by Lara Parker
“Perhaps the carpet I want is the Ardebil, only in scarlet.”
Nassar laughed. “The great carpet from the Ardebil mosque? Some say it is the finest carpet ever woven. For that you must travel to London. But, I applaud your taste. Do you know the inscription on the shield?” he asked.
Barnabas knew it well, but he shook his head.
Nassar rose to the bait. “It reads:
‘I have no refuge in the world other than thy threshold.
There is no protection for me other than thy door.’”
The words moved Barnabas more than he expected. He grew thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged, “So, a Mahal, perhaps?”
“At least two hundred years old.”
At that moment the boys returned with a large rug, rolled and tied. The intricacy of the weave was evident from the back, the tiny knots, the lush colors. Setting the roll on the floor, they pulled loose the strings and drew the rug into a folded rectangle. Then the boys walked to opposite corners and opened the carpet like a great book.
If Barnabas failed to gasp at what he saw it was only through rigid self-control. The carpet was beautiful. Florets and palmettos entwined on a field of scarlet were framed in no less than five brilliant borders. It was faded but still luminous; worn, but its delicacy intact. Most exquisite was the medallion, as brilliant as the rose window at Chartres, glowing, as if pieced together from sparkling pieces of jeweled glass. And marvel of marvels, from each end, twisting and curving in graceful arabesques, laden with tendrils of fluted ferns, heavy with lotus blossoms, lifting in its branches multitudes of tiny birds and peacocks, bloomed a majestic tree of life.
“And I believe, my friend,” Nassar began quietly, “you have a prayer rug I have been coveting, silk, a Nain, in blue and white?”
THIRTEEN
Collinsport—1971
ARESTIVE WIND was tossing the trees as Barnabas, with David in the passenger seat, pulled the Bentley into the driveway in front of the Old House. The leaves rebounded, dancing in the air like giant snowflakes. There were no other cars in sight and Barnabas was both relieved and disappointed to find the place deserted. As anxious as he was to bestow his gift, he had fallen victim to embarrassment, suddenly conscious of the extravagance of his purchase. The carpet had come at a painful price; not only an exorbitant amount of money, but two of his finest specimens had been sacrificed to Nassar’s shrewdness. Nevertheless, Barnabas had been determined to buy the carpet, and only now did he feel somewhat sheepish. He had already decided to say nothing of the cost to Antoinette and to insist that he had found the rug in an upstairs bedroom of Collinwood.
David helped him carry the heavy roll through the door and into the entrance. “I found the keys to the upstairs room on the key rack at home,” David said, his voice lively with excitement. “Maybe one will fit the locked door.”
“I don’t think you should wander around,” said Barnabas. “Here, help me move these chairs.” David dragged the furniture to the edges of the room and watched as Barnabas pulled the string ties loose and unrolled the rug.
“You got this for Toni? Why?”
“A gesture of goodwill.”
David looked down at the factory-made rug. “What’s wrong with this one?”
“It’s nothing but a cheap imitation.”
“Yeah, but maybe she likes it.”
“I don’t know how she could. She’s made every effort to rebuild the Old House to absolute perfection. The entire project is uncanny in its verisimilitude. Except for the carpet. The carpet was wrong, and I have remedied that oversight. I hope it will make her happy.”
“I don’t know,” said David, reaching for a large globe of the earth that sat in the stand by the settee. Tossing it into the air, he began twirling it like a basketball on the end of his finger. “I don’t know whether you should mess around with her decorating.”
“David, if you drop that it will shatter. What makes you think she will be anything but pleased?”
“I just think it’s a little pushy.” He balanced the globe, spinning it faster, and sidestepped beneath it to keep it aloft.
“David, rugs are something I know. This way, I can make a contribution.”
“Sure.” David replaced the sphere unharmed and bounded for the stair. “I’m going to try my keys.”
“They won’t fit any more. The doors are all new,” Barnabas called after him.
David’s voice rang from the upstairs corridor. “I thought you said everything was exactly the same.”
