It was a lovely sunny morning – Saturday, July 25, according to the paper in a newspaper box she passed. She popped the lid off the paint can now, gave the rich thick paint a good stir, and dipped in her brush to begin. A lot of people she knew disliked painting, but O found it calming. It was a chance now to escape the thoughts whirling around in her head.
She decided to hone her skills by starting on the bins for the bargain books. Spreading the drop sheet on the sidewalk under the awning, she set the empty bins on them. She cleaned off the dirt and dust and scraped away the loose paint. Then she applied the first brushstrokes and stood back to admire their deep rich color.
In no time at all, she had finished the first bin and moved on to the second. There was a nice breeze, and the sun was warm on her back. The Green Man swung in the breeze above her, muttering in his creaky, somehow comforting way. She dipped and painted, and her thoughts drifted.
“Hey, that looks really good,” said a voice behind her. She turned and saw Rimbaud standing there.
“Thanks,” she said, suddenly aware of the shabby clothes she’d pulled on for painting.
“Would you like some help?”
“I’m not sure I could pay you.”
“You could always pay me in books,” he said with a smile.
“Yeah, I guess I could do that. We’ve sure got enough of them.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “What would you like me to do?” he asked as he took off his jacket and laid it on top of his backpack.
“Well, first we have to prep the wood around the window and on the door before we paint it. What would you say to doing a bit of scraping and sanding?”
“Sounds good.”
She got the scraper from the bag of things she’d bought at the paint store.
“Have you used one of these before?”
It would have been a guy thing to claim he had, but he didn’t do the guy thing.
“Afraid not,” he said with a shrug.
“Well, it’s easy. Just run the scraper lightly over the places where the paint is flaking. It works best if you pull it toward you instead of pushing it. Don’t press too hard or you’ll gouge the wood,” she said, demonstrating. “Just light and easy, like this.”
“Got it,” he said as she handed him the scraper.
“Afterward, we have to sand the scraped areas smooth before we paint.”
“You’re quite a pro.”
“Not really. My dad and I painted the house last year – so I’ve had a bit of practice.” She went back to work on the second bin.
He took a trial scrape on a patch of peeling paint around the window. Flakes rained down onto the drop sheet. “You said you were living here for the summer – staying with your aunt, right?”
“Yeah, my dad’s away in Italy, researching a book he’s writing on Ezra Pound.”
“Ah – Ezra Pound.”
“So you know his work?”
“You bet. I love some of the early Cantos.”
She was impressed.
“He got in trouble for broadcasting anti-American propaganda from Italy for the Fascists during the Second World War, didn’t he?”
“That’s right,” she said. “He was American himself, but he’d spent most of his adult life in Europe. A lot of writers were moving to Europe at the time. He helped promote their work as well writing his own. But he developed some crazy obsessions around politics and monetary reform. That’s what led to those radio broadcasts. It was a big mistake.
“When the Allies liberated Italy, they arrested him and put him in a cage in the hot sun for several weeks. If he wasn’t crazy before that, he was sure a little crazy afterward. They took him back to the States and tried him for treason. He would probably have been executed, if he hadn’t been found insane. He spent the next twelve years in an asylum. Finally, a group of fellow writers managed to get him released.”
“You sure know a lot about him.”
“Ezra Pound is like a member of the family. My dad’s been working on his book about him for years. He went to Italy this summer to visit the city where Pound lived with his daughter after his release and to look at the Pound archives at one of the universities there. He wanted me to come with him, but I’ve got this thing about planes. Don’t ask.”
“Is it just the two of you, then? You and your dad?”
“Yeah – oh, and Ezra, of course.”
“Do you mind if I ask what happened to your mom?”
“No, I don’t mind. She died.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I don’t really remember her; I was only two. She was a poet. That’s how my dad met her – at a reading. You can’t turn around in our family without running into a poet.”
“And you?”
“Too soon to say.” She tried asking him a few questions about his family, but he deflected them, so she let it go.
They worked while they talked, and the time flew. He knew a ton about poetry. He was easy to talk to as long as she steered clear of personal questions, and it was a break from the tension of being with Emily. The painting went well. He scraped and sanded, and she followed with the paint.
When it was time for lunch, O picked up a couple of croissants at Gigi’s.
“Who’s the hot guy?” asked Gigi with a wink. “Just point him in this direction when you’re done, okay?” She dropped a couple of cookies in the bag. “On the house.”
After they’d eaten, O went to fetch the ladder from the back porch to reach the top of the trim around the front window.
“Who’s that boy out there with you?” asked Emily.
“It’s the guy who came to the reading, the one we got the towel for. He offered to help me paint in return for books. That’s okay, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so. Does he live around here?”
“I don’t know. He says he’s new to town.”
“Really?” Emily looked past her out the front window, where Rimbaud was busily scraping away the old paint. She didn’t say anything more, but from the look on her aunt’s face, O was sure she hadn’t heard the last of it.
It was ideal painting weather, warm and breezy. By the end of the day, the outside of the shop was transformed. They folded up the drop sheet, swept stray paint flakes from the sidewalk, and taped a WET PAINT sign to the front door and window. It was near closing time.
