The Wooden Madonna

1

Bishop Chan was in the lectern, reading from the Bible, and when he concluded, Felix rose from the shadows of the choir stalls and stood at the head of the steps where there was a standing mike. He wore a soft grey cassock, and he looked small and frail, but when he spoke his voice was strong, and he had a quiet authority which Katherine liked.

She was too busy looking at him, thinking that he did indeed look like a bishop, to hear his first words. She picked up as he was saying, “Job is one of the dark books of the Bible, and although it is shot through with light, it has never been one of my favorite books. I turn more often to Jonah, which says much of the same things—that God’s love for his Creation is boundless, and that all he wants from us is that we love him in return.

“But today’s reading from Job has one of the greatest cries of affirmation in the entire Bible. Out of the depths of his pain, loss, anger, Job cries out, I know that my Redeemer lives! and he adds the equally extraordinary words, that he himself will see him, face to face. Not now, not in the midst of this mortal journey, because we couldn’t bear it now. Moses asked to see God, and God put him in the cleft of a rock and protected him with his hand, and Moses saw God’s hindquarters as he passed by.

“God’s hindquarters. That’s all we get, in this earthly part of our journey. But it’s the glimpses that keep us going.

“The New Testament reading, too, is a promise, a promise that what God creates, he will not abandon, that ultimately we will be as we were meant to be.”

For a moment Katherine had a glimpse of Juliana, successful at cross-breeding chickens, and yet unable to complete fifth-grade work.

“… and then we, too, will see God face to face, as Adam and Eve did when God walked and talked with them in the cool of the evening—before the choices made then and throughout the centuries brought us to the world of pain and confusion in which …”

Choices again. Katherine looked at Felix, but she was no longer listening, even though she was feeling grateful that she liked what he was saying, that his delivery was authoritative and vibrant. When he preached, the years seemed to drop from him. Odd: she had never heard Wolfi preach. Wolfi, she thought, would have liked Felix, despite the fact that the two men were totally unlike.

Had anyone ever gone running to Felix as she had gone running to Wolfi?

She had left Justin and Paris, fled blindly to the station and phoned Munich, leaving a message for the cardinal that she was on her way. She took a taxi and went directly to him, not thinking, simply running.

He was waiting for her in the great library. He embraced her tenderly, then held her at arm’s length, looking down at her with his deep-set eyes. ‘Are you willing to do this for him?’

‘Do you think I should?’

He shook his head, smiling gently. ‘This is not in the realm of shoulds and oughts, my child. It is in the realm of love.’

‘You think I should, then.’

Again he shook his head. ‘Katherine, you did not hear me.’

She moved closer to him, and rested her cheek against his chest, receiving from the cardinal the kind of comfort which circumstances had kept her from receiving from her own father. ‘I would do anything to make him happy.’

‘Even this?’

‘He’s—oh, Wolfi, you know how proud he is. He said there’ve been rumors—someone else from Auschwitz—if I have a child, that will stop it all. Why should it be public knowledge? It would make everything all smutty.’

‘Do you want a child, Katherine?’

‘I never even thought about it. At least not for a long time, since it wasn’t possible.’

‘But before?’

‘Oh, I thought about it. I suppose everybody does—romantic pictures of a baby in an old-fashioned cradle.’

‘And now? Have you thought about it?’

‘No. Justin’s asking me—it was all so unexpected—I just—’

‘I want you to go to your hotel.’

‘I don’t have a hotel. I came to you straight from the train.’

‘Very well. I’ll have my secretary make a reservation for you.’ He crossed the room to one of the long library tables. ‘You’ve stayed at the Vier Jahreszeiten?’ She nodded, and he gave quick instructions on the phone. ‘The chauffeur will drive you. I want you to stop off in the cathedral—I know you and Justin are not churchgoers—but I want you to go there and hold your love for Justin, for what he has asked you to do, up to God. Then I want you to go to your hotel and have dinner and go early to bed. Come to me tomorrow.’

She did what she was told.

She knelt before a side altar with a statue of the Virgin and Child, simply knelt there, looking at the serene acceptance in the face carved in wood.