Barnabas lifted the new carpet over the old and worked at smoothing out the wrinkles. He replaced the chairs and coffee table and stood back to survey his handiwork. The intricate weave bloomed like an exquisite garden intertwined with the mirrored images of lotus blossoms, feathery fronds, and the flowering tree of life.
But he was not content. He felt slightly dejected as a result of his mild disagreement with David. He valued the closeness of their relationship which had developed during their trip to Salem, and already they had planned another journey to Mystic to see the old sailing ships. He realized how much he enjoyed himself in the role of David’s guardian and benefactor, how much he craved the boy’s banter, his unflagging good humor and enthusiasm.
Perhaps David’s opinion had some merit. Perhaps it was presumptuous to have purchased another rug and discourteous to insinuate himself into Antoinette’s life. Earlier that morning the search for the perfect carpet had seemed a fine idea, a generous invitation to friendship, even, he thought with growing unease, a strategy to turn her head. The night before the trip to Boston, he had lain awake with a vivid memory of her azure eyes flecked with fire, the tendrils of blond hair clinging to her neck, the soft rise of her breasts beneath the transparent cotton of her blouse. He had dared to dream, dallying with the fantasy of drawing her close, reaching for her supple body, the curve of her waist within his hand.
A harsh ringing of the iron clapper roused him from his reverie. A burst of wind from outside blew open the door and whisked a bundle of leaves through the opening. Quentin was standing in the shaft of sunlight that shone across the tiles. Dressed in faded jeans, camel cowboy boots, and a fringed leather jacket, he carried a bouquet of red roses. A paisley scarf hung loose at the neck of his shirt.
“Barnabas! What the hell are you doing here?”
“I might ask you the same question.”
“I have an invitation.” Quentin laughed easily. Heavy sideburns framed an angular face that hovered between handsome and sinister, an intelligent face, perceptive, bemused, exuding an almost jaded cynicism. “What about you?”
“David and I . . . were . . .”
“Aha! Just as I thought. You are trespassing, right?”
The flicker of irritation that rose inside Barnabas took him by surprise. It was not embarrassment as much as the offhand mention of an “invitation,” and, of course, the flowers, that unsettled him. “And you. You say you are expected?”
“I have come to take Miss Harpignies to dinner. Is she around?”
“I haven’t seen her.”
“Then she is late. As usual.”
Barnabas found himself annoyed to the point of rudeness. “To dinner,” he repeated. “And, may I ask, are you in the habit of taking her to dinner?”
Quentin was over six feet, but he often lowered his head and glowered from under black brows. He shrugged. “We have become friends.”
Barnabas was deeply chagrined. He blurted out, “How could you think to befriend her?”
A smile spread over Quentin’s lips. The secret shared by the two men, who were both immortals, was rarely alluded to, but it always lay in waiting like a viper in a pit. Quentin owed his youthful splendor to a portrait which aged in his place, a portrait he kept hidden in a secret attic. He raised his eyebrows. “And why not?”
“You know as well as I do who she is.”
“Who is she?”
“Angelique.”
Quentin chuckled and shrugged.
He gestured with the bouquet as if it were a baton. “If she is, she does not know it. Some happy creatures are born again with no memory of their past lives. You and I are not so fortunate.”
“You don’t know that for certain. Angelique has always confounded us all with her duplicity. And you must be cognizant of the fact that, if she has returned, she has come for me.”
Quentin turned away and moved to the secretary, where a crystal decanter of brandy with four glasses adorned a silver tray. Laying the roses aside, he poured himself a drink. “Barnabas, I like you. I always have. But your egotism knows no limits. You are not the only man in her life.”
“I am bound to her. You know she holds the key to centuries of misery. I am not speaking of a romantic intrigue, a fortnight of dalliance. I am speaking of lifetimes.”
