by Amber Brock
“I suppose,” Vera said. She looked back to where Hallan stood, but turned away again when she found his eyes fixed on her.
Arthur stood. “We’ve paid for the man’s passage and lodgings. We should indulge his conditions for work as well, don’t you all think? You’ll have the keys tomorrow.”
“Thank you.” Hallan turned to the others. “You won’t be disappointed, I promise you.”
Caroline Litchfield leaned across the table, eyes gleaming. “How delightfully eccentric. Don’t you think so, Vera?”
“Quite unusual.” Vera accepted a glass of sherry from the waiter at her elbow. A few seats down, Arthur turned cold eyes on Hallan, who chatted with Ida. If the artist felt the stare, he did not acknowledge it.
Hallan got the keys the next day. Vera assumed he must have put them on a ring, because every time she saw him at a social engagement after that, his pocket jingled as he walked around. And there were many social events. Everyone in the building seemed to want to throw a cocktail party or a dinner in his honor, and Vera wondered when he would find time to do any painting at all. Not that they would know if he was. She passed him making a sketch once, out on the sidewalk, as she waited for the car to take her to Wednesday lunch with her mother. A railing blocked her view of his drawing paper, so she could not satisfy her curiosity about his subject. She worried he would tie her up in conversation if he saw her, but he was so engrossed in his work that he never looked up.
At the many social functions, however, he felt free to approach Vera, and did so earlier and earlier each time. The first welcome event after Vera’s dinner was a cocktail party at the Bloomers’. When the excitement of redoing her living room had waned, Ida Bloomer had purchased an authentic Egyptian sarcophagus. Everyone had gone mad for Egyptian artifacts and decor after the discovery the previous year of King Tut’s tomb, but Ida’s passion surpassed them all. A recent fashion show highlighting Egyptian style had further increased her ardor. Her celebration in honor of the artist would be her second Egyptian-themed party since March, and this time she would have the sarcophagus as the focal point.
Vera dutifully put on a gold and black dress and her large blue scarab pendant. She asked Marguerite to darken her eyes with kohl and to weave a gold ribbon into her elaborate hairstyle. Arthur refused to dress up for theme parties. Costumes were, in his words, “for children.” He met Vera at their front door in a plain black suit.
Even the most enthusiastic of the other men seemed to have tired of theme nights as well. When Vera and Arthur entered Ida’s drawing room, all except one of the men were dressed in suits. Clarence, however, sported a huge golden headdress that matched Ida’s. Vera imagined it was one of two concessions he had made to the theme. The other had to be the swoops of sapphire- and ruby-colored fabrics hanging over the party, and the painted wooden panels with hieroglyphics that stood beside the tall windows.
She kept a healthy distance from the sarcophagus but still had a clear view of it despite the guests milling around. It stood propped in a glass case in the corner of the room. A few lightbulbs had been placed around the base that illuminated the metal accents and made the item even more difficult to ignore. It looked like an overlarge statue of a man, complete with a painted-on face, but with the feet fused into one unit. The dull black eyes stared out at no one in particular, and the hands were crossed over the chest, one gripping some sort of crook and the other a staff. Clarence must have found inspiration for his own headdress in the blue and gold adornment atop the head. Vera could not shake the disquieting knowledge that a person could fit right inside the sarcophagus, never to come out again. Being across the room from the thing was not enough. She finally turned her back on it, but found herself face to face with Hallan when she did.
“Mrs. Bellington,” he said in a pleasant tone.
“Mr. Hallan. How do you do?”
“Very well, thank you. And you?”
She reached for a glass of champagne from a gold tray nearby. “I’m well.”
“I’m disappointed we haven’t had much of a chance to talk,” he said.
“You have so many people who want to talk to you. I don’t expect you to spend much time with me.” She took a sip of her drink. When she lowered the glass, she noticed he was inspecting her eye makeup. Her hand flew to her face. “Did my makeup smudge? It smudges so easily.”
