The Third Grace (27 page)

“May I have it, Lou?” Aglaia was straining across the desk towards her now for the card, but Lou leaned back on her ergonomic office chair.

“What's it worth to you, Aglaia?” She was pushing her luck, dangling the translation like some fruit from the tree of knowledge. “Can I sell it to you for the promise that you'll accept the position of wardrobe consultant here?”

Even as she spoke the words, Lou knew she'd overstepped her bounds; Aglaia pulled back her hand, her lips tightened, and recrimination flashed from her eyes.

Lou dropped the card hastily, written side up. “I'm jesting, Aglaia,” she said, then read her English translation aloud: “A marvelous idea! Trinkets, precious stones, engraved with
‘Kallistei,'
to please my Graces, and to give them the apple.”

Aglaia picked the card up and read it again to herself, and Lou pitched into a summary of her research regarding Pergamum and Troy. Then she explicated François's complex French, and Aglaia was all ears.

“The first phrase gives the sense of François being sure this idea that had just come to him was foolproof,” she began. “His use of the words ‘trinkets' and ‘precious stones' indicates the spectrum of the gifts he intended to bestow, the value lying not so much in the items given as in his motivation to ‘please' his recipients in a sexual sense.” Aglaia's demeanor was guarded and, if she'd ever received such a gift or such satisfaction, she wasn't letting on. Lou continued, “ ‘To give them the apple' is an interesting French expression. In a reversal of Eve's gesture in the Garden of Eden, François here asserts it's now his turn to do the tempting.”

“But what is
Kallistei?”

Lou saw Aglaia's eye twitch; the tension was ratcheting up. “Well, it's not French,” she said. “It's the Greek word written by Eris upon the apple of discord tossed in among the goddesses to cause their jealous squabbling.”

Lou was still unclear about what a golden apple had to do with Aglaia. Of course, she'd picked up on the girl's affinity for the Three Graces, first when Aglaia reacted to the postcard brought to her apartment by Tina, and then by Aglaia's stated intention to see the statues in the Louvre and her absorption in them as she waited there for her truant lover to appear.

And Lou also understood by her reading of François's margin notes that he shared—or perhaps initially ignited—Aglaia's passion for Greek mythology. But the relationship between Aglaia and the legend of Troy was foggy. Lou guessed that the Greek word was the key to Aglaia's enlightenment, though it shed no light for her.

“But what does
Kallistei
mean?” Aglaia repeated.

“It means, ‘To the fairest.' ”

The offending syllables were hardly out of Lou's mouth before Aglaia leapt up from her chair, her eyes popping, her mouth wide.

But just then, Dr. Dayna Yates tapped on the half-opened door and entered with an envelope, coming up behind Aglaia.

“You're back from France! What are you doing here at the university?”

Dayna didn't wait for the answer but—not catching the look on Aglaia's face—placed her hand on the girl's arm. “Hold that thought for a moment,” she said, then addressed Lou as she deposited her envelope on the desk. “This is from the tenure committee regarding your examination as a candidate. We have some concerns about your preparedness. You might want to review it so you can address the issues in your defense.”

Alarm buzzed in the back of Lou's mind like the drone of far-away bees, but she was focused on Aglaia's complexion, now white. The girl's lips trembled.

“ ‘To the fairest'?” Aglaia's voice must have risen an octave.

“What's the matter? Are you all right?” Dayna asked Aglaia, then glared at Lou as though she were the offender.

Lou was put off by the hostility aimed at her. She didn't understand Aglaia's distress and only knew she must placate Dayna or the professional situation could become even stickier. She still hoped to gain social status in her supervisor's eyes through their mutual friendship with Aglaia.

Though she opened the envelope Dayna had just brought in, she didn't glance at it yet, instead reasserting her position as Aglaia's mentor when she addressed the girl.

“I must say, it's a good thing after all that I didn't let you meet your boyfriend while you were under my charge in Paris, and that I got you home safe and sound. And as far as what he wrote,” she said, with self-control disintegrating as Dayna's squint narrowed, “his recording mythology into the margins of the Bible is an excellent illustration of intertextuality. The Greek apple of discord resonates with themes occurring as well in the tale of Sarah and Hagar quibbling over Abraham's favors, and with themes in ‘Sleeping Beauty' or ‘Snow White.' ” She was spouting whatever came into her mind, and Dayna gawked at her as if critiquing an idiot's lecture for performance assessment.

