Years later, when I was grown up, I still remembered that marvelous fragrance and recognized it as Scotch whisky.
15 Simple Gifts
When I was about seven or eight, Uncle Will stopped disappearing on Christmas Eve and Santa Claus stopped visiting. By then, I learned that Uncle Will's annual errand was a quick trip next door to the Noonans. Santa's costume and sack of presents were already there; he simply dressed up in the red suit and beard and hurried back. I missed his visits. Now that Uncle Will decided on a return performance, even knowing what I knew, I was eager to see Santa Claus again. Though he was not the genuine article, it made no difference. As The Gawgon had said about Sherlock Holmes, Santa lived where he should: in my imagination. As for Holmes, amid all the Christmas preparations I had neglected him; he was still cooling his heels at Baker Street, where The Gawgon had sent him.
THE PANJANDRUM CLUB
By the time The Gawgon and I left the British Museum, the fog had lifted and the skies had cleared to their usual sooty gray, the nearest thing to a sparkle that London could produce. Carefully pocketing the tailor's bill from Houndstooth & Son, The Gawgon directed me to return to our chambers. "On the way, would you be so kind as to take a message to Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" she said. "If he is interested in learning the whereabouts of the stolen statue of King Polydectes, he is invited to join us at high noon.
"He need not disguise himself," she added. "Also, assure him tea will be served." The Gawgon declined my offer to accompany her. "Time presses. Professor Moriarty is surely gloating, impatient to set his diabolical scheme in motion. Some tasks remain, I can accomplish them more promptly alone."
She vanished into the throng of bowler-hatted, umbrella bearing stockbrokers. Much as I wished to observe her brilliant analytical mind at work, I followed her instructions, then waited for the appointed hour.
Sherlock Holmes arrived a few moments early, for which he apologized. He wore his famous cape and the cloth cap of the style known as a deerstalker. No sooner had he entered than Big Ben boomed out 110011. Before the echoes of the twelfth stroke died away, The Gawgon appeared.
Holmes sprang to his feet. "Dear lady, I am relieved to see you unharmed. Your message led me to hope."
"Do you take milk or lemon in your tea?" The Gawgon deposited her umbrella in the Ming vase at the door. "Ah, yes. The location of the statue? Set your mind at ease, Mr. Holmes. King Polydectes is exactly where he belongs."
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Holmes. "That would be-?"
"On proud display in the British Museum. Even as we speak, crowds are gathering to admire this treasure. Europe has been spared a conflict and Professor Moriarty foiled again."
"A brilliant accomplishment! As to be expected from The Gawgon and The Boy," said Holmes. "My gratitude is beyond expression. Let me ask one thing more: Your method of solving this most difficult and puzzling case?"
"Elementary." The Gawgon handed him the tailor's bill that had found. "Thanks to The Boy, this was my first significant clue. All else followed logically.
"It immediately occurred to me," The Gawgon continued, "that the humble employees of the British Museum are in 110 financial position to patronize expensive tailors."
"Certainly not," agreed Holmes. "Therefore, my suspicions were aroused," said The Gawgon. "I went immediately to Houndstooth & Son. They recalled making the suit, but what engraved it indelibly on their mind was something altogether bizarre.
"The customer did not come personally to be fitted. Instead, an arrogant, sneering sort of individual-by now, I was sure it was Moriarty-brought a list of measurements: waist, height, inside leg, and so on. Mr. Houndstooth showed me the specifications. They corresponded exactly to the dimensions of King Polydectes.
"At that moment, I grasped the nature of Moriarty's scheme, fiendish in its simplicity, simple in its fiendish-ness." The Gawgon turned to me. "Do you remember the parallel tracks on the floor? Close examination showed me they had been made by a wheelchair, probably what is called a 'Bath chair,' fitted with a small hood or canopy.
"For the rest," The Gawgon shrugged "a matter of logical deduction. Moriarty had several of his henchmen wheel him into the museum; a common enough sight, an invalid being taken on a cultural outing, nothing to arouse suspicion. They concealed themselves until the museum closed, then entered the basement, dressed the statue in its custom-tailored suit, and set it in the chair. Next morning, mingling with the crowd, they wheeled King Polydectes out of the building. The theft was accomplished."