“Sorry. I don’t see it that way at all. I find Antoinette charming. I see no trace of Angelique in her manner, and I think you might very well be mistaken.” He sat in the wing chair and leaned back, his elegant body at ease. “At this moment she is Antoinette, and that is all I care about. I am attracted to her. And come now, who has more right to her? Think about it. She will fall in love with me. She will be deliriously happy, content and purring like a kitten. Whereas you will only betray her once again and ruin her life. Be a sport. Don’t you think it might be my turn?”
Barnabas moved to the window. A dull ache spread across his chest. “You know if I find your painting I can destroy you.”
“Destroy . . . destroy . . . Barnabas do you never tire of these dire threats? Really, my good man, there is more to life than one monster’s power over another’s. The truth is I am weary of this depraved existence. I am prepared to go at any time.”
“You say that lightly, but when the moment arrives—”
“I’m not claiming I won’t put up a fight. After all, I am only human.” And he laughed, eyes dancing. “But tell me, in all honesty, aren’t you also sick of it all?”
“You mean you haven’t noticed?”
“Noticed what?”
“That I am cured.”
Quentin snickered. “I thought you were looking a bit thick around the chops.”
“No, truly, with the help of Dr. Hoffman, I have beaten the curse.”
It was Quentin’s turn to be stupefied. His smile vanished and he rose from the sofa. As he crossed to Barnabas, a wave of envy clouded his expression. “Impossible,” he said. “I don’t believe you.”
“But it is true. You see, I am out in the daylight.” He placed an arm across Quentin’s shoulder and turned him to a small mirror beside the window. It gave them back images of themselves. Quentin was rakishly handsome and possessed a mysterious charisma, with something like an electrical charge that quickened his gaze, whereas Barnabas was sadly diminished, ruddy, slack-jawed. Bloodshot eyes looked out of a face where tiny broken capillaries of incipient roseola spread upwards to his temples and across his cheeks.
As soon as he saw the contrast, Barnabas was stabbed to the quick. He regretted his flash of grandiosity. He even sensed his rival’s uncharacteristic sympathy as Quentin struggled for a remark that would be reassuring. “Well, old man,” Quentin said finally, “I am staggered by your courage.”
There was the sound of another car arriving and the unmistakably distinctive slamming of a Chevy door. Barnabas lifted the edge of the scarlet curtain, a perfect replica of the one hanging in the Old House for centuries, even to the moldy odor of the velvet and the dust on the fringe. Antoinette walked quickly across the gravel, her bobbing gait acutely familiar. She stopped when she saw the Bentley, a quizzical expression upon her face. But it was the behavior of the leaves that caught his attention, the carpet of leaves that lay on the drive. Swirling up in the wind, they cleared a path for her, and she walked through the masses on bare pavement.
When she opened the door, Barnabas froze in embarrassment. At once he realized that buying the carpet was an arrogant miscalculation, and he was completely at a loss. By now the impossibility of the situation overwhelmed him. He withdrew his handkerchief and blotted his brow, where sweat was glistening, and eased himself back into the gloom. He wanted to disappear, to merge into the paneling, to be sucked into the black hole of the fireplace.
She looked astonishing. Her blond hair hung close to her face and her eyelids were coated with black mascara which hooded her piercing blue eyes. Her dress was of cotton gauze, pale green, and sprinkled with vines. The skirt was split in the center and he caught glimpses of her long legs when she moved. Sleeves like scarves fluttered over her arms, and the bodice was shaped with a twist of fabric under her small breasts.
She saw the rug at once and exclaimed. “Oh, my God! Look at that!” Seeing Quentin, she gave him a teasing smile. “Did you?” Quentin shrugged and raised his hands, palms up, shaking his head. “Then where did it come from?” she asked.
Barnabas stepped out of the bay window. “I brought it, my dear.” He hesitated. “As a gift.”
“Barnabas!” she gasped, surprised at his sudden appearance.
“I thought you might like it,” he said, struggling for words. “It’s . . . one of a pair, two hundred years old . . . a twin for the one burned in the fire.” He felt his knees buckling and he longed to sit. The nausea was rising and the core of his body flooding with heat. “I noticed the one you had chosen was not a good match.”