“No, no,” he said. “It’s just…it makes your eyes look so striking.”
Her chest tightened, and she turned her head. Another of his comments, so casually familiar. “All the women are wearing it, Mr. Hallan,” she replied, her voice liquid silk. “I think you ought to go be struck by someone else.”
He grinned. “You’re so quick, aren’t you? With an answer?”
“Would you prefer questions?”
He took a sip of his drink, his eyes sparkling over the rim of the glass. “There, you see, that’s exactly what I mean.”
Ida called out an invitation, and everyone except Vera and Hallan moved to admire the sarcophagus on the other side of the room. Vera shifted from one foot to the other, unwilling to cross to the artifact but reluctant to continue with Hallan. Unperturbed, he nudged her gently with his elbow and spoke in a low voice.
“What do you think of this sarcophagus thing anyway?” he asked.
She took a drink of champagne. “I think it’s distasteful, the whole business.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve told Ida that.”
“Of course not.”
“Is anyone still inside it? It’s empty at least, I hope.”
“It is. Ida was devastated when she found out. She was hoping for a real mummy.” Vera shuddered. “It’s ghastly. Why would you want a coffin in your home? Particularly a used coffin. Never mind the body. Dreadful. Like inviting misery.”
He nodded. “I’m inclined to agree. Let the dead lie.”
Something in his expression darkened, though his tone remained light. The bell rang for dinner and spared Vera the need to reply. She nodded slightly, then went to join Arthur as he entered the dining room.
As the slew of welcome celebrations continued, Vera was grateful for the meals, as Hallan never seemed to be seated too near her. But cocktail parties, like the one at the Harpers’ sixteenth-floor apartment, were a different story. The Harpers had declared a “winter white” theme for the party, despite the sticky July heat outside. Vera had expected to see everyone in white gowns and suits, and the white fabric covering the tables and chairs was no shock. She was startled, however, to find two snow-white peacocks milling among the guests when she walked in. They strutted among the legs and elegant skirts, occasionally pecking at a loop in the rug. She wondered if they had been rented. Where in the world did one rent birds?
She had barely registered the sight of the two birds when she heard the jingling behind her, like a bell on a cat. Hallan’s key ring. Indeed, like a cat, he seemed to have a predilection for seeking out the one person in the room least inclined to entertain him. Vera turned, putting on her coolest expression.
“Mr. Hallan,” she said. “How charming to hear you again.”
He shrugged. “I had to come say hello to the most important woman in the building, didn’t I?”
“I think you’re expected to greet every woman. And every woman’s husband.” She took a martini from a nearby tray.
“I already have. I’ve met everyone in this building at least a hundred times, and yet every night there’s another fete in my honor.”
“Everyone wants the chance to host you. Talk to you more, get to know you.”
He stepped in closer. “I’d rather talk to you, if that’s all right.”
Vera edged toward the fireplace. For some reason his ease always served to make her less at ease. “I can’t imagine what about.”
He cocked his head. “Why, art, of course. Just today Ida told me you studied art at university. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me that before.”
“It never came up,” Vera said. �
��I’m not in the habit of boring people with my biography.”
“But it wouldn’t bore me.” There was a playful glint in his eye. “I’m a painter, after all. What did you study?”
She glanced around the room, hoping to find someone to pass Hallan off to. Poppy Hastings took a hesitant step in their direction, and Vera waved a bit with her fingers. Poppy’s eyes widened at Vera’s cheerful smile, and she braved a few tentative steps toward them.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Hallan. It looks like Poppy wants to say hello to you.” Vera lifted her chin. “She already knows about my education, so I won’t drag the conversation down with that. Besides, I need to go ask my husband something.” She nodded at Poppy. “Good evening.”
