Girl Reading (24 page)

In bed they bounce and bound, uninhibited, at liberty, manifestly themselves. The mattress squeaks like a wheelbarrow, the headboard bangs against the wall like a locomotive, their exclamations and moans audible to the landlady passing in the hallway.

Obaysch dozes in the afternoon sun, what muted beams there are. He lies in squalor, fat and dense, his skin shining and hot breath exhaling from his nostrils, bristly muzzle. It causes a ripple of amusement to see him yawn. A hint of personality. His teeth yellow, protruding, the enormous mouth pale and textured compared to his smooth, thick hide. Dormant fellow he is. Nonchalant. Ignores his admirers. No further action until one of his ears twitches and then is at rest. He is as broad and as gray and as motionless as a boulder. Tame, not wild. He has a wife, Adhela, who wallows in the pool. The onlookers are dismayed when she submerges for minutes at a time, gleeful when her facial features appear on the surface in another spot, and she sinks again. Bigness, solidness, laziness. Popular with the children, who like to ascribe to them human characteristics (he is taking a nap because he has had a busy morning and a large lunch; she is going underwater because she is shy and having her bath).

The girls, boys, and nannies lean on the railing to watch them, the hippopotamus enclosure out of their grasp, compounding the wish to be able to touch or feed one.

Rosemary and Jem have seen. Stroll on. Families and friends promenade in their finery, hats, umbrellas on show like flamingos.

He says, Do you think it would be a notion to make photographs of zoo animals? The hippo or camel or quagga?

What do you think, Jem? What would be the virtues?

He licks his lips with thought. That they would make nice pictures. People might like to buy them for their albums.

What do you think the Zoological Society would have to say about it?

Jem considers. You would have to ask. They might want good photographs of their animals for posterity and science and such. They might want to sell prints themselves. And other people, ordinary folk, may want photographs made of their pets and livestock, horses and cattle, not just cats and dogs.

What would be the disadvantages?

Jem swallows and does not answer.

Rosemary persists firmly, When you are in charge one day, you will need to think of ways to make Featherstone prosper. The suggestion of taking photographs of animals has some merit. Examining ideas for faults and problems to solve is an important skill, don’t you know.

Right you are, Mama. Well, animals would be difficult subjects, wouldn’t they? Making them lie still, or getting close enough, and that. Developing the plate would be tricky too. You would need a portable darkroom, like the itinerants have. And then there is the cost of it.

She tries not to show her relief. Rosemary has been drilling Jem with the need to consider expense and economize when possible.

He presses on. If it were affordable, you could do both. Featherstone of Piccadilly could do studio portraits and sort of itinerant photography in London. Then you would be able to do other pictures of, of anything, really. Shops, carriages, people standing outside their shops, houses—anything.

What should you do first?

Find out whether people want it . . . ?

Yes, I think that would be a good starting point.

His confidence deteriorates. Maybe not, though? Maybe people only like their
cartes de visite.
No point going to so much trouble if no one likes it.

Maybe so. And maybe tastes will change someday? And people will want to try something new? And you shall be a pioneer?

It does not sound like him, he thinks. Sounds like it would go wrong before it started. He hangs his head, discouraged, unaware how he has pleased his mother.

In fact, she intends to tell him that it is precisely this kind of thinking that will benefit the business in the long run and ensure its continuation—

But she cannot. For the sensation has come back: a weight, a strain, a constraint. It is hurting. It causes her to sweat and struggle for breath.

Jem supports her under one arm. A gentleman on an outing, somewhat unwilling to manhandle a widow, is prompted to help by his wife (right you are, m’dear). Together they lead Mrs. Featherstone to a bench where she can compose herself until the distress has passed. Jem thanks the Samaritans, assures them he will be able to take care of her. Mother and son sit in silence.

Rosemary blames it on indigestion, feels better, expresses her enthusiasm for visiting the reptile house.

Jem grips his knees and knits his brow. He would like to see the snakes himself (serpents move infrequently, and space in the building could be used temporarily for a make-do darkroom) but decides they should take a hansom cab home instead, decides not to seek approval from his mother first in case she overrides him, which she is more than capable of doing.