But now Aglaia's color changed again. She jerked the Bible off the desk and made a growling sound in the back of her throat, but Lou couldn't make herself stop talking: “And don't forget to factor in the archaeologically substantiated facts behind the legend of Troy. Where history and myth intersect, who can tell what's true? And does it matter, anyway?”

“What are you rattling on about?” Dayna asked her. “Can't you see Aglaia's upset?”

“Oh, yes, certainly,” Lou said, kowtowing to Dayna. “Sit down, Aglaia. Can I get you some water?” But the girl ran from the office with as much chutzpah as when she'd stormed out of the Louvre, and Dayna was close behind. Lou hated her own wretched voice as she called after her superior, “Won't you reconsider and sit with Aglaia and me at the head table tomorrow night?”

Dayna didn't answer.

But Lou had bigger problems, she saw as she glanced down at the paper in her hand, printed on formal Platte River University letterhead and signed by the dean of the faculty of social sciences.

Dr. Chapman,

Last month our Committee met to discuss your case for promotion with tenure to the rank of associate professor at PRU. The Committee requests additional information as summarized in the attached list of questions. Please submit a written response within two weeks, following which the Committee will meet again to deliberate before your appearance. Should you have any questions about this request or the process of promotion and tenure, please contact my office.

Lou's stomach constricted; this was not good news. She'd prepared and submitted her tenure package in late spring, confident that all was in order. But confidence hadn't been enough seven years ago to secure her tenure at the eastern institution where she was then teaching. There she'd received just such a letter, to which she responded with a six-page defense arguing her case. But she was denied promotion on the grounds of an inadequate research record, and she left immediately for her new posting here—her last kick at the can. If she didn't meet with success this time, her name would be worthless throughout the university system.

A
ll the way down the corridor Aglaia's teeth ached from clenching them, and she smoldered in a paroxysm of ire, hardly knowing where Dayna steered her. Once behind the door labeled “Associate Dean of Sociology,” she let loose.

“To the fairest! To my fairest Aglaia! I can't believe that lying creep had it planned all along!”

Dayna said, “What has Lou done now?”

“No, not Lou.” There was no use shooting the messenger. But she couldn't answer Dayna more explicitly; she was seething and had to organize her thoughts. She'd been blindsided by the translation of François's message and the connotations were coming clear only now. The rancor churning her stomach was not unrelated to other recent events—Dad's business proposal, the revelation of Sebastian's parentage and François's marriage, her evolving ambivalence regarding the Bible she clutched to her chest right now. Her hands were full, not just metaphorically but also physically, so that her bag slipped off her arm and landed upside down on the floor, spilling its contents from the outside pocket.

“What's this?” Dayna asked, picking up the pendant François had given Aglaia. She turned it over to examine one side, then the other. Aglaia glimpsed the stylized circlet design on the front and now saw clearly that it was meant to be an apple all along.

“That's part of the problem.” Aglaia gulped for air like a swimmer with a cramp. “And this,” she said, waving the postcard at Dayna, who was leaning against the edge of her desk with her ankles crossed. “And this.” Aglaia held up the Bible, which might be her biggest problem of all. She chided herself aloud as she paced back and forth, from the window to the potted fig tree to the window.

“He used to call me Mary Grace like everyone else, but then he gave me a new name without my even realizing what was happening. He impregnated my best friend and was working on me—and, stupidly, I wouldn't have stopped him.” She strode, unaware of anything else in her vehemence. “And then in Paris, when he told me his convoluted view of women as three types, I was willing to play along and accept his definition of me just because he said Aglaia was the fairest—as though I were one of his make-believe goddesses that would do his bidding for the honor of his approval. Was I just a contestant in some self-absorbed mind game of his?” It should have unsettled her right from the beginning—the implication of a competition, of Aglaia being judged against Thalia and Euphrosyne, of Mary Grace against the other women in François's life. What would Joel have said to that?

“Breathe, Aglaia.” Dayna rubbed the pendant between her thumb and forefinger, then handed it over. “Start with this necklace. It's strangely familiar.”

