Styx & Stone

by James W. Ziskin

  “Oh, no, miss,” he said, looking straight ahead and not at me. “We haven’t had a desecration here since ’52, and that was an act of personal vengeance.”

  “You mean no one has kicked over a headstone since then? It happens all the time where I live. Mostly troubled teenagers.”

  Mr. Dibb’s concave chest swelled, his gray, stubbly chin thrust upward in self-satisfaction. “I keep an eye on things.” Then, perhaps remembering the reason for my visit, his pride flagged, and his chest deflated. “Of course you can’t be everywhere at once. Especially in a big place like this.”

  My brother’s grave was indeed far from the caretaker’s house. Secluded in a low-lying glen behind a hill, it was often sodden from settling rain and decaying leaves. Yet it was a beautiful place, somber to be sure, but serene and bucolic. A huge, black oak stood nearby, its trunk and branches twisted, as if by grief for the dead at its feet. Elijah’s granite marker had been pushed over, cracked in half by a heavy blow, and smeared with three black swastikas in acrylic paint. I pulled my Leica from my oversized purse and shot a few frames to examine later on; I couldn’t stand to look at the grave one more minute, and not because some idiot had scrawled a couple of swastikas on the stone. As Dibb walked me back to my Plymouth, I turned my head until the tears had dried from my cheeks. He wasn’t looking at me anyway.

  At 110th Street, a swath of flinty green slices through Harlem. Running north for thirteen blocks, Morningside Park cordons off Columbia University to the west from the flats of Harlem to the east. Columbia, or more precisely Barnard, was my alma mater, daytime home for four years of studies and many hours besides of visiting my father at the office: Hamilton Hall, where the Italian Department conjugated its verbs and deconstructed its texts. My father kept his office on the sixth floor, overlooking Hamilton’s statue and the John Jay Building to the south. I studied history at Barnard and spent countless hours at Fayerweather Hall, but with my father’s lukewarm support, I was submatriculated into the School of Journalism my junior and senior years. That put me in the Journalism Building most days, just opposite Hamilton Hall on the other side of South Field. I often met him at his office for lunch or to ride the subway home together in the evening.

  The last time I had visited Morningside Heights was on a June day two and a half years earlier—just a week before Elijah died—when I took my degree. Now I was returning under less auspicious circumstances to ask my father’s colleagues a few questions about a young man who had been seen with him the night of the attack.

  The pall over the office was darker than I had expected, even for a Monday. When I introduced myself to the secretary, a handsome woman in her late thirties named Joan Little—according to the engraved Bakelite strip on her desk—I noticed her red eyes and raw nose.

  “You’re Professor Stone’s daughter?” she asked, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. “What do the doctors say about your father?”

  I explained the vague prognosis, that the doctors weren’t sure if he would pull through, or how much brain damage might remain. Joan Little listened with a pained expression, embarrassing me with her poor dear gaze.

  “It’s been an awful few days,” she said. “I saw your father on Friday. He was so upset about your brother’s . . .” she balked at the word grave. “The horrible thing those vandals did.”

  “How did he react?”

  Miss Little shook her head and swallowed some watery build-up in her throat. “He didn’t say a word, but his temples were throbbing. He usually gets that way when he’s furious, but Friday it was different; he was seething. That was raw sorrow, inconsolable loss, and fiery wrath. He was spitting mad.” She buried her face in the handkerchief. Once she had composed herself, she continued: “Then Dr. Chalmers called Saturday afternoon to tell me about the assault on your father. Then Ruggero Ercolano.” Again the tears in the handkerchief, this time a gusher.

  I knew Victor Chalmers, the department chairman and a needle-nosed iceman, but Ercolano was new.

  “Who’s this Ercolano?” I asked. “And how did he know about my father?”

  Miss Little looked up from her handkerchief and sniffled. “No, I didn’t mean Dr. Ercolano called me about your father. I meant he’s dead.”

  Ruggero Ercolano, thirty-three-year-old assistant professor, was discovered dead in his bathtub after midnight on Saturday by Professor Chalmers. Ercolano was turned on his side, half-submerged in the tub with an electric radio for company in the water.

