The Language of Paradise: A Novel

by Barbara Klein Moss

  A rabbit skittered across Gideon’s path, startling him. He stopped and looked around, amazed to find himself halfway to the seminary already. Without realizing it, he had been moving along at a fast clip, his feet keeping pace with his thoughts. He had almost outrun the night, but it seemed to be gaining on him; the sky had lost its luster, the air had an edge. He pulled his coat closer. In spite of himself, he felt his old fear of being alone on the road after dark. The sweat he’d worked up was trickling coldly down his sides.

  Reality seeped in, along with the chill. What nonsense had he been entertaining? It was all very fine to imagine coming home to Sophy after parish rounds or monklike hours in his study, to open a door and find her waiting for him, as she had waited this afternoon. His little wife. But he knew very well that these pleasantries were only the outer layer of marriage, the thin skin over the pulsing heart. Singular and unfathered as he was—hatched from an egg, his mother used to tease him—he was aware that beneath the homely comforts of the hearth, its reassuring rituals, gaped a mystery. He, who had always kept himself to himself, who had looked out at the world from a calculated distance: how would he manage the thorny business of becoming one flesh?

  It was not Gideon’s habit to open the door of the marital chamber, even in his dreams. He opened it now, but only a crack—just enough to glimpse Sophy in her white nightdress, chastely gathered at the neck. Against the bank of pillows, her hair in a thick plait over one shoulder, she looked more childlike than ever. He would have spared her the sight of his pale calves in his nightshirt, but it was too late. Her face lifted to him with that bright candor he loved: a flower to the sun. He approached slowly, so as not to overwhelm her, marshaling all the wisdom he had picked up secondhand in the college common room (“A woman must be opened with care, like a bottle of fine wine.”); bestowed a reverent kiss on her brow and her temple (“Let the points of the pulse be your guide!”) before touching her lips; loosened with one finger the ribbons at her throat; drew up by millimeters the hem of her gown. But beneath the fabric was more gauze: a blur of a body, as nebulous as the trees in her painting. Her intimate particulars would not come clear.

  He knew why. For all his care, a pair of ghosts had materialized in the room. His mother, as composed as she had been in her coffin, sealed in perpetuity behind her fixed smile. The schoolroom girl, goading him on with throat sounds and nonsense words. They had stationed themselves on either side of the bed, like attendants at a wedding.

  “Go away! Go!”

  A flock of birds rose suddenly from a nearby tree, and Gideon realized that he had shouted out loud. Sheepish, he looked around him, but the road was empty except for the persistent rabbit, whose button eyes were trained on him from a safe distance, curiosity having overcome its timidity. The bridal chamber had receded into the vapors, leaving him with a sediment of resolve. If he were lucky enough to be admitted to Sophy’s presence again, he would devote himself to creating the garden of her dreams, with a fountain whose spray aspired to heaven, and statues, too. And he would build a wall around it, and set the stones so snugly that no dark influence could pass through, from this world or the next. The Reverend would have no cause to reproach him.

  Not that there was much chance. He began to walk again, more slowly, with every step conscious of his life narrowing to the size of his solitary room. The family would be sitting down to their supper about now—a clan with its own rites and customs. They had probably already forgotten the poor student they’d invited into their midst; he was nothing more than a Sunday’s good deed, briefly embraced, soon effaced. Even more ominous was the possibility that they were sharing their opinions of him over the remains of the stew. At this very moment Sophy might be amusing Unsworth with remarks about the serious young man who had stolen her precious Sunday afternoon. He looked at me in the field. He thought I wasn’t watching.

  Gideon shifted the packet of papers from one arm to the other. In the grip of his fantasies he had almost forgotten Hedge’s parting loan. The essays, wrapped like butcher’s paper around the unfortunate blacksmith’s cautionary verse, were a tangible reason to return. He would contrive a few clever questions requiring long-winded responses and ask to see the Reverend outside of class. It was obvious that Hedge never needed an excuse to expound.