She slept little. Again and again she saw in her mind’s eye the wooden Madonna cradling the baby in her arms, saw the half-smile on the young woman’s face as she looked down at the Child.

In the morning she took the tram and went back to the cathedral to look at the statue again. The love in the wooden face was still there, simultaneously tender and stern.

At three she went to the cardinal.

‘I will do it for him,’ she said, and told him about the statue and the effect it had had on her.

‘She, too, was asked to bear a child in a strange way. She, too, said yes.’

‘But, Wolfi—it’s one thing to say I will have a child for Justin, and gladly, but—oh, this sounds so stupid—how do I find—how do I go about—h-how—’ She broke off, stammering.

‘Neither did I sleep last night. I would like to be the father of your child.’

No. No!

‘If Justin could sit down and reason objectively, I think that he would choose me.’

‘But—you’re—you’re—’

One arm still about her, he led her to a deep leather sofa, sat down beside her. ‘A priest? A celibate? Yes.’

‘Then—’

‘Katherine, I am still a man. There was no celibacy in the priesthood in the first centuries, it is not intrinsic in the vocation. I love you. I have loved you since I first heard you play.’

Then Willie was right, the world was right—‘Then what they say …’

‘They? They? Who are they? No, Katherine, I am not what they say. I have known that there was slander. I am sorry that you had to hear it. That you believed it.’

‘But I didn’t! Not till—oh, Wolfi—Your vows—’

‘I take my vows seriously. But the Church has always been realistic about a man’s human needs. I do not, despite the gossip, make a practice of unchastity. If I did, how could I possibly offer myself to you now? Don’t you see that it would be something I could do for Justin and you, before God—’

Shocked, she heard her own voice, ‘Wolfi, have you ever before—’ and bit off her words.

He replied gravely, ‘I have told you that I do not make a habit of giving in to my weaknesses. This would not be a moment of weakness.’

She looked down at her feet and noted that the toes of her shoes were scuffed.

‘Katherine, do not probe into what is better left untouched. I am by nature a passionate man, and yet I have, with God’s grace, managed to hold my passions to a minimum. This I do not consider a passion.’

Why was she horrified? Was she a child about promises? Her promises to Justin? The cardinal’s promises to God?

‘Is this truly such a shock to you?’

‘Yes.’

He sighed, reached his hand toward her cheek, drew it back. He sat beside her silently, grey, grave, and she did not know who he was. There was a discreet knock on the door and his secretary came in, silent, inconspicuous, spoke a few words softly, and left.

The cardinal said, ‘Go, then. Go back to the cathedral and to the Holy Mother and see what she has to say. I will call you at—seven o’clock.’ He kissed her on the forehead, gravely.

She went back to the statue. But now: was it a difference in light? The young woman’s face had lost its look of serene acceptance and was stern and sad.

There were no answers anywhere.

2

She shook her head and moved carefully from the past to the present, away from the cathedral in Munich, to the larger one in New York.

She turned her attention to Felix, heard him saying, “The psalmist sings that he has never seen the good man forsaken, nor his children begging for bread. But good men and their children go hungry every day. And we come to the ancient question: If God is good, why do the wicked flourish, and the innocent suffer? They do; the wicked flourish, and children die of malnutrition or drugs; there is continuing war and disease and untimely death, and we cry out, Why!?

“And God answers by coming to live with us, to limit himself willingly in the flesh of a human child—how can that be? The power that created the stars in their courses contained in an infant? an infant come to live with us, grow for us, die for us, and on the third day rise again from the dead for us.

“And what did this incredible sacrifice accomplish? Nothing. On the surface, nothing at all. More than half the world is starving. The planet is torn apart by wars, half of them in the name of religion. We have surely done more harm throughout Christendom in the name of Christ than we have done good. Rape and murder and crimes of violence increase. We are still grieving over the tragic death of Bishop Juxon. So what is it all about? How can it possibly matter?

“I don’t know how it matters; I only know that it does, that when we suffer, God suffers, and he will never abandon the smallest fragment of his creation. He suffered with us during his sojourn as Jesus of Nazareth. And from the moment of Creation on, he suffers when any part of his creation suffers. Daily I add to his suffering and only occasionally to his gladness. But he will not give up on me, not now, not after my mortal death. He will not give up on any of us, until we have become what he meant us to be.

