“Lost in the fire” was a phrase that would stay with Roland Avery for the rest of his life, a familiar saying in his personal vernacular that became a storeroom of sorts, a handy verbal place to locate any number of missing objects. The collection of kidney stones that came to him from Dr. Carruthers, lost in the fire, the Spode soup tureen with the cracked lid and the bird-of-paradise pattern, lost in the fire, the hand-me-down Lord Aberdeen sack suit, lost in the fire. His inventory of perished goods included both the material and the immaterial, as he also lost the sight in his left eye and the particular view of the world it commanded. He didn’t, luckily, lose his ambitions, his goodwill, his voice or his spiritual capital. Foolish or not, his faith in humankind came through the blaze scorched but intact; that faith, fed by optimism, he saw simply as a discipline worth maintaining. Nor were all his losses irretrievable, for his stock-taking led in the aftermath of the fire to record-keeping of a different order. He himself began to keep a daily journal, and in doing so discovered the pleasures of living doubly: once in the air and then again on paper, where experience can be rejigged, patched up, or shaken like a child’s bank for its concealed treasures.
Grif Smolders appeared in his friend’s book often, head bobbing up between the lines or stepping unexpectedly out of the anonymity of the margins … as he did presently, in the flesh, turning a corner onto Water Street, arriving like a restless, wind-driven scrap. He spotted Roland, who was standing in front of what was now a blackened gap in the wall of buildings on the street. For days after the fire an acrid smell hung over the town. It clung to clothing and hair, a nesting and unsettling fragrance, an eau de feu. The Dancing Sun, capable of housing only the odd breeze now, continued for some time to distribute burned flecks of papery matter that swirled up and floated away like black moths. Grif paused a moment to peel one of these off his cheek, then raised a hand in greeting and headed toward Roland, his restrained smile teased into a looser one, as it always was by the boy hosteller. Landlord of ashes, but Roland wasn’t about to dwell on that, or in it. Buildings can be resurrected, but bodies only clandestinely as lumber for doctors’ studies. Apostate but still courteous to whatever higher powers might be listening in, Roland murmured a quiet Deo gratias, grateful that he didn’t have to add Grif to his inventory of losses.
“Roland, that eye patch is very becoming.”
“Yo ho ho.”
“I’m not sure it’s suitable, mind.”
“And why is that?”
“Because you’re the hero. Seems I’m the one who’s always being rescued. I’m helpless as a girl.”
“I’ve never met a helpless one of those yet. Besides, I told you already, I didn’t mean to rescue you. How was I supposed to know you two were having it out in the closet? I was after my cash box. Couldn’t very well let that go up in flames, could I? Just glad I had a spare.” He held up his bracelet-sized ring of keys and jangled them. His hotel might be utterly unlocked, as open and free as the sky, but he could still make music. And not only that—“Can’t start a family without funds, you know.”
“There’s plenty of time for that,” Grif snorted. “You’ll be a millionaire, I bet, before you don the yoke.”
“I doubt it. Unless I have an exceptional week. Been playing a few hands at the Mansion House.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m getting married.”
“Ha ha.”
“I am. This Saturday. You’re invited, of course. Would you consider being my best man? What’s wrong?”
“You’re serious?”
“Oh yes. Raewyn’s idea, actually. And, well … it’s good timing. Her first communion dress still fits.”
“I’m … how old is she? Eleven?”
“Twelve in November.”
“She’s too young … you’re too young.”
“Perfect match, then.”
“I thought she was against marriage.”
“Not any more. She’s become extremely interested in it.” Roland blushed a little at this. “Claims she has it figured out.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“How about congratulations.”
Grif hesitated, but only for the time it took to clear his head of stark surprise, of misgiving, of unexpected envy. He thought of the young nurse, crisp and pretty in her puffy-sleeved uniform, who had ministered to him during his short stay in the hospital. She had healed his burns, the surface ones at least, with the salve of her gentle touch, her kindness, her ready laugh, her undemanding presence. He wasn’t mistaken that her attentions to him had been more than dutiful. She had even given him a stylish new jacket that she said her brother had outgrown, but that he suspected had come less indirectly from Turner’s Dry Goods. He brushed an ash from the sleeve of this very jacket (it was natty), then reached out to grasp Roland’s small, plump hand in his own. “I’d be honoured to be your best man,” he said. “Congratulations. Even if she is a mick.”
“She could be a Hindoo for all I care,” laughed Roland. “Or worse, a Presbyterian.”
“Will the crow be there?”
“Ring bearer. Even found the ring himself. Somewhere.”
“I’ll be.”
Turning to gaze into the ruin of the Sun, into what charred structural remains were left standing, Grif understood that Roland would have no problem at all in building a marriage and a family, and would do so with the same care and eccentric detail that he had lavished upon his hotel.
“God, I’m sorry about—”
Roland shook his head, decisively, absolution for the crime.
“What will you do with it, this property? Sell it?”
“Never.”
“Rebuild?”
“That’s the plan. Not another hotel, though. I’m thinking about getting into the moving picture business. A theatre of some sort.”
“You figure there’s a future in it, then?”
“Definitely.”
“Whatever happened to the intrepid Mr. Nashe, do you know?”
“Not really. Wasn’t seeing too straight at the time.”
“Some in town are saying that he perished in the fire. No one seems to remember seeing him leave the building.”
“I doubt that. I would have found some trace of him in the ashes.”
“His wolf’s teeth.”