  As for the rest, why should he concern himself? Marriage was a sacrament—or so the church proclaimed. There were vows to be spoken—vows he would soon be empowered to pronounce. If such a one as he, unfinished, imperfect, could bind two souls together for eternity, how could he doubt the efficacy of the promises? Surely, if he and his future wife pledged in the company of the faithful to worship one another with their bodies, their bodies would show them the way. Who knew what marvels lay in wait, what unknown lands they would discover?

  The thought was such a revelation that it burned in his head like a lantern, illuminating the road ahead. He began to run again, and was in his room before the dark set in.

  ON TUESDAY, THE MORNING of his first Hebrew class of the week, Gideon woke early and took special pains with his clothes. His reflection in the glass mocked him. A couple of days ago he had cared only for Reverend Hedge’s opinion of his mind, and here he was, fussing over the whiteness of his collar.

  He had always taken his beauty for granted. It was something he had been born with, like hands and feet. He knew that his mother took pride in his looks as an outward token of his general superiority, and was secretly pleased when others fawned, but Gideon had little vanity himself. Such admiration was too easily won. Fair hair and fine features were hardly as worthy of praise as mastering Greek. Now, for the first time, he considered that these attributes might have a practical use. Hadn’t Sophy mistaken him for an angel? Absurd, of course, another sign of her innocence—still, it was hard to resist such an exalted vision when, all his life, he had felt set apart, groomed for something higher. He would do his best to live up to her lofty view of him, though he wasn’t sure what she would think of his new ambition. Apparently—Gideon adjusted his cravat, squared his shoulders, exchanged a radiant smile with his conspirator in the mirror—he was applying for the position of suitor.

  He need not have bothered. The Reverend strode into class with his head down, scowling and preoccupied. The last examination papers had been disappointing. Abysmal, as a matter of fact. Hedge made as if to set the offending papers on the desk, but, appearing to think better of defiling its surface, held them at the end of one stiff arm.

  “I have asked myself—nay, interrogated myself—whether my instruction is at fault. Whether I have lingered too long on my little tales of house and home, thinking to sweeten the labor of learning with a bit of honey, as I’m told the Hebrew sages do. I have scoured my conscience, yet I find I cannot take up the cross for such incompetence, such indifference, such outright contempt for the language of Holy Scripture. I must bear down, gentlemen! For the sake of those souls who will one day be in your care, I must wield the rod!”

  The arm swung in their direction, the papers came at them like grapeshot.

  Gideon was unmoved by these histrionics. He had seen them before, and besides, he had nothing to fear: his own examination was clean, except for a couple of insignificant changes. He could no longer summon up the holy awe he had felt in Hedge’s presence; observing the man in his native habitat had taken care of that. Still, he wished the Reverend would acknowledge him in some small way, raise him above his disgraced classmates with a quick glance or a nod. Hedge’s baleful eye hadn’t settled on him once—seemed, actually, to skim over him with willful disregard.

  The class wandered on, interminable. Hedge was at his driest, Hebrew issuing from his mouth in a continuous uninflected line, as from a parchment scroll rolled out by inches. Gideon knew he wasn’t the only one who lacked the courage to sneak a look at his pocket watch. Stomachs were grumbling all around him; dinner hour must be long past. The professor’s teaching lacked the drama of his preaching. His domestic homilies might be universally
mocked, but it was clearer with each passing minute how much they had leavened the tedium. When at last he creaked to a close, the students didn’t move for several seconds. Boredom had numbed them into docility.

  Hedge busied himself at his desk, taking no notice of them as they straggled out. Gideon considered stopping to ask him one of his rehearsed questions, but thought better of it. He was just about to step into the hall—sun-drenched after the murky classroom—when a thin voice hooked him and reeled him back. “Mr. Birdsall.”

  Gideon turned, blinking. “Yes, sir?”

