I stole a glance at her bosom, then became ruminant again. “Yes, he was wonderful company for me when I was a boy. We had a lot of fun together. In the matter of tricks and jokes, he had no equal, I can swear to that. One Easter Sunday—how well I remember—he picked a couple of colored eggs from the bowl and said to me, ‘According to the Byzantines, Algernon, the only proper way to crack a hard-boiled Easter egg is on the center of your forehead.’ And he did just that with a blue-striped one. He then handed me the second egg—it was dyed orange—and said, ‘Here, lad, you try it.’ Thinking to humor him, I crashed the colored egg against my skull, as he had done. Needless to say, the orange egg hadn’t been cooked; the old devil had planted it in the bowl the night before. I can still hear his howls of laughter, which resembled the skirling of bagpipes, and remember how furious I was as the yolk and albumen ran down my nose. I guess I was fourteen or so at the time.”
“What an unusual sense of humor!” she declared ambiguously. “Had he always been that way?”
“I believe so. Unfortunately, some of his pranks were a little on the brutal side—like the time he put the white rat in Aunt Beatrice’s bed just before she retired. The poor woman became hysterical; we had to get the doctor in to give her a shot. The bucket-of-water-balanced-on-the-door trick was another of his favorites. We all had scalp scars from that one.”
“An interesting side of his character,” said Madge, drawing a circle on the rug with the tip of her cane. “Would it be possible, Mr. Pendleton, for me to have a quick look at that library you spoke of?”
“Now? Certainly,” I replied, bounding from my chair.
3
CROSS-CONVERSATIONS
It wasn’t until we were before the door that I realized what I was letting myself in for, and by that time it was too late to do anything about it. The lady entered first; I followed, diffidently.
“Visitors!” Eulalia said at once. “How nice!”
Hoping to silence her, I frowned darkly; it was a futile gesture, for she merely laughed.
To my guest I said, “The published volumes are on the upper shelves of this section. Some were printed in Italy in very limited editions, and I’m sure are rare.”
“Al! Who is this creature?” Eulalia asked. “Is she a gypsy? With those earrings she might be Princess Fatima or Little Sheba, straight from the fairgrounds.”
“And the unpublished material?” Madge inquired, surveying the room.
“The what?” I muttered, distracted by the double dialogue. “Oh—the notebooks. There’s a stack of them in that secretary, and another pile in the closet, Miss Clerisy. Also, in a steamer trunk in the attic, there are—”
“Miss Clerisy! What a precious name!” interrupted my old friend. “Is she a belly dancer, Al?”
“—there are boxes of things,” I finished doggedly.
The archaeologist regarded me curiously, and I wondered if I’d said something foolish, as occasionally I do. Then she raised her eyebrows slightly, turned away, drew a moldy leather-bound book from one of the shelves, blew dust from its top and opened it decisively. The binding crackled.
“Another widow, Al?” Eulalia pursued. “Did you pick her up down at Hall’s Pond or at the Coolidge Corner library? Well, answer me, Al. Don’t be boorish.”
“No,” I said.
“No what?” Madge asked.
“No . . . no, that isn’t one of Great-grampy’s,” I said hastily, trying to cover my blunder.
“You’re mistaken,” she replied. “It’s his Three Pyramids of Snofru.” Throwing another puzzled look my way, she replaced the volume on the shelf. “But I’ll examine it tomorrow, Mr. Pendleton. I’ve disturbed you enough as it is.”
I denied that this was the case, gallantly insisting there was no reason for her to rush off. All the while, however, Eulalia was pricking me with verbal barbs. Her comments on Madge’s scanty dress, on her coiffure, on her lameness and on her entire demeanor were positively scalding. I was awfully relieved to regain the hall, in point of fact, and to be able to close the door on her vitriolic comments.
We descended to the ground floor. Reluctantly I bade the woman good-bye, and watched through the front window as she flagged a passing taxi with a regal wave of her ornate walking stick. Night had fallen. For a minute or so the red taillights of the cab twinkled like demon eyes, and then they were gone.
