The Darkening Dream (6 page)

Seven:

School Days

Salem, Massachusetts, Monday, October 20, 1913

A
LEX ROSE ABOUT AN HOUR
before the sun. Grandfather’s intermittent sleep wasn’t predictable but his predawn activity never varied, making this quiet window of time the only one the three bachelors consistently spent together.

He wound through the maze of staircases and twisty corridors that honeycombed his new home. Built by some mad baker-turned-architect, its gothic revival style and turret-like tower lent it a haphazard appearance not unlike a giant gingerbread house. To this Grandfather had added his own taste for the baroque, a hodgepodge of medieval trunks and benches juxtaposed with Viennese and Venetian cabinets — all undercut with dizzying non-figural carpets. Dark portraits of dour old men and dying saints scowled down from ornate framed perches.

In the breakfast room, Alex found the usual morning fare: olives, feta made fresh with milk from Dmitri’s precious goats, and a plate of deep-fried dough balls drizzled with honey. He snagged one of these treats and a slab of the white cheese, stuffed them both into his mouth, and enjoyed the contrast of sweet and salty. The high whistle and wonderful aroma of brewing coffee drew him into the kitchen.

Dmitri was taking the pot off the stove with a rag. The Albanian was closer to seven feet than six, and Alex wouldn’t hazard a guess as to his real age. In the fifteen or so years he remembered, perhaps Dimitri’s unruly black beard and banana-sized mustache had taken on a bit more white, and certainly his huge frame carried twoscore more pounds, but he didn’t really look any different.

Seeing Alex enter, he plucked a porcelain coffee cup out of a cabinet with an almost dainty two-fingered grip. He held the little octagonal pot a full two feet above the cup, pouring without spilling a drop while pivoting 180 degrees. The hairy giant presented this offering with a low bow and one of the characteristic flourishes that for him took the place of conversational pleasantries. While Dmitri understood Greek more or less fluently, he was laconic to an extreme, and when he did speak, it was in short bursts of his incomprehensible mountain tongue.

Alex thanked him before sipping the chewy coffee.

“Is Grandfather about?”

The Albanian clasped his hands together and opened them like a book.

“Ah, reading,” Alex said. “I’ll bring him while you finish setting the table.”

He crossed the dark hall and entered his grandfather’s even darker library.

The old man sat in his wheelchair by the cold fireplace, snoring gently, a large book on his lap and a candle smoldering on the side table. His tall and elegant frame was cloaked in his favorite scarlet and gold damask robe, cinched with a braided gold belt. His sleeping face was long and attenuated, crowned by a lengthy mane of hair still thick and lustrous though its color had bleached to a bone white. Long spider-like fingers steepled the tome he’d been reading, and narrow slippers of purple velvet protruded from under the robe’s hem. In sleep his face looked slack.

He startled. Fierce intensity snapped back into his figure and piercing intelligence into his gaze.

“Good morning, Alexandros,” he said in Greek. “Ready for another week at your new American school?”

“Ready enough, Grandfather. Shall I push you to breakfast, or would you like to walk?”

The old man caressed one of the wooden wheels.

“I’m not feeling my strongest today.”

“You haven’t been eating enough.” Alex began to maneuver the bulky chair. “You lost too much weight on the ship.”

He half-remembered a time when the hair had been more gray than white, and Grandfather had stood on his own. A little stab of pain jabbed Alex in the temples. By the Father and the Son, he hated mornings.

“My diet does not agree with me like it once did,” the old man said. “The wine no longer tastes of the fruit but only of dry dust and decayed earth. Enjoy the bright flavors of your youth, for eventually all things are wearisome. Would that the eye never has enough of seeing, nor the ear its fill of hearing.” A grin made his face look all the more cadaverous.

With Constantine Palaogos’ cryptic allusions, partial comprehension was only to be expected. He wheeled Grandfather through the dining room, as the old man thought the kitchen too bright and fit only for servants. Once settled in his accustomed place, he glowered at the food, making no attempt to help himself.

Alex sighed and sat, grabbing a few olives to munch on.

Dmitri set Alex’s abandoned coffee before him and handed his employer a cup of dark liquid, saying only one word: “Basil.” Alex shared this middle name with his grandfather, and it was Dmitri’s private appellation for the old man. The big servant settled comically on the tiny stool he preferred, reminding Alex of a Russian dancing bear.

They hadn’t spoken the previous evening.

“Yesterday I made some American friends — from my school — but while we were out enjoying the day we stumbled on a tragic scene.”

Constantine’s eyes glittered; the macabre was guaranteed to pique his interest.

“Tragic? Tell me about that first, then I’ll want complete descriptions of each companion.”

Grandfather preferred detailed reports, which he blamed on his years as a military officer. Alex dutifully summarized.

“I saw no obvious motive for the killing, but the condition of the cadaver, the cruelty of the attack, the ritual arrangement of the corpse… I did wonder: could it have been one of them?”

The old man’s narrow face brightened.

“You were right to suspect more than the usual variety of meanness,” he said. “But I’ve not heard of a ritual that fits this description, although there are as many ceremonies as practitioners. Crucifixion is, of course, an important element in many ancient European sacrifices. There were no distinguishing attributes? Markings? Figures? Herbs?”

“Just the body,” Alex said.

When they’d lived in Constantinople, a certain Pasha-come-police-magistrate had approached Constantine for help with these types of murders. Surprisingly, given how Grandfather felt about the Turks, he’d always been gracious and helpful. His interest in morbid criminality apparently outweighed his political aversions.

