Chapter 45 Vivian #2
Vivian is used to her mother acting like a snob to the hired help, but even her mother, Vivian thinks, would’ve picked up a napkin that landed next to her foot.
“What’s with the scroll?” she asks, nodding toward it.
A few people stroll by—the room is filling up quickly—and Peter waits until they are alone again to answer. “That’s the Heart of the Knox.”
“Okay…. And what does that mean?”
“The scroll contains the names of all the members of the Knox. We unroll it once a year, on initiation night, to transcribe new members. That is, if we have new members. Sometimes we don’t, so we skip a year.
Then we wait three hundred and sixty-five days, as we follow the lunar calendar, to hold another initiation. ”
“I see.” She refrains from making a snide comment, like I’m glad you follow the same calendar that we all do.
She eyes the scroll, which is wound in a burgundy velvet cover with a series of mysterious dots on it.
Likely geomancy symbols, she now realizes.
Interesting. One of the patterns reminds her of Peter’s wrist tattoo.
But it’s what’s inside the sheath that she finds much more interesting. How many of her ancestors are transcribed on that scroll? Rachel would have a field day with this. “That’s a pretty valuable square foot of real estate right there,” she remarks.
“Yes, it is. And it’s heavily secured,” he adds.
“I don’t doubt it. So the new members are the so-called heart of the Knox?”
“All the members are the heart, of course.” Peter gestures to his chest. “Sometimes we call that scroll ‘the Lungs,’ too. Because the members are what breathe life into the Knox.”
“I see. Where’s the head, then?”
She’s joking, but he answers her seriously, pointing to the ceiling with a slender finger. “We have two other scrolls. The one directly above, which we call the ‘Brains.’ ” He extends his finger downward. “And the ‘Bowels’ scroll.”
“Let me guess. The Brains are the rules of the Knox, and the Bowels are its sins.”
“Not bad. The Brains are indeed a scribe of our ancient ways, our beliefs. Our handbook, so to speak.”
“And the Bowels?”
He seems hesitant to answer, but finally says, “It’s the members’ allegiance to the Knox.”
“What does that mean, their allegiance?”
“You know,” Peter says, after a beat, “for some reason I always tell you things that I shouldn’t.”
“Oh?” she replies, but inside she’s thinking, Tell me about “Milan,” then.
Suddenly, loud laughter erupts from the other end of the room, and people turn to look. Oliver enters, bent over and gasping, as if he’s just heard the funniest thing.
Vivian glances around for Jerry, given their brawl, but he’s hightailed it in the other direction. Smart boy.
She takes another sip of her martini, a longer one. Being in the same vicinity as Oliver is not exactly soothing. She hopes he doesn’t make his way toward them, but Peter is already gesturing him over.
Vivian sinks back in the sofa.
“Hello, Peter. And it’s the famous Vivien Leigh, right?” Oliver says, when he reaches them. He’s wearing a gold shimmery tracksuit, like he’s just left a Studio 54 party. His cheeks are hollow, his long, greasy hair tucked behind his ears.
“Vivian Lawrence,” Peter replies. “And far prettier than any movie star.”
“Hello, Oliver,” Vivian says.
“You know my name.” He grins at Peter. “She knows my name.” He clearly doesn’t remember that she bore witness to his little scrap. He slides into the chair opposite them.
Christ.
“What are you doing here, chap?” Peter asks. “I thought given—well, I thought you were planning to stay at the Mansion for a while.”
“It’s so much more exciting here. I just don’t want to miss the action,” Oliver says with a laugh, his jacket glittering as the light catches it.
“Well, it’s good to see you looking so well,” Peter remarks. Vivian doesn’t think Oliver looks “well” in the slightest, but who is she to say?
“Yes, incredible what a few days removed from stress does.” Then, he pops up abruptly, like the release of a tightly wound spring. He waves to someone behind them, and a few seconds later, a familiar-looking man approaches.
Vivian is so surprised that she nearly chokes on an olive. Her eyes water as she bends forward in a coughing fit. When she is finally able to compose herself, she meets the man’s gaze.
It’s Xavier.
“Are you okay, or should I fetch the house doctor?” Peter asks, offering her a glass of water.
“Yes,” Vivian manages. “I mean—no. I’m fine.” She takes the glass but then immediately sets it down.
“Are you sure? I saw him around earlier. He’s somewhere.”
“I’m fine,” Vivian repeats, and turns her gaze again to Xavier.
“Hello, I’m Xavier,” Xavier says, immediately stepping forward to offer his hand to Vivian.
As she takes it, he gives her a firm squeeze and the subtlest of head shakes.
He’s skinnier than usual, his face gaunt, brown corduroys hanging loosely on his hips.
His familiar pocket watch dangles from his trouser pocket. “Nice to meet you,” he adds.
“Uh, hi. I’m Vivian.”
Why is Xavier pretending not to know her?
“Hello, Xavier,” Peter says.
“Peter,” Xavier acknowledges.
Wait, they know each other?