Aglaia breathed deeply and blew out slowly. Where should she begin? “An old boyfriend gave this to me while I was in Paris.” She couldn't believe she'd let François use the magic of the myths to capture her, like some fly, in the web of his stories—used the Bible, in fact, to do the same to her. “That was years ago. Come to think of it,” she said, “you might have met him the summer you stayed in Tiege with your uncle and aunt.”

“Don't tell me you got tied up with that exchange student!”

“You do remember him, then?”

“No one forgets François Vivier.” Dayna crossed her arms. “He was a regular at my parties and always brought a bag of weed along—high-quality stuff he scored in Amsterdam. He was a bad influence all around. And he came on to me right away.”

“Really?” She should have expected that—first Naomi, now Dayna.

“Oh, yeah. In fact, I admit that I was interested when we started making out.” She paused. “It doesn't bother you that I talk about him like this?”

Aglaia shook her head. It did bother her, but not in the way it might have a week ago. Her rage against him was cooling to a low, steady burn, and Dayna was only substantiating her suspicions that François sweet-talked his way around girls even back then, comparing them, playing one against the other like some rutting satyr. “Go on, please.”

“Well, he couldn't keep his pants on, that boy, and he got pretty pushy—and not just with me, either. At my first party, François—shall we say—found his satisfaction but left me wanting. I wouldn't let him touch me after that, but it's funny,” Dayna said, motioning to the jewelry in Aglaia's hand, “he sent me a keychain something like your necklace when he got home.”

“Is that so?”

“It was gaudy and cheaper, the charm shaped like an apple. He explained in the accompanying note that he got the idea for the gift from something he read somewhere. The back was inscribed as yours is, with an odd word like ‘Euphrates' or something. ”

“Euphrosyne?” That took the cake, Aglaia thought. François had a real system going.

“That was it—‘To my fairest Euphrosyne.' How did you know?”

“Party girl Dayna, Miss Fertility Naomi, and me,” Aglaia muttered, more to herself than in answer to Dayna. “Euphrosyne, Thalia, and Aglaia.”

“I tossed the thing—I didn't want payment for services rendered,” Dayna said, but immediately put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, I didn't mean to imply that you—”

“No, it's fine,” she said, not correcting Dayna's misapprehension that she and François had consummated their feelings, but livid all over again at the man's arrogant presumptuousness. Dayna wasn't a close enough friend yet for her to go into the whole history, and Aglaia wasn't even sure she'd ask Naomi about ever receiving a similar item from François—his symbol of conquest. It would be redundant. She just said, “The guy was a sleaze. Let's leave it at that for now.”

“I should run—got to get supper on for the family,” Dayna said. But she paused before opening the office door. “I heard Lou mention something about you coming to the gala tomorrow night. I don't have anything against her idea of building bridges between departments, but I think she's going overboard with her amalgamation plans. What's your interest in her hare-brained scheme to integrate social sciences, theater, and the movie industry?”

“I don't know anything about that,” Aglaia said, puzzled. This wasn't the first time a movie had been mentioned in conjunction with Lou, but Aglaia had believed the gala was just another generic arts function, the likes of which Lou was fond of taking her to. She understood that Lou had recommended her for the position with the performing arts department, but nothing had been brought up about amalgamation or a movie, either—other than the one Eb had mentioned Incognito was bidding on.

“This shindig will be attended by a bunch of Hollywood types preparing for the filming of a prequel to that
Buffalo Bill
blockbuster that came out last year,” Dayna said. “I bet Lou's involvement is another of her attempts at academic brownnosing.”

Aglaia, in turn, bet this was the very movie Incognito was chasing for the costuming contract. After all, lots of movies were filmed in Denver, but she thought it unlikely for two big-name companies from Hollywood to be seeking trades in the area at exactly the same time.

“Actually, Lou is introducing me to the head of PRU's theater department tomorrow night,” Aglaia said. “I'm expecting to be offered a position as the new wardrobe consultant. Not that sewing costumes for the university's stage productions has anything to do with a Hollywood movie.” Or did it?

Dayna chewed her lip and silently regarded Aglaia for a moment, as though trying to guess what Lou had up her sleeve. “I'll give you some advice about that,” she said. “I love to work for PRU but I suggest that, in dealing with Lou Chapman, you be very shrewd and intentional about your goals, and don't get embroiled in the political goings-on here. Watch your back. Lou might not be exactly the person she projects. Even I have to take care that my reputation doesn't get sullied through my professional association with her.”

