Houses of Stone (2 page)

The fact that Karen's mouth was full gave her an excuse to delay answering. She couldn't imagine why Simon was inquiring about her ex-husband. He had been painstakingly polite to Norman on the few occasions when they had met—an unmistakable indication, to anyone who knew Simon, that he didn't care much for the other man. When Simon liked people he teased them and argued with them. Norman hadn't taken to Simon either. Karen's affection for the older man had left him baffled and obscurely uneasy, and he had objected vehemently to her filling the bookcases with "those dirty old books." His were all lined up in neat rows, arranged by size instead of subject, with nice clean dust jackets on them.

She swallowed. "All right, I guess."

"When will the divorce become final?"

"It is final. I got the papers last week."

"You are very calm about it."

"My heart isn't broken, Simon. We were married for less than three years, and I never liked him very much."

"What a cynic you have become!" He appeared to be genuinely shocked.

"A realist," Karen corrected. "I fell in love. When I fell out of love, I discovered there was nothing left—not liking, nor mutual respect, nor even forbearance. Do you know what his pet endearment for me was? Baby."

She knew Simon would never understand why that seemingly frivolous habit of Norman's had enraged her so. His forehead furrowed as he struggled to grasp the idea; then he shrugged it away. "It is none of my business. But a young woman like yourself should not be alone."

"Simon, darling, you are hopelessly old-fashioned." Karen gave him an affectionate smile. "What do you mean by alone—unmarried, or celibate?"

"That is a vulgar question," Simon said severely.

"It is not. I phrased it very genteelly. And you were the one who brought the subject up."

He returned her smile. "Touche. Well, then—I certainly would not want you to marry the first lout who asked you."

"I'm relieved to hear it. Good men are hard to find. As for being celibate—what makes you suppose I am?"

"You are not foolhardy. In these times, only a permanent relationship (how I despise that word!) is completely safe. I would know if you had established one. There are," said Simon delicately, "certain indications."

Karen gave up. She usually backed away when they got onto this subject. "You're trying to start another argument. I don't provoke, Simon. Stop trying to change the subject. If you don't tell me—"

"Ah, excuse me. I hear the bell ring."

He disappeared around the bookshelf. A customer had come into the shop; Karen heard a murmur of voices and then another tinkle from the bell over the door of the shop. Simon came back, wearing a look of disgust.

"Some fool in search of best-sellers. The latest Stephen King, he wanted. As if I would carry such a book."

"Ah," said Karen. "So there is a type of literature you haven't read."

"There is no type I have not read."

"Stephen King?"

"Certainly. He does what he does very well. I don't care for what he does. It is a matter of personal taste. I prefer horror to be more delicate— a frisson, a suggestion, instead of a catalog of disgusting details. The whisper from an invisible throat, the shadow where there is no object to cast it, a sudden breath of cold air in a warm room. Don't you agree?"

"I don't read horror stories," Karen said.

" 'The Yellow Wallpaper'?"

"Oh, but that isn't . . . Well, yes, it is; but the horror is psychological; it is a brilliant study of a woman retreating into madness from—"

"Ah, bah. More of your feminist jargon. What does it matter if the victim is a woman being driven mad by the constraints of male-dominated society or an unbeliever tormented by a narrow concept of religion?"

"It isn't a question of better or worse," Karen protested. "You can't compare absolute evil; all you can do is fight it whenever it manifests itself."

"Precisely what I was saying. The agony is the same and the cause is the same: a rigid moral absolutism that inflicts pain under the pretext of kindness."

"What story are you referring to? Sounds like Poe."

"No; I doubt you have heard of the author. The story is called 'The Torture of Hope.' It is about a prisoner trying to escape from the cells of the Inquisition, only to find, just as he seems to reach freedom, that his captors have allowed him to hope as the ultimate torture. And the worst thing about both stories is that the tormentor is not a perverted sadist. Quite the contrary; the husband and the Grand Inquisitor have
noble motives. They wish to save their victims from damnation, by society or by God."

"Simon, I promise I won't steal your precious surprise. Please let me

see it."

"Not just yet. First you must listen to this. Where did I put that book ..." Turning, he ran his finger along the shelf behind him.