Oliver slings his arm around Xavier in a suggestive sort of way. Is Xavier here with Oliver?
“So, what do you do, Vivian?” Oliver asks.
“I have an antiques store.” That your friend Xavier here likes to visit.
Oliver raises an eyebrow. “Antiques store? Cool.” He turns to look at Xavier. “Don’t you sell antiques, too, like old jewelry?”
“A little, but I mostly sell nineteen-karat gold,” Xavier mumbles.
“Oh yeah? How’s that going for you?” Oliver asks, with an almost wicked smile. The spiderweb of broken glass at Xavier’s storefront flashes through Vivian’s mind.
“Vivian’s responsible for some of the antiques in the Knox,” Peter remarks.
Oliver glances around, his eyes shifting like a video game graphic. “Cool. Did you get that elephant statue? I love that thing.” He means the ceramic elephant side table.
“No, I didn’t.” She considers adding that it’s a reproduction but decides against it.
“Too bad. You should’ve. You know, I rode an elephant in Thailand, when I was living over there. If you ever want to feel small, ride an elephant.” He nods at Peter. “I like this one, even if she doesn’t like elephants. Big improvement from Lindsay.”
Vivian stiffens.
“Are you meeting your father for dinner?” Peter asks, ignoring the comment.
It’s not a funny question, but for some reason it makes Oliver howl. Meanwhile, Xavier looks down at the ground, as if he’d rather be anywhere else in the world.
“That I am,” Oliver says, when he catches his breath between gasps. Then he leans down to clasp Peter’s shoulder. “Listen, we need to have a chat later. Xavier here has finally made things a little easier for us, with the Customs clearance.”
Peter gives a warning with a sight shake of his head. There’s an awkward silence. It seems that although Peter likes to tell her some things he shouldn’t, there are still plenty of things he’s happy to keep to himself.
“Sorry, Peter, I—” Oliver says, realizing his mistake.
“Many thanks, Xavier,” Peter cuts in. “We appreciate your assistance.” Then to Oliver, he says, “We can discuss later.”
Xavier colors, looking distinctly uncomfortable. He won’t meet Vivian’s eyes.
Why would they need a Customs clearance? And how could Xavier help them with it? What is going with her friend? It’s almost like Oliver has some sort of hold over him.
A chime begins ringing repeatedly through the air; Rose is walking through the room, shaking a crystal dinner bell.
“Ah, dinnertime,” Oliver says, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
Peter rises, and Vivian follows suit. “Sorry about Oliver,” Peter whispers in her ear. “He’s a piece of work sometimes.”
The four make their way past the scroll and to the hall amid the crowd. Peter stops periodically to say hello to people, with Vivian politely smiling by his side. She’s distracted, though, searching for Xavier. She sees him reappear and then disappear, like a magic trick.
The crowd slowly ascends the grand stairs, en route to Canton’s Restaurant, and Vivian’s momentarily distracted by the incredible art gallery wall.
There’s a Laura Schiff Bean painting of a dress; she owns one of these herself.
And then a Van Gogh, alongside a Chinese reverse-glass painting and a Damien Hirst print.
Vivian has no doubt these are authentic.
At the very top she spots a white minimalist abstract painting with deceptive dimension: textured rolls, peaks and valleys.
Her gaze is transfixed on the art; she is utterly engrossed, trying to absorb it all, and she missteps, stumbles. Peter grabs her.
“Be careful. You don’t want to be falling down these stairs.”
She looks behind her, taking in the unforgiving, steep staircase. “I’m fine,” she replies, a little embarrassed. Christ, she needs to be more careful.
They step onto the landing and continue down a hallway lined with misshapen modern stone bubbles.
She believes it’s the same artist who did the white textured minimalist painting.
The artist’s name is on the tip of her tongue.
Vivian read recently about the auction of her work at Sotheby’s; there was some piece that went for 6.
2 million dollars. Maybe this is the one.
And all this, Vivian supposes, is what sets the Knox apart from other private clubs. The furniture and decor in a span of a few feet is worth more than what a Wall Street banker might make in a good year. Depending on the area in the Knox, perhaps an entire banking firm’s annual profits.
She needs to establish her family link. There’s clearly enough wealth to go around. And around. And around.
She recalls what Rachel had said to her: You could just marry Peter.
It would be neat and tidy, wouldn’t it, to marry Peter? But the problem is, she doesn’t think she knows the real him—not yet, at least.
And he doesn’t know the real her.
The unease Vivian felt before entering the Knox premises has returned.
Peter moves ahead to converse with someone down the hall, and again she spots Xavier. He’s leaning alone against an unadorned patch of wall, a miserable look on his face.
She sidles up, and when she’s sure no one is looking, she asks, “So, you want to tell me what’s going on?”
Xavier casts a furtive look around before meeting her gaze. She’s struck by how small his pupils look, like tiny stars nearly lost in the night. He mutters, at the bottom of his breath, “Not now. I’ll…I’ll leave you a note in the mailbox downstairs. Number thirty-four.”