by ILIL ARBEL
“Of course,” said Denis. “But you must promise me to meet and talk again. So many other of your books I wish to discuss with you, Hermione.”
“It will be a pleasure,” said Mrs. Rivers.
In the meantime, Mr. Goldwasser and Miss Tudor were waiting for their guests to come for tea in the drawing room, and using their rare leisure time and privacy to discuss certain plans.
“The question is, do we plunge right in, get you a role on stage, or do a film first?” asked Mr. Goldwasser.
“I don’t think anyone would want me on stage right away,” said Glamora. “Perhaps a high-brow film first would be best. Then we’ll see about the stage.”
“Yes, I think you are right,” said Mr. Goldwasser. “A progression. But for the film, we are going to get the kind of actor that has done stage, preferably in England. A big name, well respected. No more handsome boys for you, Glam.”
“I never cared about them, as you know very well; they annoyed me. Except Hank, who was like a son to me… What play do you have in mind?” asked Glamora curiously. Mr. Goldwasser pulled a thin book from his pocket and handed it to her without words.
“Macbeth?” said Glamora, her face white and tense. “Are you serious? Shakespeare? So soon? True, I read a few of the plays, but not with the idea of acting in them, not quite yet.”
“Why not? Your English has always been perfect; you can whip Shakespeare. Start reading it to yourself, on a regular basis. Familiarize yourself with it, all the while imagining you are doing Lady Macbeth. Immerse yourself in it. Perhaps Mrs. Dale can recommend the best book of commentary and analysis of Macbeth. Then you will start reading it to me. I’ll know when you are ready, trust me.”
Glamora smiled at him affectionately. Of course he would know, she thought. What doesn’t he know about me and my work? She wanted to tell him how much she trusted him, with her life if necessary, but even though she had developed her language skills considerably with the reading course she was working on with Mrs. Dale, she still could not express her own emotions very clearly. So she just said, seemingly out of context, “You know, Jake, this is the first house that really feels like home.” Mr. Goldwasser, who had known Glamora for so many years, understood her train of thought perfectly and was touched.
“Well, love, despite all the deceptions, difficulties, and sacrifices, we still had a pretty good life together, didn’t we?” he said, responding to her unspoken, rather than the spoken words.
“The best,” said Glamora and stretched her long legs, putting them on the coffee table in the most disreputable and un-lady-like way imaginable. But of course the feet were clad in extremely expensive, soft, pink, feather-trimmed slippers, with a few rhinestones here and there, so it did not look too bad. And the slippers were perfectly flat with no heels at all – since Glamora had decided, right or wrong, that luxury and glamour do not always have to come on high heels. She held the little book tightly in her hands and smiled to herself. Yes, she would give it a try; she would do her best. She had always done so, and why would she fail now? Had she ever failed? Lady Macbeth, she thought. The dream part of every actress worth her salt. Yes, it would happen. And she must write to Merry about it as well as Mrs. Dale – Merry will be totally supportive and happy for her. She hugged the book. Just then, Mrs. Rivers and Denis came into the room and Miss Tudor removed her elegant feet from the coffee table and rose to greet them and call for tea.
“Miss Tudor,” said Denis, “It is so nice to get a real English tea in Hollywood. Only a few of our neighbours adhere to this delightful habit.”
“I never got over being a simple English girl,” said Glamora, smiling as she poured the tea. “Why should I give up our most delightful tradition just because I live so much in America?”
“Indeed,” said Mr. Goldwasser. “And Glam taught me to like it, too, over the years. Incidentally, where are Emma and Edmond?”
“Edmond is at the studio, conferring with the writers over some obscure point in Mr. Clover’s original play. He might be out most of the night,” said Glamora. “You know how they work, those night owls. Emma went out with Rush Yukon to see a very unusual costume establishment. She should be home soon.”
Just then Emma then ran into the room, breathless with excitement. “Rush took me to the most amazing establishment,” she said as she sank into a couch. “It was all stage clothing, burlesque, feathers, sequins, maybe some circus, I am not sure. I am dizzy with what I saw. I wanted to take all the clothes home.”
