Thales's Folly

by Dorothy Gilman

  'And that's when we learned Gussie was left the property— and you witnessed the will, Mr. Branowski," added Tarragon. "You and Zilka Stephanovitch."

  "That I did," he said, nodding.

  "Fetch our copy of the will, Leo," said Gussie.

  While they waited, Tarragon brought Mr. Branowski his cup of chamomile tea, added a spoonful of honey, and sat down.

  Leo, returning, placed the will on the table for Mr. Branowski and said, "Read."

  "Why?" he asked. "I remember what it says."

  "Refresh your memory, it's been six years and we need help."

  Mr. Branowski carefully read the will and put it down. "What help? I've read it, what is it you think I'd know that you don't?"

  "Where she buried her gold," blurted out Andrew.

  "Because," Tarragon said, "we're going to have to sell the woods and the pond and everything except the house to pay inheritance taxes and the lawyer, and—"

  Andrew interrupted to say, "You've read the will, she said there'd be a letter, but there wasn't any letter. We've done our best, but burying means digging . . , and twenty-five acres?"

  "We thought, " Gussie said, "that you might remember something—just something—about where it was buried. Something she said."

  Mr. Branowski looked at her blankly. "Why would she have said anything? It's not needed."

  Gussie said patiently, "But there was no letter, Mr. Branowski, she said there was a letter but she left us with no clue at all."

  "But it's right here," said Mr. Branowski. "Right in front of your eyes."

  "What is?"

  "You don't see it?" He held up the will to show them. "She didn't want it plainly said, not in front of Zilka. Miss Thale trusted Zilka, but she didn't trust Zilka's brother Bruno. Maybe if you'd seen this will five years ago you'd have been sharper. You didn't notice these last words here? See how she added, 'be wise about this, Tarragon' and underlined the words?"

  It was their turn to stare at him blankly.

  "She buried her money," he said, "and she added 'be wise about this, Tarragon.' Didn't you think it odd, those five words added at the end? There was no need for a letter."

  "Why not?" gasped Gussie.

  "Because," he said patiently, "it's buried in the garden under the tarragon."

  "Under the—can this be true?" whispered Gussie.

  A stunned Leo said, "We thought it meant for Tarragon to be wise about being left a lot of money, being so young."

  "Can this be real?" Gussie said, grasping the will and staring at the words.

  "The Lord works in mysterious ways," pointed out Miss L’Hommedieu.

  "So did my great-aunt," Andrew said dryly.

  Mr. Branowski gave him a sharp glance. "And you, young man, would you leave directions around where anybody might see, telling exactly where money's buried? But I'll say one thing: she thought you'd know. 'They'll know,' she said."

  "Except we didn't," said Leo.

  He and Gussie exchanged glances; Miss L'Hommedieu looked at them expectantly; Andrew looked at Tarragon, and Mr. Branowski waited, twinkling, and then, "Let's go" shouted Leo. "Where's the shovel?"

  All of them except Miss L’Hommedieu jumped up from the table. "It's on the porch," said Miss L’Hommedieu, rising calmly to follow Mr. Branowski out of the door.

  Leo reached the herb garden first, Andrew having stopped to pick up a pointed trowel abandoned among the kale. Once inside the encircling, rosemary-covered wall of rocks, Leo strode to the farthest end of the tarragon row, muttered, "Here goes," and placing one foot on the shovel he plunged it deep into the earth. They waited in suspense.

  "There's something here," he said cautiously.

  "Of course there is," said Mr. Branowski.

  "But oh, the tarragon," mourned Miss L’Hommedieu. "Be careful, Leo."

  Leo neatly turned the spade in the earth, prying up stalk and roots of tarragon to expose the corner of what looked to be a metal container. As he carefully freed it from the earth the edge of a second receptacle could be seen. Carefully, reverently, Leo lifted the first one out and deposited it on the earth. "Steel," he said. "Somebody open it!"

  Gussie stepped forward and made an attempt to pry it open. "We need a screwdriver," she said, "or a knife."

  "Let me try," Tarragon said, and recklessly attacking the box with a rock she forced it open. Startled, she cried, "But these are just papers!"

  Andrew, peering over her shoulder, smiled. "Those are bonds. A whole pile of them!"