I smoked a cigarette and marshaled my thoughts, after which I returned to the library and explained the situation to Eulalia. Unfortunately she could not (or would not) understand. And when I moved her out of there, installing her in my mother’s room instead, she flew into a flaming rage.
4
ALOOFNESS
The next morning I straightened out the guest room. Norbie’s two cinnamon-colored valises still sat beneath the window, rather like a pair of faithful spaniels awaiting the return of their master. I stuffed the odds and ends of clothing into the larger one and carried it to the attic, The smaller bag—the one holding the money and the absinthe—I put in my bedroom.
Madge arrived at ten, very bright and fresh in a cambric suit. We went directly to the library, where she immediately began poring over titles. When I assayed a few remarks, she pointedly ignored me. Rebuffed, I moped off to my own quarters and resumed writing my account of Norbert Hess’s visit.
Shortly after noon, I looked in on her. She was curled up on the velour sofa, one of Great-grampy’s black copybooks in her hands. I asked her if she’d care to go to lunch with me; she thanked me but explained that she’d already had lunch—a sandwich that she’d bought in a shop near her hotel. That was that. I retreated to the kitchen and ate a bowl of canned soup.
Later that day I went to Bertie Hinman’s hardware store at Washington Square. I had only intended to buy a garden hose and some flower seeds, but Bertie—an old boyhood chum—sold me a power lawnmower as well. Then I went to the bank and gave money to Mr. Mayhew.
Madge was still at work when I returned. Not until after five did she finally emerge. She requested permission to come back the next day, which I readily granted, and then departed abruptly, leaving behind a trace of camphor.
5
A CURIOUS CURIOSITY
Between the windows of my bedroom sits a sturdy old walnut bookcase. Though a brute of a piece of furniture, it serves me well as a handy place for the kind of books—poetry and introspective prose, mostly—that I like to scan before sleeping. On the topmost shelf, however, there are no books. What I keep there are small objets d’art—a bronze copy of a Pompeian gladiator from the Naples museum, a couple of netsukes, a German carved-wood goose, a paperweight of blood-red Bohemian glass, and some Egyptian things.
I’m not a bad housekeeper, yet it’s impossible for me to dust properly so large a home. This top shelf, therefore, was filmed with fine sediment, and it was easily seen from where I lay on my bed the following morning that a few of those knickknacks had been taken up by someone, and then replaced fractions of inches away from their original outlines. Which ones? The Egyptian ones, of course! The pottery cup in the shape of a fish, the scarab, the predynastic flint knife, the polychromed baboon—each had been disturbed. Presumably Madge had come into my room while I was away at Washington Square, and given them the once-over. And if she had done that, I reasoned, she must have inspected all the other artifacts in the house as well.
What impudent behavior! I could only assume that her academic inquisitiveness—which for scholars is often as virulent a vice as is gluttony for poor people like Norbie—had overcome her every scruple. But why hadn’t the dear girl simply asked me?
6
PHANTOMS?
The lawnmower was delivered just before noon, but when I tried to use it on the grass in the backyard, Madge quickly stuck her head from the library window and asked me—imperiously, I thought—to turn it off, as the racket it made prevented her from concentrating. Naturally, I acceded to her request, though not without a measure of resentment.
Aside fr
om that single appearance, I did not see her for the rest of the day until she came downstairs to leave. She seemed quite fatigued and I insisted she have a cup of coffee before going. We had a little chat. As I had predicted, she needed many more days of toil with Great-grampy’s journals, if she were ever to adequately appraise them. They were thoroughly fascinating, she said. I told her she could come as often as she pleased. Had I dared, I would’ve urged her to quit her hotel and move into the guest room.
I was titillating myself with this idea when the lady suddenly asked, “Will your friend be returning, Mr. Pendleton?”
“My friend? Who?” I said, perplexed.
“The stout man—Mr. Hess.”
His name on her lips came to me as a mild shock, but—though I hadn’t thought about it—he would naturally have introduced himself that day they met.
“No, he won’t,” I said. “Why do you ask?”
