.
She pushed the guilt down, down where she could not feel it. She laid her hand in Samuel’s and shook it.
‘When do we go?’ asked Arkady. ‘Soon! Tomorrow!’
‘Soon,’ said Vita. ‘But not tomorrow.’
‘But why not tomorrow?’
‘There’s still a lot to do,’ said Vita. ‘Like Samuel says – every heist needs a blueprint.’
CHAPTER NINE
The next morning, Vita’s mother left early again, walking across town to meet a series of grey-suited men who were sorting through Grandpa’s tax and banking affairs. Grandpa read by the window. And Vita, moving silently through his bedroom, barefoot, searched every drawer and cupboard, looking for papers.
There was nothing. She should have realised, she told herself fiercely. ‘Stupid,’ she whispered. She knew Grandpa had had to leave Hudson Castle with only the clothes he stood up in. Even so, it was a blow to the chest.
In the end, she did the simplest and most risky thing: she asked him.
‘Blueprint? Of course there was.’ He looked her up and down, his eyes sceptical. ‘Why the interest? Your mother’s right, Rapscallion – it’s better to put all that behind us, now.’
‘I just … wondered.’
‘Wondered?’ His tone was dry.
‘It’s for …’ And Vita bit down, hard, on the inside of her cheeks before she lied. ‘It’s for a game. Where is it? Is it back in the Castle?’
‘It’s in the New York Public Library. We donated it, with a lot of other papers, many years ago. They sent out requests to all the old houses.’
‘So I could see it?’ Her heart rose.
‘Would you like to tell me why?’ He lifted first one eyebrow, then the other.
‘No, thank you,’ said Vita.
‘It’s better you forget it ever existed, Rapscallion.’
‘No, thank you,’ she said again.
And as she looked up at him, unblinking, he gave a great bark of laughter, loud as a bear atop a church tower.
‘Your grandmother was stubborn too. It runs in the blood. Let me get my hat.’
His hat was moth-eaten, a black so faded it was closer to brown, but Grandpa had always worn his clothes with flair, and he set it on his head like a crown. The city was winter-sharp, and on the corner of West 47th Street, Grandpa stopped to buy a paper cone of sweet roasted peanuts.
Across the road, a white man in a black suit looked up and saw an old man with fine hands and a girl with red-brown hair and wide-set eyes. Her trench coat was wrapped tight over bright red boots and her left leg bowed inwards. His head jerked backwards. He put down the pretzel he was buying and set off after them, following half a block behind down the broad pavement.
By the time they reached the library, Vita’s fingers were covered in hot syrup. She licked them thoroughly, looking up at the building across the road.
The building looked more like a palace than a library. Its pillars and portico stood, regal, as the colour and noise of the city swept by.
‘This is my favourite place in New York,’ said Grandfather. ‘The lions are called Patience and Fortitude – though I always think they look furious, which I rather like.’
The lions did, in fact, look irate: two scowling white marble statues, guarding the city’s books. Vita nodded at them as they made their way up the steps. They went arm in arm, she placing her left foot carefully on the broad stone, he with his stick, both with their eyes set on the wide welcoming doors.
The man in the black suit did not follow them inside. He stood, leaning up against a lion, waiting, blowing on his fingers. On the back of his hand was a tattoo of a spitting cat.
The librarian on duty was a Miss Sutton, a tall Latina woman dressed in velvet who greeted Grandpa like an old friend. She led the two of them down the long hall to a room flanked with desks and reading lights and scholars bent low over books.
‘I’ll put you down here,’ she said, ‘so you can talk without disturbing our other patrons.’
And she led them into a small room, containing one large leather-topped desk, several pairs of white gloves, and a green glass lamp that Vita immediately longed to touch.
Miss Sutton produced a box, its lid tied down with a string fastening, and left them. Vita lifted out the sheaf of papers, and sat down next to her grandfather. At the top was a sheet of paper, folded into eighths.
Grandpa spread it out on the desk.
‘There!’ he said, and his voice was less steady than before.
