The Language of Paradise: A Novel (34 page)

Leander might make light of his sorcery, but he was behind every recent marvel in Gideon’s life. Even the pregnancy—for Gideon would never have been so masterful with Sophy, exercised his imagination so freely, had Leander not taught him how to see her. The schoolmaster ate the world with his eyes. Man, woman, well-favored members of the animal kingdom; Fanny’s jars of quince jelly on the windowsill; the copper beech that overlooked the study; a perfect pear—Leander feasted on them all at his leisure. Pan-lover indeed! A cat may look at a king, the old saying went, but so might a king look at a cat, and use the creature for what pleasure he could take from it.

“Irrigate yourself, young Apollo.” Leander offered the water jug, watching with a teasing smile as Gideon crouched on his haunches and reached out an arm. His frank appreciation had bothered Gideon at first; there had been men at Harvard who were the subject of whispers. But his friend’s lingering looks were cast so widely that they were almost impersonal.

“Why do you stare at me?” he’d asked once, when they first began to work on the house.

Leander had raised his eyebrows. “Because you are beautiful,” he said, as if the answer were obvious. “If it disturbs you, I’ll stop.”

By now Gideon was used to the scrutiny—felt, even, that he merited it. Weeks of physical labor had turned him brown and muscled. From boyhood he had regarded his body as a kind of clock case, ornamental to no purpose, important only because it enclosed the works. Now that it had seeded a child and helped to complete a house, he viewed it with new respect.

“I must speak to Micah about making a long table,” Leander said. “Oval in shape to facilitate a communion of equals. When the students come, you can converse with them here. No lecturing in your school. You will be Socrates, and the table will be your sacred grove. Think of the meals we’ll have! Banquets for the scholars, and intimate suppers for our little family. We’ll nourish our bodies in silence, as the monks do, and our spirits will exult in the view.”

Gideon drank. “I’d love to see Caroline’s face if she ever learns what we’ve made of her salon. Micah says she was intending to play her spinet here, for a reverent audience of the cultured few.” Another thought occurred to him. “What about the Hedges?” “They’ll want to see Sophy . . . and the baby.”

The child was not quite real to him. Enthralled as he was by the fact of its existence, he had trouble picturing it in Sophy’s arms, or in her womb, for that matter, for she was as slender as she had ever been. True, it was early days: she was sick most mornings, and in bed each night she pressed his hand to her belly, inviting him to marvel over a roundness he pretended to feel. But Fanny seemed satisfied, and Leander, ever the expert, assured him that in a few months he would be an extraordinary father to an extraordinary child. Gideon was no longer certain how this prophecy would translate into humble human form. It was difficult to connect the infant paragons he’d conjured while writing his thesis to the squirming, red-faced specimens who had squalled through his sermons at Sunday meeting. Not, by any leap of the imagination, first citizens of a new world.

“I am already considering how to deal with the family,” Leander said. “James is no problem. I doubt he’ll come within a mile of the place. Micah is already one of us; he knows the virtues of silence in his bones. But dear, talkative Mrs. Hedge . . .” He sighed. “A worthy woman whose claims should be honored. We must think of a way to keep her at a distance while reassuring her that the baby is well. A fragility, perhaps . . . a constitutional delicacy requiring isolation, something the child will grow out of in time. Sophia could display the little one in a window. Wave its tiny hand at Grandmama.”

Leander flapped his fingers, widened his eyes, and blew out his lips in an expression of imbecilic delight. He doesn’t even care what he looks like, Gideon thought, feeling for once like the sober adult.

“I haven’t told Sophy yet,” he said. “I don’t know what to say to her. That she and the baby will be locked up like the princes in the Tower? That she’ll be let out once in a while for
talking
meals? She’ll never understand about the silence. What mother doesn’t want to speak to her child?”

“It’s all in how you present it,” Leander said. “If you spell out the terms of the experiment, she’ll think we’re both mad. She’ll retreat to the bosom of her family, and James will make a noise, and you and I will be lucky to escape the asylum, or worse. Little by little is the way. Let her settle into her new home. Enjoy the comforts of her own domain, and accustom herself to the rhythm of life within its walls. Then, when she is feeling safe and content, suggest an interlude of silence—only an hour to begin with, a respite from the day’s tasks, a time for each of us to consult his soul. She might like to spend it painting, or in the garden with her flowers. Gradually, we will introduce the notion of sanctuary. If one hour is bliss, why not two? Why not silent dinners, a silent Sabbath?”