  “Oh, my,” I said. “How did the radio get into the tub?”

  Miss Little shrugged her shoulders. “The police think he placed it on a stool next to the tub, then upset it by accident.”

  “That’s a terrible story,” I said. “How was it Dr. Chalmers was in Ercolano’s apartment after twelve on a Saturday night?”

  “I didn’t think to ask,” she said. “But it is strange.”

  “Is he around?”

  She shook her head. “He left about an hour ago. He was sending wires and making overseas calls all morning to Dr. Ercolano’s family in Italy, and now he’s gone to the funeral parlor to arrange transportation of the body.” She paused, overcome by tears again. “Such a tragedy. But of course you have your own troubles just now. Is there anything we can do for you or Professor Stone?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” I said. “I’m looking for the young man who accompanied my father home the night of the attack.”

  “And you think he’s here?”

  “The doorman said he worked with my father. Maybe a student?”

  “That must have been me,” came a voice from over my shoulder. I turned to see a tall young man with curly dark hair and horn-rimmed glasses. “I’m Bernard Sanger,” he said, extending a hand.

  “I’m Ellie Stone.”

  “Nice to meet you finally,” he said. “Your father and I were very close.”

  “Were?” I asked. “He was still alive when I saw him this morning.”

  “Of course,” he stammered, withdrawing his hand before I’d shaken it. “I meant we were working closely together before this happened.”

  “What time did you leave him Friday?”

  Sanger thought carefully for a moment, seemed to be organizing the order of events in his head, then answered: “Ten fifteen. The elevator operator should be able to corroborate that; he buzzed your father as I was leaving. I had forgotten something, you see.”

  “Yes, he told me,” I said. “What was it, by the way?”

  “His manuscript, Daughters of Eve: Women in Dante,” he said. “We agreed he’d bring it to me today instead. Of course, as things turned out, he didn’t.”

  “Why was he giving you the manuscript?”

  “I was helping him edit it. If you look at the acknowledgments, you’ll find my name figures prominently.”

  “Can’t wait to check. Did you notice anyone in the hallway, stairs, or elevator?” I asked, steering him back to the subject.

  “No, the building was quiet.”

  “Was my father expecting anyone? Did he seem preoccupied?”

  “Not at all,” said Sanger. “He told me he had some mail to read before turning in. That was all. He didn’t mention anyone.”

  “Do you visit my father’s apartment often?”

  “At least once a week, and we often had dinner together.”

  Just then, Miss Little blew her nose again, and Sanger suggested we move to the lounge across the hall.

  “No need to discuss this publicly,” he said, glancing around.

  The lounge was outfitted with modern, institutional furniture: some tables, several cushioned chairs, a couch, and a long pair of stockings, crossed and resting on the floor at a forty-five-degree angle. My eyes climbed the sleek legs, over the navy mohair skirt, slender waist, and silk blouse, through which one could discern the hint of a lace brassiere—just visible through the fabric, and intentionally so. At the top, a striking, fair-skinned beauty with black hair looked up from her book and smiled
at us. She had big, green eyes.

  “Let’s talk somewhere else,” said Sanger, and he tried to draw me out of the room by my elbow.

  “Don’t run off because of me, Bernie,” said the young lady. Her offer put Sanger on the spot, so we pulled up two chairs.

  “Where I come from, it’s customary to make introductions,” she said, sitting forward, the silk of her stockings brushing a soft whisper somewhere on her legs.

  “Hildy Jaspers, Ellie Stone,” said Sanger to get it over with. I took her hand.

  “Not Professor Stone’s daughter?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “Hildy is a doctoral candidate here in the department,” said Bernie, trying to wedge himself between Miss Jaspers and me. “But she’s a modernist, so she doesn’t have much occasion to work with your father.”

  “Au contraire, Bernard,” she cooed. Then to me: “I worked with Professor Stone last year on the curriculum committee, and he helped me prepare for my Latin exams.”

  “Hildy is writing a dissertation on Pirandello,” said Sanger, as if to insult her. “The noted Italian dramatist . . .” he added for my benefit, positively succeeding in insulting me. “I’m writing on Dante, of course.”