“Thanks,” O said as they stood back to admire it. “You were a great help. It would have taken days to do this without you.”
Emily appeared in the front window, pointing to her watch. Her friend Isaac Steiner was supposed to be dropping by that evening. O motioned for her to come out and look at the job.
“Very nice,” Emily said, giving it the once-over. “It looks like a new place.” She cast her eye on the boy.
“Oh – this is Rimbaud,” said O.
Emily arched an eyebrow. “Pleased to meet you,” she said, but she didn’t sound it.
Rimbaud went to shake her hand, then noticed her staring at the paint on it. He drew it back.
“I’d better go and close up,” said Emily, heading into the shop.
“I guess I should be going, too,” said Rimbaud.
“Would you like to wash your hands first?”
“No, I’ll be fine.”
“We’ll settle up your payment next time you’re in the shop,” said O.
“No problem. And if there’s anything else I can help you with, just let me know.”
“Actually, I was thinking I might want to spruce up the sign a little next week. How does Monday sound?”
“Just fine.” He slid his jacket back on and shouldered his backpack.
They said a brief good-bye, and he loped off down the street. As O gathered up the paint supplies, she glanced down the street after him, but he had already disappeared.
Since she had carried them upstairs on the day of the poetry reading, the carriage-house books had been sitting on the floor by the couch. They had brought thei
r smell of mildew and damp into the room with them.
It was as if Lawrence Linton himself had entered not only their lives but their living room. O imagined him sitting on the corner of the couch, his glasses dim with dust, a wisp of cobweb strung in his hair, wearing the musty odor of corruption as if it were a new cologne.
While Emily went through the boxes and singled out several items for her friend to look at, O did her best to bring some semblance of order to the flat. She tidied the omnipresent piles of books, rounded up stray articles of clothing, vacuumed cat hair off the couch, dusted the tabletops, and cleared away old cups and plates. By seven o’clock, when the doorbell rang, the place was looking much better.
“I’ll get it,” she called down the hall, where Emily was closeted in her room, getting ready. She hoped Isaac Steiner would receive a warmer welcome than Rimbaud had. Emily had been positively chilly toward him.
When she opened the door, O found herself face-to-face with a striking older gentleman with a neatly trimmed white beard and bright piercing eyes. A fedora, a feather in the hatband, was perched jauntily on his head. He carried a package under his arm.
“Hello. I’m Isaac Steiner,” he said, removing his hat. He had an engaging smile and a lofty brow that emanated intelligence. “I take it you are Emily’s niece Ophelia. I can see the family resemblance.” They shook hands, and she led him into the shop.
“Where is your aunt?” he asked, looking around.
“Upstairs,” she said, nodding toward the staircase.
“Tell me,” he said in a low voice, “how is she doing? Is she taking her medicine? Has she stopped smoking?”
“Yes, to the first. We’re still working on the second.”
He laughed lightly and nodded. She led the way as they negotiated the narrow staircase to the second floor.
Emily was sitting in the living room as they entered. She was wearing a dress O hadn’t seen before. With her hair pinned up and a silk scarf tied around her neck, she looked very elegant. She rose and gave Isaac one of her rare embraces.
“How good to see you,” she said. “Thank you for coming.”
“My pleasure, my dear.” He put his hat on the arm of a chair and sat down on the couch beside her. “How has your muse been treating you?”
“My muse is as fickle as always. Weeks go by when she forgets where I live.”
“One learns to bear such things,” he said. “You’re looking well.”
“You always were a bad liar, Isaac, but you are looking well. Age has been kind to you.”
“Well, I’m content.”
“And that is the most effective medicine of all. Can I get you a drink?”
“That would be very nice. Actually, I brought along a nice bottle of brandy, if you’d like to open that.” He handed her the package. “And then you must show me your find.”
“O, perhaps you could lift that pile of books by the couch onto the coffee table for Dr. Steiner, while I go and open this.” And she was off.
“Please – not ‘Dr. Steiner.’ ‘Isaac’ will do just fine,” he said when she had gone. “And you go by ‘O,’ I gather, rather than ‘Ophelia’?”
“That’s right.” As she leaned down to put the books on the coffee table, the little silver pendant her father had given her popped free of her shirt. His eye went to it immediately.
“I’m sorry to stare,” he said. “May I ask where you got the pendant you’re wearing?”
“This? Oh, it was a gift from my father,” said O as she sat down in her chair.
“I see. And did he tell you what it is?”
“No, only that it’s a good luck charm. It has writing on it.”
“Yes, I know,” he said.
Emily returned with the opened bottle of brandy and three small glasses on a tray. She filled the glasses and passed them around.
“May I propose a toast?” said Isaac, raising his glass. “To health, happiness, and long life.”
“Amen to that,” said Emily, and they all drank.
O had never had brandy before. She took a big sip and felt the sweet liquid burning her throat.
Isaac began to look through the texts Emily had set aside for him. He seemed quite excited.