“Where is Rush? Could he not come to tea?”
“No, he had to meet a friend, he said, for dinner. So he went home to change. I think he changes six times a day,” said Emma, laughing. “He adores clothes. I told him that when he fades as a movie star, he should look into the garment and costume industry, not the restaurant business, and he totally agreed. He would be so successful, modelling his own lines, too, with his looks.”
“Emma, Jake wants me to start studying Macbeth,” said Miss Tudor. “He plans to shoot a film, with me as Lady Macbeth and some big name from England as Macbeth. Of course, Miss Skull will be the chief designer, and I think you should do an apprenticeship with her when it starts, work at the studio, learn the ropes. It would be valuable for both film and stage, you know, since it is Shakespeare.”
Emma stared at Miss Tudor and started to cry. “My dear girl, don’t do that,” said Mr. Goldwasser. “We have always planned this, as you recall.”
“This is a fairy tale,” said Emma, gulping. “To work with Miss Skull… would she agree?”
“Of course she would. I have already spoken to her about it,” said Mr. Goldwasser. “Not about Macbeth, since this only came up this afternoon, but in general. She said you are a smart little thing, and she would love you to apprentice with her. So all is well.”
Emma started crying again, and Mr. Goldwasser had to give up and let her finish her cry in her own good time, which she did and then managed to eat plenty of cake.
After Denis left, not before fixing the day for his next visit, Mrs. Rivers was suddenly a little tired, a sensation she was not normally prone to, being a most energetic creature. It was an enjoyable afternoon, if a little strange, and she wanted to think about it. Fortunately, everyone had some business or other to attend to, so Mrs. Rivers could go peacefully to her room without even bothering to pretend that she was going to do Her Work. She really intended to change her suit right away – every woman knows that sitting down more than absolutely necessary in a good suit is a crime, since it sadly stretches the fabric – but her eyes were practically closing with fatigue, and she sank into the comfortable arm chair that stood in front of the totally unnecessary, but comforting fireplace. Poor Denis, she thought. She knew Mrs. Middleton well enough, and did not think much of her, a wishy-washy kind of a woman, always looking as if she wandered in a sort of private fog. Her husband was even worse. Never stopped talking, never let anyone else say a word and so utterly boring. He probably bored his wife to death, why else would she bother with a twenty-five-year-old boy? Mrs. Rivers did not believe in those May-September romances she had glorified in all her books. The books were good business, but life was life and it had little magic in it, particularly when September was represented by the woman. To tell the truth, she did not think middle-aged women very attractive, with very few exceptions, and those chosen few were more like Glamora Tudor, not like the faded, uninspiring Mrs. Middleton. Agnes Graham, yes, definitely. She would be alluring for as long as she lived. Mrs. Brandon, yes, and perhaps even Mrs. Dean, but not Mrs. Middleton. Why would Denis fall for her? That was a mystery. He said he saw Mrs. Middleton as Lady Travers. That was sheer nonsense, since they had nothing in common. Nor did she believe that Mrs. Middleton did not know about his infatuation. Of course she knew, and being so bored at home, encouraged his torment for her own amusement. How nasty, thought Mrs. Rivers, and went to sleep quite comfortably.
Denis, on the other hand, did not feel comfortable as he drove home. He
was thinking that perhaps it was foolish of him to dig into the old wounds, to pry into feelings to which he was already resigned. He knew he would never find a woman he could love and settle with, and he accepted his fate, but nevertheless he could not resist talking about it to the one person he believed really, truly understood. Also, he felt very unhappy about comparing Mrs. Rivers’ books to Shakespeare’s or Dickens’. He was very fond of her books, and they sustained him through much pain, but he knew full well that they were not great literature, and saying what he said was hypocritical – a quality he abhorred – even though it was not what he meant at the time. All he meant was that writing for the masses was not something to be ashamed of, and he sincerely hoped Mrs. Rivers, whom he greatly respected, would not think he was being a sycophant. Ah, well. Should he mention it to her? No, he decided. It was said in the emotion of the moment, and the best thing was to forget such silliness.