“In the attic I came across a suitcase while I was sorting papers from the steamer trunk. If he were returning I wouldn’t want to be underfoot.”
“The suitcase is mine,” I said hurriedly. “You won’t be underfoot, Miss Clerisy—not at all.”
A strange, quizzical glimmer shone in her yellow-brown eyes, but she made no further remarks on the subject. Shortly after, she departed.
A quizzical glimmer—yes. I wondered about it as her uneven footfalls receded down the walk. Through the window I watched her pause at the curb and then start across the street. What could she possibly know about Norbie? I asked myself. Nothing—nothing at all. I was imagining perils that weren’t there.
Madge made her way across the streetcar tracks while I considered my imagination. It had always been remarkably active. As a child I could discern whole scenes in everything from cloud formations to my father’s battered fedora. There was no limit to what I could conjure up in my head, to what I could dream. A strange talent. Perhaps I should have been a painter or a dramatist.
My musings were suddenly interrupted at this point by a peculiar occurrence. On reaching the opposite side of the street the lady archaeologist, instead of hailing a cab as she’d done the previous day, began walking toward the trolley stop. At once a man popped up like a jack-in-the-box from behind a parked car, and somewhat furtively, began to follow her.
I watched in amazement. Because he walked more rapidly than she did, he was three times obliged to stop and fiddle with his shoelaces so as not to overtake her. The fellow wore large sunglasses, a cap and a dark jacket, and these factors, along with the exceptional width of Beacon Street, prevented me from getting a good look at his face.
Intending to dash out and accost this character, I started for the door, but before I touched the knob a great wave of doubt splashed over my mind and badly dampened my purpose. Was what I had witnessed real? Hadn’t I better make sure? Once or twice in the past I’ve misinterpreted people’s actions and found myself as a result in the most unspeakably dreadful predicaments. So I hesitated.
Meanwhile, in tandem, they continued down the street. At the trolley stop she came to a halt, and he immediately turned his back to her. By now they were more than a block away; I had difficulty keeping my eye on them. The mysterious surveillant lingered there on the sidewalk for a brief time, and then strolled off down Carlton Street. I watched until the trolley came and carried Madge in the direction of Boston. During this interval, the skulker did not reappear.
All this happened in broad daylight—it was only six in the evening and barely a week after the summer solstice—yet no one but myself noticed the fellow’s odd conduct. I’m certain he was trailing her—as certain, at least, as anyone can be about anything.
Nevertheless, I decided it would be wiser not to mention the episode to Madge.
7
MORE QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS
A week passed. She came every day, even on Sunday. Under these conditions our acquaintance should have ripened, but alas, that was not the case. We met seldom, and then only for brief periods. Though I twice devised stratagems to get her to dine with me, both schemes foundered on the reef of her indifference. Naturally, the lady’s coolness merely warmed my ardor. I was well smitten. Each morning I longed for her arrival with adolescent eagerness; each evening I suffered depression when she left. It was sweetly melancholy.
To make matters worse, our infrequent conversations were always about Great-grampy. If only she had shown half so much interest in me! But no, I was used like a reference book, and nothing more. She badgered me into producing all the photos of the old boy, all his letters, the small scrapbook he kept, the watercolors he did—even his ruffled dress shirt, his buckskin gauntlets and his moldy bandolier. Of course, I had to show her his grave, too. And throughout these proceedings she pelted me with questions. Did he receive many visitors? Any archaeologists? Was he infirm? What was his financial situation? Did he lecture? Had he many friends? What was his funeral like? Did he make a will?
Really, she was a Torquemada—an Inquisition.
Instead of mounting amorous attacks, therefore, I found myself describing how Great-grampy danced a jig the New Year’s before he died; how he had a United States senator for a pal; how he loved buying groceries by the carton, as though he were preparing for an expedition to the Congo or the Kalahari; how he paid to have the carriage house converted into a garage, and later bought a new Studebaker for my father; how he’d been buried in a simple manner; and how he’d left me ten thousand dollars.
