“But if you love to sketch, then you must have a tour of the place after dinner.”
Simon stuttered like an engine that couldn’t quite catch. “Sir—it would b-be—but I—I wouldn’t dream of imposing—”
“Nonsense! Nonsense! It’ll be nice to show the place off for once. Most of our friends think we’re crazy for living down here, but Mrs. Kingsley’s of the mindset that uptown is a bit country, and I must admit I agree. We have a place on Park, of course, though we’re here most of the time. When we’re not in Newport, obviously. Or Paris.”
The babbling continued as they made their way to the dining room, but now that he’d been promised a tour, Simon was able to relax. After all, that was why he’d come to this awful party in the first place.
* * *
Dinner was full of the vapid gossip and uninspired colloquy that would normally send Simon deep into a bottle of gin. Armand Constance, a hideous short old man with a hoary nose, was so drunk that he more than once dropped a racial slur, while his wife, seated down the table, refused to remove her mink, though its presence was obviously giving the butler conniptions. A young woman, probably somewhere in her mid-twenties, bore a tumble of red curls and would’ve been quite beautiful if she weren’t so stupid. Simon had never understood the kind of man who favored a dumb woman. It would be nice, he supposed, to have your every word treated as if it were a pronouncement of genius, but surely the gratification was counterbalanced when the woman in question began speaking passionately about how fun bubbles were. This was the current topic of the young redheaded lady’s conversation, and Simon shoveled a forkful of fish into his mouth so that he would not be literally forced to bite his tongue.
Mercifully, dessert was served, a tart raspberry sorbet, and dinner concluded without any other major infraction. The ballet of folding napkins and scraping chairs took place as Mrs. Kingsley suggested the ladies sojourn with her in the sitting room, while the men went and smoked, a very old-fashioned custom, Simon thought, for a couple who forced themselves to live in the Village so that they might keep abreast of all things young.
Worried that Mr. Kingsley might have forgotten his promise of a tour, or even renege on it in favor of a cigar, Simon sidled over to the master of the house and gently reminded him of their prior agreement.
“Of course I remember,” insisted Mr. Kingsley, although he clearly didn’t. Apparently their interchange was louder than Simon had intended, for the empty redheaded girl so fond of bubbles found her way into the conversation.
“A tour,” she squealed, “wouldn’t that just be grand?”
Simon could hardly think of anything less grand than sharing the same air as this defective model of humanity, but he could hardly say so. Again, the truth, no matter how blatant, rarely made for polite conversation.
“You must come along,” said Kingsley with tongue-lagging lust. He may have been drunk, but not drunk enough to forget that his wife was present, for he quickly added, “In fact, everyone should join us.”
“Join what, darling?” Mrs. Kingsley asked. She’d witnessed the entire exchange, and the venom in her question was lost on no one, except perhaps the redhead, who wouldn’t have registered the presence of venom if a cobra’s fangs were buried in one of her calves.
“Mr. Helmer here is a budding artist and wanted to see the place so that he might be inspired to sketch.” Kingsley appeared so natural, so at ease in brushing off his wife’s suspicion, that Simon was sure that his interest in pretty, hollow-headed women was nothing new.
Simon’s inferences were confirmed when Mrs. Kingsley, hard as flint, fixed a stare on her husband, entirely unconvinced by his nonchalance. “Would anyone care to join my husband, Mr. Helmer, and—I’m so sorry, what was your name, dear? It seems to have slipped my mind.”
A normal person would’ve been mortified by the slight Mrs. Kingsley had just leveled. A hostess would never, under any circumstance, forget the name of one of her guests, especially if that person were an eligible unmarried young woman. It has been previously mentioned, however, that the redhead’s intellect was similar to that of a moose, or even a particularly witty daffodil, so the insult went unregistered.
“Please don’t apologize, Mrs. Kingsley. I’m Miss Ava Cardew, and my dear aunt sent you a letter of introduction. Do you need to be reminded of my aunt’s name as well?” Though it seemed like a well-pointed jab, anyone could see the sincerity and guilelessness in the girl’s wide eyes; Miss Cardew simply thought she was being polite.
