by Lara Parker
David hesitated, then, not wanting to be rude, returned to the table. In the lamplight the gypsy’s skin seemed darker, her nose more beaked, her odor more rank. Her black curls fell around her face and her beady eyes still held the same certainty mixed with the same craving for admiration. He wondered whether she meant to keep him there all night.
“I did not tell you the truth about the portrait.”
“You know where it is?”
“It is in the green car.”
“You don’t mean that horrible painting—the one of a werewolf. But it was eaten by rats.”
“Then there is great danger. To Quentin and to you.”
David hesitated, then—searching Magda’s eyes for some clue—finally asked her, “Do you know how we can get out of this … this time?”
“There will be a test. Of maturity. Of courage.” She tapped the card of the Fool.
“Oh, please, that’s no answer.”
“Then here is the answer you have been waiting for. The artist who gave the painting to Quentin was named Charles Delaware Tate. I knew him well. For many years the painting was in my possession.”
“Why you?”
“That is another story. What I have to tell you is that the artist could not bear to part with his masterpiece. It had robbed him of his soul. And so, he painted another.”
“You mean there were two?”
Magda’s eyes flickered, then gleamed. She licked her lips as though she was finally satisfied to have won his attention, and David asked, “Is the artist … I mean, is he still alive?”
The gypsy leaned in and whispered, “He lives in the tower.” And she raised her eyes to the ceiling.
Fourteen
Curious now, David was on his way up the stairs when a harried waiter handed him a tray piled high with empty glasses and said, “Here. Take this to the kitchen.” David realized he still wore the chauffeur’s jacket and he had been mistaken for a servant. He was about to set the tray down when he reasoned a servant’s garb might give him some secrecy while he searched for Jackie and a way out of this nightmare. Maybe she was right. If they had been sent back in time for a reason, and if he allowed himself to be caught up in the unfolding drama, perhaps they would find some answers. On a whim, he reached for a still-filled glass and downed the contents; the champagne tasted like flowers.
He was astonished to find the kitchen bustling with activity; at least twenty cooks were at work around a great cast iron stove that was one he did not know, and the cabinets were not the tiled surfaces the house had now, but sanded wood. All the family silver that he had never seen anywhere but tarnishing in the buffet was polished and brimming with the fanciest offerings. Silver trays overflowed with canapés and crystal decanters glowed with sherry. Swimming in a giant bowl was a frothy iced punch, the elaborate silver ladle resting on a bed of gardenias.
Seeing that his uniform was a means to remain unnoticed, he first filled his tray with glasses, then strolled into the drawing room. It, too, exuded an air of gloss and refinement; however, the room was cluttered with glamorous objects from the Orient. He was surprised to see much of the same furniture was there, but there were also Art Deco rugs and elegant antiques that were unfamiliar. Two huge porcelain leopards reclined by the fireplace, and palm trees sprouted from Chinese planters.
Above the mantel was a portrait of a beautiful young girl with golden hair and a heart-shaped face, the one he had seen dancing, and he realized she must belong to the family. Busying himself with collecting glasses, David listened to three restless young men who were talking boisterously. He could see they were close to his own age and wore what must have been college attire, white linen pants or knickers and sports coats with bow ties. They appeared to be quite inebriated, and they ignored him just as everyone else had done while they admired the girl in the painting.
“What a doll,” said one.
“I’ve heard she’s already done two talkies. And left the theater.”
“Well, she does have the voice for talkies, and she is shameless.”
“Shameless and honest. Certainly not her father’s daughter.”
They all laughed and shook their heads, as if they had never known such a woman. David wondered who she could be. “Too bad she’ll get nabbed along with her bootlegging dad.”
“Damn, she don’t care. She’s so proud of her nerve, she’ll probably drive you to the blind pig in her own roadster.”
“Shhhh, keep your voice down.” One of the men who wore a dark suit with a high collar glanced over at David, who turned quickly toward the kitchen, but the man reached for his tray and took a glass of champagne.
