by Suzy Vitello
Cory takes off his overcoat and drapes it around me, and the two of us zigzag our way through the crowd, back to Powell’s Books. We’re under the protected awning of Powell’s for less than a minute when Cory, with his big, dimple-scoring grin says, “Part one, mission accomplished. Now, for part two.”
Sure enough, my phone is full of texts and voice messages from the people who know people who know people, and soon we have a meeting spot and a time worked out and I don’t like it one bit. But even having managed my expectations, as the mental health professionals tell you to do, I’m not prepared for what happens next.
Chapter Twenty-two
Nothing felt normal. Nothing felt right. All day and into my time abed, thoughts of Count Sebastian intruded. It was a curious and not altogether inviting intrusion, this cannonball of desire and helplessness. The way Mummi’s yappers licked their lips in anticipation of the tidbits of rabbit from her plate—this was how I saw myself as my heart leapt into my throat at the sound of his voice in the hall. An animal with no ability to reason.
In my journal, I pledged myself to him. I wrote secret poems to him. At night, as I wrestled with the blankets, sleepless as a full moon, I often brought the keepsake to my lips, unclasped the locket, and offered a kiss to the image of the man I could not untether from my mind.
I began to worry over my yellow teeth, to brush my hair for an hour before bed. I asked the baroness to tie my corset tighter. I puffed powder onto the bit of flesh that showed between bodice and throat. Oh, but love could add hours to one’s grooming.
As the days grew warmer and longer, and the time of Nené’s engagement trip drew nearer, a brief period of joy enveloped the Herzog. Papa departed for one of his trips to Egypt, and this time his privy, the count, did not accompany him. This time, Count Sebastian stayed with us. For protection, Papa said.
Protection, indeed.
In the great hall now, Nené’s portrait was being painted. It was custom in an arranged betrothal that a portrait be given to the intended groom, and so Stieler, the court painter, had been summoned. He was stern man, Stieler, and demanded his subjects sit for hours as he fussed over an arch of a brow, a fold in a collar. It was Stieler who’d painted most of the beauties in the Schönheitengalerie. He’d also painted Beethoven, the composer, and when Uncle Ludwig had gifted his painter to Mummi for this occasion, one might think Mummi had just been presented with a mountain of gold. “He will bring out your inner beauty, Helene,” Mummi prattled. “No one can paint like him.”
Nené sat stiffly in the hall, and as I tiptoed past I could hear the frustrations of the master. “I cannot paint a lady so dour and glum! Think of happinesses, think of your most revered moments. Wilhelmine! Please make this child smile.”
Baroness Wilhelmine, dour and stifled herself, could be heard to reply, “Herr Stieler, this is our Helene. She is of serious countenance, and it should please the emperor, one would think. This is not a tart like your Lola!”
And then, a curious response from the painter. He said, “Ha! Wilhelmine, what happened to that beautiful girl I set to canvas so long ago? What led to her transformation into a sour crone?”
My governess growled. “Why, you imprudent man. You work for the king, and, might I remind you, this is a royal household. You might be the court painter, but here, you are but a servant.”
Mummi, hovering as she did, tried to calm the two, and then her spaniels set to yapping.
I could not resist; I had to peek inside the room. It was pure chaos. The odor of turpentine stung my nose. The poor painter strutted in a mixture of fury and frustration. All at once he bellowed, “Out! Out! I will not paint with a gaggle of hens at my feet. And as for you, young lady, give me a damn smile!”
I scurried off before Mummi and the baroness could catch me and demand I attend to my studies or practice the wretched piano. Count Sebastian would be finishing his morning rounds in short order, and I intended on striking a lovely pose at the edge of the nursery, upstairs, where he might find me engaged in some writing or other feminine pursuit.
Journal in hand (for I dare not leave the evidence lying about), up the staircase I fled, tripping slightly over my skirts. I barely had time to smooth my dress when, indeed, my dear count appeared at the door to the far anteroom of the nursery.
“What has your governess so riled this morning?” he inquired.
I fanned the back of my hand at him, as I’d seen many a lady do. “My sister the sourpuss. The painter thinks her too glum.”