Mrs. Kingsley’s cold stare had not abated, but she managed to add some warmth to her voice as she said, “No, of course not, dear. Just a temporary lapse of good sense.” This last bit was directed at Mr. Kingsley, who had managed to find something very interesting in one of his fingernails. The mood was stiff, and Mrs. Kingsley, consummate hostess, decided against making a scene. “Would anyone else care for a tour?”
The guests feigned polite interest, but it was clear that the idea was revolting to all involved. They struggled to find a cordial way of saying they’d rather commit ritualistic suicide on a butter knife than be forced to tour the household when Mr. Constance, drunk as a scorpion in a tequila bottle, saved everyone by saying, “I’d rather commit ritualistic suicide on a butter knife than be forced to tour the household.”
Everyone nodded in concordance, and left the three outliers to their tour, god help them.
“Well,” said Mr. Kingsley with a conspiratorial air, “now that those old farts are out of our way, let’s have some real fun!”
“Oh yes, let’s!” Miss Cardew agreed.
Simon tried to join in the spirit of the thing, but the fact that Miss Cardew was hanging about put a definite wrench into his plans, as Simon cared nothing for sketching.
“After you,” said Mr. Kingsley, gesturing grandly. Miss Cardew gave a silly little curtsy and then began to ascend the staircase, Mr. Kingsley watching her so closely one would have thought the secret to immortality lay within her buttocks. As he observed Mr. Kingsley’s less-than-platonic interest in the young woman, Simon decided that his concern about Miss Cardew’s presence might have been a bit premature.
* * *
“And this second door here leads to the music room,” Kingsley said, ushering them inside.
The tour thus far had been comprehensive and tiresome, but Simon, keenly focused on his private motivations, forced himself to stay alert, cataloging information away for later use. However, he did allow himself a fleeting moment to appreciate what an enchanting space the music room was. A grand pianoforte, a harp, guitars, woodwinds, reeds, and brass were displayed most advantageously.
“Oh my,” gasped Miss Cardew.
Seeing her alight with pleasure seemed to smolder the coals of Mr. Kingsley’s lust.
“Do you like it?”
“I love it! Mr. Kingsley, do you play?”
He laughed. “Not well.”
“Oh, please play us something. Please!”
“I couldn’t, really,” he said, already striding toward the piano. “Well, perhaps just one song.”
Kingsley stroked the keys, and Simon had to admit, he wasn’t halfway bad. Then he started to sing, and Simon had to admit that he wasn’t halfway good. Still, Miss Cardew was a creature enraptured; it was as if Apollo himself had deigned to play for her. When Mr. Kingsley (finally) finished, she exploded into applause. “Please play another, Mr. Kingsley. You must! You must!”
“Perhaps a duet?” he offered, patting the seat on the bench next to him.
She placed a hand to her breast in shock. One would have thought she’d been offered a starring role in the Met’s latest opera.
“I’d be honored,” she whispered, marching toward the bench with such solemnity that Simon had to bite his cheek to refrain from laughing.
But this was no time to relish another’s foolishness. Fate had dealt Simon a good hand, and he didn’t mean to squander it. As the happy couple prepared to delight each other with song, Simon
interjected. “I’m so sorry, sir, but might I use a restroom?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Kingsley, swatting away a bothersome insect. “There’s one just down the hall to the left.”
“Thank you,” said Simon, dimming the lights ever so slightly as he left. It couldn’t hurt.
He forced himself to walk at a normal pace, but once the music started and the pair began harmonizing (painfully), Simon broke straight into a sprint.
The Kingsleys were rich beyond measure, collectors of rare and precious gemstones. Simon didn’t usually go in for this sort of thing, but he’d recently met a man who wanted nothing more than to lay claim to one particular gemstone, an emerald that went by the most atrocious name of Greener Pastures. This man was willing to pay quite a sum for Greener Pastures—half a million dollars, in fact. Though Simon didn’t care to deal with famous rocks that could be traced, he did care a great deal about money, especially when it came in such large sums. This is because Simon Helmer was not a young gentleman enjoying a night of New York City society. He was a thief.