Karen bit her lip. Simon wasn't being deliberately sadistic either. His attitude was typical of the world from which he had come—Europe between the wars, sophisticated, intellectual, more than a little decadent. Though he had never told her his precise age, he must have been in his teens when his native Vienna had fallen to the forces of evil and his family and friends had vanished into the death camps. The values of that vanished age, remembered by an impressionable boy, were all the more to be cherished because of the horror that had swept them away. Whatever their failings, the aristocrats and intellectuals of old Europe had realized that the deliberate, delicate prolongation of pleasure was an art to be cultivated in all aspects of life, from the enjoyment of sculpture to the appreciation of music, from dining to making love.

"You are flushed," Simon said, turning back to her with the book in his hand. "Is it too warm? Old people have cold bones; I will lower the heat."

Karen wiped the smile off her face. Maybe Simon was right; she had been "alone" too long. "I'm not too warm," she assured him. "I was thinking about . . . something else."

"If it makes you blush I don't want to hear it," Simon said reprovingly. "Now listen."

He had only read a few sentences when the shop door opened again and he went out to attend to the customer, leaving the book open on his chair. This time he was gone for some time. Karen picked up the book. When Simon returned she started and let out a strangled shriek.

Chuckling, Simon took the book from her hands. "Where had you got to? Ah, yes. 'He pressed forward faster on his knees, his hands, at full length, dragging himself painfully along, and soon entered the dark portion of this terrible corridor.' "

"You startled me," Karen mumbled. "Creeping in like that."

Simon raised an elegant eyebrow at her and went on reading. " 'Oh Heaven, if the door should open outward. Every nerve in the miserable fugitive's body thrilled with hope.' "

He started to close the book. "You see what I mean. The physical tortures inflicted on the rabbi are never described in detail, only hinted at. It is his mental suffering—"

"Okay," Karen said. "Finish it. Please."

"I wouldn't want to bore you with third-rate fiction."

"You did that on purpose. I know he doesn't make it, but I'll never sleep tonight if I don't find out what happens."

Simon did as she asked. He had a sonorous, flexible voice and he knew he read well. He gave the dreadful story everything he had. Scarcely had the poor rabbi reached the gardens and raised his eyes toward Heaven to praise God for his escape than he was clasped in a tender embrace and he realized that "all the phases of this fatal evening were only a prearranged torture, that of
hope."
"The Grand Inquisitor, with an accent of touching reproach and a look of consternation, murmured in his ear, his breath parched and burning from long fasting: 'What, my son! On the eve, perchance, of salvation—you wished to leave us?' "

Karen shuddered, then laughed—at herself. "I concede your point. But I'm afraid modern readers wouldn't be affected."

"They have become jaded—too many chain saws, too many decomposing corpses. And few comprehend that mental torture is the worst of all—the constriction of hope and of ambition."

"But that's what women's writing is all about," Karen said. "That's the theme of
Ismene's
poem. 'They have shut me in a house of stone.' She wasn't talking about a physical prison."

Much of Simon's business was conducted by mail; drop-in customers were rare, and the dismal weather did not encourage shoppers. They were not interrupted again. However, Simon waited until the stroke of twelve before locking the front door. Karen preceded him up the stairs at the back of the shop, moving slowly so that the necessary deliberation of his own ascent would not humiliate him.

The apartment over the shop was small and a little shabby, but it was impeccably neat—except for the books. They lined the walls, covered all the flat surfaces, stood stacked in uneven piles beside chairs and sofa. Simon turned on the lights and led the way to the kitchen.

The rich, spicy smell of the goulash filled the room. Simon held a
chair for Karen and moved back and forth with wineglasses, a basket of bread, and the steaming tureen. She knew better than to offer assistance.

After they finished eating Simon took out one of his thin black cigars. "May I smoke?" he inquired.

Karen jumped up. Snatching his plate and hers, she carried them to the sink, and finished clearing the table. Then she sat down and stared fixedly at him. "Now, Simon."

With a sigh Simon rose and left the room. The set of his shoulders expressed the resignation of a long-suffering male yielding to feminine whims. When he came back he was carrying a parcel and a clean white cloth, which he spread carefully across the table. "Now may I smoke?" he inquired, handing her the parcel.

He took her silence for consent; she had realized early on that he would be unmoved by lectures on the dangers of smoking and would regard any comment on his habits as rude and impertinent. In fact, she scarcely heard the question. She was too intent on the parcel.

It was small but bulky. Carefully Karen removed an outer covering of padded cloth to disclose a layer of the inert plastic used by museum conservators. Unlike ordinary plastic, it would not react chemically with fragile substances such as paper and cloth.

Her mouth was dry and her hands shook as she unwrapped the plastic. The object felt like a book. Well, she had expected that, hadn't she? Something old, something rare . . .