“Grinning at me. I’ll have the last laugh, though. I’m positive I can build one of those machines, an improved one, with an even better design.” And then, Roland might have added, he would have replaced his lost vision with a new projecting eye. He’d have one eye to look inward with and one to look out.
“You know your biggest mistake, Roland? Besides letting me stay at your hotel, that is.”
“Tell me. I can take it.”
“The name. You should have christened it something else. The Empire, the Queen’s, the Victoria—they would never have caught fire.”
“I’ll bear that in mind when I’m naming the new building. How about The Lucky Dog?”
“The Dream Palace.”
“The Croesus Theatre?”
“The Paradise.”
“The Pretty Penny? Well, I’ll work on it. You know your biggest mistake, eh, Grif?”
“Yes. Letting Avice slip through my hands once again. Failing her—once again.”
“Not your fault.”
“She could have been killed.”
“Ditto. Blame it on the ants. Or me—I should have done something about them. Meant to.”
“Ants?”
“Carpenter ants. I thought you took an interest in the creepy-crawlies. The floorboards were infested. Look on the bright side: she took a tumble, got burned some, busted her arm, but she did survive. At least she can’t beat the snot out of you now, not for a while, anyway. So … I was thinking, since you’re winning this round, why don’t we have a double wedding on Saturday? You two can get remarried. Why not? Forget what you’ve been through—she’s as much at fault as you, remember—and try it again from the beginning. Clean slate. What do you say?”
Grif exhaled what felt like the whole poisonous cloud of smoke he had sucked into his lungs during the time it took to drag a bellowing Avice (he had her by the broken arm) out of the subterranean pit she had tumbled into when the floorboards gave way beneath her. Remarried? What an idea. A picture came into his head of the two of them inflicting fatal damage on any church that dared to join them in the sacrament of matrimony. Two contrary antipathetic elements. He saw pews crashing, statuary tumbling, heads rolling, guests fleeing for their lives.
“Wouldn’t work, Roland. We’re not meant for each other.” He shrugged. “We don’t get along.”
“Have you spoken to her since the fire?”
“No. You think she would even look at me?”
“I can say goodbye without having to look at your sorry mug, can’t I?” Avice said, staring point-blank at his sorry mug.
She had approached them silently, unnoticed, and stood a little apart. Her right arm was in a sling, the side of her face scored with a strange burn that looked as if a three-fingered hand had raked her cheek. She was wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat and a smart walking dress, the hemline fashionably raised several inches above her ankles.
“I heard your good news,” she said to Roland. “I’m sure you’ll be very happy together.”
“Yes, kind of you to say, I know we will. Are you coming to the wedding?”
“I don’t like weddings.” She managed to crack a little smile at this. “Or funerals,” she said, the smile vanishing. She had been the lone attendant at Hugh’s, but had mourned him sincerely, and had left a bottle by his graveside in case the parching winds of temperance had dried even the swampy watering holes of the afterworld.
Grif didn’t know whether he was entitled to take this statement about not liking funerals as encouragement, but ventured, “Your arm, Avice?”
“Mending,” she said curtly. “No thanks to you.” She gave him a warning look, and was clearly not about to budge an inch in his direction. Forgiveness lay that way, and tolerance. It was as if he could hear doors slamming and deadbolts being slapped into place.
“What will you do?” Roland asked. “Return down below?”
“To London?” he hastily added.
“No, I can’t see myself attending at-homes, and riding to hounds, and shopping for the rest of my life. I may go west, or I might settle here. It’s so open, you don’t feel hemmed in, I like that. Later this morning I’m going to look at some property outside of town, on the lake. I’ve been thinking about building a tourist lodge.”
A woman operating such a business on her own? Laundry, meals, boats, endless pleasantries and banter with the guests. Grif was sceptical, but figured she had the gumption to manage it. And who was to say how long she would be on her own?
“Goodbye, then,” she said, and that was it. “Be careful,” she advised Roland, “or you’ll end up doing all the cooking.”
For Grif, no further word was on offer. She said nothing, left him nothing—no matter how faint or trivial—to hang on to and remember her more favourably by. He watched miserably as she marched away from him as if it were the easiest and most natural thing in the world to do. He had ashes on his sleeve and in his mouth.
“Grif,” urged Roland.
“Yeah.”
“Go.”
“Where?”
“After her, before she’s gone.”
“What?—she doesn’t want me.”
“Who’s the card player here? She was bluffing. Don’t you know anything about women?”
“What do you know, Roland?”
“A lot, actually. I’ve had a busy week. Look, look what she’s doing.”
Avice, almost at the corner, had stopped and was bending over. Her body was clenched, her free hand grasping her stomach. Grif thought she was going to be sick on the road. That sound she was making, a terrible retching noise. Or was she sobbing? Wait, no, she was laughing. She was laughing so hard that she was staggering, unbalanced. She was killing herself, stung by some mysterious hilarity. Was she suddenly recalling Grif in the burning hotel, shouting I’ll save you, with his pants slung around his ankles and his manly parts hanging out of his long johns? Or was she laughing at herself? Or at the two of them together, at their whole misshapen marriage so far? Perhaps, unburdened, having transcended her fixation, a gust of happiness had simply seized her. A surging uplift, an expansiveness, a guffawing and heavenly breath.
He didn’t know, he just didn’t know. But when she glanced back once, quickly, anointing him with her keen eye before hiking up her skirts and pelting off, he didn’t wait any longer. He saw, flashing on her heels like fiery spurs of light, and snaking up her back, silvering it, that which was most desirable. For the first time in months, and for the first time in his married life, he knew what to do.