Irish Gilt (5 page)

“Does the name Boris Henry mean anything to you, Father?”

“Certainly. Kansas City. Class of 1974, unless I'm mistaken.”

“You are not mistaken,” the provost said, delight in his voice. “And you are just the man I need to consult.”

The consultation took place in sybaritic offices in the Main Building. Once the officers of the university had done their work in modest quarters, unassisted by the current armies of supernumeraries occupying rooms that fanned out from the provost's. Ordinarily, Father Carmody would have said something about such conspicuous consumption and the multiplication of associate and assistant provosts and all the rest, but on this occasion he was content to let it go.

They settled on facing sofas, coffee was brought, and the provost got right to the point. “Boris Henry wants the university to set up a John Zahm Center.”

“I had no idea he was doing so well.”

The provost smiled. “Exactly what I thought at first, but he is not offering to fund the proposed center. As a matter of fact, what he wants to do is sell us some things of Zahm's we do not have.”

“Sell!”

“The world has changed, Father.”

“But he is an alumnus.”

“Be that as it may, I find the idea of such a center intriguing. Of course, the money will have to be found. George Rasp in the foundation suggested you might know of a donor for whom this would be particularly attractive.”

“There are many who would find it so, of course.”

The provost beamed. The man must have been an undergraduate during Father Carmody's golden years as a power behind the throne.

“What year did you graduate?”

The question startled the provost. “1990. But I'm not a Notre Dame man.”

“Good Lord.”

“My undergraduate degree is from Princeton.”

That the chief academic officer of Notre Dame was a product of such a godless institution as Princeton filled the old priest with dismay.
O tempora, O mores.

“You will help me on this, won't you, Father?”

“I am always at the service of Notre Dame,” Father Carmody said carefully.

*   *   *

From the provost's office, Father Carmody went to Rasp's in the Notre Dame Foundation, the operation that ensured a steady influx of money to the university.

“I come from the provost.”

“I know, I know. He called.” Rasp had a way of smiling while he talked that Father Carmody found demented. “About the Zahm Center.” He spoke as if this entity had already been founded and funded. On the desk before him was a sheet of paper on which he had been making preliminary calculations. “Only a first-class institute will do, and that will require a lot of money.”

“Of course, you know who John Zahm was.”

“Would you fill me in on that?”

“Are you a Princeton man, too?”

The smile dimmed but then reignited. “Ball State.”

There were times when Father Carmody feared that he had lived too long. What would Zahm have made of this kind of interest in his life and work? Boris Henry wanted to sell items to his alma mater; neither the provost nor Rasp seemed to have any idea exactly who Father Zahm had been. In the manner of their kind, though, they recognized a hook for fund-raising.

With resignation, Father Carmody gave a brief sketch of the achievements of John Zahm. Rasp nodded and smiled through the recital.

“I had an intuition,” Rasp said when the priest was finished. “After all, if his diary is thought to be worth that much…”

“His diary?”

“That is the main item Boris Henry is intent on selling us.”

“But we must already have first claim to ownership.”

“He bought it at an auction in Washington.”

Father Carmody sat back, rendered mute by what this conjured up. God knows what the fate of the items in Holy Cross College in Washington had been. Still, he could scarcely blame that on Princeton men, or alumni of Ball State, for that matter. This perfidy was that of the supposed custodians of the congregation's assets. Of course, some of them were also Princeton graduates.

“Do you have someone in mind, Father?”

“I'll make some calls.”

*   *   *

On his way back to Holy Cross House, he detoured past the library, where he consulted the 1974 yearbook. A twenty-two-year-old Boris Henry looked boldly into the camera, all dressed up for his graduation photograph. He figured as well in a photograph dubbed “the Three Musketeers.” Boris Henry, Xavier Kittock, and Paul Lohman. It all came back to him now. Three rowdies if there ever were, roommates in Zahm. Which one had climbed the scaffolding surrounding the dome when it was being regilded and descended with a souvenir to the cheers of the onlookers? Despite himself, the memory elicted a smile.