  “I just love the theater, don’t you?” she asked. “Experimental theater, especially.”

  Sanger stifled a snort. “Like your avant-garde troupe on the West Side?” Then to me: “They call it alternative theater, but the only thing alternative about it is the clothing.”

  Hildy blushed. “Really, Bernie,” she said. “You’re as outdated as your dusty, old Dante when it comes to art. And besides, there was only that one scene.”

  “It was Our Town,” said Bernie. “There’s no nudity in Wilder.”

  “Is there any news of your father?” Hildy asked, ignoring him.

  I mumbled something about too early to tell, and thanked her for her concern.

  “If there’s any way I can help, please let me know,” she said, gathering her books to leave. “I think the world of your father. And I do hope he becomes chairman.”

  I’d bet he thought a lot of her, too, and often.

  “Pretty, isn’t she?” I asked to no effect. Bernie didn’t hear me. His eyes were fixed on the gentle swing of Hildy’s hips as she left the room, and she knew he was watching.

  “Bernie,” I said, shaking him by the elbow, “thump once for yes, twice for no.”

  “Huh?”

  “I was asking about Miss Jaspers,” I said.

  “Hildy is a freethinking girl,” he pronounced. “Her reputation is well established here in the department. She’s quite emancipated, if you know what I mean. And attractive, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “I had.”

  “The speculation runs thick about whom she’s bedded. And every last one of the professors and graduate fellows saw her perform in that play.”

  “Including yourself?”

  “I said every last one, didn’t I?”

  “You don’t like her, do you?”

  Sanger shook his head. “I wouldn’t say that. There’s a bite to our repartee, an edge on our acquaintance, but we enjoy the exchanges.”

  “Some might call it flirting. Do any of those rumors include my father?”

  Bernie stiffened, then stumbled over an inadequate reply. I reminded him that my father was a healthy man, in good condition for his sixty-three years, and currently unattached.

  “Have you heard any such rumors about Hildy Jaspers and my father?” I repeated.

  “You know how nasty people can be,” he said. “Just because he took pity on her and helped her with some Latin. But I don’t believe it. I know what kind of man your father is, and he’s not so frivolous.”

  The last thing I wanted to do was picture my father pitching woo to Hildy Jaspers, or anyone for that matter, but I wanted to understand his relationships within the department. It’s hard to reconcile Eros with one’s parents, especially if the object of desire is as potent as Hildy Jaspers. I shook the thoughts from my head.

  “What about this Ercolano?” I asked. “Did people talk about him and Miss Jaspers?”

  “Of course,” said Sanger. “Ruggero, poor guy. I liked him, and he did well with the ladies. He was quite handsome.”

  “Terrible way to go,” I said, thinking of Ercolano’s last bath. “How do you suppose Chalmers happened to discover him after midnight?”

  Sanger shrugged, then looked at me askance. “You sure ask a lot of questions.”

  “I’m a curious gal,” I said.

  “Well, if you’re curious about Hildy, you might ask that man out there,” and he pointed through the glass in the door. A thin man in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair cropped close to his scalp, was stooping to drink from the water fountain. Dressed in a dark-brown suit and tie, he appeared solemn and severe, hardly the type I’d picture with the spirited Miss Jaspers.

  “Who is he?” I asked.

  “Gualtieri Bruchner. Visiting professor from Padua. There’s been some talk that he’s the latest partner in Hildy’s hedonistic pursuits.”

  “Think he’ll talk to me?”

  “He’s an odd one. Reserved and formal, with the personality of a sardine: tight and oily.”

  “And he’s Miss Jaspers’s playmate?” I asked.

  Again Sanger shrugged. He didn’t understand it any better than I. “That’s what some people say.”

  I excused myself from the lounge and approached the gray figure, whose rigid face, I discovered, was indeed handsome in an intense, severe way. I introduced myself, and he offered his hand almost as an afterthought.

  “I am sorry to hear about your father, Miss Stone.” His accent was stiff, though not especially heavy. “I do not know him well as I have only been in New York since June. But I hear only good said of him.”