The paper was large, as big as an atlas, and so thin as to be almost transparent. But she could see that her grandfather was looking beyond the paper, into the house itself; allowing himself, just for this moment, to remember.
‘It’s older than the Constitution, the Castle – my great-grandfather brought it over by boat. Mad, of course, but who’s to say that madness is so bad a thing? When my father died and we first moved there, before your mother was born, it was crumbling – the white walls moulding on the inside. So we painted the interior blue.’
Vita knew, of course, from the old stories. But even so, to make him talk, to keep that look in his eyes, she found herself saying, ‘What kind of blue?’
‘Jewel colours. Your grandma chose them. Bright cobalt blue, sapphire blue, turquoise. It used to shine.’
He pointed to the paper.
‘There’s the entrance hall. The old chandelier’s still there, unless that man has taken it. There’s the state staircase. Half-rotten, now, and liable to fall down at any second. We always took the back stairs. The cellar. My father’s wine is still in it, unless Sorrotore’s drunk it. That space in the back wall, you see – marked in black – that used to be the plumbing, but now it’s just a grate. It ventilates the cellar, and ensures you can freeze your teeth off down there all year round.’
‘And this?’
‘That’s the main sitting room. There was an old stuffed polar bear rug – poor thing, your great-great-grandfather shot it, a man with very few brains but many, many guns. I used to lie next to it as a boy. The teeth used to keep coming out. It guards the safe – which is here, inside the chimney.’
‘And see – front door. Back door. Unbreakable locks. Burglar bars. Your great-grandfather was convinced people were trying to steal his wealth. The rich are often paranoid and afraid. These days, of course, there is no wealth to steal.’
Vita looked at the drawing in silence. The walls around the castle were neatly labelled in beautiful architect’s print. Nineteen feet high, and two feet wide.
‘It’s strange, to see it here on paper. I had vowed to forget it. I don’t suppose I shall ever see it again.’ He smiled and shook the long-lost look from his eyes. ‘Now. Since we appear to have come, inadvertently, on a jaunt, shall we follow through? We could go in search of ice cream?’
Vita shook her head. ‘I’d actually like to stay here. I’d like to copy it.’
Grandpa’s eyebrows hitched upwards. ‘Copy it?’
‘It’s for the game.’
‘Do you care to tell me what game?’
Vita did not care to. She shook her head, hard.
Grandpa considered her; his red-booted, lion-eyed girl.
He sighed. ‘Don’t think, even for one second, that I don’t know that you’re lying,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think children should be forbidden to have secrets. Only, can you promise me that this secret has nothing to do with Sorrotore?�
�� Vita’s heart sank, and she was wondering if she could lie to him when he added, ‘Can you promise me, again, you’ll go nowhere near him?’
Vita smiled, the sixth of her six smiles. ‘I promise I won’t go near Sorrotore.’ She still had no intention of going near him.
‘Good. Then I only ask that you respect my trust, by not getting killed, maimed, or arrested. I’ll see you back at the apartment. Be home before your mother comes back, or she’ll have every right to slaughter us both.’
*
Vita worked fast. It was only half an hour before she left the library and began the walk home, under the watchful eyes of the skyscrapers. Children walking alone in New York were not at all unusual, but even so, she drew looks, so fiercely did her eyes burn with purpose: she did not seem to see the great yellow and grey stone city around her, the shining lights, for her eyes were focused on some other, unseen point.
And the man with the cat tattoo left his post by Patience, and followed her down the street.
CHAPTER TEN
Vita spent the afternoon memorising the city. She walked, first home, for toast with ketchup. Grandpa was preparing to sleep, upright in a chair in his bedroom. ‘The night,’ he had said, when Vita asked, ‘is become something of a giant. I seem unable to defeat it. But I sleep in snatches during the day, and that’s more than enough for me.’
Then Vita walked, slowly, painfully, across half of Manhattan; over 57th Street, and down Fifth Avenue towards Madison Square Park. She was trying to fix her paper map of New York in her head: just in case. There was no telling, she thought, when it might be useful.