All that had been long ago Kittock had gone through Notre Dame on an ROTC scholarship and ended in the navy. Henry had gone into the law in Kansas City. Lohman, the least likely member of the trio, a dean's list student for four years, had narrowly missed being named valedictorian of his class. Several patents on devices used in communication satellites had made him enormously rich. Funding the John Zahm Center would be well within the range of his generosity, a mere bagatelle. Father Carmody put through a call to Boston.

9

Scholarly interests ebb and flow, obeying some astral influence beyond the ken of man. That is how Greg Walsh would have archly put it if his speech impediment had not reduced him to the status of a Trappist. Oddly enough, his tongue was loosened with Roger Knight, and whenever the great dirigible of a man squeezed through the entrance to the university archives, Greg enjoyed a holiday from his handicap. Roger had sent an e-mail telling Greg he was coming over. It was midafternoon in the archives. It might have been siesta time in some Mediterranean village. Not even Xavier Kittock was on the premises.

Greg went into the workroom, where gray archival boxes stood in a neat row on the table. It was a concession to Kittock to keep them in this room rather than return them to storage each day. Tapping the tops of the boxes with his fingers, Greg sighed. Zahm. Suddenly everyone was interested in Zahm. Roger's e-mail had contained a line or two about Boris Henry. A Google search on Henry featured his rare book business. The Notre Dame database turned up some interesting items. While he was at it, Greg ran a search on Kittock. Well, now he had an idea of Boris Henry's age. He and Kittock had been classmates at Notre Dame, and sure enough, they had both lived in Zahm Hall. But Greg could hardly make his complaint to Roger. After all, the Huneker Professor of Catholic Studies was himself lecturing on Father John Zahm this semester.

“Partly in response to a suggestion by Father Carmody,” Roger had explained, “but mostly because he seems to have been the most interesting faculty member of his generation.”

Of course, Greg knew the Zahm holdings in the archives, but then he knew the whole vast potpourri crammed into these rooms on the sixth floor of Hesburgh Library like the back of his hand.

The entrance opened, setting off a bell, and through the glass of the workroom Greg watched Roger squeeze through the door, wearing the deferential smile that came and went when he was reminded of his girth. Greg went out to greet him. Although their talking would disturb no one, Greg took him into the workroom and closed the door.

“Busy day?”

“As you see.”

“So you have the place all to yourself.” Roger had eased himself into a chair, effectively making it disappear. His hand went out to the row of archival boxes on the table. He turned one toward himself. “Zahm?”

“Who else?”

“Did you get these out for me?”

Greg found it a pleasant thought that he would know without being told what the purpose of Roger's visit was. He explained about Xavier Kittock. “He was a classmate of your Boris Henry.”

“What is his interest in Zahm?” Roger asked.

“He is very secretive. That, of course, makes me curious.”

“And?”

Greg leaned toward Roger. “He is writing a life of Zahm for teenagers.”

Again the bell, and Kittock hurried into the archives. He came to a halt when he saw that the workroom was occupied.

Greg stood and went out to reassure Kittock. “We just stepped in there to talk. Come, I want you to meet someone.” In his haste he forgot to stammer.

Kittock hesitated. He was clearly flustered. He hugged his briefcase to his chest. He still hugged it, as if for protection, when they went into the workroom, where Greg introduced him to Roger Knight.

Kittock freed one hand and extended it to the still-seated Roger. “Of course I've heard of you.”

“Of course?”

“My niece is in your class. Rebecca Nobile.”

“A very intelligent young lady. And I don't refer to her choice of professors.” Roger's chuckle set off a seismic movement in his enormous body that seemed to descend from his chins, ripple across his vast chest, and continue like a landslide to his surprisingly small feet, which were enclosed in sandals. The toes of them rose and fell rhythmically. “Greg tells me you are interested in Father Zahm.”

Kittock glanced at Greg. “In a small way.”