Another man in a plaid sports coat and matching vest, complete with a carnation in his lapel, turned to his companion, who wore a pink waistcoat, a straw hat perched back on his head, and puffed on a cigar. David had an uncanny suspicion that they were in disguise, that this was not their usual attire; he had a feeling that they were plotting something.
“When do the boys get here?” said the man in the plaid jacket.
“Ten-oh-five. So be ready.”
“Yeah. We’ve nailed them three times in a row serving beer, wine, and whiskey to more than a hundred guests.” He lifted his glass in proof. “And the whiskey is all in the cellar of that big empty house down the road?”
“What booty! Fifteen hundred cases of Canadian shipped on a schooner from Rum Row and floated ashore.”
David was curious. He wondered if they were bootleggers.
“Well, it won’t be no tea party,” said the man in the pink waistcoat, winking at his companion. “Do we get to take a little home?”
“Nope. Just like in any ordinary speaker, every bottle is supposed to be smashed.”
The man in the plaid jacket looked over his shoulder at David, who turned his back and set the glasses on the table. Then the man leaned in to the third gentleman, the slim dark-haired man in the black suit. He spoke in a whisper. “So, Jay, are you with us tonight?”
“Sorry. I don’t share the Klan’s thirst for violence.”
David was surprised at what he thought was a mention of an infamous organization.
“What are you, one of those intellectually mongrelized liberals? Or just a wet blanket?”
The man in the dark suit sighed and then took a swig of his champagne. “If a liberal is one who accepts Catholics, Jews, radicals, and foreigners in general, as well as the Negro, I suppose I am.”
The cigar-smoking gentleman waved the stub in the air for emphasis. “Come on, old sport, you know the Anglo-Saxon race has given the world almost the whole of modern civilization. Don’t you think that’s to be protected?”
“I’m sorry, but personally I think the Klan runs the gamut of modern bigotry. I want no part of it.”
David was fascinated by the conversation. He had never heard a discussion of politics or morality at Collinwood. He pretended to clear up glasses quietly, so as not to miss a word.
“So,” the man in the pink waistcoat continued, “you think the poor should produce as little as they can, beg or steal from those who do produce, and then kill the producer for daring to think he is better than they are.”
“I am not suggesting killing. Killing is your territory.”
The man in the plaid sports coat suddenly turned to David and shouted, “What do you think, boy?”
David froze in embarrassment. He had been eavesdropping but he had not expected to be noticed. “Why, I— I don’t know, sir. Think about what?”
“You see,” the man said to his companions, waving his cigar. “These non-collegiate types are ignorant of history. They can’t be trusted with the vote, either. God forbid, the women have finally got it, although at least they are sponsoring the B of P. Country should be run by men—educated white men—just like always.”
“Surely you have an opinion about the deplorable state of society, young man,” offered the man in the dark suit kindly.
David thought a moment, then dec
ided to offer a response, mostly to avoid humiliation. “I think it may be hard for a lot of people,” he said tentatively. “It seems like a handful of powerful people have all the money, and all the rest are poor.”
“Aha! A Bolshevik in the making!” cried the plaid jacket. “Go fetch us some more champagne, boy.”
David ran to the kitchen, now so intrigued by the conversation that he was anxious to return. He wondered whether the two arguing with the man in the black suit were part of the Ku Klux Klan. Clumsily he gathered glasses on his tray and, after reaching for an unopened bottle, popped the cork. The explosion was like a gunshot. When he returned, the argument had grown more heated, animosity heavy in the air.
The plaid suit leaned in and said in a low voice, “Why do you think we’re here tonight, Jay? Why do you think we want you to join us? To protect the laws of this country. We’re protecting the jobs of Christian Americans, the ones who are pure Pioneer blood.”
“Really? What job do you have?” said the man in the dark suit. “Have you ever worked a day in your life?” He spoke in an exasperated tone. “This is a nation of hypocrites. You are standing here drinking the liquor you claim is illegal, planning to arrest those who serve it—”
“Undercover—”
“It doesn’t matter. The same congressmen that pass the laws buy the booze.”
