Mount Terminus (43 page)

It was impossible to see in the dim light, but Bloom was certain from the smile on Isabella's face, a smile he recognized from their postcoital entanglements, she was aglow, and seeing in her expression how taken she was with Simon, he could feel himself growing hot.

Simon now leaned over Bloom and shut his tablet. He slid his hand under Bloom's chin and turned it to Isabella's face. Be a gentleman and take your wife for a little twirl.

Bloom pulled his face away from Simon. No, he said. Maybe later.

Then, said Isabella, perhaps Simon will.

Yes, said Bloom, by all means, Simon.

Don't you mind? said his brother.

No, said Bloom, waving them off.

Well, you should.

No. Go. Dance. Be merry.

With a stern look he had never before received from Isabella, she placed her hand in Simon's, and together they walked onto the dance floor. Upon seeing them, the orchestra leader called up the horn section with his baton and waved the musicians into a lively rhythm. Hearing the music change pace, the men and women milling about inside the house started to pair off and make their way outdoors. The courtyard, Bloom could see, was soon going to fill, and at the sight of this onrush, his physical discomfort began to intensify. How, he thought, could he have handled himself more poorly? His chest tightened at the sight of Isabella's breast brushing against Simon's lapel. His heart began to beat in a flutter every time she turned up her nose and lifted her eyes to look at him. The mentholated air began to smell sweet and inadequate for breathing. A woman of ghostly pallor whose hair was coiled and encrusted with small jewels now sat down across from him and asked Bloom if he was all right.

Why do you ask?

You look faint, she said.

No, said Bloom, I'm fine.

I know faint, she said, and you look it. Weak in the eyes.

Bloom excused himself, and feeling a heaviness in his legs, he stood up. He managed a smile, and leaving his tablet behind, made his way through the crowd, exited the courtyard through the pergola, and moved on into the grove. When he reached the drive he walked between the hedgerows, passing as he went couples embracing in the shadows. He pressed on past these darkened figures to a turn that led to a dead end, and when he found it unoccupied, he blew out the flame of the nearest torch, and with a sweet waft of kerosene filling his nose, he lay down on a bench to look into a moonless sky. And here he shut his eyes and lay still. When his head had cleared, when he was once again able to hear his own thoughts, he felt a hand brush over his hair, and there he found when he opened his eyes Roya sitting beside him. She lifted his head and placed it in her lap, and there, in the dark corner, she continued to caress him, to pacify him. They sat this way for a long time, and when Roya stopped moving her fingers through his hair, she sat Bloom up and took his hand. Together they walked out of the garden and she led him to the cellar door. They descended into the vaults and went to the opening of the chamber, and there Roya sent Bloom up into the darkness, into the quiet of Manuel's secret room.

*   *   *

There Bloom sat and stared at the projection table, on top of which he saw, after some time had passed, Isabella walk into the gallery and shut the door behind her. She lay down on the chaise, where she covered her face with her hands. A few moments later, in walked Simon, who, seeing her distraught, sat at her side.

They didn't speak. They merely observed each other. And Bloom could see what was in Isabella's mind.

Simon soon placed a hand on her cheek to wipe away a tear, and he let his palm rest there. Isabella didn't push it away. Rather, she lifted her hand and placed it over his, and held it there. She now lifted her chin so Simon could better see her eyes, and as she turned her face to his, she smoothed over his knuckles with her fingers. She said something to him and he said something in return. Upon hearing whatever it was she said next, he bent down and kissed her forehead. For quite a while he kissed her there on her brow, then turned his cheek and affectionately pressed it to where his lips had been. Simon said something more to her, then removed himself and walked out of the room. Isabella now sat up, her face no longer forlorn, but repaired. She touched the corners of her eyes, righted her dress, then she, too, exited the room.

*   *   *

Bloom now sat and thought. Was this what Simon meant when he said Isabella was lost? Did he fail to mention that they were lost together?

For the remainder of the night, he considered what he had seen.

He had seen it, hadn't he?

And if it was what he saw, what was he to do?

Was there, he wondered, anything he could do?

Should he react in the ways he knew men to react when betrayed by those they held dearest?

Or should he pretend not to have seen what he had seen? Perhaps he hadn't seen it at all? Perhaps he could convince himself he had imagined it?

Should he not be able to pretend, however, what then?

His instinct was to forgive.

But when he thought of forgiveness, he wondered, How does one forgive such a thing? He began to live out in his mind a future in which he did forgive, and as he did so, it occurred to him what sacrifices this would entail. He thought: If this was true, as it certainly appeared to be from the expressions he observed on Isabella's and Simon's faces, would he have to watch for the indefinite future his wife look upon his brother in that way?

He allowed this to play out, and found this scenario unbearable.

And here in reaction to these unbearable thoughts arrived an anger he couldn't suppress. Here arrived a primal rage that erupted in a primal roar. He lifted his head to the pitched roof and wailed.

Yet, he thought when he had finished howling into Manuel Salazar's void, if he were to act on this primal scream, what good could come of it?

What would happen if he tried to impede them? If he shouted his protest. Disallowed them. Dictated to them. Condemned them. Punished them. Exercised his vengeance upon them.

And here his better nature reappeared.

This was his brother and his wife, for whom he would want, under any other circumstances, love and happiness. He was entangled in their lives so deeply, to seek revenge against them was to seek revenge against himself. To condemn and punish them was to condemn and punish himself.

Yet he was certainly angry enough to condemn and punish, and now that he recalled the way Simon touched her, the way Isabella shared with him the full openness of her eyes—a look he thought until that moment belonged entirely to him—here wrath revisited him.

And again he screamed into the rafters.

And then screamed some more.

Nothing he could do, he came to realize, would leave him in peace.