“Good evening, Vera,” Poppy said. “Emil, I need your advice. There’s a painting I’m thinking of buying…”
Vera suppressed a laugh at the thought of Poppy discussing the nuances of fine art. At least Hallan could be counted on not to deliberately embarrass Poppy. He was far too flirtatious for anything of the kind.
She found Arthur standing with a group, deep in discussion, and decided to join them. Clarence Bloomer held forth about an employee he had recently caught stealing tools from a work site.
“I knew better,” he said, wagging a finger at no one in particular. “Can’t trust the Krauts. Dirty thieving lot. Should never have hired one.”
“Now, Clarence,” Bessie Harper broke in. “No need for that kind of talk. They’re not our enemies anymore, are they?”
“Not our—?” His nostrils flared. “Not our enemies, eh? Tell that to my sister’s boy. Tell that to all those boys—”
Ida placed a hand on his arm, her face reddening. “Dear, now is not the time.” Clarence stormed off, and she smiled weakly at the others. “The war still gets him so agitated, you know.”
After Ida left to follow her husband, the others cast awkward glances around. Bessie was the one to break the silence.
“Well, I was sick of talking about the Germans then, and I’m even less interested in talking about them now.” She held up her glass. “I need another. Excuse me.”
Vera turned to go for a fresh drink herself, but froze after a single step. Hallan stood a few feet away. For the first time since she met him, his cheerful demeanor had vanished. He stared at the group, his mouth a hard line. She wondered what his experience with the war might have been, if he had been in Paris then. But as soon as the thought formed in her mind, the look disappeared, and his good-natured smile returned.
At home, Vera and Arthur undressed in their respective dressing rooms. As they climbed into the massive bed, she asked, “He’s a bit odd, isn’t he? The artist?”
“Aren’t they all?” Arthur rolled over onto his side, his back to Vera.
“I suppose. But there’s something strange about him.”
“Like what?”
“He’s not very mannerly.”
“Does that matter? Look at Poppy Hastings. If manners mattered that much, we’d have no one to associate with.”
“Well, with all these parties, he’s growing a bit tiresome.”
“Then let’s not attend the parties.”
She balked. “We can’t do that. It’s an affront to the hostess. I can’t go to one party and then not go to another—”
Arthur sat up. “I’ve offered you a solution. Wouldn’t you prefer having fewer of those things to go to?”
When Vera spoke again, her voice was quiet. “He’s got such an odd way about him. And…he’s very fresh, Arthur.”
“You’re an attractive woman. I’d be surprised if he didn’t notice you.” Despite the kindness of his words, Arthur kept his gaze from hers. After a long moment of silence, he turned his back again, pulling the blanket up over one shoulder. “Something strange about him, I agree. Try not to let it worry you. I’ll stand closer next time. He won’t come sniffing around if your husband is nearby.”
Vera rubbed his shoulder slowly, but he laid a hand on hers.
“Those parties are exhausting, aren’t they? And I’ve got an early morning,” he said, his voice slightly muffled in the pillow. “Good night, darling.”
Vera lay in silence on her back but could not sleep. She stared at the crack where the curtains had not been drawn together, which revealed a glimpse of the radiant city lights. All she could think of was how this was the first night her husband had been in bed with her for weeks, and yet he did not even kiss her good night.
Vera enjoyed the first hour or so chatting with Harry, Gene, and Cliff. The more Bea passed her the flask, however, the heavier Vera’s eyelids got. She wished she had put on her watch before she left, as the climbing moon was little help determining the time. The others seemed to gain steam from the liquor and conversation, their words and laughter echoing louder off the trees and shimmering water. For once, Bea allowed Vera her silence, naturally becoming the center of attention. When Bea stood up to demonstrate a popular new dance step with a flushed and clumsy Gene, it was Cousin Harry who pulled Vera back into the fold.
“So, art, eh?” he asked. “What are you planning to do with that? Gonna put yourself a nice collection together someday?”
Vera fidgeted with the collar of her coat. “Oh, I don’t know. I can’t say I’ve thought about it much.”