She returned to the apartment at tea-time, and let herself in as silently as possible. She did not call out, in case her grandfather was still asleep. Nothing seemed amiss until she reached her bedroom; and then the hairs rose on the back of her neck like a cornered cat.
Someone had been in her room.
Nothing had been ransacked – everything was impeccably neat – but her book was in a different place on the window sill, and her bed had been unmade and remade, with the blanket the wrong way up. Panic wrapped around her, and she threw open the wardrobe; there was nobody there, only her neatly folded jerseys and stockings. She looked under the bed. Nothing; except … the dust had been swept away, as if by a groping hand.
She ran to check the kitchen, the drawing room. There was so little furniture that it was almost impossible to tell, but someone had been there, soft-footed and silent. Vita thought of the ring, secure inside the hem of her skirt, and felt her heart pound in her ears.
She should go to the police; she should tell someone. But Westerwicke was the police: even though he was retired, it was too enormous a risk. And if she told her mother, she would change their tickets for the first boat home. Which left Grandpa. She tried to picture telling him, and knew, immediately, from the shooting pain in her chest, that Grandpa mustn’t know. He would blame himself, and that was unthinkable.
Vita crossed to the kitchen and got out the ketchup bottle. She ate a spoonful, to give herself sugar, and courage. She would ask her mother to double-lock the door at night, and she would tell no one. And, in the meantime, she had a date with the circus.
It had all started quietly enough; legally enough, even. Vita had mentioned, the previous night under the moonlit trapeze, that she had never actually seen a circus.
The two boys looked at her, then at each other. It was as if she had said she had never seen the sky.
‘You don’t really mean it?’ said Samuel. ‘You don’t mean it literally?’
‘How could I have metaphorically not seen a circus?’
‘Right,’ said Arkady. There was an edge of panic in his voice. ‘We have to fix this! Tomorrow night – there’s a show at seven!’
‘Wonderful!’ said Vita, but she hesitated. Nothing about the shine and glow of Carnegie Hall suggested it would be cheap. ‘How … much will it be?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Samuel. ‘We’ll sneak you in.’
Vita’s mother was still not home when Vita crept out of the apartment that night. She left a note, saying she was going to the circus – she did not say with whom – and would be back by bedtime. She knew there would be fury on her return, but that was then, and this was now, and this was the circus.
The two boys stood under the flag, waiting. A young man was handing out leaflets; a single sheet, printed with a newspaper article. ‘Rave reviews!’ he called. ‘Read our rave reviews in the New York Times!’
Samuel beckoned the boy over, took one, and handed it to Vita. ‘Here,’ he said in greeting. ‘Souvenir.’
She read it out loud. ‘Circus in Carnegie Hall! Elephants, ponies, dogs, and other familiar attractions of the tanbark …’ She broke off. ‘What’s a tanbark?’
‘Small pieces of bark,’ said Samuel. ‘You know – the stuff they use to cover the floor of the circus ring.’
Vita kept reading. ‘– of the tanbark, will be seen in Carnegie Hall this season with the presentation there of a genuine indoor circus.’
‘Good, no?’ said Arkady. ‘The New York Times! Papa was so happy he framed it and put one in every room – even the toilet.’
‘Let’s go,’ said Samuel.
Vita pushed the leaflet into her pocket and stepped towards the main entrance, but Arkady gave a bark of laughter.
‘Not that way!’ he said. ‘We have to go in the stage door.’
‘What?’
‘Well, we don’t have tickets! We don’t get them free – who do you think we are, Rockefellers?’
Samuel led the way around the corner to the side of the building.
‘Did you get the blueprint?’ he asked, as he nodded at the doorman.
‘Yes,’ said Vita. ‘I copied it into my book.’
‘Good,’ he said, ‘you can show us after the show,’ and he led her up a flight of steep stairs. They made no mention of her foot, but, near the top, Samuel offered her his hand. She grinned at him but did not take it.