  I doubted that; my father’s temperament was contentious and antagonized many, myself first on the list. Some loved him, some hated him, and unanimity was not likely. “Thank you,” I said. “Have you had the chance to work with him at all?”

  “No. I work on modern topics, you see, and our intellectual paths do not cross often. However, I lunched with him last Friday. It was by chance, really; we met at the Faculty Club dining hall.”

  “What did you talk about? Since your intellectual paths don’t cross often, I would imagine you’d have trouble making small talk.”

  Bruchner seemed taken aback. “Not at all. Although we specialize in different periods, we are not Welfs and Ghibellines. We share an interest in Letters. Your father told me about a book he was completing, and I discussed a paper I delivered recently at a conference on Marinetti and Futurism.”

  “Was that the one at the Harrisburg Sheraton?”

  Bruchner looked confused.

  “Sorry,” I laughed. “I was mistaken. Do go on.”

  “He told me hoodlums had vandalized your brother’s gravestone on Wednesday night,” he said. His voice was a drone of dull tones, and I wondered how his students stayed awake. “The incident left him disturbed. His hands were shaking.”

  “I’m surprised he didn’t have a stroke.”

  Bruchner stared into my eyes. “Although I tried to understand his rage, I could not; I have no children, you see.”

  Now it was my turn to stare at him. “Thank you for the kind words,” I said. “I guess it’s been a bad week all around.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Was he kidding, or are academics truly as befuddled as people say? “Ruggero Ercolano,” I prompted.

  “Oh, yes, of course. Horrible, horrible.”

  I returned to the lounge where I’d left Bernie Sanger. We pulled a couple of chairs up to one of the tables and sat down. We weren’t quite ready to cozy up together on the sofa across the room.

  “What did you think?” he asked.

  “Didn’t I see him in a Charles Addams cartoon?”

  “Pretty spooky. It’s not that he’s mean-spirited, he’s just as cold a
s ice.”

  “Listen,” I said. “I don’t want to sound ignorant, but he said something I didn’t understand. Something about Welfs and Bellinis. What’s that?”

  Bernie Sanger chuckled as only pompous intellectuals do. “Professor Bruchner meant Guelphs and Ghibellines,” he said. “The Germanic influence must have been too much for him up there near the Austrian border. That’s why he said ‘Welf.’ He also says ‘vine’ for wine.” Bernie had a good belly laugh over that one.

  “All right, then,” I said, raising my voice to be heard over his cackle. “I’ll bite. What are Guelphs and Ghibellines?”

  Bernie swallowed the last of his laughter and explained: “The Guelphs and the Ghibellines were opposing political factions in late-medieval Italy. The Guelphs, named for a noble family in Germany: Welf, or Welfen in the plural, supported a political alliance between the pope and rulers from the line of the Welf family. In a nutshell, the Ghibellines were antipapalists and loyal to another Germanic line.”

  “Rather obscure reference, isn’t it?”

  “Not in Italian history,” he said. “The struggle for political supremacy in medieval Italy was pervasive. Years ago your father wrote a very interesting article on the subject. I could let you have a copy if you’d like.”

  “No, thank you,” I said, sorry I’d ever asked. “One more question, though. Hildy Jaspers said she hoped my father would become chairman, but he always hated the idea of administration. Had he changed his mind recently?”

  Bernie shook his head. “No, there’s been some scheming recently, by Ruggero in particular. Ercolano was pushing your father to stand for chairman; Chalmers’s term is up at the end of the semester. But your father never agreed to be a candidate.”

  The door opened and a stocky young man, dressed in a plaid shirt and black trousers with slicked-down black hair, entered. He nodded a polite hello to Bernie and me, then crossed the room, plopped himself down on the sofa, and opened a book.

  “Ciao, Bernie,” a voice called out from just behind me. A second young man had entered the room without my noticing and now stood above me. I looked up and started. He was a strikingly beautiful creature, like a Botticelli angel. Soft green eyes, gentle olive complexion, wavy brown hair, casual and loose, as if he’d just piloted a sailboat across a windy lake. He stood there, easy, engaging, instantly likeable, and smiled sweetly at me.