Seven Shoes

by Mark Davis

  Lionel smiled and said something appropriate, masking his displeasure. Had he asked Judith to consider that role, in his play? The daughter of a press lord, Judith Roberts had clearly grown up taking what she wanted from the world as if it were her personal treasure chest. Did she think she could just barge in on whatever she wanted in one of his plays?

  “Let me talk to the producers and I will have them get in touch with your Ira,” Lionel said.

  After dinner, the Peacocks begged Lionel to let them take Robert to a disco on the wild end of the island. Robert did not come home until five in the morning, stumbling about the villa, falling into Lionel’s bed stinking of sweat, ouzo and Peacocks.

  Lionel sent the boy back to California that very afternoon.

  ___________

  Elizabeth sighed, paused Jacobson’s narrative and stretched out in her chair.

  Over the years she had treated a number of such patients … intelligent, combative, always gnawing at some unseen bone … ravenous compulsions born of an inferiority complex that usually started in early childhood.

  She took a bathroom break and to the office kitchenette. She wanted tea and while the kettle began to heat up, Elizabeth checked her email on her smartphone.

  There were emails from Max—nothing urgent—Lars and Nasrin about PIG business, as well as a stream of emails from her dean at Georgetown, a water bill that was overdue, bank notifications and a lot of spam.

  Elizabeth’s thumb poised over one email for deletion when she froze.

  The only word in the subject was “introduction.” It was from freyjavanirlistens@onion.

  The kettle screamed.

  Elizabeth looked closer at the web address … Freyja Vanir, from the original tribe of Norse gods, of which Freyja was a survivor among the AEsir, the more celebrated tribe that includes Odin, Thor, Loki and the like.

  Elizabeth rushed back to her office, opened her laptop and responded to the email with a simple, “got your message.” The reply was near instant.

  >I am glad, Elizabeth. I hope we can start a dialogue.<

  Elizabeth coiled over her laptop as if she were preparing to leap off a high dive. She wanted to scream in capital letters to stay the hell away from her son, but instead she responded.

  >I am glad, too. Freyja. What shall we talk about?<

  >I find email too impersonal, don’t you? Why don’t we talk face-to-face?<

  Freyja wanted to meet? Didn’t she know that anywhere she chose, a host of undercover police would be waiting as well?

  >Where would you like to meet?<

  >Right here. Let me send you some code to download onto your computer that will facilitate our talks.<

  >I don’t feel comfortable with that.<

  >Elizabeth, dear, you’re already an open book to me. So are Nasrin, Lars and all the others. I follow your talks with PIG as if I were in the room. Believe me, you have got this all wrong. I want to help! If we can see each other, if we can make eye contact, that will make all the difference in the world.<

  Eye contact?

  >Very well, send it.<

  >Thank you, Elizabeth. I shall not betray your trust.<

  A moment later, a new email pinged in her inbox. Elizabeth opened it and stared at the long line of code.

  Freyja, whomever or whatever it was, already had access to her computer and likely everyone else’s. That much was clear.

  Elizabeth clicked and the link activated, taking her to a site on the dark web with a simple rectangle with a green “go” sign in the middle. She clicked that as well. A bar told it would take thirty minutes to download the new software, so she put her laptop behind her, and returned to the office desktop and the life and death of Lionel Jacobson. She needed something to do to shunt aside the whirl of emotions that came with Freyja … anticipation at seeing her face-to-face, white-hot anger at Freyja’s attack on her son, and … not quite fear, but dread … fear’s awful herald, for the dread of something always felt worse to Elizabeth than the thing itself.

  SEVENTEEN

  They sat in the middle front. With the stage lights up, the ornate cavern of the Old Vic around them was invisible. Lionel sat between Charlie, the producer, Sheila, the ever-present face of the money, and Teddy, the director, who worked his jaw like a cow’s cud. Teddy was always chewing on something, either a wad of gum or an actor. In front of them, Edward Lear deftly wended his way through a rehearsal scene in which he was the straight man to a Russian billionaire character, played for comic relief by one of London’s most durable character actors.