Greg tried to voice his mot about the ebb and flow of scholarly interests, but his tongue would not oblige. Even the secretive Kittock stilled his voice.

“I understand Boris Henry was your classmate,” Roger said, his voice suggesting that he had a surprise in store for Kittock.

The effect was electric. Kittock sprang back from the seated professor and got his hand on the knob of the door. Again he pressed his briefcase to his chest. “Why do you mention him?”

“Because of his interest in Father Zahm. I just left him.”

“He's already here!” Kittock swung on Greg, as if he were the cause of his confusion. “I won't be working this afternoon. You can put those boxes away.” He bobbed at Roger, left the workroom, and a moment later was out of the archives. Roger looked at Greg. The archivist shrugged.

“I wonder if Boris Henry will react in the same way when I tell him Kittock has been doing research on Father Zahm?” Greg speculated.

Soon Kittock's odd behavior was forgotten, and they turned to the object of Roger's visit.

“I want to see everything on Zahm's South American trips. With and without Teddy Roosevelt.”

Greg pulled one of the boxes on the worktable from the row. “You can start with this.”

“Is that Kittock's interest?”

“I told you. He's all over the lot. The evolution controversy, the trips out west to recruit students, Dante, stories about him in the
Scholastic.
You name it.”

Roger was not likely to criticize a scattergun approach to a subject. He nodded as if in approval of Kittock's method, or lack of it. He was already examining the contents of the box Greg had indicated. The archivist went in search of more materials. An hour later, Roger was so immersed that Greg felt he was interrupting when he put the photocopy of the story in the
Observer
before Roger. For a moment, he wondered if Roger had noticed, but then Roger picked it up and read, a smile forming on his face.

The story was headlined
GOLD FEVER
and recounted the regilding of the dome on the Main Building. Greg had underlined the paragraphs that described the ascent of the scaffolding by Boris Henry. There was a photograph of him taken when he came down, holding a golden chip.

10

Josh Daley ran every other day, at least five miles, sometimes ten, depending on whether or not he confined himself to the campus roads and the paths around the lakes. This was the safer course. Running north on the county road to the Michigan line added the hazard of traffic to the welcome punishment of fatigue. On the day after he had finally met Rebecca he ran fifteen miles, on campus and off, and he returned to the Joyce Center soaked with perspiration. The exercise seemed a metaphor of his life. He was a long distance runner, and he hoped he had embarked on a long run with Rebecca.

If he had looked forward to Continental epistemology before talking with Rebecca, now the class seemed the main purpose of his life. Although he feared it would make Tenet even less intelligible, Josh plunked down beside Rebecca and got a smile for his pains. There were three minutes before the lecture began.

“So you're a philosophy major,” he said to Rebecca.

“Why aren't you?”

“I'll tell you a secret. If Tenet lectured in German it would make as much sense to me.”

“Come on.”

“I mean it.”

“What is your major?”

“Don't laugh.”

“Tell me.”

He told her. She laughed.

“It would help if you explained the course to me.”

She saw that he was serious. “On one condition.”

“Name it.”

“That you come to Professor Knight's class tomorrow.”

He had already agreed to do this. Had she forgotten? “It's a deal.” It was a date, too, sort of.

Tenet was at the podium shuffling his papers. The clock ticked, and he began, addressing Josh as if he had identified the ideal student. Josh busied himself with his notebook rather than let Tenet see how lost he was. He wrote rapidly what he could remember of the Gettysburg Address. Beside him, Rebecca paused between quick entries in her notebook. From time to time she nodded in agreement with Tenet. The topic was the Leibnitzian monad. It sounded like a railroad. Without windows. Nothing really acted on anything else; it just appeared that way because of preestablished harmony. Philosophy seemed a lot like science fiction.

Afterward, when they were walking across campus, he told her that he ran.

“From what?”

“Just run. You know.”

“Jogging?”

“Sort of.”

“That seems such a waste of time.”

If she had asked him to, he would have sworn off running then and there. Instead she said, “Maybe I should try it.”