“I know this. I do not know how it will be done, but I know that it will be. I know that my Redeemer lives, and that I shall see him face to face.” He stood for a moment, regarding the congregation with a gentle and loving gaze. Then he said, “Amen,” and returned to his seat.

The dean rose in his hooded stall, and read some prayers, to which the congregation replied, “Amen.” Then he seated himself, leaning back in expectancy. A long, low organ note moved slowly, subtly, distance adding to the mystery of sound.

It was one of Justin’s orchestral pieces, a strange cry of loneliness and anguish which transcribed well to the organ. Then Llew shifted to Thomas Forrester’s music, to the merriment, the clashing terror, and the final gentle triumph of the Second Kermesse Suite. The young organist had undoubtedly chosen it to please Katherine, but it stirred up memories of such intense pain that for a moment she thought she was going to faint.

“Are you all right?” Mimi whispered.

“Just a little hot,” she managed. The suite was over, now; Llew was playing some of Justin’s ballet music. She was all right. Her breathing slowed, steadied, and she was able to listen to the rest of the concert with pleasure.

3

Yolande wore, this afternoon, a white chiton with gold embroidery at the hem, in which she looked stunning. Mimi murmured, “Allie buys most of Yolande’s clothes, and I must say he has exquisite taste,” and then moved across the room to Suzy, leaving Katherine to her hostess.

“Allie sends his apologies and hopes to be home before you leave,” the bishop’s wife said, gesturing Katherine to a seat. “One of his priests, up in the diocese, is in the midst of a crisis, and Allie’s gone to see if he can help.”

“I’m sorry,” Katherine murmured.

“His wife is having an affair with the senior warden and the parish is scandalized. Allie’s hoping to put things back together, or at least in some kind of proportion. He’s brilliant that way. I can’t tell you how many marriages he’s saved—he learned in the fire, after all.” She glanced at Katherine. “Are you thirsty? There’s iced tea as well as alcohol.”

Fatima, carrying a plate of small cakes, looked up at the bishop’s wife with the same gaze of adoration that Katherine had seen before, then started around the room with her plate.

Yolande brought Katherine a glass of iced tea, which she was glad to have, as she was still feeling a little shaky. She turned to thank Llew for the concert, but Yolande informed her that he had left the Cathedral immediately to go downtown to Katherine’s neighborhood to have dinner with the organist from the Church of the Ascension since a mutual organist friend was in town just for the evening.

Very well. She would write him a note when she got home. He had played superbly, and his transcriptions were excellent.

Yolande pulled up a hassock and sat at Katherine’s feet. “Are you all right?” Yolande asked. “I feel—I sense—that something has upset you.”

Katherine answered, “I’m all right now,” and changed the topic. “I do love your Hunter.”

Yolande turned her dark eyes toward the bright and peaceful painting. “If I’m upset, and I look at that mountainside for a few minutes, it will calm me, get me back into perspective—sometimes even more than going to the chapel. Felix tells me you have a superb Philippa Hunter, a sort of Madonna and Child, though he says it’s really you and your baby.”

“A Madonna is far from anything I could ever be.” Katherine sipped the cold tea. “Though I suppose any picture of a mother and infant can be interpreted that way. Llew’s concert was beautiful, wasn’t it?”

Yolande swallowed the wine in the bottom of her glass. “Llew is a superb musician, and his music is bringing him back into life. Oh, Katherine—may I call you that?”

“Of course.”

“There were so many years when my singing and the electric reaction between me and the audience were all that kept me going. I didn’t even know that two people could love each other with respect until I met Allie. I had been taught by my manager—by all the men I met—to equate sex with love. I thought that my chemistry, which has always drawn men to me, was love. But it wasn’t. It was just the futile attempt of a prisoner to pretend, you know, that the bars weren’t on the windows and the doors weren’t locked. You married young, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“How did you meet each other?”

“Justin was my piano teacher when I was in boarding school in Switzerland. I think I loved him the first time I met him.”

