Collection Completed

by Amanda Serrano

Collection Completed

  By

  Amanda Serrano

  Copyright © 2013 by Amanda Serrano

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  “Love is a torment of the mind”

  ~Samuel Daniel

  I began my apprentice with Madam Abigail Harrington in June of 1971. The same year she inherited her father’s estate and vineyards. It was also the year that I came to America from Liverpool, as a young man looking for work. One day, while sitting in a dumpy little coffee shop (with barely enough money to pay for my coffee) I glanced down at the newspaper I was reading and saw an advertisement that read: Butler needed. No previous experience necessary or required, inquire in person, 331 Corinthia Manor.

  I can still remember the feeling I had that steaming afternoon, as I walked through those tall, rusty gates that whined and moaned like a thousand lost souls haunting the grounds, passed the cement panthers with piercing eyes and ready teeth, and climbed the steps that went on for so long they seemed to touch the sky. Cotton lining my throat, my heart like a clump of lead, I rang the doorbell. It dinged and chimed for what seemed like forever, until from behind the kaleidoscope of stained glass a silhouette appeared. A young woman with shiny black hair and eyes the color of emeralds smiled at me. “You must be-“ “Malachi,” I responded, much too quickly. She held out her hand. “Hello, I’m Abigail.” I had hoped she would not notice my sweaty palms. “Come in, please, you must be burning up out there,” she said, pulling me inside... I was in awe. I had never known there were human beings that lived in such luxury.

  There were enormous ivory pillars and statues, and a shiny marble staircase that spiraled up to what had to be heaven. And the artwork on the walls, actually, the walls WERE the artwork: Life-sized paintings that included Renoir’s “The Ball At The Moulin de la Galette” over an eaved entrance that lead into the dining hall, and behind the staircase was his work “Bathers.” My eyes desperately fought to digest it all. Trying to catch my breath, I looked up and saw a massive chandelier with thousands of crystals, glistening and trailing iridescent rainbows all around the room. But the ceiling, oh, the marvelous ceiling, it was an exact replica of the Sistine Chapel. It’s quite strange, at the time it absolutely took my breath away. And now, nearly thirty years later, I don’t look twice at it. One can grow used to anything I suppose, beautiful or not.

  In a long blue dress and pearls, and her hair tightly pulled back into a bun, it was clear that she was trying to appear much older than her twenty years, but she looked more like a little girl playing dress up than anything else. It felt odd to me, that here I was, thirty years old, and the fact that I would be a servant to someone so young. But she carried herself well and had a sweet disposition. I liked her.

  “What?” she asked, no doubt sensing my stare. “It’s just… I was expecting someone…older.” She didn’t say anything, she just laughed and tossed her pearl necklace over one shoulder. She went on to tell me that she was her father’s favorite child, and how he had left everything to her, including the estate and vineyard, which she inherited after he had accidently drowned while on holiday in Spain three months earlier. She also had two older brothers from her father’s previous marriages. But they were left nothing by their father. She said that she had offered both of them to come live with her and help run the winery, which had dated back three generations. But her brothers were too proud to accept. “Father’s will tore us apart,” she said. Awkward information for her to be divulging to someone she had met less than an hour ago, I thought, but she was sincere about it. “I was Daddy’s girl,” she said, wiping tears off her cheeks.

  She took me on a tour of the house, which seemed to get more and more extravagant with every room. She took me outside to the vineyard, where miles and miles of plump, shiny grapes laid under the warm bursts of sun, waiting for the touch of human hands. The vineyard was something quite amazing. Hidden all around were statues, in and outside the vines. Greek goddesses, ballerinas and animals of all kinds peeked out from behind tall, creaking trees and courting couples sat on cement benches and walked hand-in-hand through the grapevines. She told me that sometimes, if you looked out from the upstairs windows at just the right time at night, it looked like they were dancing under the light of the stars. She had a way of making everything sound enchanting and beautiful. There was also a stable that held six pure-bred horses, three dark brown and three snow-white, and a huge swimming pool that no one ever used. She told me that the previous butler had retired when he learned of her father’s passing. “Jacob adored my father,” she softly said, half-smiling at me.

  Back inside when we finally reached the upstairs hallway, bathed in red velvet, she went over to a gold and marble table. On top was a small wooden box with oriental calligraphy carved on the lid. She unhooked the latch and pulled out a gold skeleton key. The metal clinked inside the keyhole and the door pushed open. “Come this way,” she motioned. I walked with caution, as it was pitch black. Then suddenly, the entire room lit up. And what a room it was! I can still remember the chills of pleasure that crept up my spine. BOOKS. There were thousands and thousands of them, stacked to the ceiling and across the walls. They were all around me. The smell of old leather and musty paper filled my nostrils as I looked up to see an ocean of purple, red and blue stained glass in the huge dome above our heads. My mind wandered, as I briefly imagined the beauty of being under that glass dome during a rainstorm. My eyes blurred as I tried to read the title of each and every book. “This was father’s favorite room,” she said, stroking the back of his well-used, green velvet chair. I had actually come to America when I was young, with dreams of being a famous writer. And I did write a few novels, but my fear of rejection prohibited me from ever submitting any of my work.

  “I really do need this job,” I said, spinning my head around adoringly at the dusty shelves, full of books. “Well, it looks to me like it’s yours,” she said.

  Surprisingly, I came to enjoy my occupation as butler, which consisted of the serving of meals, answering the door and telephone, and mostly watching over the other servants. The two maids, Marta and Catherine, were only seventeen and twenty-one years old when I first started. Marta was a shy, quiet girl of Portuguese heritage, who in thirty years, has probably not spoken more than twenty words to me. While Catherine, on the other hand, was a feisty, scarlet-haired Irish lass that could talk your arm off in five minutes.

  One afternoon while I was ironing my jacket in the servant’s quarters, Madam knocked on the door (she was always cordial enough to knock, unlike some employers, as I was told by Catherine) She reached out and handed me a gold key. “I want you to have this, Malachi, please accept.” My eyes must have looked like a cartoon characters’. She told me that she knew of my passion for literature, and although her father had had a great love for books, they didn’t interest her in the very least, and the library was doing little more than collecting dust. “I want someone to enjoy it as much as father did.” I cannot tell you how many times I walked past that door, dreaming about opening that little box, and
entering that wonderful room of books. Once when I was sure I was alone, I even tried looking through the keyhole to see if I could catch a glimpse of them, or perhaps even smell the leather scent seeping through the wood. Madam smiled at me. She told me the library was to be mine and only mine. Nothing had ever been mine. It was the happiest day of my life.

  Madam was extremely generous with each of us. She always remembered our birthdays, and often after ordering the most expensive cake she could find, she would sneak up behind us, usually with other servants in tow, and sing “Happy Birthday.” This especially embarrassed Marta, who would turn beet-red if someone even said her name. She even gave us gifts at Christmas time. We were always welcome to join her for meals, and though quite odd for us, she would sit for hours and talk to us like old friends at a dinner party, even on occasion, serving us herself. Madam said she felt guilty for having us wait on her constantly. She often told us about when she was a little girl, and how it would always make her cry when her father would scream and curse at the servants. “I just wanted to protect them, I didn’t