"So it must have been!" cried Holmes. "A magnificent reconstruction of the crime. But, my dear Gawgon, the crucial question is: What did Moriarty do with the statue?"
"Easily answered," said The Gawgon.'"You are, of course, familiar with the principle: The best hiding place is in plain sight."
"Correct," said Holmes. "When an object blends so naturally with its surroundings, it becomes, in a practical sense, invisible. But a marble statue wearing a Savile Row suit?"
"You know the Panjandrum Club, the oldest gentleman's club in London," The Gawgon said as Holmes nodded. "Its members are as ancient and decrepit as the institution itself; their average age, according to my research, is ninety-seven.
"Moriarty and his henchmen simply wheeled the statue only a block away to the Panjandrum Club and into the reading room. I interviewed the doorman and the steward, both doddering and dim-eyed, who swore they recognized King Polydectes as a member. The equally aged waiter, glimpsing the king's outstretched hand, automatically put a glass of brandy in it, brought a copy of the Times, and spread it on his lap. There was, then, no observable difference between the statue and the rest of the Panjandrum's members, most of them already petrified in Bath chairs.
"I confirmed this for myself," said The Gawgon. "Once I explained what was at stake, I was allowed to enter the reading room. Since the club's iron bound rule is never to disturb a member, Polydectes still sat there, glass in hand, apparently reading a Times editorial, and from his stony glare, disagreeing with it.
"I then notified the museum staff. With utmost discretion, they sent custodians to wheel out the statue and bring it to the exhibit hall, where it now resides in all its glory. The custom tailored suit, naturally, was removed.
"And so, Mr. Holmes, the case is closed. It was our pleasure to be of some small assistance."
"For me, more than a pleasure," said Holmes, rising to his feet. "It has been the highest privilege." He bowed to me and bestowed a gallant kiss on The Gawgon's hand.
"You are, of course, uniquely The Gawgon," he said, with something warmer than admiration. "But, to me, you will always be: The Woman."
"I take that as a compliment," said The Gawgon.
"Elementary," I said.
Thuh End
Next day was Christmas Eve. At Uncle Will's request-and since he was to be Santa Claus again, it was happily granted we rearranged the usual order of events. This year, we would not exchange gifts on Christmas Eve. Santa would arrive on Christmas Day, after dinner, and distribute everybody's presents from his pillowcase.
Uncle Will, meantime, had bought a handsome Christmas tree and trimmed most of it himself, with some added help from Aunt Florry and me. Nora got more and more excited at the shining ornaments, the ones we used every year; whooping and whistling, she tried to flap onto the top of the tree and had to be put in her cage. She made me think of Captain Jack, who once said she ought to be roasted for Christmas. I missed Captain Jack, but from what I understood, he was in some kind of hospital and would be there a long time.
Aunt Rosie was, at first, leery of the new plan. "I don't like changing things around," she confided to my mother. "I hope it doesn't do something to my digestive track."
Nevertheless, she got herself into the spirit of the occasion and forgot about her digestive tract. Aunt Marta, carried away by the festivities, spontaneously burst into song, pleading to be taken back to the old Transvaal. Uncle Eustace, instead of grumbling, called for an encore. He was in fine
fettle, selling more tombstones than he expected.
Uncle Rob, in addition to taking care of family legal matters, served as official turkey-carver and did it very well. It was, all in all, the liveliest and best Christmas feast I remembered.
Now the secret was known, I thought Uncle Will would simply go upstairs after dinner and put on the Santa Claus suit, but he claimed his usual errand and ducked out of the house. Soon after, Santa arrived. We cheered like wild and clapped our hands. He plumped into the armchair, I sat on one knee, my sister-grown long-legged since his last visit-perched awkwardly on the other. Again, the cloud of marvelous Santa Claus aroma enveloped me.
Uncle Will opened the pillowcase. This time, it held everybody's presents wrapped and tagged. He picked them out one by one and called our names. Before handing them around, he made a great to-do, shaking them, turning them upside down, pretending to guess what they were.