He now better understood what drove Hamlet so sideways and upside down. To forgive his duplicitous brother and his duplicitous wife would be in words only. Words words words, and nothing more. To condone their feelings for each other, to say, Who am I to struggle against your desire, your passion? Who am I to dissuade you from what your love demands? would only result in Bloom going more mad than he already felt.

No, he wouldn't be so beneficent. He wouldn't be so accommodating. Nor would he risk repeating the past. He wouldn't give himself over to superstition and orders of predestination and replay the story of his mother and Leah, of his father and Freed.

The option he preferred, therefore, was to do nothing.

And here he contemplated the paradox of Abraham's faith.

He chose to believe in their conscience. He chose to believe that by doing nothing he would leave them to dwell in their transgression alone. Every time they looked at each other, touched each other, so much as had a wanting thought of the other, he would leave them room to suffer their guilt and shame.

He was assured enough in Isabella, at least, that no matter how her concerns had been altered, she was a woman of conscience. She would never forget how devoted Bloom had been to her. She wouldn't be capable of disregarding his kindness and compassion. His love. Their memories together, no matter how hard she tried to ignore them, he was certain, would eventually devour her.

And so, before he left Manuel's chamber the following morning, he was decided. He would say nothing. He would do nothing. He would pretend he had seen nothing. As if it never happened. But he wouldn't forget, and his eyes would remain open.

*   *   *

When Bloom climbed out of the cellar, he poured himself a cup of coffee in the kitchen and carried it through to the parlor. Meralda had opened all the windows and doors, but the house still smelled of stale champagne and tobacco smoke, of sweat and tinctures of a variety of perfumes. Bloom reclined in his father's chair with thoughts of drifting off to sleep, but after he'd taken only a sip of his coffee, Isabella entered and with exasperation and some relief said, There you are!

Here I am!

Where have you been?

I went for a walk.

You just left.

I did. I walked away.

Without a word?

It would seem you and Gottlieb were right to have been worried about me last night. And now it's confirmed. I'm not good in a crowd.

Isabella shook her head. She walked over to the chair and sat on its arm with her back to Bloom. I really thought it would do you some good to mingle with people. She looked over her shoulder to glower at him. I certainly didn't think it would do you any harm. And then, the way you looked at me in the courtyard …

How?

As if you despised me. Reviled me.

No, said Bloom. You're mistaken.

No, said Isabella. I'm not.

It was only my confusion you saw. I didn't know what to make of you in that scene.

No, you didn't see your face.

Nor did you see yours.

What was it you saw that caused you to react as you did?

It's what I didn't see, said Bloom. I hardly recognized you. I didn't know you.

But that was
me
.

No, said Bloom, it wasn't.

Is it really so hard to grasp that I sometimes flit around a party to gossip and joke? Is it really so perplexing I take an interest in people?

That, said Bloom, I understand. What I don't understand, what I find baffling, is that you've chosen artifice and pretense over every other part of you. The vital parts of you I just happen to love most of all. You've hidden that Isabella somewhere far away from me.

To this Isabella said nothing.

Is she still here? asked Bloom. Somewhere nearby?

Isabella glanced back at Bloom and said curtly, I don't know.

On the off chance she is, would you convey a message?

What?

I miss her.

Isabella sighed.

Would you tell her I'd like to be reacquainted with her.

She sighed again.

And while you're at it, will you ask her if she'd visit my studio?

This solicited a huff. When?

Later this afternoon?

I'll see what I can do.

If you don't think you can …

I said, I'll see what I can do.

Good, said Bloom.

In a tone of surrender, Isabella said, What time shall I tell her?

One o'clock?

One o'clock.

*   *   *

Bloom spent the remainder of the morning posting on the walls of his studio the collection of panels he'd drawn for
The Death of Paradise
. He set them in a linear progression moving left to right around the room. Scene by scene. Act by act. On his table, he stacked the specifications for each set; the costume patterns; the lighting diagrams; the camera positions; every aspect of the production he had mulled over again and again since he had taken it on: all of this, he organized for Isabella to see, to touch, to dwell on. As one o'clock approached there was a small part of him that wondered if she would make their appointment. She had no idea what he had in mind, yet he thought there might be some reluctance on her part to return to him as she once was, to take a step back in time to revisit an aspect of herself she had gone to such great lengths to bury. But there she was at one o'clock, looking up to him as she walked up the stairs to the studio. He greeted her at the door and took her by the hand, and with their fingers intertwined he walked her to the opening panel. She reached out and touched it, and said to him, It's as if Manuel had drawn it himself.

No, said Bloom.

Yes, said Isabella. It's as if you and he were the same.

He directed her eye around the room with his hand. I can use your help, he said.

In what way?

I can't see it any longer.

See what?

What's missing. What's wrong. What's inadequate.

Isabella began to walk along the progression of events. But it's all here. It's all here, beautifully rendered. Perfectly arresting.

Please, said Bloom, keep looking.

I'm just not sure what I'm supposed to be looking for. What more can I possibly say that you haven't already said in each of these images?

Take it all in and then start again from the beginning. Don't look for what's right. Try to find what's missing. If there are any expectations I'm not living up to in your mind. Try to imagine them for yourself. See into it as if you were the one responsible for drawing them.

And on Isabella walked and completed her first revolution around the room. When she finished, Bloom said, Again. And when she finished for the second time, he said, And again and again, until you can see it right away, altogether, at once.

Right away, altogether, at once? said Isabella.

Yes, said Bloom. Take it all in, so you can see it play out all at once in your mind.

Isabella went around for a third time, and then without Bloom saying a word, she went about again.

Can you see it yet?

Yes, she said. As you said. Right away, altogether, at once.

A tablet, she said.

Excuse me?