  "Oh Leo, see what the next box holds," Tarragon told him. "This is exciting."

  The second box proved exciting indeed. It was long and narrow and very heavy, and snapped open as easily as the metal clip on a safe-deposit box. "Dear God in heaven!" gasped Gussie as Tarragon reached inside and drew out a handful of gold coins.

  "All shapes and sizes!" she said in awe. 'And gold. The box is full of them, aren't they beautiful?" She handed a coin to Miss L'Hommedieu and one to Gussie.

  "Exquisite," whispered Miss L’Hommedieu.

  "And one for you, too, Mr. Branowski," she said, beaming at him. "If not for you—!"

  "Like pirate treasure," Leo said in an awed voice.

  Andrew, intrigued by Leo's success—what the hell, he thought—decided to dig for pirate treasure at his end of the row, and inserting his trowel under the tarragon, delving deep below its roots, he called out, "Hey—I've hit something, too!" Without venturing any deeper he moved a few feet along the row and tested the earth again, then advanced slowly toward Leo at the far end, where he said in an astonished voice, "This entire row of tarragon has metal boxes buried under it!"

  They turned to stare at him, and Gussie looked suddenly frightened. "Leo—no more! Stop! This is too much."

  Miss L’Hommedieu nodded. "She's right, it's too much."

  Mr. Branowski, lingering at a discreet distance, said, "Safest place to leave it, anyway. No need to worry about me, I knew where this was buried a whole year before Miss Thale died. Think I'd touch it now? I'd rather have my tree." He frowned. "Nobody's stolen my knapsack and tarp, have they?"

  Andrew assured him that both knapsack and tarpaulin were still safely under his tree.

  "So we stop?" asked Leo, resting on his shovel.

  Andrew, considering this, said, "The question certainly does arise as to what you'd do with anything more that's dug up, my trowel must have hit at least five more metal containers. You'd need a car, a bank, a safe-deposit box, a dealer to appraise the coins or sell them, a stockbroker to handle the bonds—"

  "Stop—stop, it's terrifying," Gussie said. "So much I never dreamed—"

  "I think," said Miss L’Hommedieu judiciously, "one might carry just this one box of coins to the house. To admire."

  Gussie nodded, looking relieved. "What matters is knowing that it's here. And that we needn't sell the woods and the pond, and—and—" She burst into tears.

  Leo sighed. " 'Care certainly clings to wealth' indeed, just as Horace wrote."

  "But do carefully replant the tarragon you've uprooted," said Miss L’Hommedieu. "Carefully, Leo."

  They now became busy planting the tarragon that had been dug up, which amused Andrew. If Gussie was in tears, and Tarragon comforting her, Andrew found that he had to conceal an insane urge to laugh, a laugh that began deep down inside of him and wanted to break out but dared not. Whether there was a hysterical aspect to it he had no idea, but he had never before observed a scene fraught with such conflict: such terror at the thought of riches, or such delight in finding them.

  Most of all, he was absurdly happy for them. The woods would remain unviolated, the pond unpolluted, Gussie's shrine intact, the birds would continue to live, and sing, and build nests at Thale's Folly; there would be no Swiss chalets, Miss L’Hommedieu would have a hot bath even day for the rest of her life, and in the evening there was to be a patchiv.

  14

  If [Agrimony] be leyd under mann's heed,

  He shal sleepyn as he we
re deed;

  He shal never drede ne wakyn

  Till fro under his heed it be takyn.

  —Medieval English medical journal

  Before any patchivs, barbecues, or Stephanovitches, Andrew knew in the morning that he could no longer contain his curiosity as to what was happening at Bide-A-Wee cottage. Apparently everyone else was sleeping late after the excitement of the day before; the decoding of the will by Mr. Branowski, he thought, was surely an accomplishment as staggering as the translation of the Rosetta stone. He tiptoed downstairs, spread blueberry jam on a slice of bread, scribbled a note reporting that he had gone to tell his mother the good news, and leaving it on the table set out for Bide-A-Wee. Zilka had said there would be no rain today, and there was no rain. Perhaps she, too, was a witch, he thought with a smile, but his smile died away as he reached the stepping-stones across the brook and approached the highway. Had his father recovered, he wondered; had he returned to New York? Had he and his mother quarreled? He'd forgotten all the quarrels he'd overheard as a child, but he was remembering them now.