The count found this amusing, and smiled.
“Imagine,” I said, “the famous Schönheitengalerie painter here, in our very Herzog. I wish I might enquire as to the ladies of his acquaintance, but I fear I would get rebuffed.”
He stepped closer. My heartbeat commenced to approximate the fervor of hummingbirds’ wings. He peered at the open journal, which I promptly slapped shut. “Secrets?”
“You have already trespassed upon these pages. Leave a lady some dignity.”
Now he fully chuckled, “Oh, you are a lady now, are you?” This barb sent a cold pick to my already squeezed and corseted ribs. “I might remind you, Count, that I have passed my fifteenth birthday. Many of my betters were betrothed at my age.”
Count Sebastian brought a teasing gleam to his eye.
“And were with child, I might add,” I continued.
He stepped closer.
My heart thumped wildly.
“Sisi,” he said in low tones. “If only I were not a commoner and a friend to your father. If only this distance between us—age, rank—were not so, I would envelop you right here. Right now. I would fold you in my embrace. But alas, it would mean my dismissal. Or worse.”
It occurred to me then, as I watched him make his excuses as if he were behind a glass, that his rejection might be of a more immediate sort. “Is it … is it because I am not beautiful enough for you?”
The count was a whisper from me. His hands moved from his side and came to rest upon my shoulders. His eyes, those piercing brown eyes, like pools of still water deeper than the Tegernsee, widened under his questioning brow, and then his lips parted ever so close to mine and he said, “Sisi, your beauty is not the deterrent. In fact, it’s a curse, and many a night I’ve lain awake in contemplation of your features. Your many, many graces. Oh, but if you could only be less appealing. More like your sis—”
At that moment, in marched Mummi and Baroness Wilhelmine. We’d been too involved, too quietly into ourselves, to hear their approach. “This is most improper, Count. Release my daughter at once!”
Count Sebastian stepped back and pivoted round. “I beg your pardon, my lady. It, it is not what it appears—”
Baroness Wilhelmine rushed to my side, her arm on mine, wrenching me from my writing desk where, to my utmost terror, my secrets lay between two thin covers. I attempted to pull myself from the grip of my governess, but alas, she yanked in the opposite direction, hauling me like a goat from the room back to my quarters.
From behind me, to my horror, I heard Mummi utter, “What is that book? Give it to me now, you rogue, and then be gone with you.”
Chapter Twenty-three
The texts and voicemails confirm it. Someone’s parents are at the coast for the weekend. Party central. Best of all, it’s only a few blocks from Lincoln, up in the West Hills.
“Rich people and their liquor cabinets.” Cory grins, rubbing his hands together.
A deal is a deal, so I trot along beside him, feeling less like a girlfriend than a whiny little sister in a too-big coat, biding her time until she can have her big brother all to herself. “Don’t forget,” I remind him, “you have some translating to do.”
“It’ll only take a few minutes,” Cory says. “Your dad paid me pretty good for that cheese stand, so I’ll just flash the cash, get the goods, and we’ll be on our way.”
“And remember,” I continue, my voice annoying even me, but I can’t he
lp it. “Not a word to anyone about this diary.”
Cory makes a zipper gesture across his lips.
The parade crowd seems to be following us through the rain, up the hill from Lincoln, the Mac Club, to the other side of Vista Bridge, where one of the kids from Lincoln had recently jumped to his death. Portland is full of sad stories, and this particular part of Portland, in the shadows much of the day, is sadder than most.
I think about Willow and her explanation of temperaments. It seems that like Cory, most teenagers ping-pong between sanguine and melancholic. Me, though, I never feel truly carefree. I wonder what it would be like to wake up without the weight of potential disaster and things out of order, the sense of doom and messiness invading your thoughts and deeds. I reach into the big pockets of the overcoat and feel the stolen diary and the sharp metal object that hangs from a chain. She was a sanguine girl, Sisi. Sunday’s child.
We arrive at the party house just as the rain lets up. I can tell the party’s been going on for a while. Drunk kids are spilling out the front porch and onto a manicured lawn in bunches. I recognize some of the upperclassmen. The athletes. The soccer players in particular, who seem better at holding their beer. A few of them have formed a hacky circle.
