Francis forced a laugh. “You ask like it’s an uncomplicated question.”
“It is.” She spoke to him as if he were a child, as if English were not his native tongue. “What… do… you… want?”
He could not tell if she was innocent or incredibly forward—if she was a maiden for whom subtext was a foreign language or a bawd who couldn’t waste her time with fumbling boys. He’d known madams in Dublin brothels who were less forward in their way of speaking. He thought to parry the question again but something thick caught in his throat. He looked again into those eyes. The truth. She wanted the truth. Had he spoken so much as a single true syllable to her since they had met on the Britannic?
“Anisette,” he said, “there’s so much I want that I can’t even find a way to answer the question.”
The wall that he had so carefully constructed between Francis and Angus was wobbling. What he had said was true of him—of Francis Dempsey—but whether it was true also of Angus MacFarquhar, he did not know. He had been Angus only for a short time and hadn’t expended much effort plumbing the hopes, fears, and desires of the dashing young Scotsman. Angus had come into being as a necessary convenience, a part of the FC Plan, and he was meant to be only temporary, to last as long as the crossing. Francis had never thought about what came after the FC Plan, but now he didn’t want there to be an after. He wanted the FC Plan to become permanent: the money and the ease of movement, Anisette and her belief in the future.
“But what about you?” he said. “What do you want?”
She made a show of considering the question, but she must have had an answer scripted and ready to perform. “Well,” she said, “I want a lot of things, too. I’d like to get out of this city. Not just for visits to other places, or for the summer. I mean out for good.”
“You don’t like New York?”
“It’s not so much the city itself. It’s the people in it—present company excepted.”
“Thank goodness for that,” he said.
“I want the people I care about to stay close, and to be safe.” She thought about her brother. Robert had always been kind to her, but he had gone far away. She wanted him to come home, though she knew there was something about her father that made that impossible, and maybe something about Robert, too. But that was one item on the list: to see her brother again. She would have also liked for there to be a safe place for the people she had met in Europe, because there was so much danger around them. Couldn’t one of the more pleasant countries just refuse to take part in any fighting so that everyone who wasn’t interested in war could go there?
“I sometimes think about a house on a hill,” she continued, “with a broad lawn that goes all the way down to the ocean. The house would be big and airy and full of people and laughter, and there would be children galore and three or four dogs lazing on the porch. And there would be music—lots of music.”
“Well, of course,” he said. “You have a gift there.”
“Félicité is the one with the gift. You should hear her on the piano—except that she never lets anyone hear her play. If there’s one person at home, she won’t even set foot in the conservatory. God forbid she should bring a little joy into someone’s life.”
“I don’t think she likes me—not even a little.”
“Don’t let it bother you. She doesn’t like me either.”
THEY WALKED THE length of the mall, the dappled sunlight playing across the faces of flaneurs, lunch-breakers, time-killers, lollards, and mothers seeking relief from crowded apartments. Children raced from one bench to the next squealing in delight, crying “Cheater!” and racing again. An old woman, pigeon-chested and expensively coiffed, walked a Pomeranian on a thin red leash.
“Oh, how adorable!” Anisette said.
“Yes, and the dog is lovely, too,” Francis-as-Angus said.
At the end of the mall, face to face with the busts of the world’s great writers, Francis bought a round of shaved ice soaked in flavored syrup: lemon, maple, vanilla. Michael accepted his with a pantomimed tip of the cap, and Anisette took hers with a flourish of her hand—For me? You shouldn’t have—and a sweeping debutante’s curtsy. Michael applauded as best he could without losing his grip on the paper cone.
On the lake below the broad terrace where they stood, young couples sat in flat-bottomed boats, exposed to all eyes but solitary together in the midst of the pulsing city. Another day, Francis told himself, already plotting a return to the park when he could be alone with Anisette. They followed another path that swept past a pond where children and more than a few adults guided model sailboats in a scrambled armada of bright colors and flashing white canvas.
Michael, for his part, was getting tired. Despite the lemonade and the shaved ice, his legs were going wobbly in the heat and his head had begun to pulse. He had perked up momentarily at the sight of the toy boats on the water. In the cloudy haze of silence that wrapped him, he could almost hear the breeze pushing the boats and the water skimming against their tiny hulls. But as the wind rippled the pond, the thousand jagged shards of sunlight snapped him out of his reverie. He didn’t collapse, and he counted that as progress, but he was sapped and looked for a shady bench to collect himself.
Still, it was pleasant to be outdoors, to have found this bit of country in the middle of the city. And Francis and this girl on his arm looked so happy. It was undeniable; they both seemed to glow. Michael put his hands to his temples to shield his eyes—like a blinkered horse—and the sight of that happy couple, arms linked, filled the narrowed frame.