“No, guess there’s not really any need to, is there? Might as well study something you enjoy.” When Vera looked away, he flagged a hand at her. “Don’t be like that, I’m saying I’m jealous. You girls are lucky. Four years of good times, maybe a little studying, and then some guy comes along and sets you up right. Pretty thing like you, you deserve it.”
“Why art?” Cliff’s voice cut through Harry’s stumbling.
“Pardon?” Vera said.
Cliff did not look at her, but continued to stare straight into the fire. He took a drink before repeating his question. “Why did you choose art? Instead of literature or music or something like that, I guess.”
“Oh.” Vera paused. “I’ve always loved art, ever since I was a little girl.”
Cliff nodded. “Anything in particular you like about it?”
“I…” Her cheeks flushed. She glanced at Harry, who had turned his attention to Bea’s dance lesson with Gene. Vera dropped her voice. “Promise you won’t tease me?”
“I never tease.”
“All right.” She sucked in a breath. “Art is…it’s like a window into someone’s head. The only chance we have to really see the world through someone else’s eyes. A glimpse of another time, another place. A taste of another life, in the past, one photographs can’t reach. The camera lens is so cold…art has to come through the hands. And it’s beautiful. Even when it’s ugly or sad, it’s beautiful.” She had rehearsed the words many times in her head. As she spoke them for the first time, her stomach twisted. She pushed the toe of her shoe into the dirt. “I suppose that’s not terribly original,” she added, “but it’s how I feel.”
Cliff studied the firelight glinting off the bottle in his hands. “But then if you were the only one who felt that way, there wouldn’t be so much art to enjoy, would there?”
Vera nodded, pleased he hadn’t scoffed at her. “You’re right. That’s true.” She shifted a bit, and her arm brushed his sweater. A tickle ran down her spine.
A hint of a smile appeared on his lips. “More interesting than finance, that’s for sure.”
“Then why are you studying that?” It was not the kind of question Vera would normally ask, but Cliff’s closeness and blunt way of speaking made the words seem less invasive. Her sips from the flask had likely helped her find the courage, too.
“I study finance because I know the way the world is.” He traced the lettering on his bottle with a finger. “Money makes things easier. If I understand it, I can make things easier on myself.”
Her social training whimpered from the back of her mind that she ought to steer the conversation to a safer, more polite topic. Instead, she said, “Money doesn’t always make
things easier.”
“From where I’m sitting it does.”
“And where are you sitting?”
“In second class.” He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, then shook his head. “I’m not trying to upset you—”
“You’re not upsetting me.”
He chuckled. “I’m glad to hear that. Look, my family’s not poor. My father’s done very well in the textile business. But that’s not the same thing as what Harry’s got. Or what you’ve got, Miss Longacre.”
She didn’t bother to ask him what she had. She knew. “The name comes with a lot of things other than money.”
“Houses, cars—”
“Yes, all those things. But they’re just things. And then there are the rules. The endless rules. Wear this, say this, don’t say that.” She heaved out a breath. “I’m lucky, but you’re lucky, too.”
He turned to her fully now, his smile playful. “Yeah?”
She grinned. “Yeah. You could take off tomorrow, couldn’t you? Go anywhere you like.”
“So can you,” he said. “Money buys tickets. Really good tickets, if I’m not mistaken.”
“It’s not the same.” She hesitated. “I’m not in charge of my life. I don’t get to choose.”
He squinted into the distance, considering her words. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
A queasy feeling washed over her. “I don’t mean to make it sound like I’m a prisoner or something. It’s—there are expectations, that’s all.”
He offered her the bottle. “But you got to choose art. Out of all those other subjects. That’s something, at least.”
“I did. I got to choose art.” She took a drink.
“There you go. That’s a start.”
His statement rang with finality, but she didn’t want the conversation to end. She struggled through her watery mind for another question. “So, your father is in textiles?”