“Excellent,” Cory says and immediately joins in.
Naturally, he’s an expert hacky-sacker. He can pop it over his head with his ankle, spin a 360 and slap it with the very point of his toe. I stand on the outside of the circle, trying to be patient, but getting increasingly nervous. Dad will freak if we’re not home within the hour.
Minutes tick time away in my head. Everyone else seems too far away from the idea of time, laughing, drinking. I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn around. Standing there with a bottle of Henry’s in her hand and a big, big smile on her face as though she’s my BFF is Jewellee King, sans the Amy Winehouse eyes but with plenty of red, red lipstick.
“Liz! So great to see you!” she says and then, beer bottle and all, she wraps her arms around me. “I heard you moved in with your dad.” Her breath is all beery. “How are you?”
I couldn’t have felt more like a stupid little kid; that’s how I am. “G-g-good,” I say from inside my secret-agent-man coat.
Then, for an awkward beat, we stand there saying nothing. What is there to say? Jewellee scans the hacky-sackers. Immediately, and I mean immediately, she zeroes in on Cory. “You know who he is? That guy doing all the tricks?”
“He’s, uh, with me,” I say. “Sort of my stepbrother?” God. What a creepy thought.
“No kidding. He live in Portland?”
“For now.”
“Well, silly,” Jewellee kids, knocking into me the way only best friends are permitted to do, “introduce me.”
Really?
I saunter over to Cory, suddenly feeling the weight of the tools clinking in my pocket. The hacky sack spits out of the circle and hits me in the nose.
“Dude!” choruses the collective of stoners.
Cory, with his ever-present grin, turns to me. “Okay, I get it, Liz. Jeez, just having a little …” His eyes beeline to Jewellee’s big red lips and they render him mute in the middle of his sentence.
“Cory, Jewellee. Jewellee, Cory,” I say into the damp night air.
After that, any hope I have of getting back to the farm in a reasonable time, sitting snuggled up next to Cory while he translates Sisi’s words, and having one night, just one night where everything goes right, blows up like fireworks at the Rose Festival.
After the first half hour of Cory and Jewellee chatting it up, faces painted with matching smiles, stepping ever closer to each other, his lips whispering in her ear, the ear with three dangling earrings—after that, off they go to be a beer pong team with me trailing behind them, whiny little sister in a trench coat.
It’s Jewellee and Becket all over again. Them and me. Always a “them.” Always a “me.” My cell phone rings in my pocket. Dad, no doubt. I don’t bother to check.
My head feels huge and wet, jagged-haired and hatless. My hands are itchy. That diary I want so badly to read is a stone in my pocket as everyone gets drunker around me, messy, out of control. They’re barfing in the hedges now. Fighting in the driveway. I have to leave.
Last thing I see at that party is Cory, through the living room window, bouncing little white balls into sixteen-ounce cups at the far end of a Ping-Pong table to the animated jumps and claps of my long-term nemesis. An image that’s already searing into my brain.
So I flee. Flee is the only right word for what I do. No understanding of where I’m headed, just knowing that I can’t be here. From the West Hills, everything is lower, and so I follow the law of physics. Past the bridge where people kill themselves. Down, down, down, down, down, down.
Parade goers are back in their homes, so only the after-party types are milling about downtown—the bums, winos and crazy people—the after-parade filth, wrappers and cups and bottles and cans. And this city is supposedly a leader in sustainability and recycling? Ha! Even my beautiful Pearl is now filled with overflowing garbage cans. Cruising cars with revving engines puncture the buzzy air. Maximum entropy. Total lack of order. Where can I go to escape?
I follow my body. Let my legs decide. Turn off the chorus of voices in my head. I am engaging. This is what it feels like. Keep moving, keep moving, keep moving, I let my mouth say. I pull out my iPod, its cage of white wires encircling it. Pachelbel. The piano piercing the sweet litany of violins. That’s all I need. To hell with Cory and the rest of them. But right now, Pachelbel is letting me down. The music sounds too hopeful, and I don’t want hopeful. I want proof that the world is unforgiving, filthy.