“And he loved you?”

Katherine smiled. “I was only a child. But I was a child with talent, and that was important to him—my talent, not my self.”

“And your childhood crush—it was that, wasn’t it?”

Yolande Undercroft could be as perspicacious as Mimi. “In the beginning.”

Yolande half closed her eyes. Her voice was a monotonous murmur. “I see you. I see you. Small for your age. Like Allie. A hideous school uniform. Long black braids. Big eyes in a peaked face. And talent. Yes, you had talent. That school was regressive for you, wasn’t it?”

Katherine looked at Yolande in amazement. Was this the ‘gift’ she had mentioned? But she answered, “Yes. After my mother died, my father and stepmother were very busy—in the midst of their own careers—and Father was convinced that I ought to have a conventional education. Though that hideous boarding school was their last attempt.”

Yolande’s eyes were still hooded. “And then you started to study with your Justin, and then—something happened—what?—wait—he left. He began to make a name for himself, and he went to Paris.”

That Justin had gone to Paris was all that Yolande could have known. Katherine felt uncomfortable, almost afraid.

“You went to study with him again—later—in Paris—you’d had an unhappy romance—am I right?”

“Yes. But who hasn’t? After mine blew up I went back to France, to resume study with Justin.”

“And you weren’t a child any longer and you fell in love.”

“Yes.”

“How sweet. And how simple. I wish it could have been that way for me. And you had two children?”

“Yes.”

“I wish I could have …” The bishop’s wife reached to the coffee table and a silver filigreed box set with precious stones, opened it, and took out a cigarette. “You don’t mind if I smoke?”

“I do mind.” Katherine tried to sound politely regretful. “I’m sorry, but cigarette smoke stings my eyes.”

Casually, the bishop’s wife put the cigarette back in the case. “I started smoking early, cigarettes for my asthma. I still find it soothing. I doubt if my cigarettes would bother you. They come from Peru. They’re very special, you know, pure tobacco used only by priestesses of the highest caste. I was trained high in the Andes in all the duties of such a priestess. Of course, our religion, like the Western, has deteriorated, and one of our duties, when we reached the age of ten or eleven, was to be available for the priests. Sexually,” she underlined. “They had perverse tastes, and there was nothing we children could do but, you know, submit.” She rose. “Please. Will you come with me for a moment?”

There was such pleading, such pain in her eyes that Katherine said, “Yes, of course,” and followed her to the little chapel, leaving a buzz of general conversation behind them.

Yolande genuflected toward the altar, then looked at Katherine, closed her eyes, and turned toward the prie-dieu. “Of course, some of the girls came to like it—what the priests wanted. But brutality of any kind has always been repugnant to me. I learned early that if I screamed it was worse, it lasted longer. So I would bite my lips, my tongue, till my mouth was full of blood, but I made not a sound.” She turned her back to Katherine and briefly pulled the chiton up over her head. Across the tanned skin were ridged white welts, scars long-healed, but still livid.

Katherine cried out in horror. Her own prison beating had left scars which were barely noticeable, which Mimi had found only with the touch of her sensitive fingers …

“Oh, it’s all right, Katherine, don’t feel sorry for me. It was all long ago. The thing is, you know, it’s made all physical violence a horror to me. If Allie and I had been able to have children I could never have raised my hand to them. I could never, never hurt anyone.” She was trying to tell Katherine something beyond the words.

But what? Katherine, unlike Manya, or Yolande, had no gifts of prevision.

Yolande’s voice quivered with intensity. “When there is violence in our neighborhood, I can feel it, physically. I felt the bullet rip into Merv. We live in a very wicked world, and I could not survive without my faith in Jesus. How different Jesus is from the gods we were taught to worship in Peru, gods who drank our blood and throve on human sacrifice. Once a year, after she had been used by all the priests, one of us was sacrificed. It would have been my turn next, if I hadn’t managed to slip away when they were all drunk on the sacred wine. It was a hideous life, you know, but it taught me to be tough.”

How often had Yolande felt the lash? No wonder she had to rearrange the past. What had once been invention for publicity was now necessary protection, rather than pretense.