It wasn't a printed book. It was a pile of loose papers—a manuscript. If there had been covers, they were missing. The pages were raveled along one side, like mouse-nibbled wool, and the corners were so worn that the shape was more elliptical than rectangular. The lower edge was black and crumbling. She could just make out traces of writing on the topmost sheet, though it was so darkened by time and by disfiguring spots of brown—a condition known in the trade as "foxing"—that only a few words were legible.

Karen tried to control her voice. "I can't ... I don't ..."

"Don't be afraid to touch it, it is not as fragile as it appears," Simon said. "Except along the edges. The paper is handmade, lacking the destructive chemicals modern paper manufacturers employ. Well? What are you waiting for? All morning you nagged me to see it, and now you sit with folded hands staring at a blank page."

"Not . . . completely blank. I can read a few words." She turned to face him. "Simon. This isn't a joke, is it? You wouldn't . . ."

"No." A single sharp word; the accusation had hurt and angered him. She held out her hands in silent apology, and his stiff features relaxed as he took them in his. "Well, I can hardly blame you. I could not believe it myself at first. But the name is there. Ismene."

"Maybe it's not the same woman. Maybe some other writer used that name. Maybe this isn't . . . What is it? More poems? A diary?"

"Why don't you look for yourself?"

"I'm afraid to. I'm afraid I'm imagining this. I'm afraid it will crumble when I touch it."

"It is not a diary," Simon said patiently. "It appears to be a novel, or part of one. The first pages are missing, and so are the last."

"I don't believe it!"

"What don't you believe? As a literary form, the novel is two and a half centuries old. Richardson's
Pamela
was published in 1740. Also eighteenth-century in date were
The Mysteries of Udolpho
and The
Castle of Otranto.
This appears to be an example of the latter genre—the true Gothic novel, as opposed to the so-called Gothics of this century, which bear little resemblance to—"

"Don't you dare lecture me on my own subject!"

Simon laughed aloud. "So, you are yourself again."

"Dammit, Simon, I've written two articles on the Gothic novel."

"And you are now wringing your hands," Simon said, grinning. "How appropriate!"

"I'm trying to keep them off that book," Karen said, returning his smile. He knew her well; he had chosen the most effective method of calming her. "I want to grab it and start reading."

"Go ahead. We have all afternoon. And if you care to spend the night, all evening."

"Not the original, it's too precious. I'll have a copy made ..." She broke off as she saw his face change, and a wave of genuine physical sickness swamped her. "Simon! You are going to let me have it? You wouldn't show it to me and then take it away? You haven't sold it to someone else? You couldn't!"

"Calm yourself," Simon exclaimed. "Let me get you a glass of wine, or—"

"Don't treat me like some Victorian lady with the vapors! Oh, all right. I'll have some coffee. Please," she added sulkily.

He filled two cups and joined her at the table. "My dear Karen, you are the first person other than myself to see this. How could I do less? But I can't let you have it—not now, at any rate. No, don't speak! You would only say something you would regret. Let me explain."

She seized on the words that offered hope. "Not now? When?"

"After the proper procedures have been followed. Listen to me! Do you have any idea what this battered object is worth? I am talking of money, Karen—crude and vulgar of me, no doubt, but this is how I earn my living, by buying and selling books."

"Well, of course. I expected to pay for it, that's the only way I would ..." She heard her voice start to rise, and fought to control it. This was business, not friendship. That was how she wanted it. One didn't take advantage of a friend. "How much are you asking for it?"

Undeceived by her pretense at coolness, Simon eyed her warily. "Are you familiar with the motto of antiquities dealers? 'An object is worth only what someone is willing to pay for it.' It is possible to estimate the value of a particular book by studying what comparable volumes have brought in the market. But that's the problem. With what can I compare this? I could make an educated guess as to what a Bronte or Dickens manuscript might bring; the original manuscripts of known works do appear on the market from time to time. But an unknown, unpublished manuscript by a little-known writer . . . who knows? The only way to find out is to offer it for sale."

"Where? At auction?"

He remained maddeningly calm. "I could do that, but I won't. If it sold to a private collector, he or she might not make it available to scholars, which would be a pity. I intend instead to invite bids from major universities and libraries."

"I'll top your highest bid. Isn't there a procedure for that in your business? Preferred bidder, or something?"

"Karen—" His eyes moved from hers. Following his gaze, she saw that, without being conscious of movement, she had placed both hands on the manuscript, fingers flexed, palms pressing down.