The man in the pink vest emptied his glass and chuckled quietly. His pronunciation was thickened by drink, but he possessed a smug sense of conviction.
“I admit the Volstead is maybe a mistake. But the Klan is a grand organization protecting Christian Americans! Our kind are threatened!”
The man in the dark suit walked over to David and set his glass on David’s tray. Then he said to David under his breath, “Paranoia and arrogance, the worst possible combination in a man.” And he gave David a meaningful wink.
He turned back to his companions. “You know, Doug, you always seem to be peddling hatred. Hatred and fear. It’s so easy to get people to hate. Aren’t Christians supposed to love one another?”
“The … the Klan’s three great precepts are loyalty to the white race, devotion … devotion to America, and … and belief in the Christian God.”
The man in the dark suit shook his head in disgust. “And these precepts inspire you to go out in your silly costumes—”
“Hey, buddy, I— I got those robes for $3.28 apiece and sold them for $6.50 to over three hundred men! That’s a nice little profit.” The red-faced man was teetering on his feet, and the man in the black suit turned away, shaking his head. But the man with the cigar blubbered on.
“Moonshiners! The devil is with the monkeys who run the stills. God forbid you give a nigger a gun and a bottle of booze—”
“Watch your language, Doug. You’re drunk.”
“Oh, come on, old man,” said the man in the pink vest, his voice more slurred than ever, “this is too intellectual for me. Let’s find s’more champagne, and some fast girls before the clock strikes ten.”
They wandered off and left in their wake a rotund gentleman sitting in the corner on an ottoman made from an elephant’s foot. He was sobbing noisily with his face in his hands. Concerned, David walked over to him.
“Excuse me, sir, but could I be of some help?”
The man looked up and displayed a face red from grief. “The damn broker took my fortune and ran it into a shoe string.” Across his ample lap lay The New York Times with the headline: MARKET DROPS AGAIN FOR THE FIFTH STRAIGHT DAY. MAJOR LOSSES.
David was looking at the paper when, to his surprise, another man, finally someone familiar, entered the drawing room and looked up at the painting.
“Quentin!” David cried. “Thank God! I’ve been looking for you. Can you explain all this to me?”
The man looked over with a curious expression. It was Quentin, but elegantly turned out in a caramel three-piece suit and tie. He frowned. “Yes, boy, what is it?”
“What is going on? I can’t figure out what I’m doing here in the Twenties.”
“Why … do I know you, young man? I presume you are the chauffeur’s assistant.”
“No. God, Quentin, it’s me, David.”
“David…?”
“Roger’s son. What’s the matter with you?”
“Roger’s? You don’t mean Liz’s brother.”
“Yes. Of course. Aunt Elizabeth.”
He nodded to the painting. “There is your ‘Aunt Elizabeth,’ as you claim, nineteen years old. Her brother, Roger, is three years younger, far too young for a son your age. And he certainly wouldn’t be working as a servant.”
Of course, David thought, this was his Aunt Elizabeth when she was a girl.
“Then this newspaper is right?” David said, as he grabbed the Times off the floor.
“Of course.”
“It’s 1929?”
“Young man, I think you may have drunk too much champagne. Not recommended behavior for a young employee such as yourself. Now, if you’ll take my advice, you’ll get back to work.”
“Quentin, how can you not know me?”
“Not from Adam and”—he turned away almost as though he had something to hide, and said in a whisper—“what’s more, my name is not Quentin Collins, at least not at the moment. For my own reasons I am under disguise.”
“Okay. Tell me something. Does someone in this house own a Duesenberg convertible? Green?”
“Yes, of course. It’s Liz’s new breezer. I noticed her man had brought it round and we just took a spin. What’s more, we’re leaving again in just a few minutes on an important errand.”
David grabbed the arm of his jacket. “Quentin, I’ll prove I know you. Listen to me. Do you own a strange portrait?”
