Irish Gilt (7 page)

“It must run in the family,” he said.

“What?”

Roger shrugged. “Well, after all, your father is a fan of Lope de Vega.”

She laughed. “Uncle X is not at all like my father. He's my mother's brother. He's not like her, either.”

“X?”

“For Xavier. He spent most of his life in the navy.”

“I'm a navy man myself.”

She sat back, as if to gain sufficient distance to take him all in. Her look was one of disbelief, so he told her of his ignominious naval career.

“You actually wore one of those uniforms?”

“There was less of me then. Not much less, but enough.”

“Well, Uncle X was made for the navy. In the family, he is something of a black sheep. Before and after the navy, that is. He was discharged with a chest full of medals.”

“And what does he do now?”

“Golfs. He does read. And a few years ago he was part of a treasure hunting expedition. Basically, he's retired. He's younger than my mother, and already he's retired. My dad can't understand how he can spend all his time doing nothing.”

“Golf isn't nothing.”

“Don't tell me you golf, too?”

It was Roger's turn to laugh. “I leave that to my brother, Phil.”

“Is he retired?”

“I don't think he would put it that way.”

“What does he do?”

“He's a private detective.”

“I don't believe it.”

“It's true.” Roger decided against telling her that he himself had a private investigator's licence.

“He and Uncle X should get together.”

“They could golf.”

“Would you mind if I suggested it?”

Roger hesitated. He didn't want to commit Phil, and he could imagine his brother's reaction to the suggestion that he golf with a man who spent his days in the university archives. Of course, there was the naval career to balance that.

“Why don't you ask Phil?” he suggested. “But first, tell me more about your father.”

He had been a successful pathologist in Fort Worth, Rebecca said, a specialty that left him time for the pursuits that increasingly interested him. The move to Texas had prompted him to learn Spanish, and that had led to an interest in Spanish literature. Hence Lope de Vega.

“I'd like to meet him.”

“And he wants to meet you. Next time he visits I'll set it up. Meanwhile, I want to talk to your brother.” Off she went to Phil, who was in the den watching television, staying out of the way of Roger's class.

“Thanks for letting me come.” It was Josh Daley.

“Have some more popcorn.”

Josh had some more popcorn as he explained why he had shown up for Roger's class.

“What's your major?”

“History.”

“What period?”

“Modern European.”

“How modern?”

“Post-Reformation and into the eighteenth century.”

“Spain?”

“Some. Why do you ask?”

“Spanish literature is Rebecca's father's passion. The golden age, one of the most fascinating of all, with St. Teresa of Avila and St. John of the Cross as well as Cervantes and Lope de Vega.”

“That's Rebecca's middle name.”

“Now you know why.”

Was Roger actually suggesting that the way to Rebecca's heart was via her father's interest in Spanish literature? When Josh thought of it that way, it sounded pretty silly. Still, being polite never hurt.

“Thanks for the tip,” he said.

14

Xavier Kittock had found his return to campus everything that he had expected. The weather was contrast enough to Florida's to give zest to life. He sprang out of bed in the morning and into the shower as if he were on some demanding schedule, and he loved it. Ever since getting out of the navy, he had been fulfilling the dream of indolence that carries one through the working years. When it comes, though, it swiftly loses its charms. The thing about a vacation is that it's temporary, a furlough; retirement just goes on and on. Who would have thought that you could get tired of golf? The expedition to find buried treasure seemed to bring him back to active duty, and it led to other things. Now, back at Notre Dame, he had a routine. His room was only a notch above a student room; there were all kinds of places to pick up breakfast. At 11:30, he went to Mass in Sacred Heart Basilica, surprised at how easily piety returned in this setting. Then there were the long hours in the archives.

Suddenly this idyll had been disturbed. First, there had been Bernice, the girl in the eatery at Grace, where he often went for a long lunch after a morning in the archives. He felt like an ass when he remembered telling her he was a writer. That had led to her telling him of her ambitions. Hers seemed a commentary on his own imaginary aspirations. It was pretty obvious that Bernice wanted to be an author, but it was unclear whether she could be a writer. Was he any better? They both wanted the title without the effort. This sense of similarity made him more sympathetic to her rather than less. Then he had been publicly confronted by her husband!