As Aglaia made her way to the main exit of the university, she passed the janitor's cart in the hallway, then turned back to it. She dumped the pendant into the deep, bag-lined trash bin, followed by the postcard of the Three Graces, torn into pieces. Now was her chance to dump the Bible once and for all, as well, but on second thought she pushed it back down into her shoulder bag instead. To a dying nomad, even a mirage is better than no hope at all.

Aglaia drove to the supermarket. The produce section was sterile and expansive after the bustling markets of Paris still fresh in her mind. She added items to her cart one by one, palpating a golden peach, sniffing a pineapple, sampling a grape. Maybe occupying her five senses would leave no room for the pain at the back of her brain, she thought, but then she wheeled past a stand of browning bananas and the odor of decay brought thoughts of death.

The past two days had been overwhelming, starting with Naomi's confession yesterday. Aglaia had been hostile to her but now, in light of Lou's translation and the full disclosure of François's character, she had to admit that Naomi's acknowledging and repenting and getting on with life was much healthier than her own approach.

Then there was her parents' unforeseen request at the hospital that she take a more active part in the farming. It didn't altogether displease her; it had been a long time coming and the strings attached to it were pulling at her heart. Her dad admitted the distance between them and took responsibility for more of it than she should allow. Becoming a business partner with them could be a wise investment, better than waiting for the farm, run down and no longer productive, to be handed to her in the will. But the thought of associating herself again with the farm—with them—scared her silly.

Aglaia picked up a vine loaded with field-ripened tomatoes and passed it beneath her nostrils before bagging and setting it into the cart. But they were missing the smell of the sun on the tomatoes in the bucket in her parents' kitchen.

Henry and Tina might expect more time from her than her job allowed. What would her job even be, in the near future? Lou's juggling to get her into PRU gave her the brass ring she'd been waiting for, whatever the woman's ulterior motives for her own advancement might be and despite Dayna's warnings. True, Aglaia would be walking away from a possible promotion and increase in salary at Incognito, and taking the university job might be seen as disloyal to Eb after all the investment he'd made in her apprenticeship over the years. But Eb would understand in the end.

Suddenly she missed him. In fact, she'd go see him tomorrow, before the university reception. But even as Aglaia resolved this, she admitted her own duplicity; if she couldn't come right out and ask for Eb's blessing on pursuing the theater job, she might at least be able to learn details about the movie deal—if it were indeed the same one—and put herself in a more informed position for the evening's event.

Aglaia bagged a handful of green beans, then pinched off a sprig of cilantro to stain her fingers and inhale its perfume. She knocked on a rock melon and hefted it in her hand.

Maybe this was her chance to fully shed the clothes of the farm girl and gain an exalted reputation as a university-employed costumer and lecturer, replete with job security and all the benefits. If she'd failed in her attempt to find true love, at least she could break out of the bonds that imprisoned her in her awkward self-esteem and ensure a future within the hallowed halls of academia.

But by the time Aglaia reached the checkout line, tears unbidden stung in her eyes as though she'd cut up a bowl of onions. By the time her food was loaded into the trunk of her car, tears were rolling down her cheeks, blurring her vision as she drove to her apartment, dripping off her chin while she unpacked her purchases in the kitchen. She didn't know where it came from, this well springing up, this torrent from without, this melting of snows. She folded her laundry and wept without abandon over each article worn in Paris, over the loss of her dreams, over the infidelity of François Vivier. All evening she wiped at her salty tears, her running nose, and then cried herself to sleep wrapped up in the smell of wet goose down.

Friday morning Aglaia lay in bed for a long time after she awoke, studying Botticelli's poster of the Three Graces on her wall, until she threw aside the covers and stood up on her mattress. She loosened the fixative holding the picture, rolled it into a cylinder, and snapped a rubber band around it.

It was time to clean house.

She gathered up all the paraphernalia in her collection—the art book she'd justified in her budget as a business expense, the antique tin decorated with the three ethereal figures, the brass sisters dancing on her dresser. She searched through her apartment for every visible sign, and packed them all away at the back of her top shelf in the hall closet to ponder in the cold light of some other day. They were, in the end, only an illusion conjured up when she first forgot who she really was. They didn't point her to reality.