At the top of the stairs was a door in green baize. Samuel stood back. ‘After you.’
Vita pushed the door open, and found herself in another country.
The lights were bright, and the air smelt of perfume, and chalk, and hot human bodies. A young Japanese woman stood on her hands in the corridor, scratching the back of her head with a toe. Everywhere people hurried to and fro, squeezing past each other; every face was painted, and every person was clothed in a riot of exquisite silk and sequins.
Three women wearing leotards moved Arkady bodily aside, laughing in what Vita thought was Spanish.
‘This way,’ said Samuel.
Vita wanted to stop and stare, and stare, but Arkady caught hold of her hand and pulled her towards a high-ceilinged dark space.
‘Here!’ said Arkady, triumphant. Carnegie Hall, Vita saw, did not have wings like a traditional circus; instead, a wide door on each side led out on to the stage. Arkady pointed. ‘We stand here, just by the door! We’ll be able to see everything!’
A voice, Russian-accented, came from behind them. ‘Arkady! What are you doing here?’ A tall man with a bulbous nose glared down at them. ‘Didn’t I tell you last time, boys, you’re blocking the way?’
‘We just want to watch,’ said Samuel softly.
‘Who’s this?’ The man jerked an eyebrow at Vita.
‘She’s my friend.’ Arkady was turning red. ‘Vita, this is my uncle. He’s the acting stage manager. She’s never seen a circus, Uncle Yvgeny!’
‘I can’t have you …’ he began, but then he saw Vita’s face. Her eyes, looking about her, were hot with wonder. His eyes flickered down to her foot.
‘I see,’ he said, more gently. He dragged three chairs over and positioned them just outside the door. Vita smiled the third of her six smiles. ‘Here. Sit still in these, don’t make noise, and it’ll probably be OK.’
The lights were beginning to dim, and the young woman from the corridor came and stood just outside the door.
She rubbed the back of her neck, and winked at Vita.
‘That’s Maiko,’ said Samuel. ‘She’s the lead tumbler.’ His voice was full of awe. ‘She trained with Nikitin himself.’
A man, dark-haired and long-legged, in a top hat and a black dinner jacket, strode on to the stage and addressed the audience.
‘That’s my father,’ said Arkady. There was pride in his voice, and a shadow of resentment.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome!’ said Arkady’s father. ‘Welcome to the Lazarenko Circus! We hope tonight to show you that the world is more strange and wild than you knew: that the human body is the wonder to end all wonders! All we ask is that you watch – and marvel.’
Arkady snorted. ‘He says the same thing every night. He doesn’t like change.’
The band struck up, and Maiko ran on to the stage to a roar of applause. She back-flipped, loose-limbed and casual, across the floor. Samuel sighed, and the sigh was not for the girl herself but for the ease with which she swept aside the earth’s gravitational pull.
Two men ran on: one took her arms and another her feet, and they began to sweep her in wide circles. Another, taller woman spun on to the stage, and began to skip over and under Maiko’s falling and rising body.
It was, Vita thought, beauty of a wilder and more vagabond kind than ballet.
Samuel’s eyes were as wide as Vita’s. Long silks came down from the ceiling, and Maiko swung up and down them as easily as crossing the road, spinning and twisting, and Samuel leaned so far forward he nearly fell out of his seat.
‘We’ve seen the show at least three times a week,’ whispered Arkady, jerking his head at Samuel, ‘for years, and always, always, he’s like that, when she flies.’
Maiko ran off stage and Samuel sat back up and rubbed his eyes. A single file of poodles marched on stage, followed by Arkady’s mother, a tall, stern-faced woman with a large bosom. The dogs leaped in and out of golden hoops, then over one another.
‘Are those real gold?’ said Vita.
‘No, of course not! Just painted cardboard,’ said Arkady. ‘When I have my own troupe, I won’t have hoops – nothing that makes them look foolish. My whole orchestra will be made from birdsong, and people will come from all over the world.’
The Good Thieves Page 6