  Teddy’s head rolled around and his jaw worked vigorously as he listened to Eddie read. The director, with a thick nimbus of rewoven hair dyed an improbable copper color, slowly revolved his head as he chewed and listened, reminding Lionel of a cleaning pad being stirred in a pot.

  “So is this your club?” Eddie asked.

  “Myshka, on this street they are all my clubs,” the character actor replied in a thick accent and an expansive gesture, which would signal the audience to chuckle.

  “There have to be a thousand people crammed inside. Aren’t you afraid the fire inspector will shut you down?”

  “Myshka, they are all my fire inspectors, too!”

  That would get a roar.

  They continued with another scene with a young woman just down from Stratford in the role of Charlotte. Eddie read with her. It sounded fine to both Lionel and Teddy, but Eddie felt it wasn’t right and asked her to run through it with him again.

  Teddy usually wouldn’t allow an actor to take the lead that way. This time all he did was nod and continued chewing.

  The Charlotte role, of course, had been promised to Judith Roberts. But Lionel didn’t want her. He resented the insolence with which she claimed the part without even asking. Besides, she was not quite right for Charlotte, though he couldn’t tell her that. A-list movie stars believed that they were right for anything. That went double for the daughters of press lords.

  So Lionel bought her off.

  It took some doing, but working through his network of directors, producers and fellow playwrights, Lionel had arranged for an offer to come to Judith without his fingerprints, a lead in one of the big rollouts on The Strand. He remembered with relish how she had come to him, wearing an anguished look on her pretty face to ask—she would understand if he said no—if she could beg off the role of Charlotte.

  Lionel took his time, made a little speech about professionalism and why she was so perfect for the part, but finally … finally … he grudgingly relented and for his generosity, a grateful Judith had given him a hug.

  “Can we get a little help here?” Eddie said.

  The change in tone and diction snapped Lionel out of his reverie.

  Eddie was out of character, hands on hip. The property master stood to the side of the actors, shame faced. He had been milling to around to check on the lights and had interrupted the flow of the rehearsal. The property master offered a wave of apology and left.

  The actors resumed their readings.

  Teddy was being unusually quiet, impressed by Edward Lear’s performance on just a second read-through.

  Lionel had lived among actors since he had begun to write skits for Footlights as a second-year at Cambridge. He had never known anyone like Eddie Lear. When they hear the name, most people naturally think Shakespeare. Edward Lear had in fact been named by his professor parents after a Victorian illustrator and nonsense poet of the same name, he of “they dined on mince and slices of quince” fame.

  That distinctive name was the only thing about the man that stood out. In his resting state, Edward was remarkably unremarkable, a perfectly ordinary looking chap, with a slightly recessive chin, a gash of a mouth, expressive green eyes and a lop of dark hair. You would barely notice him on the street. But Edward’s talent—his insane, over-the-top, once-in-a-generation talent—regularly transformed his slender, Midwestern towel boy self into a Richard
III who throbbed with power and menace, into a movie superhero who could coolly put away a monster with athletic panache, into a lover whose aching need made you want to love him back.

  There was magic to what he did, as if Eddie was an ordinary boy able to channel passionate and dangerous spirits. This vibrant, possessing talent, more than anything physical, made Eddie Lear far more attractive than a Robert could ever be.

  ___________

  Lionel’s flat was near Covent Garden, with high bay windows that afforded a view of the city’s more recent monstrosities—the Gherkin, which reminded so many of a pickle or a dildo but looked to Lionel like a giant upright bomb left over from the Blitz … the skyscraper with the ragged top everyone called the Shard, bringing to mind a bottle broken for a fight … the skyline still anchored, thankfully, by the graceful dome of Wren’s masterpiece, the Baroque lines of St. Paul’s.