  He was relieved to see his father's blue car parked at the edge of the highway, and with increasing suspense he walked up the graveled path to the cottage.

  "Come in, the door's unlocked," his mother called out.

  He opened the door. His mother and father were seated at the long table by the window with a carafe of coffee between them, and newspapers and sheets of paper nearly covering the table. His mother said cheerfully, "Bring a cup from the kitchen, Andrew, and join us for coffee."

  "Good morning, Andrew," his father said, as formally as usual, and then, "Get the damned cup so we can get on with things here."

  Andrew entered the tiny kitchen and returned with a cup decorated with elves, no doubt another flea-market acquisition. "On with what things? And I must say you're looking rested, Father," he said as his mother filled his cup with coffee.

  His father ignored this. "Pull up a chair," he told him. "Now where were we, Allision?"

  "Let's see, we've added up your pension," she said, "and the silver balloon you'll receive—or is it a parachute?—and we've crossed off—" She stopped and glanced at Andrew, smiling. "Your father and I have discussed his living here with me for a while. Not marrying," she added firmly. "So many of you young people live together without the banns there seems no reason why we can't."

  "When we were married we quarreled," his father pointed out.

  "Oh, we'll quarrel anyway," she assured him blithely. "Now where were we?"

  "What are all those sheets of newspaper and paper?" asked Andrew.

  "Possibilities," said his father. "I daresay we can use your input, Andrew."

  This was amazing indeed. "Always glad to help," he said brightly. "What possibilities are you discussing?"

  "We've discarded the idea of a bicycle repair shop," his mother told him, "but according to yesterday's Gazette there are several businesses for sale or going bankrupt."

  His father frowned. "This newspaper for sale has its appeal, Allison. One of those 'freebies' full of ads the Gazette wants to rid themselves of."

  "Yes, but you're not terribly good at selling ads, are you, Horace?" she asked tactfully. "Turn to page two, there's a rather sad article about a small plastics factory going out of business. Human-interest story. The owner's been in Pittsville for thirty-five years, he's going to have to close—no buyers—and fifteen workers will lose their jobs."

  His father, turning to page two, frowned over it. "Makes dinnerware."

  "Yes," she said, "I've seen it.., quite dull. But if someone bought it, hired a very good designer—"

  Here Andrew's glance moved with interest to the colorful skeins of wool in the corner.

  "—someone who could design really exciting and outrageous colors and patterns, they might do very well in boutiques and the more avant-garde shops. What a challenge it would be," she said deliberately. "And you know plastics, don't you?"

  Andrew moved from amazement to awe. Leo had been right, his mother would know precisely how to divert and rescue his father and she had the confidence and tact to do it. It also startled him to realize that quite possibly she still loved him. He said, "I hate to interrupt this conference—and you make awfully good coffee, Mother—but I've good news to tell. Mr. Branowski's been found, and Harriet Thale's money was buried under the tarragon."

  She stared at him, wide-eyed. "Under the tarragon?" She frowned. "You mean—oh, why didn't I see that? Those words added at the end, was that it?"

  Andrew nodded.

  She shook her head. "And I thought it was advising Tarragon to be wise about inheriting money at a young age."

  "So did Leo. You do know, Father, that the will's been found and you don't own Thale's Folly after all?"

  His father brushed this aside casually. "So your mother told me at breakfast this morning."

  "But only after he'd slept for ten hours," added his mother.

  Andrew grinned at her. "Then I think I'll leave you both to your Machiavellian plottings. The Stephanovitches have arrived, and there's a patchiv tonight if you care to come."

  "Too busy,"said his father.

  "Not necessarily," his mother added. "We'll see how it goes."

  His father gave Andrew a stern look. "We'll also be looking into some travel .., your mother's always wanted to see Alaska, but I've been too busy."

  It was also possible, he realized, that his father still loved his mother. A speechless Andrew managed only a feeble "Yes," and then as he reached the door he rallied to say, "See you later."

  But neither of them heard him, and in spite of being ignored he left with a broad smile on his face that turned into a chuckle, and then to an outright laugh as he made his way back to Thale's Folly.