Lying on his bed, shoes kicked off, hands behind his head, he sought on the ceiling the memory of that encounter. His first impulse was to tell the man that he had it all wrong—Bernice was so much younger, the accusation was ridiculous—but how could he justify himself with people slowing down and listening in as the man all but shouted his accusation on a campus walk? Then he was gone, and Kittock hurried away to his room and the replaying of the humiliating episode. One thing was sure, he would never return to the eatery in Grace. If he got serious about any woman at his age it would be Clare Healy.

Now Boris Henry was looking for him. Greg Walsh had phoned Kittock and managed to get out that message with some effort. Kittock thanked him and hung up and then wondered why the archivist felt he should warn him about Boris. Of course, it was Zahm. Kittock thought of Boris seeing that row of boxes on the table in the workroom of the archives. Naturally he would think that Kittock was poaching on his territory.

Well, he was. At the reunion, on a walk around the lakes, Paul Lohman had gone on and on about the transformation in their old friend, from lawyer to leading rare book dealer. “What he doesn't know,” Paul said in admiration. “He sounds like a professor with a dozen specialities. Do you know
The Great Gatsby
?”

“The novel?”

“Boris quoted from it. ‘I was that narrowest of specialists, the well-rounded man.'”

“What's that mean?”

“Ask Boris. He carries a lot of Notre Dame stuff. He says it sells like candy. You know the hall we lived in, Zahm? Named after a priest, John Zahm. He's become a big interest of Boris's.”

That was all, at least about Boris. He and Paul played nine holes, and Eggs took it easy on his old roommate. His own handicap was down to four, but he was almost ashamed of that, listening to Boris Henry's exciting life. Then had come the visit to Kansas City and the exciting news about Zahm's travel diary. So he got hold of Weber's biography of Zahm, and the next thing he knew he was sitting in the archives at Notre Dame asking the archivist to bring him stuff on Zahm. Well, it was one thing to fool a girl who worked in Grace. Boris wouldn't need two minutes to see how little Eggs Kittock had learned during his weeks in the archives.

He called the Morris Inn and asked for the room of Boris Henry. He was registered, but Kittock didn't leave a message. Better to just go over there and meet him when he came in.

Half an hour later, as Kittock entered the Morris Inn lobby, a girl rose from a chair and hurried up to him. Good God, Bernice.

“I thought you would be staying here,” she said.

“But I'm not.”

She waved it away as an irrelevancy. “Did my husband threaten you?”

Eggs looked wildly around, but no one seemed to be paying attention. A good thing. Bernice was clinging to his arm and looking up into his face with more excitement than anger.

“I could kill him,” she said.

He took her outside, and they sat at a table where they wouldn't be visible from the dining room. Eggs tried to laugh away her anger with her husband, but it became clear that she was enjoying this.

“I don't know how he found out about you,” Bernice said.

“There's nothing to find out.”

“Try to convince him of that.”

“I don't think so.” What he was thinking was that it was time he got the hell back to Florida, teed up a ball, and went back to being Eggs Kittock. He would leave Zahm to Boris.

“I can't tell you how bad I feel.”

“Look, I am a middle-aged man. This is ridiculous.” She wasn't that much older than Rebecca. Well, anyway, she was one helluva lot younger than he was. Nor was she anyone men would fight over—past any prettiness she had once known, and not managing too well now that she was older. Her thin face was long; her mousy hair responded to the slightest breeze. The big staring eyes were hungry for something she was unlikely to find. Involuntarily, he compared her with the sophisticated and mature Clare Healy. It was one thing to chat with the girl where she worked, but now she had come to the Morris Inn on the assumption that he was staying here and had sat in the lobby until he showed up. Hadn't she even checked at the desk?

“Did you go to the archives?”

“I had to tell you how upset I am.”

