Chapter 17 #2
the son and daughter-in-law of Commissioner Pullman, a prominent member of city hall, had been rough-handled as they walked
home from dinner at Luchow’s on Fourteenth Street.
“They tried to explain, but those dim-witted SSV agents were drunk on their own arrogance and actually forced them into the
paddy wagon with the riff-raff.
“Officers O’Halloran and Sullivan, recognizing quality folk, overheard the whole thing, managed to beat the van down to Nassau
Street, and explained the situation to the desk sergeant before they arrived.
“Guess all kinds of hell broke out. The unlucky couple didn’t even get processed, but of course the papers were there, and
you can imagine the rest.
“I expect Comstock will be keeping a low profile around here, if he knows what’s good for him.”
“And when has he ever known that?” Mr. Stammer asked.
“Well, that should do it then,” exclaimed Mr. Wickes from behind the counter. “Don’t know why they haven’t muzzled him before.”
“Good heavens, they’ve tried. I’ve heard the post office has promised to replace him by the end of summer because of his erratic
behavior. I was told this in strictest confidence, of course. . . .” That roused a healthy laugh from the other booksellers.
“I’ll believe it when I read it in the Times,” said Mr. Bender.
That inspired a louder round of laughter.
“This time will be different. Even the SSV is moving away from his extreme tactics.”
Celia listened but wasn’t completely reassured. Was it possible they could breathe easy again? Take great works of literature
from their locked cabinets and display them in the front of the store without fear of setting off another raid?
Without Comstock breathing down their necks, they might even bring some of the more borderline titles up from the basement,
where the damp was slowly creeping into their pages.
She stopped by the butcher’s for her weekly supply of bacon and some fresh sweetbreads that Mr. Krause insisted she take,
and he also invited her and her sisters to the weekend concert in Union Square. She smiled and said she would be sure to tell
the others.
Mrs. Franchetti was waiting with a large round loaf, a morning cheek pinch, and a finger wag. “Miss Olivia was looking pale
the other day. I hope you girls are helping her out with the shop.”
Celia assured her that they were. But were they? Celia’s heart wasn’t in selling books; she wanted to study them.
“I’m sure you are.” She gave Celia another cheek pinch for good measure and turned to greet another customer.
The morning passed like most mornings on Book Row, the only difference being that Celia helped more customers than usual, not because there were more of them, or because she was taking Mrs. Franchetti’s words to heart, but because Daphne had donned the dreaded work apron and disappeared into the rows of books, rearranging, dusting, and being overall industrious.
Celia was amazed and wondered what had come over her dithery, petulant sibling, who only stopped work long enough for a quick
lunch in the back. She actually seemed to be enjoying herself.
As for Celia, the clock ticked inexorably slowly toward closing time.
And then in the dullest part of the afternoon, the downtime after the lunch-hour rush before the afternoon regulars began
to drift in, they were surprised by a new customer.
They were both sitting on stools behind the counter. Daphne, having exhausted her enthusiasm when she reached the “Religion
and Philosophy” section, was reading one of her happy-ending novels. Celia was deep into The House on Henry Street when the front door opened. They both automatically closed their books and slid off their stools, ready to welcome the newcomer.
He stood just inside the door, looking around as if he had entered a strange country instead of one of the many secondhand
bookstores on the avenue. He wore a dark suit and hat that he’d doffed upon entering and was now holding in his hand.
He was tall and spare, with overlong black hair brushed away from a high forehead and curling around a high collar. Not too
handsome, with deep set eyes and just enough crookedness to his nose to make him look slightly untamed.
“Heathcliff,” whispered Daphne.
“Too thin,” Celia whispered back. “Keats or Byron.”
“May I help you?” asked Daphne.
His head jerked toward her. Frowned slightly. Looked from her to Celia. “I’m looking for Olivia Applebaum.”
Daphne’s sigh of disappointment was audible.
“Do you have an appointment?” Celia asked hurriedly, attempting to cover her sister’s bad manners.
“No. Is she busy?”
Well, this wasn’t the normal demeanor of a book collector. But then, it took all kinds. And in the book business that was
particularly true.
“I’ll call up. If you could give me your name?”