Hadn’t that once been him? Hadn’t he walked by a lake, near home, arm in arm with Eileen Casey? He had, and that sudden certainty was like a key opening a vault where his memories were secured. He had gone out walking with Eileen, far from the eyes of the village. Both of them on errands, but with a plan to meet. They had grown up fast friends, as many children do, though by fourteen, maybe fifteen, they knew it was for life. This one day by the lake—a moment conjured by the sight of Francis and this lovely girl in the soft pink hat—they had strolled with her hand on his arm: a first. The sun was low in the sky. They both knew they would be looked for—well, she would be; Michael’s father wasn’t one to keep a close eye. They walked as near to Ballyrath as they could without being seen together, and at their parting she released his arm, then pulled him to her and planted a kiss on his lips. Before he could respond—grab hold of her, return the kiss—she was already running toward home, laughing and whooping. Michael thought he would burst for joy.
He had recovered this moment, but his mind would not surrender to him the reason they weren’t together still. He had seen Eileen, he was sure of it, right before his memory went ragged. She was there, in a crowd, and she was dressed in black. She looked right at him and mouthed one word: Go! Was she angry with him? Was she telling him to leave her be?
FRANCIS PUT A hand on Michael’s shoulder. Here he was, taking in the sunshine, but he had seen the toll that bright light could exact on his brother: on the ship, on their walk downtown, and now here in the park. Michael had boxed up his eyes with his hands, like a man with a pair of binoculars. They were only a few blocks from Anisette’s home, but she had suggested a quick tour of the museum, which rose in front of them like the mausoleum of some fallen hero. Francis didn’t think Michael had much coal left in his furnace, but there was bound to be a spot where he could sit in the shade for a few minutes more. Sure enough, there was a bench at the base of the stacked marble steps, under a tree and buffeted by an unexpected breeze. Francis pointed to Anisette and himself, then aimed a finger up the steps. He lifted his eyebrows and held his palms open toward Michael: the interrogative. Michael plopped himself on the bench and leaned back against the wooden slats. With a quick motion of his fingers, he swept his brother and the girl away. Off ye go. I’ll be right here.
Through the front doors, there were tapestries and bulky statues. Neither had much interest in the art, though. Soon he would walk her down F
ifth Avenue and up to the door of Bingham Castle. Even if she were to invite him inside—for tea, for dinner, for that gin he had mentioned—he could not accept. Michael seemed on the verge of one of his spells and Francis had to stop demonstrating to himself (and perhaps to Michael) that he was willing to place what he wanted—thirty minutes more with Anisette, in this most recent case—ahead of what Michael needed: a dark room, a cold towel on his head, and twelve to fourteen hours of catatonic sleep. But Michael was doing so much better, and though Francis knew he would see Anisette on Saturday, when they met the royals, it would hardly be a private affair. Mrs. B would be garrulous, Félicité would be infelicitous, and he and Anisette would get little more than a glance here, a smile there. And after that? There was Martin’s question again: What’s next? He didn’t know about next; he could only try to extend now.
They wandered through galleries full of paintings, late Byzantine through early Renaissance. Static, gilt-soaked portraits of Christ slowly gave way to voluminous robes, rounded foreheads, pinks and blues crowding out mosaic gold. One painting in particular caught Francis’s eye: the ministry of John the Baptist told in a single composition. A path snaked across the top of the canvas, doubled back on itself, and then turned again toward a barred window and a stone wall. At intervals along the path, a wild-haired John appeared, engaging in Baptist-like activities: here standing in the wilderness, locust in hand; there with his bowl, dousing the head of Jesus; past the first turn, taken into custody; and finally, by the cell door, with his head served on a platter. As Francis and Anisette crossed into the next room, saints gave way to citizens: Along one wall, paunchy merchants posed in silk and lace. On the other side of the room, shadows crowded the doughy faces of bürgermeisters swathed in black velvet, their white collars immaculate.
“This could be Dr. Van Hooten’s flat,” Francis said. “He’s quite the collector of Dutch faces.”
“Oh, dear me,” Anisette said. “I completely forgot. Dr. Van Hooten sent a letter to the house, intended for you. I have it here.” She opened her purse and withdrew the envelope, creamy, cotton-rich stock, folded stiffly in half.
“The good doctor promised to recommend specialists who could consult on Malcolm’s case. Let’s see what he has come up with.” Francis tapped one edge against his palm and tore a small strip from the opposite side. As he did so, it occurred to him that there was probably a more aristocratic way to open an envelope. The brief letter, which was thick with the credentialed acronyms of the medical profession, referred Malcolm to the care of a doctor at New York Eye and Ear. “Aha,” Francis said. But behind the letter was a single sheet typed by hastier hands and annotated in Van Hooten’s script: Your brother’s handiwork? The page began with three attempts at Michael’s name before switching to variations on the theme of Yeats:
Willliam butter Yeast
William Butler Yeates
William Butler Yeats is a stodgy old git
“What do you make of that?” Anisette said. “And who is Michael Dempsey?”
Francis pictured Michael in the roomful of chessboards madly pounding on the typewriter. Why hadn’t he taken a moment right then and there to see what Michael had written? Once again, he had been too hasty, too eager to pursue his own agenda to put Michael first. Now he held this page in his hand and he was so stunned that he almost answered, He’s my brother, before recovering: “He’s another Irish poet. And now you must forgive me,” he said. “I have left Malcolm on his own and really should tend to him. May I escort you to the front steps?”
“You’re kind,” she said. “But you look ready to jump out of your skin. Go to your brother. I’ll spend a little more time in the Northern Renaissance.”