He had been vehement as he leaned toward Gideon, hands sketching on the air. Now he slumped back against the wall and grinned. “Gravity will be our friend. They get enormous, you know. Big as barrels. Big as houses!” He stretched his clasped hands before him, as far as he could reach. “Trust me, the last couple of months she’ll be a globe unto herself, and crave nothing but a rocking chair in a quiet corner, where she can commune with her population of one. By the time she gives birth, silence will be her native habitat.”

Gideon flushed. A vein of coarseness surfaced in the man now and then, breaking the flow of his polished speech. In the past he’d told himself it was only Leander’s earthy temperament, but his own nature recoiled from it.

“They? I wish you wouldn’t refer to Sophy as if she were a species,” he said. “You’re talking about my wife. The experiment is my child.”

“I meant no disrespect,” Leander said. “I love Sophia
because
she is yours—and the little one, too. If I was overfamiliar, forgive me.”

Earlier there had been a listless breeze through the windows. Now the air was still, the atmosphere somnolent. The little flame of tension that had flickered between them wavered and extinguished itself. Leander closed his eyes and spread his hands on his thighs. Gideon was relaxed, but alert. He was thinking how lovely the bare room was at this hour, the afternoon light gilding the warm wood of the new-laid floor, enhancing its graceful proportions. If silence was a sanctuary, this serene emptiness must surely be its cathedral. A table would be an intrusion. How little anyone needed, really, to be content.

The thought was locked safely in his head, and then it burst its bars. His own voice startled him. “Do you ever think we might go on just as we are?”

Leander’s eyelids lifted, but only a fraction. “As we are? I don’t understand.”

“I mean, live here as a family and have a little school. Keep chickens and plant vegetables. Get by as simply as we can. Micah would join us, and maybe a few like souls would drift in. Young Lem might be useful, though we would have to watch him around the chickens.” Gideon tried to laugh, but his throat was very dry; he drank from the jug. “We could share ideas in the evenings, perhaps put our thoughts together in a book. We might discover that the Eden we seek is more . . . easily attainable than we know.”

“You are afraid.” It was a plain truth, and, having exposed it, Leander seemed to observe it from a distance. “You can choose that path,” he said, measuring his words. “Eke out your existence from day to day, until death claims you. Hide from the truths that drive you. Embrace triviality in the name of respectability. Most men live so. I tried it myself once.” He paused. “I could never go that way again.”

“Must you paint such a bleak picture?” But even as he spoke, Gideon was remembering the night of Hedge’s accident—how he had dreamed of fleeing to a monastery to escape the mortal round of family life. “I worry that we’ll go too far,” he said. “If the baby were to come to harm, Sophy would never forgive me. I could never forgive myself.”

Leander shook his head. “What you must think of me to have such fears! And yet, how tender, how natural is your concern. The fatherly instinct is quickening in you, even as the child quickens in Sophia.”

He straightened his back against the wall and gazed at Gideon through half-closed eyes. “The most exquisite images came to me as I was meditating. Plants with huge spreading leaves like the wings of noble birds. Lush blossoms, crimson and purple, bending double the vines that bore them. And amidst this voluptuous display, the shyest little white orchid, so fresh and sweet, so modest, yet all the other blooms seemed to wait upon it. Where, in the waking world, does such exotica flourish? Only the Tropics—yet, in all my travels I never set foot in the torrid zones. I thought the day’s heat must have sowed these vivid pictures in my mind. Now I see that they were our answer.”

Gideon had forgotten the question by now, but whatever it might have been, tropical flora seemed an inadequate response. He had expected to be rallied, or at least reassured. Was Leander trying to distract him?

The schoolmaster stood and strode to the far end of the room. “Here we have a sweeping expanse, solid along the inner wall except for this”—he pointed to the arched doorway that led to the rest of the house—“while the outer wall is perforated with windows and the intention of French doors, all meant to overlook a south-facing porch that matches the room for length. It struck me that the porch belonged to the room. It could easily be enclosed. But how, then, to preserve the illusion of openness?”