I reach into a coat pocket to keep my fingers from clawing my skin and close my hand around the sharp, jagged chunk Cory had tweezed out of the diary binding. My fist goes small and tight until the edges of the metal push into my palm. I pulse my hand like a heart, each beat going deeper. I roll the links of the metal chain between my thumb and index finger. When you feel the urge, Lizbeth, engage!
The rain starts up again and wets down my hair. It falls harder and harder until I feel drenched and dripping. I begin to shiver and draw my bleeding hand out of the pocket and wipe my cheeks with red fingers. When I pull my fingers off my face, they’re a combination of mascara and blood. What’s black and red and gross all over? Liz’s face! Voices start up again, despite the Canon, despite any of the masters, the long-dead masters. They were all crazy anyway, the good ones.
Ahead of me is the familiar Conrad awning. And under it stands the doorman/lobby-security-guy, Gus.
I try to rush past him, mad at myself for not crossing the street, but there’s a light-rail train in my way.
“Hey, Maestro, that you?” I hear behind me. “Hey, Liz, stop!”
My legs stop, completely disobeying my brain.
“Liz?”
I turn, head down. I inch back to the awning, and as soon as I do, there’s Gus’s hand on my chin, raising my face for inspection. “Hey, Liz, what happened?” He grabs my bloody hand. “Let’s get you inside,” his steady voice says.
I read Hemingway. He was a freshman English syllabus favorite. When he wrote about a clean, well-lighted place, he was talking about the lobby of the Conrad Lofts. It may not be in his story, but Hemingway must have sat in the sturdy chair behind the lucky bamboo plants, surrounded by gleaming granite. Each perfect light on the track above beaming its ray like a choreographed dance.
I am clean, dry and salved sitting next to Gus, and he lets me just sit, without asking questions. There are very few people in the world like that. My cell phone keeps ringing and ringing, and he doesn’t ask me why I’m not answering it. Residents walk in and are greeted. Many of them remember me; nobody raises an eyebrow. Finally, I say, “I miss this place like you wouldn’t believe.”
Gus is one of those guys who favors toothpicks. He’s a chain-picker, always jabbing his gum line when residents aren’t wa
tching. His eyes are mostly on the security cameras above us, because that’s what he’s paid to do. That and keep the sidewalk out front free of degenerates. Mom surmised that he had a past. AA type, she ventured. Clean, sober, with the program.
Gus may or may not be a recovering drunk or addict, but he is street smart, and I know that he knows something isn’t right. At long last he says, “So, you run away?”
I nod. “Just for tonight.”
“You wanna talk about it?”
I shake my head. Cory’s overcoat is drying on a hook behind us. The diary and whatever that chunk of metal is. Somehow, it isn’t as important without Cory. I hate that I feel this way. The drive I had to steal the book, to read the book, to pore over the mystery of Sisi and her Count Sebastian, it all evaporated in the air between Cory and Jewellee. In the deep, gnawing slap of the reality that I am invisible.
The world will write what it wants upon you!
Then let it.
But Gus won’t allow it to end with that. “You know the Vickenstein loft is still vacant,” he says. “After you and your mom left, he hired me to water the plants.”
It’s only been a few weeks, but it feels like years since I lived there.
“Liz, would you like to go up and play the piano?”
I couldn’t believe it. Gus simply handed over the keys to my former home like he did biscuits to snorty little pugs, casual as could be. Now I sit on the recently dusted bench of the beloved Steinway grand. I even bypassed the hygienic bathroom, going straight for the behemoth piano that faces a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the West Hills. The palm of my hand stings under its bandage as I stretch to span an octave. I can still do it perfectly, B to C, thumb to pinkie, poised to scale the twelve notes. Muscle memory ripples through my fingers. The sound of the Steinway obeying my command as I wander up the scales competes against the warm, unsettled feeling that pulses through my hand. I need more. More sound, more noise, more evidence that I am here in this very place and not back at Providence, those first days, wandering around in a stupor. I move my hand all the way left. Can I still crawl up the piano perfectly? My piano teacher called this the chromatic battle, and the goal was the whole succession of scales, without missing a note, in less than ten seconds.