“Max Lienhardt.”
Celia nodded slightly—his manner seemed to call for it—and went to call upstairs, while her usually loquacious sister seemed
to have been struck mute. And Celia had to admit he was rather an imposing figure. Not old, but certainly old in spirit.
“Yes.” Olivia’s voice sounded remote, probably lost in her work, hopefully paying work and not the banned poetry that had
been thrust upon them.
“A Mr. Lienhardt is here to see you. I told him—”
“I’ll be right down.”
Taken aback at Olivia’s promptness, Celia returned the receiver and went to relay the message. After one attempt to engage
Mr. Lienhardt in polite conversation failed, they stood in awkward silence to the only sound in the room, the clank of the
apparatus as the elevator made its slow descent.
When it reached the first floor, Celia, Daphne, and Mr. Lienhardt all silently faced the elevator and waited like attendees
at a wedding, funeral, or possibly a coronation.
The grate creaked open. Olivia stepped out, saw the entourage of three, and smiled slightly.
Then she came forward her hand held out as she approached Mr. Lienhardt.
He took her hand, dipped his head in acknowledgment if not in a real bow, and Olivia turned and led the way back to the elevator without a word.
Celia and Daphne just had time to exchange looks before he followed.
In two strides, he caught up, his hand going naturally toward the small of Olivia’s back as if to escort her through, but
dropping it just in time to make Celia wonder if she’d actually seen the intimate gesture at all.
She and Daphne were left staring like the guests at Sleeping Beauty’s wedding turned to stone until Olivia closed the grate
and the elevator began its ascent.
They continued to stand, quietly listening, until they heard the echoing clank that announced its passengers had arrived at
the third floor.
Daphne shook her head. “I wonder what that was all about?”
“I have no idea.” Celia just hoped it had nothing to do with Olivia’s almost obsessive interest in Sappho fragments. That
would put them in a pickle.
Then, with a resigned glance at the elevator, the two sisters went back to the counter and their respective books.
Olivia didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing. She’d asked Max to keep his ear to the ground with regard to any missing
or stolen ancient Greek texts. He had contacts all over the world. Contacts she didn’t have. She hadn’t thought to hear from
him so soon, nor have him come to report in person. His presence here, in her refuge, upset her equilibrium.
And yet, she was glad to see him. Glad? She shouldn’t have seen him at all. She rarely acted on impulse, but she had on Monday. The discovery of the Sappho had unleashed a hunger inside her, and, like Pandora, she’d been helpless to resist. Now where would it lead?
“So this is your office now.”
Was he comparing this, with its formal client parlor, its rows of glass showcases, its wood paneling, to that tight airless
room they had shared for fourteen months? Months filled with days of challenge, discovery, beauty, and . . .
“It looks the same.”
She had forgotten he’d been here before. Once. A lifetime ago. When her father was still alive. She looked around the space.
“Does it? I suppose I never bothered to put my own stamp on it. I don’t know why.”
“I do.”
There it was, the thing they’d managed to avoid when they’d been together on Monday. His anger. Her acceptance of her duty
to her family, what he called cowardice. It was still there after two years. Would probably always be there.
“So let’s see this manuscript of yours.”
“You’ve heard something?”
“Not yet. These things take a great deal of finesse and patience. Shall we?”
She had no choice. She led him down the central corridor of glassed cases, displaying restored volumes, a few first editions.
Most left from her father’s time. She hadn’t bothered to replace them. These days she only did restoration work on order.
Her father was always traveling, visiting auctions, prowling the local stores and private collections. Now, his ghost seemed to permeate the air as they walked past the glass cases to the workroom.
“I’m not criticizing,” he said, moving a step closer.
She teetered, then moved on toward the workshop. She never brought visitors back this far. But she unlocked the door to the
back workroom.
He followed her in.
She closed the door firmly behind them, locking out whatever spirit was determined to overthrow her.
“I’m envious of your space.”
She would give it up in the blink of an eye if she had a future and the career that had almost been hers. It had been her
eyes, as well as her father, that had betrayed her.