  There was still enough of the old London left, here and there amid the tech monstrosities of a global fintech sector gone mad. In twilight, the city cast a silver radiance on the low ceiling. The news said it might snow.

  Lionel had spent a good half an hour tidying up, putting dirty glasses and dishes in the washer, frumping pillows and straightening up the papers in his office so his writing desk would make a serviceable showpiece.

  For mood, Lionel turned off the lights in his office but kept the desk lamp on so it would cast a pool of light on a draft of his next play and the thick blue lines of a new poem composed with a fountain pen across Savoy stationery.

  He stepped back to admire the effect—where the great man works his magic.

  Lionel straightened an old framed photo in the office and stood back. He stared at his younger self, a student standing next to Seth Darby, a Cambridge don and a playwright himself, the two of them smiling contentedly next to the Porters’ Lodge of their old school. They had had their time together, a time when it seemed as if Lionel would forever be Seth’s student.

  Lionel looked at their smiles, their contentment, no way for them to know how short that time would be. Within a year, Seth would be diagnosed with a particularly virulent strain of HIV that, thank God, had passed over Lionel but would rob Seth of his beauty, his intellect and eventually his will to live.

  So many good days, back then Seth, we had no idea how good.

  Lionel had an absurd wish, that somehow Eddie might allow him to take him under his wing as Seth had done for him. That Eddie could become someone to share an appreciation of the finest things that so few cared to understand these days. Someone who could be a friend. Not quite like Seth, of course. But Lionel had had precious few friends in his life. Whether such a friendship, such a love, ever became fully acknowledged was not important. The fact that they might share something would be enough.

  The buzzer rang.

  The fisheye camera of the intercom system sharpened Eddie’s nose into a beak. He looked small, boyish and forlorn, with a scarf that could have been wrapped around his neck by his mother.

  Lionel buzzed him in.

  A minute later Eddie walked into the grand living room with its high ceilings and majestic panorama of London and whistled with delight, as if he were still just fresh from the outskirts of St. Louis.

  “Lye, I had no idea that playwriting paid like this,” he said.

  “The difference between us is that a successful playwright can afford only one of these,” Lionel said. “Drink?”

  “What are you havin’?”

  “Gin Rickey, soda, a dash of simple sugar and lime.”

  “Sure,” Eddie said. “Sounds very … uh, limey.”

  Lionel chucked and made two drinks with a few brisk movements. They clinked glasses with a “cheers.”

  “I want to thank you for the part,” Eddie said. “It is working out quite well, doncha think?”

  The opening reviews had been good, though better for Eddie than for the play’s author. That was a bother. Nothing Lionel had done had come close to the wild praise he had received for Canary Wharf.

  Eddie turned to the bay window again, taking in the cityscape.

  “I do love this town,” he said.

  “When you’re tired of London …”

  “I’ll never be tired of life,” Eddie said.

  “Me neither,” Lionel said, wondering if it were true.

  “I’ve got something to ask of you,” Eddie said.

  “Ask.”

  That single word had come out of Lionel’s mouth as overly tender, but Eddie had not seemed to notice, or bothered by it if he did.

  “It looks like a second run is a sure thing,” Eddie said.

  It did indeed. Though the theater’s calendar had a hold for the revival of an American rap musical about a colonial traitor, it looked like Canary Wharf would return in the heel season between spring and summer. But Eddie had yet to sign up for the second run.

  “I certainly hope you will be with us when we do,” Lionel said.

  “About that,” Eddie said. “How do you think our current Charlotte is doing?”

  Quite well, Lionel wanted to say, if you go by what the critics and Teddy says. But the actress who played Charlotte was nothing compared to the clout of a movie star. Lionel stared at Eddie, knowing he could script the very words about to come out of his pretty face.

  “Actually, I think it would be a hoot if Judith played Charlotte for the second run,” Eddie said. “She’ll be done with her current commitment, and is so looking forward to playing opposite me for the first time on stage.”