  “Mrs. Hedge has asked me to inquire whether you will be joining us again this Sunday.”

  “This Sunday? I didn’t know—I hadn’t assumed—”

  The Reverend went on as if Gideon hadn’t spoken. “It occurred to me after our interesting discussion that you might be willing to assist me with my Hebrew Lexicon. Only the most minor tasks, of course—copying, organizing notes, and the like. I would prefer to do it all myself, but you are well acquainted with the demands on my time. Lately, I have been turning over in my mind the possibility—say, rather, the necessity—of employing an aide to speed my project along. An amanuensis, if you will.”

  “A-man-u-en-sis,” he said, lingering for a fraction of a second between each syllable, letting the last glide like syrup off the tip of his tongue.

  “Should you have an interest in such a position, I am prepared to compensate you in a modest way. I am not a wealthy man, but what I can’t supply in dollars, I have no doubt my Consort will make up for at table.” Hedge gave a dry, barking cough that Gideon interpreted, a moment late, as a laugh. “No need to decide right away. You have until the Sabbath to mull over my little offer.”

  CHAPTER 7

  ____

  AMANUENSIS

  THE FIELD HAD LOOKED SERENE FROM A DISTANCE, DOTTED with wildflowers, tall grasses waving gently in the wind, but as soon as he set foot in it, he began to stumble. Dense, knotty undergrowth had entrenched itself in the soil and was rapidly taking over. Wiry tendrils thick as vines wound about his ankles; it was all he could do to stay upright. He would never make a trail through this midget jungle with only his hands to clear the way. A scythe was what he needed. Across the field he could see Sophy, a basket on her arm, gazing in his direction. It seemed to him that she stood on a placid shore, waiting, while he wrestled a choppy sea to get to her. With all the breath he could muster, he called out her name. Somehow the frail sound reached her: she tented her eyes with one hand and waved. He lifted his arm to wave back, but the distraction broke his concentration. He tripped, falling forward, his arms flung out helplessly, hungry vines arching up to meet him even before he hit the ground. Within seconds he was immobilized, tangled in roots.

  Gideon woke in a sweat, the coverlet twisted around his legs. He kicked it aside and fell back against the damp pillow. His eyes were open, but the dream still clasped him—not its drama, which was already fading, but its atmosphere of paralysis and slow dread. He was late for an appointment—that much he remembered. He felt a muffled urgency, yet he could not persuade his limbs to move.

  A gust of wind blew the curtains apart; there was a pause like a sucked-in breath, then the hollow boom of thunder. Another wet day, the sixth in a row. After a hot, dry summer, the rain had come all at once and with a vengeance. Osgood groaned in unconscious protest and turned over on his back, discharging a fusillade of snores. The noise jolted Gideon into clarity. It was Sunday. He was due at the Hedges to expedite the momentous transition from Aleph to Beth. The Lexicon awaited.

  HE HAD BEEN ASSISTING the parson for nearly two months. Seven Sundays, and by now he was a fixture: yet another domestic improvement, obediently slipping into the niche that had been prepared for him in a corner of the study. Gideon could imagine the parson pointing him out to a visitor. “And here we have my amanuensis. A simple device, but adequate for my purposes.”

  His function in the household continued to mystify him. He supposed he was a sort of apprentice scholar, a rung or so higher than a clerk. Reverend Hedge was always hovering, finding his way back to the desk in the midst of whatever activity engrossed him to check on Gideon’s progress, assess his efforts, send him scurrying after another source. The primary Hebrew roots—sturdy three-legged stools on which all manner of meaning could be stacked—were only the beginning. Samaritan, Phoenician, Arabic, Syriac—Gideon’s head swarmed with ancient alphabets. Scripture references had to be hunted down, derivatives traced to their furthest reaches. His adventures with translation had led him to believe that the quest for a word’s essence would be vertical: a clean dive into deep, still waters; the gem, half-buried, gleaming in the silt. The reality was more like the noxious plant of his dream, spreading relentlessly outward in every direction.