“These look mostly like texts of the Lurianic School of Cabala. Luria was the last, and perhaps the greatest, of the cabalists. The books are about the struggle of good and evil in the world … the withdrawal of the divine light and the attempt to achieve regeneration through mystical practice. They are extremely rare. It’s a shame they haven’t been treated better. Where did you say you got them?”
Emily told him about Lenora Linton and her great-grandfather’s collection. From there, they got to talking about the mystery of Lawrence Linton’s final years.
“It seems to me there was something about a fire,” said Isaac. “I believe someone died in it. After that, Linton withdrew from the world. He lived his final years as a recluse.”
“That rings a bell,” said Emily. “In any event, this is part of his collection.”
“The struggle of good against the forces of evil in the world,” mused Isaac. “Maybe this was what he was studying in his last years. I wonder what led him down that road. I’ll see what I can find out for you, if you’d like.”
“That would be wonderful. Perhaps you could take a look at this, too? I believe it’s Linton’s journal.”
He took the book from her and leafed through it. “It’s a journal, all right. Curious that he should write it in Hebrew. I’ll take it with me and give it a closer look.”
They chatted for a while, and then he rose to go.
“I’ll get back to you about these books. If something can be done about the moisture damage, I’m sure I could find a good home for them.” He gave Emily an embrace. “Thank you for calling me, Emily. It was good to see you again.”
“The pleasure was all mine. O, would you see Dr. Steiner out?”
O walked him downstairs. As they stood at the front door, he said, “That pendant you’re wearing is called a kamea. At one time, they were quite common among Jews. I remember my mother wearing one when I was young. Now people regard them as relics of a more superstitious age. May I see yours?”
She took it off and handed it to him. He turned it over and studied the inscriptions closely.
“These are passages from Scripture. The names of God and several guardian spirits are invoked. This is a very powerful charm, intended to ward off the forces of evil. We seem to have come upon something of a theme – your charm, Linton’s books. If I didn’t know better, I’d say some evil was abroad.” He handed the pendant back to her, and she slipped it on again.
“Good night, O. Take good care of your aunt.”
“I will.”
“And be careful. The signs seem to be converging here for some reason. And I’m not above a little healthy superstition.”
27
“You’re sure you’re holding on tight?”
“I’m holding on tight.”
“And you won’t let go?”
“I won’t let go.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. Look, if you’re nervous, why don’t you come down, and I’ll go up and do it?”
“No, it’s okay. I’m fine.”
O gripped the ladder with sweaty hands and glanced down to make sure Rimbaud really was holding on. She was just five rungs up, but already the backs of her knees felt wobbly and weak, and the ground had that faraway look to it. Suddenly, painting the Green Man sign didn’t seem like such a good idea.
You can do this, she told herself. It’s not really that high. You scoot up and down the ladder in the shop a dozen times a day. But her self wasn’t buying it. Her self wanted nothing more than to scurry back down the rickety stepladder and abandon the whole idea. But she couldn’t embarrass herself like that – not in front of him.
She coaxed her feet up one more rung. Pushing the paint scraper down securely into her back pocket, she glanced up. If sh
e stood on the second rung from the top, she should be able to reach the sign.
The ladder shook a little, and she let out a scream. Not a big scream, but still a scream.
“Sorry,” he called up.
“Don’t … do … that!”
“Sorry,” he said again. “The sidewalk’s a little uneven.”
She detected a giggle. “Are you laughing? I heard a little laugh at the end there.”
“No, I’m not laughing. I swear.”
“Well, you’d better not, or if I fall, I’ll be sure to fall on your head.”
She scrambled up two more steps. There. Well, not quite. Her feet were planted on the second rung from the top all right, but she was bent over double, her hands fused to the small wooden platform at the top of the ladder.
People who work heights for a living say you should never look down. In the position she was in now, she had no choice. The sidewalk looked about a hundred feet away, though it was probably no more than ten. Her fear seeped through the soles of her shoes, and the ladder began to tremble. She said a silent prayer, then let go of the ladder and stood up straight. Grabbing hold of the sign, she held on for dear life.
Suddenly she found herself face-to-face with the Green Man. He seemed as surprised to see her up close as she was him. He made that little creaky noise in the back of his throat that he made when he swayed in the wind. It was his way of talking, and she imagined she could do no better herself with two great stalks of vines growing from her mouth.
They had spent so long studying one another from a distance that she felt they were already acquainted. She had long since gone from trying to puzzle out his creaks and groans to imagining what he might be saying.
When she’d first caught sight of him, suitcase in hand, that early morning two months back, he had struck her as grotesque and frightening. Later, the vines that grew from his mouth seemed like some horrible punishment he had been condemned to bear, and her fear had turned to pity. But the longer she was near him, the more he became the guardian presence Emily felt him to be. And there was a strange nobility about him.
Now, face-to-face, she saw more. Features that had been indistinct from the ground were suddenly sharp and clear. What looked like worry from a distance proved up close to be concentration. What seemed a grimace from the ground became up close almost a smile. And suddenly she realized the vines that grew from his mouth, far from being a punishment, were a sort of blessing he bore. For what he bore was life – and in that there was joy.
The Green Man Page 14