***
And now we must fly back to the County, since even though the spark that might fly between author and artist is fascinating, dangerous, and perhaps foreboding, it does not come close to the excitement generated by planting the seeds of a really rare plant. At least, that is what true horticulturists would think; botany is stronger than love. And so, here we are in the special room that was given to the cactus seeds. The professor looked around him with approval. Everything was there – the sterilized pots, the glass tops, the shards, the gravel, and even the small stones that were to be used for ventilation. The room was chosen carefully, mostly for its southern exposure, and the light on the windowsill, supplemented by the lamps that stood at on each side of the window, would be quite sufficient, the professor felt. “Excellent,” he said. “I must congratulate you, Lady Norton, on these meticulous preparations. You are a true horticulturist.” Lady Norton was highly gratified.
The professor opened a bag full of clean, white sand, the essential Arizona sand that he brought with him, feeling that the seeds could not sprout in English soil. “We will moisten the sand, just barely of course, to activate the germination process” he said. “Would you have something I could use?” Lady Norton produced the appropriate bottle, which looked just like the ones with the perforated tops every housewife uses for moistening clothes before ironing them. However, this particular bottle, though manufactured by the exact same machines, was produced by a horticultural company. As a result of such distinction, it was sold exclusively to gardeners, and was called Mist-A-Flower; naturally it cost three times as much as the ironing bottle.
The professor put a shard on the hole at the bottom of four pots, placed a small metal ruler in each of them in turn, poured the small gravel to precisely half the height of the pots, and filled the pots with the sand. He then took the ironing bottle and very slightly moistened the sand.
“It is as much moisture as the dew the desert would receive on a spring night,” he said, and proceeded to open the little seed packet. “Naturally, any more water will rot the seeds.”
“I brought a box for the seeds you wished to reserve,” said Lady Norton, and produced a box made of silver, with a large red stone decorating the top. “I would like to keep the remaining seeds in my bedroom, on my dressing table, so they will be perfectly safe.”
“Good idea,” said the professor, who was concentrating on pouring what looked like brown powder, making sure only a little bit went into each pot. He then spread the powder gently over the sand, with his finger. Once this operation was completed, he refolded the paper and put the seed packet into Lady Norton’s silver box, then arranged three little stones on the edge of each pot, and tenderly covered them with their glass tops. “And now,” said Lady Norton, “I will lock the door and keep the key.”
“Dear Lady Norton,” said the professor, looking more like Mr. Holt every minute, “I am convinced that with your care and understanding, you will be the first gardener in England to grow Echinocactus horizonthalonius var. nicholii.”
Lady Norton, who was beginning to feel she was spending time with someone made of ectoplasm rather than flesh and blood, could no longer resist asking a probing question. The professor, beaming at her, was truly the living image of Mr. Holt. The same stout little person, the round red face with an imperfect shave, the short grey hair, the plump hands, this was uncanny. “Professor,” she said, “are you related to a gentleman by the name of Mr. C. W. Holt? He was a great friend of mine; we shared a love of gardening.”
“Carl William Holt? The gardening expert?”
“Yes,” said Lady Norton. “You look so much like him, and he was so interested in plants and horticulture. I don’t know how to explain it, unless you are related.”
“Yes, of course. He was a distant cousin,” said the professor. “Had he been alive, I would have enjoyed meeting him; we never had. His branch of the family immigrated to England about two hundred years ago, while our branch remained in Austria until I had to leave because of the troubles. They were called Holtzmann before they immigrated, and changed their name when they arrived here; it was a more convenient name to go by in England.”
“How interesting,” said Lady Norton. “Fascinating that you should both end up with botanical interests.”