"This looks like a radio." Uncle Will held up a narrow box that could only contain a necktie. He hefted another package. "What's this? A new car?"
I had neither money nor access to department stores, so my mother bought gifts on my behalf. For a long time, I believed older ladies yearned for bags of sachet and jars of potpourri. That was what I always gave my grandmother and The Gawgon, and they were enraptured. I was also led to believe my aunts could wish for nothing finer than a slip, which I gave them. As it turned out, they all gave each other slips, were overjoyed, and held these undergarments in front of themselves for everyone to admire.
Two gifts came as no surprise. A couple of years before, my father had given Uncle Eustace a wooden bowl of shaving soap, and Uncle Eustace had given my father a straw-covered bottle of bay-rum face lotion. My father hated bay rum, even though it came from the West Indies. The following Christmas, he re-wrapped the bottle and gave it back to Uncle Eustace.
"He won't remember," my father assured my mother. That same Christmas, Uncle Eustace gave my father the wooden bowl of shaving soap.
Neither one said a word about it. From then on, they kept exchanging the bay rum and shaving soap, thanking each other and declaring it was just what they always wanted.
My sister and I already had our major presents at home on Lorimer Street. Here, I mostly received the dreaded underwear. But The Gawgon gave me a spectacular gift: one of her own books, a large-sized history of the world, filled with engravings of Egyptians, Greeks, and Romans. It was the first of three volumes. From the Sphinx-like smile on her face, I had reason to hope the others would someday be forthcoming.
I had my own extra, secret present for The Gawgon. I handed it to her when no one was looking and whispered she should unwrap it later. When the pillowcase was empty, Uncle Will stood up and declared he had a lot of other visits to make. He embraced each of us. His white beard had gone crooked, but nobody minded.
He stopped at the door, blew kisses, and waved his arms. "Ho-ho-ho!" he boomed. "Merry Christmas, God bless us every one!" Next morning, Uncle Will packed a valise and left. It was the last we would see of him.
16 A Present for The Gawgon
"I knew Will was leaving," my grandmother said. "He told me two weeks ago."
My mother and I had come for the usual after-Christmas lunch of leftovers. With Aunt Rosie, we sat around the kitchen table while Aunt Florry made up platters of cold turkey and stuffing. The Gawgon was still in her room.
"He didn't have the heart to tell anyone else," my grandmother added. "It hurt him too much. He simply couldn't do it. That's why he wanted to be Santa Claus again. It was his way of saying good-bye. He's right, there's nothing for him here. He's going west."
My mother and Aunt Florry looked choked up; Uncle Will was their favorite, as he was everyone's. Aunt Rosie flung down the turkey wing she had been nibbling:
"West? And be a cowboy buggaroo? What's he thinking?"
"Not the West Pittsburgh," my grandmother said. "Or Detroit, if the auto plants are still hiring."
"He should go on to Hollywood," Aunt Rosie declared. "All those movie stars need chauffeurs."
"He doesn't want to be a chauffeur anymore," my grandmother said. "Will's a man of his hands. He'll find something."
The adults began talking over my head, so I went upstairs to visit The Gawgon. She had not yet opened her secret present, waiting until was there. Half hopeful, half shy, I watched as she carefully peeled off the wrapping to save for next Christmas.
I had gathered all the pictures I had sketched during the past months. I used red construction paper for the covers, punched holes on one side, and wove red yarn through them; the best I could think of for a handsome, special gift.
The Gawgon turned the pages. I began wishing I had never done it, for it suddenly looked shabby. But she smiled and, a few times, laughed out loud.
"So, that's what you've been up to when you should have been thinking about your lessons," she said, with a touch of severity. Then her eyes twinkled. "It's a lovely present. Thank you, You."
The Gawgon put her arms around me and kissed me on the cheek, which was the first time she had ever done that. Then she went back to studying the pictures, holding them out at arm's length.
"You might have a talent for this," she said. "More than you do for geometry."
I told her I could also make cootie-catchers. The Gawgon ignored that and looked appraisingly at the drawings. "One thing," she said, "you have a good feeling for movement in the figures. Not easily learned, but you have a natural sense of it. And personality, which is something that can't be learned at all.