As he tore through the residence, gripping doorframes so that he might make sharper turns, Simon was grateful the tour had been so exhaustive, as it had given him the chance to achieve one of his primary objectives: locating the best point of entry for when he returned to steal the gem. All he had to do now was locate the Kingsleys’ safe, for that’s where Greener Pastures was sure to be housed.
Simon eliminated the guest rooms; no one would keep his safe where a guest might find it. Where to start, then? The wine cellar? Were polished gems meant to be stored in cool places? Regardless, the wine cellar was three floors down, and Simon didn’t want to waste that much time for half of a hunch. Where then? The billiard room? He checked behind all the paintings and knocked on the game table to see if it was hollow or had a false door of sorts. No luck.
Panting, red-faced, and exhausted, Simon searched what felt like dozens of rooms without the slightest hint of victory. Triple damnation!
Defeated, he limped back to the music room, hoping he hadn’t been missing for too long. He had to force himself to look chipper upon entering.
“So sorry,” he said with a sheepish grin. “Afraid I got a bit lost.”
“No worries, my good man,” said Kingsley, jumping off the piano bench as if it had bit him. “We were just coming to look for you.”
It was clear by Miss Cardew’s blush and Mr. Kingsley’s awkward half-lean, meant to conceal his erection, that they were about to do nothing of the sort.
“Do you play any other instruments, Mr. Kingsley?” Miss Cardew asked to fill the silence, for Simon, depressed and silent as a stone, hadn’t the heart to play the game of polite chatter any longer.
“Not well, not well,” Kingsley replied.
“What about the guitar?” she asked, losing her embarrassment and returning to her prior nymphlike state of fluttering, oblivious bliss. “I do so love the guitar.”
For some odd reason, a wicked smile painted Mr. Kingsley’s face. “Actually,” he said, “I do fancy the guitar myself.”
Must we? Simon thought as Kingsley plucked a rather ornate guitar off the wall; he didn’t think he could bear another concert. Mr. Kingsley strummed the instrument, sounding a chord so horridly out of tune that even Miss Cardew winced. Still Mr. Kingsley smiled.
“Let me see here,” he said, fiddling with the knobs at the top of the guitar’s neck. “Something’s not quite right.”
And then suddenly the guitar face sprang open like a door, revealing a mess of important-looking papers inside, along with Greener Pastures, nestled safely atop a velvet pillow.
Miss Cardew was in hysterics. “Again!” she cried, clapping. “Again! Again!”
Mr. Kingsley was about to oblige when Mrs. Kingsley entered, followed by the rest of the party. She shot a biting look at Mr. Kingsley, who quickly snapped the guitar closed.
“Here you are,” said Mrs. Kingsley. “Are we to be treated to a concert?”
“Oh, do play them a song, Mr. Kingsley. He has the most marvelous voice!”
Perhaps she was cleverer than Simon had given her credit for; he was absolutely sure she was about to blurt out that the guitar was really a safe. More likely than not, however, she had instantly forgotten about the safe, living entirely in the present, like a dog or a rock. No matter; Simon had found the safe after all. And the more people that knew its location, the better, for when Greener Pastures went missing, as it was soon to do, there would be more suspects. And more suspects meant less suspicion on Simon.
He smiled throughout the entirety of the recital, though it was painful, long, and dull.
* * *
Simon practically skipped uptown, completely forgetting to pass judgment on the Village’s desperately colorful denizens. He even greeted a few as he walked.
“Wonderful night, isn’t it?”
“That it is,” replied the youth. “Say, brother, do you want to hear a poem about Cuba?”
“Nothing would please me less, in fact. Have a marvelous evening!”
Truly a joyous stroll.
Simon finally reached his destination, a quaint brownstone on East Twenty-Third Street. After unlocking the door, he hung his jacket with care, humming merrily all the while, and fixed himself a whiskey and soda, heavy on the whiskey. Still humming a melody most blithesome, he took his tumbler into the bathroom and appraised his reflection.
“Good night, Mr. Helmer,” he eventually said.