“It was natural, since this was the family business in Austria,” said the professor. “For hundreds of years, the family was engaged in gardening, sometimes at the very great houses. It’s in our blood.”
“What a delightful coincidence,” said Lady Norton. “To think that the expert from the United States would be related to my old friend…” and since Lady Norton was so much the product of the upper classes, she could not add what she really felt, which was that it was Meant.
A week later, the professor went to London for his first cycle of lectures, expecting to come back after a month or so. Lady Norton, after sending him off safely, went to her room, and as was her habit, checked the silver box where she kept the half of the seeds reserved by the professor. To her horror, the box was empty. Immediately she rang the bell, and the butler appeared.
“Kindly send Carla to me right away,” said Lady Norton, visibly disturbed. The butler did as he was told, and Carla came very quickly, as Lady Norton’s servants knew she would not be trifled with.
“Carla,” said Lady Norton, “The seeds that I have put in this box are gone. Do you know where they are?”
“Seeds?” asked Carla. “There was none of them seeds in there, my lady. Only some dirty brown powder, like old tobacco that is gone bad.”
“Where is the powder, then?” asked Lady Norton, a horrible fear creeping over her.
“Well, my lady, it was my day for polishing the silver,” said Carla, “and the box was not closed properly, the little hook thingy wasn’t latched, so it opened and this nasty powder fell all over the lace on the table which I just put there after the wash. I was afeared that the powder would stain the lace, which was washed so nicely, so I tooked it quickly to the window and shooked it out and there was no stain, so I didn’t wash it again. Then I polished everything, and the box, with my silver clorth, and put it back.”
“But there was a paper that was holding the powder,” said Lady Norton in despair. “What did you do with the paper?”
“I thrown it into the fireplace,” said Carla virtuously. “It was filthy. Everything is very clean now, my lady, just the way you like it. Do you want me to wash the lace again, just in case?”
Lady Norton looked at her in total frustration. The professor was away, the seeds were gone, and there was nothing she could do. It was her own fault that she did not lock the silver box in the room with the cactus plants. Naturally, she would have loved to murder, or at least whip Carla, but since killing or even administering physical punishment to your own servants, once permitted and even encouraged by enlightened authorities, was out of the question in this degenerated age, she dismissed the miscreant and went to the window. The begonias that were planted under it glistened with the kind of rich wetness that spelled death for her lovely cacti. By now,
the seeds were rotted, even if she could find them, which would have been impossible in the first place. No, she could only hope that the seeds in the cherished pots, luckily placed in a locked room, would do as well as possible.
Chapter Six
“The leather has just the right patina, the gold letters are slightly faded, and the pages are cream, not white,” said Shymmering, carefully inspecting the book that bore the respected name of its author, Bronson Alcott, ancestor to Nestor Alcott who was looking at it with a marked lack of interest. “I recommend this copy.” Mr. Alcott obediently paid for the book and put it in his pocket. The bookstore was their last shopping experience of the day, having spent all day at several tailoring establishments, shoe stores, and shops that specialized in elegant accessories. At first, Mr. Alcott took a lively interest in the proceedings, but as the day dragged on he became increasingly bewildered and tired, and so left the choices to Shymmering, who seemed to know his business and even to enjoy himself. Everything was to be delivered to the house, the accessories and the shoes right away, and the suits, pants, and jackets over the next couple of weeks, after subjecting Mr. Alcott to numerous fittings.
A few days later, Maisie rang the bell. She was not in the best of moods, but she expected Nes to cheer her up a bit, maybe go out for a beer. She did not look her best either, after a long day at work, but it did not matter since this was only Nes and he won’t really care.
“Good Evening, Miss,” said Shymmering. “Please come in.”
“Good evening, Shymmering,” she said, smiling. “How are you?”
“Very well, Miss, thank you.” Had Maisie known Shymmering for a long time, she would have noticed that one side of his mouth twitched for a second, a sure sign of being highly perturbed. This would have scared anyone in the know, but Maisie stepped in blithely, suspecting nothing at all.