Turtle soup is set before them. Jem has not eaten turtle before, has not seen the interior of the Café de l’Europe until this evening. Thus far, his most formal experience of dining out was Dolly’s Chophouse in St. Paul’s Churchyard. And apart from in correspondence, no one ever called him James until he met his uncle.

It is a delicacy, James. Exquisite.

Jem observes Mortimer sucking a spoonful of meat and gravy, some of it sticking to his moustache, humming with appreciation. Jem tries his. The meat is dark and chewy, reminds him of offal. It is not unpalatable, though overpriced in his private opinion.

What do you think? Come now, be honest, James.

The women also pause to hear what Jem will say.

Very tasty.

They murmur their agreement. Mortimer beams. Wait until you try the oysters, they are the food of kings.

The effect of the twins’ similarity on Jem has begun to wear off. Although they sit to his left and right, facing each other like a mirror image, he can discern differences not only in their apparel (one elaborate, one modest), not only in their accents. There is something altogether contrasting, even opposite, about the sisters that is almost visible—in his mother’s case beneath the eyes, in his aunt’s case at the corners of hers. Two carriage wheels, weathered differently. He eats the soup fearing for his constitution, which is unused to rich foods.

Today Jem paid visits to his two older sisters, Mary and Winifred, to inform them that their famous aunt was in town, and to ask would they not like to see her? Was it not an occasion for the whole family to celebrate?

Mary flummoxed him by explaining that as much as she would like to, she was occupied with a string of entertaining commitments with her husband’s partners and clients, and it was vital she not let them down; and no doubt Mr. and Mrs. Solomon-Black would be sympathetic to her plight because they were busy people themselves.

Winifred blanched at the suggestion, before explaining that she and her children had been ill of late, were not quite recovered—indeed, she felt the chills coming on once again and gave
a cough—she would not want to risk her aunt and uncle’s health unnecessarily.

These reasons seemed fair and frank in their own right, but taken together even Jem, ignorant in the ways of society, harbored the discomfiture of suspicion. Curious, he cannot fathom why Mary and Winifred would choose to distance themselves from such a friendly and interesting lady.

Mortimer kisses his wife on the wrist, then leans to whisper something in her ear. She sniggers.

Jem assumes this must be what all Americans are like, that the United States must be a jolly country if you are free to marry whoever wins your heart and to express your affection in public. He cannot recall meeting an English couple like them—concludes he would be most satisfied with a wife who is kind and wise and jovial like his aunt.

Mortimer is telling Jem about a demonstration he saw the Gault sisters give when he was a young man, younger than Jem is now, before he had the privilege of making Florence’s acquaintance. Rosemary politely listens as though the story relates to someone else entirely.

It was at the Walnut in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Have you heard of it, James? It is a fine theater—we have fine theaters in Manhattan too, of course, but the Walnut is historic. I was just beginning to establish a reputation as an illusionist. I come from a family of variety singers and comedians, knew how to work hard and rough it with a volatile crowd, but, seriously, I have an inferior singing voice, and telling jokes is not my forte. Conjuring, however, can be practiced and perfected and has all the finesse and excitement of professional gambling, except you are not playing for money, it is pride that is at stake: the audience’s pride that they are intelligent, observant people who cannot be fooled; your pride as a performer that you can deceive and entertain them. An impresario
on the circuit, a man I respected, advised me to go see the Gault twins from England, who were in Philadelphia at the time doing the best stage magic he had laid eyes on, packing houses, he said. Part of the job of an entertainer is to monitor the competition—what has he got in his act that you should have in yours? How can you steal it from him and make it better? I went along just to see what the fuss was about. There they were as alike as two people can be. Feminine but still authoritative, in control. I can even remember what they were wearing. Very beautiful, very strange to see and hear. All manner of peculiar occurrences—furniture tipping over right there in front of you, people in the balcony complaining of being touched by invisible hands. For me, though, it was the amount of detail, the specifics, that were incredible to hear, the reactions extraordinary to behold. The number of people moved to tears, ladies weeping, and even uptight old men sniffing into their handkerchiefs. When a medium picks you out of a crowd, when she accurately describes someone you have loved dearly and lost, when she tells you about yourself using words and phrases only you would recognize, well . . . (Mortimer lets his point trail away.) I don’t know what that fellow was talking about because I have been to literally hundreds of shows, seen thousands of performers, and that was definitely not regular stage magic. That was something entirely
other.
James, there are two obstacles that prevent spiritualism from becoming acceptable to society. The first is the amount of fakers. If they are hearing voices at all, which is questionable, it is due to a disturbed mind and not discarnate spirits. While they persist in muddying the reputation of spiritualism, real mediums will never gain the respect they deserve. Second, this era is uncomfortable with a movement where the individual emotional experience is so pervasive—not to mention the consequences for science and religion as we understand them in the modern world. Society is far from ready to embrace spiritualism. But I don’t worry. Revolutions
happen. And when someone comes along with a gift, like your aunt Florence here, it is incumbent upon all of us to help her do what she was put on the earth to do.