Quentin frowned. “Why do you ask that?”
“One that ages instead of you?” Quentin’s brow darkened and he pulled away. “Why haven’t you changed?” David added.
“How do you know about my portrait?”
“Because that damn car brought me here from the future where I live with you. When I left Collinwood this afternoon, it was January, the middle of winter, and the year was 1973.”
Quentin stiffened and stared into David’s eyes. But he said nothing.
“Do you understand?” David said. “I’m telling you that I have come from another decade. And what is so confusing, you look the same. You will be alive then, in 1973, but you will not look forty years older than you do now. You will look like … like this! How is that possible?”
Quentin continued to stare at David for a long moment, his mouth twitching in a strange manner and his eyes under black brows like coals sparked with fire.
“And— And the gypsy told me the painting protected you. That you are under a curse. Is that true?”
Quentin laughed, a high-pitched hysterical laugh. “Yes, yes, a curse,” he said, coughing. “Quite the thing.” Then, with a long sigh he turned, stretched out on the divan, lit a cigarette with a trembling hand, and, striving for composure, said, “All right, young man, I don’t know who you are or why you are here. You say your name is David?”
“Yes—”
“What is it you want?”
“God, lots of things. Most of all I want to know how to get back. This is all an awful dream. I brought a girl with me and she is a little excitable—”
“A girl? Where is she?”
“She’s, uh … I think she’s dancing…”
“Ahhhh…”
The man who had to have been Quentin was watching him carefully, the sardonic smile still on his face. “Let me ask you something. Do you love this girl?”
“Yes. Yes, actually I do. More than anything—”
“Then you and I are alike in life, and in love. We have both been diverted by fate and we look for happiness in the arms of an impossible woman.”
“How do you know?”
“I just have a feeling, because my Liz is full of the devil, the quintessential flapper.” He aimed his cigarette at the
painting. “She’s rich, but she’s willing to give in order to get. Says damn without a blush, is pretty, impudent, worldly wise, briefly clad, hard-boiled, and radiates ‘it.’”
As incredible as it seemed, Quentin was talking about his Aunt Elizabeth, and David was amazed to learn that she had once been so enticing.
“Does that sound like your girl?”
“No,” David said, “not at all, except for the pretty part.”
“Just finished her second talkie. The Times called her ‘exquisite, and also believable.’” Quentin sighed again and drew on his cigarette. He looked calmer and supremely elegant in his caramel linen suit and blue cravat, his long legs stretched out in front of him. “I spent the last six months in the county jail. On a bootlegging charge. Totally false, of course. I took the rap for her father.” And once again he pointed to the painting. “There she stands, the most charming girl in the world, nineteen, irresistible and wild. I am not worthy of her and yet it seems I have won her heart.”
David realized that Quentin had somehow changed the subject. He sighed in frustration. “You’re … you’re a bootlegger?”
“Well, some call it bootlegging. I call it business.”
“But, if it is 1929, isn’t it against the law?”
“Oh, David, my boy, no one obeys the law. The law’s for dries and bluenoses, and the dries are the worst sort, turn in their own neighbors, turn good citizens into criminals.”
“It does seem like a dumb law, and of course it didn’t last.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was repealed in … something like 1933.”
Quentin gave him a quizzical look. “Really? Interesting. Well, you know what Mark Twain said? ‘Nothing so needs reforming as other people’s habits.’”
“But you’re in plenty of danger if you sell or buy liquor. Right? How do you keep from getting caught?”
Quentin laughed softly. “Well, I pay everybody off, even the cops. And … I do get caught once in a while.”
The muffled sound of a gunshot rang out from the hallway. Quentin ran to the door and looked, then withdrew hurriedly, his chin ducked, a hand across his mouth. He tried to prevent David from seeing what had happened, but David pushed into a gathering crowd. A woman screamed. The overweight man who had been sobbing was lying on the floor, the gun still in his hand and a large section of his face blown away.