“Perhaps the ritual was only symbolic, not necessarily efficacious,” he said. “It’s also interesting that one of your new friends observed a relationship to the stigmata. And a female?”

Alex laughed. “The world’s changing on you, Grandfather. I read in the paper about women starving themselves in protest for the right to vote.”

The expression that crossed Grandfather’s face was like that of a man discovering a long overlooked cheese in the ice-box.

“Allowing women the franchise would be like expecting fish to speak.”

Alex’s sinuses filled with snorted coffee grinds.

“Some Greek you are,” he said when he recovered.

Constantine’s yellowing old eyes narrowed.

A sliver of rising sun peeked above the horizon as Alex headed for the Highland Avenue trolley. He enjoyed the brisk walk until his reverie was disturbed by a neighbor’s German Shepherd barking at him incessantly. Dogs made Alex nervous, particularly pointy-eared dogs with ill-natured temperaments. He was chased for at least a quarter-mile, escaping only when the streetcar drowned out the barks, shrieking and rattling around the corner. He swung onto the crowded trolley and clung to a pole while the dog continued its pursuit, losing ground and eventually reaching some territorial limit.

As the vehicle rolled into town he marveled again at the contrast with Greece, and not just the wood and brick buildings. New England buzzed with energy, smokestacks and construction, a constant reminder of the infestation of factories and businesses. People here didn’t revel in past glories — they worked, fashioning the raw materials borne in on trucks and carts into finished goods. Americans were clearly fond of the whole process, judging by the time and money they spent flitting about the insane variety of shops.

The buildings grew more residential near the new high school, where Alex spied a handwritten sign, “Special Assembly, 7:00 a.m., Hawthorne Hall.” He let the current of students pull him inside. Brick walls and terrazzo flooring amplified the boisterous conversations. He’d been forcing himself to think in English, but his lack of fluency hit home with every babbled sentence.

“Alex! Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.”

He swiveled too slow to avoid a jovial blow to the back. Sam stood with his twin and another girl who looked like a miniature reflection of her.

“Let me introduce our baby sister, Emily,” Anne said with a big grin. “I’m embarrassed to say that your surname escapes me.”

“I’m not a baby anything. I’m fourteen.” The girl gave Alex a theatrical curtsey. “I’m embarrassed to say God made me Anne’s sister.”

“Ignore them,” Sam said. “Sarcasm is a Williams family trait. In England, two hundred years ago, some ancestor insulted an important lord, and onto the boat they shoved her.”

He gave Anne a push. She stumbled right into Alex and he barely managed to grab her arms before they ended up in a decidedly public embrace.

“Thanks,” she whispered, and turned to kick Sam in the shin.

She was still grinning when the surrounding babble quieted and Principal Burnsworth took the stage.

“It is with great regret that I inform you of the tragic death of one of our entering freshmen, Charles Danforth…”

The low murmur of the crowd rose to a cacophony as the student body exchanged rumors.

“Quiet, please… Quiet! Thank you. Memorial services will be held at the Tabernacle Third Congregational on Wednesday…”

“Do you think they’ll let us see Charles at the funeral?” Emily whispered.

The girl looked so young and innocent. Her long blond hair was like her sister’s, and her skin almost a crystalline glaze. Even at fourteen, she was heartrendingly fetching.

“Don’t be morbid, Emily,” Anne said. “They won’t have an open casket.” She turned to Alex. “It’s not something Congregationalists usually do.”

Charles had been Emily’s friend. But condolences always lay awkwardly on Alex’s tongue, making him think he should feel more than he did.

Thirty-odd desks were bolted to the floor in Alex’s first class, all facing the teacher’s desk. Mrs. Fletcher nested behind this inglorious failure of the cabinetmakers’ art, plump, wearing a pleasant expression and a ridiculous tweed hat.

He spied Sarah in front, next to the casement windows that showcased a brick wall. Alex’s assigned desk was in the back, but the one behind her was empty.

“Is this seat free?” he asked as he approached from behind.

“I’m sorry,” she said in falsetto. “It’s reserved for Mr. Palaogos. Most people are intimidated so close to the front.”

She’d remembered his surname.

“I’m not.” He took the seat. “And I’m happy to see you again. I didn’t notice you at the assembly.”

She turned her head so he was speaking to her profile. It was a nice profile.

“I ditched,” she said. “I suspect Mr. Burnsworth had no brilliant new wisdoms.” Alex saw half a smile.

“The man could bore paint off a wall.”

They both laughed.

“Have you learned anything else about the poor boy’s murder?” Sarah asked. “The newspaper didn’t say anything new.”

Alex had a sudden urge to share some details from his conversation with Grandfather. A lifetime of family secrecy clashed with his desire to say something, anything, that might impress her. He shrugged — mentally.
Hubris
led only to
nemesis
.

“The funeral’s on Wednesday,” he said. “Emily’s going. I assume you know her?”

“Of course, ninny, only since she was two.” From her, the insult was endearing. “Their church is a peculiar place. Reserved and cold, so unlike the Williams themselves. Basically, it’s Puritan. They changed the name, but it’s the same congregation. And the pastor, he’s actually descended from the minister who tried the Salem witches! Isn’t that creepy? But then I’m not Christian, so I can’t help thinking of Torquemada.”

Alex’s head began to buzz. Sarah was pushing a lot of information at him, and her soapy smell was distracting, took the edge off his thinking. If not a Christian, what was she?