Jem observes Florence Solomon-Black squeezing her husband’s hand, her face shining with admiration. Jem observes Rosemary Featherstone adjusting the napkin on her lap as though she did not hear all of it, as though weary—bored, even.

If this is the opportune moment for Mortimer to broach with his sister-in-law a business proposition—to make the argument for her to join them on a world tour that would make her wealthy and independent, bring guidance and relief to the bereaved and hapless, and, for a great number more, enjoyment and entertainment—Mortimer does not take it but lets his chance slide quietly by.

Jem has thought of some questions to ask about photography in his aunt and uncle’s homeland. The soup bowls are replaced with a platter of oysters.

Two rooms in different London boroughs. Two women—at a casual glance the same woman. Alone.

The first, bothered by an old problem that makes her tut and flap her hands to herself.

The second has busy thoughts, mundane trivialities about the following day, when she discerns a coaxing voice, male, whispering humane words. She sighs on hearing it. Flinches.

The first, her twin, stands in a room with her arms open, takes deep breaths, looks within, appeals to the darkness for answers.

The second hears his benevolence and love. He emerges. Wants to converse. He is thankful for his life, reluctant to let go, to depart. She tells him, You must.

The first banishes her doubt, her previous disappointments, the last traces of envy rubbed away—will come to this as new, refreshed,
and yes, receptive this time, feels her heart beat lower, and the distant echoes of the ages that are beyond her touch draw near.

The other: You were always so thoughtful and considerate; you shall do me this one last kindness and go. Do go. Please go.

While the first is saying: Come, come. I urge you. Alight. Enlighten me. Show me.

He is sad. The other replies, I am sad too, but we will soon see each other again, and I have such a lot to do until then. Really now, this is the last time, the very last.

The lady’s palms are moist from effort, she knows her own weakness, despair saps her conviction. Why not? Why always this way? Why do you never come when I ask? It is the unfairness of it—the unfairness!

The lady’s familiar pressure in her chest. Worse. It hurts her arm. Can you guess what I am going to do? I am going to see a doctor. That’s right. You know how I abhor doctors. He recedes for the last time, she hopes. It has become too much like being tested. She is needed, has work to do.

The first knows there is only emptiness here. Here and everywhere, and each and every time. True silence. Ordinary silence. It has never worked for her. Not once.

Highgate Cemetery, draped with vegetation, bitten with early frost, cloaked with grief. The stone angels cower and cry over their charges, the obelisks strike heavenward, the imperial mausoleums stand firm with the strength of centuries marking the entrances to eternity. A hewn gray scene of Gothic ornament. A shroud of fog disguising and revealing. Symbols clamor to be understood and indelible writings to honor, to make sense of loss, to endure. Steps and footpaths and shrubs and trees. Last destination, a home for the deceased, and a refuge for smaller lives, for foxes, birds, creepy-crawlies,
flowers waiting to grow in the spring. Names and dates carved upon headstones, sarcophagi, and the hearts of mourners. Cold. Souls flitting and compressed and dispersed. Thoroughfares for the dead and pilgrimage for the living. Mineral and organic matters coalesce. All of its jaggedness, hallowedness, drama, and transition. Sanctuary, but not from oneself.