  Hoot. Well, at least there was one word in those two sentences that Lionel would not have imagined.

  “Yes, a hoot … But of course, it’s all up to Charlie.”

  “And you think the money will say ‘no’ to having two A-listers from Hollywood?” Eddie asked.

  “No,” Lionel said. “Sheila won’t.”

  “Then it’s a deal?”

  “It’s a deal that I will take it up with Charlie, Sheila and Teddy first thing in the morning,” Lionel said.

  Eddie pretend spat in his hand and Lionel shook it. Eddie’s hand remained in Lionel’s a beat longer than necessary. Eddie’s smile was mild and comfortable as his touch lingered.

  “Show me around this place,” Eddie said. “Where do you put quill to parchment?”

  Lionel smiled but couldn’t speak. Eddie’s touch had done something to him. His heart was hammering and his breathing was off. He was sick with desire.

  “Come,” was all he could muster with a weak smile. Lionel led Eddie upstairs and to the study.

  “So this is where it all happens,” Eddie said.

  The desk lamp shone on Lionel’s works in progress like a spotlight. His laptop, of course, was put away. Lionel felt embarrassed, suddenly worried that the room was too staged, the lighting too obvious and pretentious. He didn’t want Eddie to think that he was preening for him.

  Eddie craned his head around the room, his eyes squinting in the dim light, taking in photos of Lionel with world leaders and celebrity actors, framed letters from princes and potentates, and the burnished metal cone of the Bruntwood Prize on a shelf.

  “Who is this?” Eddie asked.

  “Seth,” Lionel said. “My don at Gonville and Caius, the man who made me who I am. The man … who …”

  To his embarrassment, Lionel’s voice rose several octaves and trailed off. He felt an involuntary shudder pass through his body like an electric current and he began to sob a little.

  “I don’t know why … after all these years … in front of you of all people … dear God, what a silly sot I am.”

  Lionel wiped the corners of his eyes against his shirt sleeve and straightened himself up.

  “I guess you didn’t see that coming,” Lionel said and coughed, padding his shirt sleeve against his cheek. “Neither did I.”

  “Tell me about Seth,” Eddie said taking a seat on a small couch in the study. He patted a space next to himsel
f, and Lionel sat close to Eddie while the whole story poured out him, one of the oldest and corniest stories of all, the one about the bright, young prodigy and his world-weary master unexpectedly finding devotion to each other and to their art. Then, cliché upon cliché, came tragedy, disease, death … The arc of a thousand bad plays lived out in Lionel’s life.

  They spoke for almost an hour about things Seth had taught Lionel about the stage, about writing, about life.

  Eddie rested a hand on Lionel’s shoulders and patted him.

  “Thanks for telling me, Lye. Now I feel like I really know you.”

  Lionel’s eyes had adjusted to the dim light. The desk lamp reflected a shimmer in Eddie’s eyes. The boy understood. He cared.

  “Let’s go down and freshen those drinks,” Lionel said.

  As a light snow began to fall outside, the two sat side by side downstairs and talked for several hours more … old war stories, gossip about the industry, funny stories from Eddie’s early life. Lionel shared some of his pet theories about the dramatic arts, some of which Eddie vehemently agreed with, and some that he vehemently argued against. They talked late into the night and when Eddie left, he pulled Lionel in with his strong arms and gave him a long and heartfelt hug.

  ___________

  Lionel was beginning to take on the sound of a character delivering a soliloquy that had become overlong and tedious. He rhapsodized about Eddie’s intelligent eyes, Eddie’s humor, Eddie’s way around a good story. Elizabeth noticed in the corner of her eye something bright and moving on her laptop screen. On the screen in front of her, Lionel was coming to the climax of his narrative, only a few minutes left. Elizabeth resolved to hear out rest of Lionel’s story. It wouldn’t hurt to make Freyja wait on her a few minutes.

  What came next was no surprise. As soon as Judith had wormed her way back into the play, Eddie dropped Lionel like an infected needle.