"For the rest, a lot of details are out of kilter. See here, you tried to draw a rocking chair-I suppose that's me sitting in it, but we'll let that pass-but the way you've done it, the chair can't rock. You need to look hard at things. Understand how they work before you start drawing them.
"It wouldn't hurt you to study great paintings and see what the old masters did. I have some postcards. They'll teach you more than I can."
The Gawgon put my collection on her desk. "You're a clever boy. You might end up being an artist-though I'm not sure I'd wish that on you. It can break your heart. It usually does."
Since no one was in the mood for it, we did not celebrate New Year's beyond listening to the radio and staying up until midnight. The Gawgon put off our lessons for a couple of days. Next time we met, her face was chalky, she was in a flannel bathrobe and out of sorts.
"McKelvie, that fool! What does he expect me to do?" The Gawgon muttered. "Live like a vegetable?"
She brought out the postcards she had talked about, and we picked through them. She held up a picture of a woman doing nothing in particular except sitting and vaguely smiling.
"Her name is Lisa del Gioconda. Mona Lisa, for short," The Gawgon said. "The most famous portrait in the world. An Italian painted her, something like four hundred years ago."
The Gawgon, growing more animated, went on about the artist, Leonardo da Vinci. Not only his pictures but, as well, his botanical and anatomical studies, plans for buildings, canals, even a flying machine. It amazed me to think he had designed an airplane hundreds of years ahead of anybody else. Still, I kept glancing at Mona Lisa, who smiled back as if she knew something important and wouldn't tell me.
"She does tease you," The Gawgon said. "She teases everybody. Leonardo, greatest genius of his day, had a thousand things on his mind. But she haunted him. He never got free of her."
TIC-TAC-TOE
We were in Venice, in The Gawgon's palazzo overlooking the Grand Canal, when a nice letter arrived from the Pope. The Gawgon, beautifully regal in a gown decorated with seed pearls, scanned the page.
"He invites us to have dinner with him," she said. "Well, why not? He isn't a jolly table companion, but he has a first rate cook.
"I'd thought of going to Rome anyway. They've discovered a rare ancient mural; it should be interesting. Better yet, we'll stop off in Florence. That's the real city for artists. They have more painters than pigeons. We can see the Pope when we ge
t around to it."
We set off, next day, in The Gawgon's splendidly outfitted coach and four, reaching Florence by leisurely stages. I had never seen the city before. However, instead of admiring its many picturesque tourist attractions, The Gawgon drove to a large, handsome house, with courtyard and gardens. The housekeeper was happy to see her, but when The Gawgon asked if Ser da Vinci was at home, her face fell.
"In the studio," she said. "He won't come out. He sits, he stares. Malocchio! I tell you someone put the evil eye on him."
"We'll see about that," said The Gawgon. She left her traveling cloak and floppy velvet hat with the housekeeper, and we made our way to a big, airy room at the back of the house. I expected to find paintings and sketches covering the walls. They stood bare. The studio was empty of furnishings except for a chair and a nearby easel.
The artist himself sat hunched at a table covered with papers, scratching away with a stick of charcoal. He was fair complexioned, with a curled mustache and neatly trimmed beard, a generous, noble brow, and a receding hairline.
"Ciao, Leo," said The Gawgon. H e started, ready to throw something. Recognizing The Gawgon, he jumped out of his chair and hurried to greet us. "La Bella Gaugonna!" he exclaimed, embracing her. "Benvenuia! It's been too long already. This is The Boy, II Ragazzo? Aie misericordia, you find me not at my best."
'"How so?" said The Gawgon. "What's wrong?'"
"Don't ask." said Leonardo.
"Come, now," said The Gawgon. "I hear you've been doing pretty well for yourself. You're the most famous artist in Florence.
"City of jackals!" Leonardo made a gesture with his fingers that only an Italian can fill with such intense emotion. "And the worst of them-that ham-fisted stone cutter that butcher with a chisel! Michelangelo? Michel Diavolo! He stabs me in the back he slanders me insults me in the street. Pazzo! A crazy man! Let him go carve tombstones, that's all he's good for.
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