I was rather mystified by her thirst for gossip. One could hardly use such trivia in a scientific dissertation.
Returning one day from the market, I heard an eerie tapping—as of someone striking a stone with a hammer—down in the basement. I went to the door and hallooed.
“It’s only I!” Madge shouted up, sounding annoyed.
A moment later she appeared at the foot of the stairs, hesitated, then quickly mounted them and switched off the cellar light. Her forehead was moist with perspiration. Holding out her right hand to me, she asked, “What is this, Mr. Pendleton?”
I looked at what the hand contained. “That? Why . . . why it’s an inferior maxillary bone,” I said.
“An inferior maxillary bone,” she echoed. “You speak like an anatomist.”
“I once thought of becoming a physician,” I replied. “I studied, and so forth, but the war intervened.”
The woman nodded, then said in a pedagogic tone, “I see. But who painted this maxillary bone blue?”
As I could feel my ire kindling, I waited before answering lest I say more than I intended. “I did, Miss Clerisy. It’s a hobby of mine called osteo-art. The idea is to make sculptures from pieces of bone that bear a fundamental resemblance to the desired form. The one you have there, if you regard it with unprejudiced eyes, is very like an eskimo sledge. You’ve only got part of it though. There is also a metacarpal-bone driver, and six huskies made of vertebrae.”
She studied me for a minute and then laughed softly. “So that’s what it is,” she said, laying the sledge on the kitchen counter. “And all those other things—there’s quite a pile of them—are sculptures too. Remarkable. Tell me, do all osteo-artists use human bones for their work?”
“How would I know that?” I asked. “Presumably they get their material from butcher shops, but since I had access to a number of skeletons stored in the Burying Ground charnel house, I saw no reason to search elsewhere.”
Again she nodded. The ringlets of her hair moved restlessly, like black cats disturbed in their sleep. “Isn’t it profane?” she asked.
“Profane, Miss Clerisy? Not at all! Their souls are gone, are they not? Their bones are nothing but chunks of calcium, not very different from hardened plaster of Paris. If I may say so, archaeologists are poor ones to make accusations of profanity, in any event. Surely the installation of mummies in glass cases, for the public to gape at, is no act of reverence toward the dead.”
Her response to my sally was a good-natured laugh. Though I did my best to remai
n stern, this burst of merriment endowed her pretty face with so much grace, so much radiance and glory, so much charm, that my heart cavorted in my breast and my irritation dissipated like mist before the rays of a summer sun.
“True enough,” she conceded. “That’s a point for you, Mr. Pendleton.”
My cheeks were so warm, I must have been blushing. Indeed, the intimacy of her laughter made me warm all over. I chuckled and said, “ ‘Mr. Pendleton’—that’s a bit stuffy. Why not call me Al, as everyone else does?”
“Very well, Al,” said she, “and you, if you wish, may call me Madge.”
Then she laughed again and tried to step around me so as to go back up to the library, but I blocked her way.
“Splendid,” I declared. “Now, since I’ve satisfied your curiosity, Madge, perhaps you’ll satisfy mine. What in heavens name were you searching for in the cellar?”
“A head,” she replied after a second’s hesitation.
“A head?”
“Yes, a limestone head of Sethi the First. Your great-grandfather mentions having purchased one in Cairo. I thought it might still be here.”
“I see. Was it big or small?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Larger than life size, I imagine.”
“Well,” I said, “all the really big stuff was taken out of the basement while Great-grampy was living.”
At once she showed interest. “Big stuff? What big stuff was there?”
“There were granite figures, sarcophagi, painted statues—that kind of thing. They were all in packing cases. To get them up and down the cellar stairs, they used skids and a windlass, I remember.”
Leaning on her cane, she regarded me intently. “Can you describe the statues?”
“I’m afraid not. All that happened forty years ago. What’s more, I only got a glimpse of a few of the pieces, since most of the boxes were never opened. And I was away at school around that time.”
“Damn!” she murmured, just audibly. “Can’t you tell me anything about them?”
The Secret Life of Algernon Pendleton Page 9