“Well, I appreciate that.” He stood. “I hope you work things out with your husband.”

“We're divorced.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Why?”

“Okay, I'm not sorry.”

She gave him a slow, sly smile. Good God. She was still seated in her chair when the doors from the lobby opened and Rebecca came out.

“Uncle X,” she cried. Then she noticed Bernice. Her eyes went back and forth from her uncle to the girl. “Oh. Sorry. I saw you from the lobby and.…”

Bernice was standing. Rebecca looked as if she expected Eggs to introduce her to the girl. Not on your life. He took his niece's arm and went with her into the lobby.

“Who was that?” Rebecca whispered.

“Darned if I know. She was there when I stepped outside.”

“Better be careful. She looks as if she'd like to have you for lunch.”

15

Boris Henry loped across the lobby of the Morris Inn and stopped. “Eggs!”

Kittock actually jumped at the sound of his name, but the girl with him smiled receptively. Boris put his hands on Eggs's shoulders. “You old pirate. How are you?”

“This is my niece, Rebecca.”

“Well, that's a relief. I thought you were going through a midlife crisis.”

“I'm looking forward to it.”

“Let's all have a drink.”

“Not me,” Rebecca cried. “I saw Uncle X on his way here and have been trying to catch up to him.” She turned to Eggs. “Dad is coming on a visit.”

“Your mother, too?”

“Just Dad.” She leaned toward Eggs and kissed him. “Call me.” Off she went.

As Kittock and Boris headed for the bar, Bernice came in from the patio. “Oh,” she said. “I wasn't sure you were coming back.” She tipped back her head so she could look up at Boris.

“So who have we here?” Boris chortled.

“Bernice. Bernice Esperanza.” She thrust a hand at Boris, and he enclosed it in both of his. He looked at Eggs, waiting for him to do the honors.

“This is my classmate, Boris Henry.”

“Henry! That's my son's name.”

“Reason enough to buy you a drink. Will you join us?” Boris asked.

That not all prayers are answered was proved once more to Kittock when she accepted with a giggle. She went into the bar on Boris's arm, and Eggs followed.

There are stretches of time so unwelcome that every moment of their duration is burnt into memory. When they were settled at a table—a glass of white wine in front of the bedazzled Bernice, Boris with a scotch and water, and Eggs settling for a Miller Lite as if to punish his classmate with his moderation—Eggs felt both spectator at and participant in a farce. Boris was enjoying this too much, quizzing Bernice, feigning fascination with her answers.

“You're employed at Notre Dame?”

“Xavier can tell you all about it.”

“But will he?” Boris asked, his brows actually dancing.

“There is nothing to hide.”

“Eggs always was the brazen sort.”

“Eggs?”

“That's what we call him. Eggs for X.”

“Oh, that's funny.”

Incredibly, Boris elicited from her her hopes of becoming a writer. “It's what Eggs and I have in common,” she said.

“Of course.” Boris glanced at Eggs, who got his glass to his mouth. “Who are your favorite authors?”

“Oh, you wouldn't have heard of them.”

“Try me.”

“Boris is in the book business,” Eggs said.

“A publisher!”

“No, no. Merely a dealer. Rare books mainly.”

“Oh, that's fascinating.”

“But tell me how you two met.”

“You tell him,” Bernice urged, but Eggs waved his hand, giving her the floor. “We have lunch in the same place on campus,” she said.

Dante was wrong in the punishments he selected for the souls in Purgatory. What could be more punitive than the situation Kittock found himself in? Bernice made their meeting at the eatery in Grace seem like an assignation.

“Of course, it's all quite innocent.” She widened her eyes. “No matter what my husband thinks.”

“Your husband?”

“Actually we're divorced, but try to get him to realize that. He threatened Eggs.”

“Physically?”

“You'd have to know Ricardo to understand. He's an Argentine. Very macho.”

“And jealous, it would seem.”

“Isn't that silly?”

“Oh, I don't know.”

By the slow movement of the setting sun she could not have remained with them for twenty minutes, but for Eggs the torture seemed prolonged for eons.