  The day proved full of Stephanovitches. Andrew's hand was shaken by men named Asani, Yorko, Michael, Luigi, Chuka, and Drushano; gypsy children splashed in the pond during the afternoon, and the cleared area next to the meadow was full of wood smoke. By sunset, the eight barbecued chickens had been dispatched, their bones claimed by Gussie for soup stock, and Tarragon escorted Miss L’Hommedieu back to the house, where she would most enjoy the music from her chair on the porch, she said. When Tarragon returned she had changed from her blue jeans into a long white skirt—"from my high school graduation," she told Andrew—and she had added the glittering black sequin jacket that he'd found for her at the thrift shop. "You look gorgeous," he told her, "and as a friend—" He leaned over and kissed her. "Strictly as a friend, of course."

  "To that," she informed him, "I could very crassly say 'Oh yeah?' " and with a smile crossed the meadow to help Zilka move chairs.

  Drushano and his two brothers were tuning their violins on the steps of one of their mobile homes, and Andrew wandered over to observe them. Drushano, seeing him, smiled, and lifting his bow he played a few notes of music that startled Andrew.

  He said, "My God, you make that violin sing! That's 'Boogie-Woogie Stomp,' isn't it?"

  "Ah, you know boogie-woogie?"

  Andrew nodded. "Jazz and boogie-woogie I collect. Where do you play in New York?"

  He named a well-known restaurant in the Village, "and sometimes uptown," he said with a shrug.

  Andrew would have talked more with him but the other two were waiting for Drushano, and he saw that neighbors had begun arriving, people acquainted from past summers with Miss Thale and her gypsies, and among them Artemus and Manuel with their wives. It had grown darker now, and as the moon rose in the east Zilka brought out four lanterns, lighted them, and hung them from the trees. Drushano and his brothers moved to a commanding position under a lantern, and Drushano spoke.

  "'We play first the 'Horo—Hora Lui Dobrica,' folk music from a beloved Rumania."

  Three violins were lifted, and with a flourish of bows the men began to play.

  It was a perfect choice for a celebration, lilting and joyous,

  not music for social dancing; it needed a ballet with jubilant leaps
to express its joy; it soared and swept, it was exhilarating and ended on a high exuberant note. But nothing prepared Andrew for what came next. Luigi, seated next to him, leaned over to whisper, "This will be real gypsy music, I will tell you the words."

  The music began again, but in a low key, like a dirge, and Luigi murmured, "The winter snows are falling . . ." Andrew made no reply, he had turned mute and still as the sad notes reached and stirred him; he felt the poignancy, the melancholy, the emotion invoked by these stringed instruments, so masterfully played they fairly throbbed with pain, loneliness, and grief. From exhilaration Andrew was plunged into mourning, and tears came to his eyes. The winter snows are falling. . . It was suddenly unendurable, and in panic he stumbled to his feet and fled.

  Into the woods he ran, faster and faster to escape the music that haunted him even now until, seeing light ahead—the flicker of a candle—he found himself at Gussie's altar and flung himself on the moss.

  Gussie must have come here earlier and lighted the candle— to pray? to give thanks? He realized how deeply the music had stirred him—too deeply—breaking through a wall in him that opened him up to the darkness he'd tried to bury for so many months. Dimly, still, he could hear the music, or had he carried it with him?

  The moss was like a soft carpet; he ran a hand over it tenderly, caressing it, bringing him back to this moment, and then he lifted his eyes to the altar, to the flickering candle, and, "Why?" he asked of Gussie's gods, the earth, moon, sun, and stars, and then, "Why?" he demanded aloud, as he'd done so many times, but there was no answer.

  His thoughts drifted back in time to the Andrew he'd once been .. , inviolable, or so he'd believed, confident of his future, buoyed by early success, already sketching out possibilities for a new book, anticipating a larger advance, perhaps a larger Manhattan apartment, and then—in one nanosecond—all gone.

  He realized he'd spent months damning the trick that life had played on him, damning his friend for piloting a plane that crashed, damning the terror that had strangled all interest in what he'd loved doing—and yes, consuming him with self-pity—and in a blaze of revelation he understood that Miss L’Hommedieu had been right after all.