“I see you are well equipped,” he said, walking over to the worktable, where she had positioned a stand that would adjust
the fragments to the best angle for viewing. The rectangular weights that would keep the manuscript in place. Work lamp, magnifying
glasses, and bars, all positioned so that she could reach for them without thought. She had arranged her workspace exactly
like that at the museum. Which made it seem like he knew her office as well as she did.
A glass pane was framed above the stand, to protect the fragments so that her breath wouldn’t cause further deterioration.
And if he looked, he would know to find clean gloves in the bottom right-hand drawer.
“Impressive.”
“Just like you taught me. But with inferior equipment, alas.”
He scoffed, turned away.
She stepped back, best not to fall into familiarity.
She followed him over to the second workspace.
“Those are my translations, rudimentary as they are. I translated and copied them, then cut the copies into the original sections to see if I could arrange any of the words and phrases into a meaningful form. Perhaps a known poem or possibly something completely unknown. I thought some of them might belong to the same poem. I just keep moving them around, hoping to make sense of the pieces.”
“That would indeed be something. The most lauded poetess of ancient Greece, and yet we have only one complete song. Have you
had any success?”
“Some, but nothing definitive. There is this one.” She leaned over the table, where pieces of papyrus, large and small, were
pinned to a corkboard laid flat.
“I tried to separate the fragments according to color, and age, and thickness. These all seem similar. I’ve been experimenting
with different orders until I’m—” She stopped before she said “almost blind.” In her case, that cliché was too close to the
truth.
“This first piece might be the beginning of a transition, see?” She moved a thin scrap forward. Two words written in Greek,
but translated as “But come . . .”
She added a second, even smaller, piece, with only one word written on it below the first two words. Dear.
“Then there are several choices, but I think this is the best.” Need you pride yourself.
“But come, Dear, need you pride yourself.”
He had moved behind her to peer over her shoulder. His breath a warm breeze against her neck. And her treacherous mind thought,
This is what should have been. Their lives, their work, their bodies fitting like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle—or an ancient poem.
But perhaps it was too late for the poetess or her restorers.
“If I could only find an ending among all these choices. I have access to one book of her poetry, but this pattern is not
in it. Do you think it could be some as-yet-undiscovered verse?”
“A very good chance, but I’m not an expert. These need to be with someone who is. Can I see the original fragments?”
“You question my transcriptions?”
It was a dishonorable ploy, and his expression said it didn’t fool him. But still she hesitated. She knew she was becoming
too possessive of these pieces of poetry, not wanting to share them even with Max. Not because she didn’t trust him. But because . . .
“I’ll get them, but you’ll have to turn your back. It’s not that I don’t trust you. . . .”
“But it’s that you don’t trust me.” His smile was slow in coming, somewhere between amusement and challenge. And Olivia wondered
how she had ever talked herself into leaving her job, her dedication, her love—to return to run the Arcadia. But she’d had
no choice. She would have had to sell the store, and how could she support and care for her sisters while she was away all
day earning an assistant’s salary? The services would have taken Celia, and possibly Daphne, away. Olivia just couldn’t do
it.
“I know,” he said, as if he’d heard her thoughts. He made a quick heel turn, facing away, embellishing the ridiculousness
of the whole situation with a bouncy heel click.
“Oh, stop it.” She laughed against her will and pressed the place that opened the door to the strong room.
“You can look now.”
“Impressive. Hidden in the wainscoting. Very Gothic.”
“My grandfather’s contribution.” She stepped aside so he could enter.
“You want me to go first?”
“Yes. You could lock me in, and no one would hear my screams,” she said, only half kidding.
“Nor mine,” he replied, but stepped inside.
She blushed; she didn’t want to remember. She couldn’t allow herself to. Why had she sought him out in the first place?
Because he was the expert she needed. He was the—
She strode to the end of the vault. Past locked cases of the remaining books in a once huge collection, to the back wall.
Not bothering to block his view, she unlocked the safe and brought out the wrapped volume.
“Ah. You will show me these fragments and we shall read them together and consider. We will work and drive all else from our
minds.”
She nodded briskly.
Then he touched her temple and let his finger trail slowly down her cheek to her chin, and all her good intentions disintegrated
like soap bubbles in the bath.