He stopped in front of Gideon. “Glass, of course. A conservatory, where the flowers of summer can grow in all seasons. And in the center, the white orchid, the pure, delicate bloom that is the reason for it all. You see now, don’t you? You have been thinking your loved ones would be hidden away in some dark prison of a room, when, in truth, they will be in Paradise! Imagine them in this ample, sunny space, with every comfort at hand. Sophia in the dead of winter tenderly nurturing her indoor garden, knowing that each plant she cultivates feeds the soul of her little one, even as her milk nourishes its body. The freedom she will have to mother as the primitive races do.” Leander paused and glanced out at the porch with a musing look, perhaps anticipating the charm of the sight. “Imagine a child whose eyes have absorbed beauty from its first hour of life, who has never heard a harsh word, whose every need is answered promptly and with love. Will such a child cry? Or will it sing a song not heard since the beginning of the world?”

“All children cry, it’s an instinct,” Gideon said faintly. He took no pleasure in the thought of Sophy suckling the baby in a fishbowl, particularly with Leander looking on. “A conservatory is a pretty idea, but hardly practical—it would only attract prying eyes. And how can we possibly think of building one when we have so much else to do? Not to mention the cost of the glass. Perhaps next spring, after we’ve been settled for a while . . .”

Leander put up one hand. “Enough. You are losing the courage of your vision. Soon you’ll convince yourself that what you saw was nothing but a delusion. If you have no faith, why should I? I’ve cast my lot with you, overcome your ‘impossibilities’ to bring you a child and a house, and now that fulfillment is at hand, you thank me by pelting me with pebbles.
The cost of glass
?”

He infused the words with such menace that Gideon flinched, more from shame than fear. For all his newfound strength, he was weak at the core. He would never prevail against this tree of a man who confronted him with hands on hips and legs apart. He braced himself and prepared to be bested. This time, he knew, the application of pain would not be salutary. But Leander spread his arms.

“Come,” he said.

In a daze Gideon stood. The long arms drew him near and closed around him. He stood rigid, his heart knocking so wildly he was sure Leander must feel every beat of its ragged tattoo. He had never been close to a man, never skin to skin. He breathed Leander in as if his own breast were open: the rise and fall of his chest, the swell of his belly, the smell of him. His eyes filled. He had not been aware of being deprived; yet once the sobs erupted—great, gulping hiccups that seemed to start at his feet—he couldn’t keep them down. His brow was resting in the cleft of Leander’s throat, and Leander was stroking his head, smoothing his damp hair.

“I am here,” he whispered. “I am here.”

THEY LEFT THE HOUSE
at half past four. The day was still noon-bright, though the heat had ebbed. The two of them strolled side by side, arms swinging freely. Gideon was drained of emotion but had no trouble matching Leander’s pace. He felt as light as he had while walking through the landscape of his vision, the promise of wonders ahead.

“Sophia will be glad to see you so early,” Leander said.

“I’ll be glad to see her.” Gideon was surprised to find that he meant it. He wished he had some offering to bring Sophy. A bouquet of wildflowers would do, but the midsummer heat had taken its toll; the few patches of day lilies he spotted were drooping on their stalks. Never mind, she would have her flowers in good time.

Something his companion said had been tugging at Gideon since they left the house. He waited until they were within a quarter-mile of the path Leander would take to the schoolhouse before framing it into a question.

“Until today I never heard you speak a word about your past,” he said. “I know nothing about you. Won’t you trust me with a bit of your history?”

“It is not a question of trust, but of relevance. Why should you care what I come from, or where? We occupy the same niche in time and space. Is that not what matters?” Leander spoke easily, but Gideon detected a hint of pedantry in his tone, a querulous impatience that recalled Hedge’s manner in the classroom. “I am my own first cause. I created myself, just as you did.”

“Even I had a mother,” Gideon said. “A father, too, though I never knew him.”

Leander directed his deep gaze at the spire of the church, which had just become visible in the distance. “I could tell you about my family, about my father’s profession, about my youth. But really, there is only one fact. If you know that, you know the rest.”