  Although the work Gideon was doing went far beyond the basic tasks that the parson had described, Hedge was never satisfied with his progress; each week he badgered him to stay a little longer, do a little more. “We are engaged in sacred studies, Mr. Birdsall,” he would exhort, neatly skirting the command to rest on the Sabbath. “To probe the language of the Lord is to journey into the very heart and bowels of Scripture.” Gideon suspected that Hedge, for all his criticism, was willing the Lexicon into being through him. He had not gotten very far with it on his own. Twenty-one letters remained: a whole continent of words still to be plumbed, enough work for an army of secretaries. In Gideon’s first flush of excitement after receiving Hedge’s offer, he had consulted his dictionary about the word “amanuensis” and found that it derived from a custom of the scribes of old, who signed documents they had been ordered to copy. Its literal meaning was “slave at hand.” Flexing his cramped fingers after hours at the desk, Gideon found it all too easy to envision a life spent in lexical servitude, submerged like a galley oarsman in endless repetitive labor.

  This morning, as he threw on his clothes, he reminded himself that he was a free man; he could plead the pressure of his studies and leave whenever he wanted. But if he did so, he would lose all connection to Sophy. Gideon had assumed that proximity would increase the intimacy between the two of them; had even contrived some promising remarks that might develop into the philosophical conversations she longed for. Just the opposite proved to be true. He saw her at church and at dinner, always in company. He was Hedge’s property now. He barely had time to put down his fork before the Reverend herded him off to the study, discoursing along the way on his errors of the week before. You have slighted the Arabic, Mr. Birdsall. Do not be seduced by easy solutions! In Gideon’s state of fatigue and frustration, it was easy to see a Machiavellian plot behind it all. Hedge was too sharp not to have sensed a budding attraction between Sophy and his student, and had devised this devilish scheme to smother it in its infancy. Instead of banishing Gideon, which might lead to lovesick pining on Sophy’s part, he had installed the admirer as a permanent cog in the household machine, thereby rendering him commonplace.

  Or worse, invisible. Sophy hardly ever favored him with her musing glance these days. Their relationship seemed to have regressed to formality. After the service they exchanged a few stiff words; he asked about her garden, and she replied with a precise inventory of the state of her plants, those that were flourishing, those that had faded. Gideon was reduced to mining this unpromising material for hidden meaning; his mother, he remembered, had owned an old French book about the secret language of flowers. In his lowest moments, he doubted they would speak at all once the growing season was over. She seemed different now—not so much changed as muted, her vivid presence watered down to a faded pastel. From Mrs. Hedge he learned that there had been an argument over the design Sophy had planned for the clock face, an elaborate arrangement of the signs of the Zodiac, copied from an almanac. The Reverend had judged the images unsuitable, and he had prevailed. Mrs. Hedge had no idea why Sophy had taken it so hard.

  “He was well within his rights,” Fanny said. “Can you believe the girl put the constellations in place
of numerals? She would have us consult Aries to see whether it is time for dinner and Capricorn for supper. And in the center, the phases of the moon, all in a ring. Even a cathedral clock would have trouble accommodating so many heavenly bodies! She means well, but she can’t see past her fancies, and if they are thwarted, she sulks.”

  Gideon’s own theory was that Sophy had run away without leaving. At dinner she sat with downcast eyes, lost in her own thoughts as conversation eddied around her. But as the weeks wore on and her withdrawal persisted, he began to wonder if the exuberant dancer of his imagination had ever existed—if, after all, he had dreamed her.

  The talk at table was all of James’s autumn nuptials. James had purchased land and was drawing up designs for a house, to be built by the brothers and overseen by the Reverend; until it was finished, he and his bride would live at home. They were likely to be in residence for some time. Each week the plans grew more elaborate, as James, by nature a modest, sensible fellow, added features that had clearly originated with his fiancée.