Taking a long, bracing gulp of his drink, Simon ripped off his prosperous mustache with a mighty tug. Next to go were the tops of his overlarge ears. These he removed with more delicacy, for they were fragile and custom-fitted at great expense. The rest was easy; off with the wig, and then, to clear away the darkening makeup on his eyebrows, the gentle application of a washcloth wetted with warm water and, finally, a quick, painless extraction of the plug that flared out his nostrils.
Hello, August March.
* * *
The summer after August graduated from the Willington West Academy for Gifted Boys, the free-spirited and drooping fashions of the 1960s still nearly a decade away, Sir Reginald Percyfoot took a few months off from work to get the boy back on his feet. Ever since August’s production of Lear, the awkwardness between the pair had abated, and their frequent exchange of letters had patched up any remaining holes in the rickety lifeboat of their relationship. But now that both were unemployed and unencumbered, the comforting expanse of the Atlantic Ocean no longer separating them, would their newfound peace hold?
It did better than hold; it thrived. August and Sir Reginald shared a summer of theatre, of ideology, of long convoluted arguments in crowded cafés. Reacquainting was a smooth and painless process, possibly due to their shared past or maybe because they both consumed scads of liquor at every opportunity. At first Percyfoot tried to put up a mild protest to August’s habit; after all, it was illegal. But August made it clear that he planned to drink, and Percyfoot reasoned that if they’d been in London, the boy would be of age (or at least approximately of age, since no one on earth knew how old August actually was), so what was all the fuss about?
Eventually their sepia-tinted summer faded, and Sir Reginald had to get back to work. A new play in London had been written especially for him, and it would be criminal not to appear in it. The role was irresistible, truly a once-in-a-lifetime chance. August gave his blessing, but once the bags were packed and a cab waited on the street, the old actor felt a strong tug of guilt.
“You’re sure you don’t mind me skipping off like this?” he asked.
“It’s fine,” August replied, leaning against the doorframe in a slouchy cardigan that did little to combat the approaching chill of fall. “I can take care of myself.”
Percyfoot knew truer words had never been spoken, but after all the effort he’d expended through the years finding August March, it felt condemnable to voluntarily leave him. And they’d had such a splendid summer. Percyfoot
found he quite enjoyed August’s company now that he was no longer a detestable little shit. Rekindled relationship aside, he still hadn’t forgiven himself for the haphazard way he’d abandoned the boy all throughout the tender years of his youth. Wasn’t he doing it all over again? Putting his career above August?
As if reading the older man’s mind, August said, “Go. I could use the privacy. Send me clippings of your reviews.”
This put a smile on Sir Reginald’s face. The notices were sure to be raves, every last one of them. Not that he cared about those sorts of things. But magnanimous creature that he was, he promised he’d send over whatever nonsense the critics had to say, for August’s sake.
“Stay out of trouble,” Percyfoot boomed from the open window of the cab. “And whatever you do, never purchase a television. Wretched things are more deplorable than the cinema, and that’s saying something.”
August waved until the cab was out of sight, and then, closing the door behind him, prepared to have a lengthy rumination about what in the hell he should make of his life.
August couldn’t really imagine himself in an office. In all honesty, he didn’t understand what people in offices actually did. Had he known that even people in offices didn’t understand what people in offices did, it might’ve encouraged him to take the plunge into the world of suit and tie, but this knowledge was hidden from him, so his fate took a different course.
Should he work in a shop? August wasn’t sure he had the constitution for that way of life. He didn’t suffer fools very well, and it seemed that even the most sensible of people become fools when they enter shops, just as some of the wisest on this earth apparently lose their minds entirely once seated at a restaurant.
What then? He certainly didn’t want to become a pickpocket again. He’d entered that life out of reluctant necessity, and having consistent meals became addicting, as did the assurance that he could sleep through the night without being stabbed.
August decided not to rush into anything. Along with her brownstone, Miss Butler had left him all her money as well. It wasn’t much, but he wouldn’t be in dire straits any time soon. He concluded that he would take life as it came to him. Relax for a bit. Enjoy himself.
The Astonishing Life of August March Page 14