“Your parents will think me a cad for not escorting you home.”
“Then I won’t tell them,” she said. “It will be our secret.”
He wanted to kiss her—her hand, her cheek, her lips—but he was certain that such a show of affection, even passion, would be too much like Francis and not at all like Angus. Instead he took her hand, briefly, and gave it a squeeze that had to stand in for all the things he had not said and all the kisses he could not yet give.
“Till Saturday, then?” he said.
In response, she pursed her lips into a smile that resembled a kiss, and though he was already moving away from her, he had to wonder if perhaps kissing her in front of all those Dutch faces would have been exactly the right thing to do. But then he was through the low arch and out of the gallery, down a side corridor and quickly descending a flight of stairs that he was reasonably certain would take him to the exit. His hand glided over the polished bronze banister, cool to the touch in the close air, and he saw below the black-and-white scalloped tile of the museum’s first floor. As he reached the foot of the stairs he knocked his fingers against the banister, a dull ping, and from over his shoulder came a voice:
“Francis Dempsey.”
It wasn’t a question, it was a statement of fact, and Francis half turned before he checked himself: Angus, I’m Angus. The man who had spoken his name had already closed the distance between them and laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.
In the Scottish accent: “You must have me confused with another—”
“Francis Dempsey,” the man said. “You need to come with me.”
The man was a solid block, rough-hewn. His voice was Irish—Francis would have said a Cork man, if pressed—but watered down by America, like Martin’s.
“I’m sorry, friend,” Francis said. “But I’ve somewhere I need to be.”
“You knew someone would come for you. There’s an easy way to do this and there’s a hard way.”
Francis looked over his shoulder, gauging the length of the corridor that led to the entrance hall. The man was stout but he did not look fleet of foot. Francis wondered if he could outrace him to the street, collecting Michael along the way.
The big man let out a breath like a sigh, like he was disappointed or resigning himself to what was to come. He opened one side of his jacket, offering a glimpse of the gun holstered under his arm. “If you run, I’ll have a decision to make. Who would you trade yourself for? Your girlfriend upstairs? Your brother, the little one, on the bench outside? Or your older brother, the one in the Bronx with the nice family?”
Francis’s mouth filled with sawdust. “You wouldn’t,” he said, barely a whisper.
The man held his gaze without moving. He seemed not even to draw a breath. “You’re coming with me,” he said, and when he flicked his chin, Francis began to walk toward the front door, each step as though it were being taken through the dense wet suck of a bog. The man was just over his shoulder, following him down the corridor and into the great hall, as implacable as the statues flanking the room. Francis trod in front of him, his feet grinding the tile floors, searching his mind for something to say that would buy him time or earn him a spot of goodwill. He sorted through questions like a man riffling a deck of cards for an ace. Where were they going? And how were they to get there? And what was to become of—
“Michael,” Francis said as they passed through the door and paused at the top of the broad stone steps. “I can’t leave my brother alone. He can’t tend to himself. He’s bad off.”
“You should’ve thought of that before you brought him here.”
“It was your own people that did this to him. If you’ve an ounce of mercy in you—”
“I don’t.” The man’s voice came out through gritted teeth. He scanned the street and took notice of a black car idling by the curb, much to the consternation of the cabs, buses, and other cars that jammed Fifth Avenue. “We’re going to walk down the stairs and step into that car, and don’t get any ideas.”
“You’ve got this all wrong,” Francis said. “If you would only let me—”
“You’re pleading your case to the wrong man,” he said. “Now go.”
IN TRANSIT
CRONIN HAD PLAYED A hunch and the hunch had paid off. Yesterday, Gavigan
had given the order to bring in Francis Dempsey, and Cronin knew the old man would be getting antsy. That was a lousy reason to rush and risk botching the whole operation, but it was reason enough. Last night, Cronin had seen the two brothers leave the Plaza around dinnertime and return two hours later. Shortly afterward, Francis departed on his own, by cab. Cronin hadn’t bothered to follow him. As long as the youngest was at the hotel, Francis would eventually return. When he saw the two of them cross Fifty-Ninth Street to the park this afternoon, he knew it was time to act. The crowds. The pathways. There would be a chance to catch Francis alone.
From the phone booth outside the museum he had called Gavigan and told him to send a car. Now he had Francis Dempsey, and the two rode side by side in the backseat, bound for a meeting with the man himself. Dempsey appeared white as wax. If he was puzzling this all out in his head, he hadn’t yet found any answers. He had been mouthy when Cronin first approached him—full of brio from living like the last great playboy for a week—but only a few words from Cronin had taken the starch out of him.
Those words—threats against the girl, against his brothers, against the family of the eldest—made Cronin sick to his stomach. Alice had told him that he was no longer the man he had once been, and he wanted to believe her. But those words had leaped from his tongue. Words he swore he would never say again had come so easily. And what else would he do to carry out this errand Gavigan had given him? If Dempsey had run, would he have punished the girl? Little Michael, a mere wisp? The whole of Martin’s family? He believed he would. If Dempsey ran and by running placed Alice in jeopardy, he would burn the whole city to the ground just to find him.
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