She paused, then grimaced. “I should ask what you are doing here, but I guess with the house open all day to workmen, anyone is free to wander in and out.”
“I never meant to intrude.” A hopeless excuse.
She gave him a shrewd look that seemed to be sizing up his intentions, then she looked down at the carpet, the ferns and palmettos swirling around her feet, and said, “I suppose you are right. This one is much nicer.”
Stung by her lack of enthusiasm, he realized in a flash that Antoinette, whoever she was, came from wealth. How else would she have been capable of purchasing the Old House? Gifts meant nothing to her, other than that they reeked of the giver. He could see her struggling with her response, weighing the memory of their last encounter, which had ended so badly, against this extravagant gesture. She sighed. “It’s just that. . . I don’t know. I do appreciate your generosity. But Jackie chose the other rug. The one that was here. She was insistent. I had to buy it even though, as you said, it wasn’t right.”
“Jackie?” Barnabas was at a loss.
“Don’t get me wrong. She’s been a big help with the restoration, at least until she had to go back in the hospital. Really wonderful. Going everywhere with me, tracking down paint, materials. She even found the chandelier and the clock. I have no idea how she did it. They are identical to the ones in the photos. But for some reason, she had to have that rug, and only that rug. She actually became a little manic.”
“Who is Jackie?”
“Jacqueline. My daughter.”
Quentin moved to take her arm. “We should go,” he said. “We have a reservation.”
“Sure,” and she smiled. She turned to Barnabas at the door. “I think I’d better keep the one I’ve got. Thanks anyway,” she said. And they were gone.
Barnabas stood helplessly listening to the baffled beating of his heart. Oddly, he could sense her ferny aroma still in the room, the lingering scent of pine forest and tree sap.
Then from the upstairs corridor came a cry of alarm, a curse, and the sound of furniture crashing, then a door slamming. He heard David’s hysterical voice.
“NO! Get away from me! Who the hell are you, you creep?”
Then another scream echoed through the hallway. Barnabas leapt for the stair but David was already catapulting down it, his eyes wide with fear, his face drained of color. The two collided at the landing then tumbled down the other set of stairs. David scrambled to his feet and, grabbing Barnabas by the coat sleeve, lunged for the door. “Come on! Run! Get in the car.”
In seconds they were safe inside the vehicle with David looking back towards th
e house and screaming, “Start the engine! Hurry, do it, hurry!” Barnabas, propelled by David’s frenzy, did as he was told, and with a screeching backwards motion, turned the car around and gunned for the highway.
After several minutes of driving down the road, during which David sat staring out the window and trembling all over, the boy finally groaned, “What . . . was that?”
“I have no idea, “Barnabas answered. “Tell me what you saw.”
David shook himself and sat up, then looked over at Barnabas with a bewildered expression. Feigning bravado, he gave a weak laugh, but his face was gray. He frowned and opened and closed his hands several times, as though checking to see if his fingers were broken. Then he began a tentative investigation of his features, touching his cheeks and his eyes.
“David? What did you see?”
David made a helpless gesture. “I don’t know. It was dark up there, no lights, heavy curtains over the windows, and I was in that room—someone lives in that room you know, a girl—and the door opened and there was this . . . this thing . . . black and filthy and covered all over with dirt and grime and wet leaves. I saw some muddy work boots and a face, God . . . it was awful. The face was all decayed, ragged, the skin hanging off the bone.”
“You must have been hallucinating.”
“No, Barnabas, I swear I saw it.”
“Thank God you’re not hurt.”
They rode for a short distance in silence. Gray light slipped between the trees, silvering the hood of the Bentley, and Barnabas watched the reflections of clouds fly across the mirrored surface like ghosts.
David spoke again. “Actually I had a funny feeling it—that thing—was looking for someone else, not me.” After another moment he said, “The key worked. You know that? I went in the room and I saw . . . some clothes, a couple of blouses, and some shoes.”