Slowly she turned to face Katherine. “It also taught me to detest perverts. Thank God Allie is totally normal.” Then abruptly, “Your first child was a boy, Michel?”

“Justin Michel Vigneras, after my husband. We called him Michou.” She added quickly, “Then we had a daughter, Julie—after my mother. She lives in Norway, and I have four splendid grandchildren.”

Yolande spoke softly. “I know your son died when he was quite young.” Then, in a harsh voice: “But you had him. You had two children. I was never able to have a child. When you have been abused by as many men as I have, it does something to your—Jesus, what am I saying? I had abortions, and then my tubes were tied. I was making big money on TV and a baby would have held me back. So I was told. They had conditioned my reflexes to believe them, so I let myself be talked into it. As far as I am concerned, I was forced. It made me an easier—you know—lay. Until Allie, I thought all men were beasts. Your Justin, I take it, was not a beast.”

“No. He was, like most artists, a complicated person.”

“He loved his children?”

“He adored them.”

“He was a good father?”

“A marvelous father.”

“I don’t even know who my father was. And your father was a composer, like your husband? How do they, you know, compare?”

“I’ve never made comparisons.”

“Haven’t you?” Yolande looked at her skeptically. “Whose music do you think will last longer, will still be around in a hundred years?”

“That’s something no one can tell, till considerably more time has passed.” It was warmer in the chapel than in the living room, and Katherine felt tired. She sat in one of the rush-bottomed chairs.

Yolande, too, sat, just across the aisle. “Why do you say that?”

“All artists inevitably reflect their own culture. If anyone had asked a contemporary of Bach’s for the composer most likely to be admired in a hundred years or so, he would likely have been told Telemann.”

“Your father, though,” Yolande pursued, “he really belongs to—well, not quite the nineteenth century, but surely he belongs to another generation—and his music is still quite popular.”

“Actually, it’s coming back. For a good many years after his death he was hardly played at all. Now there’s quite a Thomas Forrester revival, which naturally delights me.”

“I asked Allie to get me some of his records,” Yolande said. “I don’t know much about classical music, but I liked his—so merry, so lighthearted—does it reflect his personality?”

Katherine smiled. “Anything but. He was a brooder. But then, I think he was only part of himself when he was with people, and complete only in his music. My stepmother, Manya Sergeievna, could make him laugh, but I don’t think anyone else could. Odd, isn’t it—Manya Sergeievna was a brilliant star in the theatre in her day—but when an actress dies, her art dies with her. Not many young people today have even heard of her.”

Yolande looked apologetic. “I haven’t. I’m sorry. But then, in a few more years no one will remember Yolande Xabo. A singer’s career is even shorter than an actress’s, while you can go on and on, since your instrument is outside you, not part of your own body. How I hate the body giving out before my understanding of music does. How I hate it!” She stood up and walked to the altar, gazing at the crucifix. “If I were the jealous type I might well be very jealous of you, still able to give concerts.”

Katherine looked at Yolande’s slender back, and bowed head, and the small chapel suddenly felt as though a cold chill had come over it.

But then Yolande turned, and her face was alive with interest. “And your husband’s music?”

“My husband was one of the most delightful, amusing people in the world. I tend to have inherited my father’s broodiness, but Justin could laugh me out of my darkest moods. But his music—his music was born out of war and pain. He has much to say to our torn-apart planet.”

“You’ve been with music and musicians all your life, haven’t you?”

“Yes. I’ve been very fortunate. It’s my world.”

“One world—” Yolande sighed. “I’ve known so many—that’s why I try to help young artists. Fatima Gomez has an amazing voice. I was born with beauty as well as talent, but Fatima—well, her voice may overcome all the rest of the obstacles. It’s amazingly like mine at that age.” She genuflected once more to the altar. “I suppose we ought to get back to the others, but I did want a little time alone with you, and this seemed the only way to get it. I love this chapel. It gives me great comfort. The last couple of years have been—you know—hell.”

4

The young bishop was waiting for them. He greeted Katherine, apologizing for his delay.

“It’s good to see you,” she said. “I gather you had some kind of crisis to solve.”

Still holding her hand, he replied, “I’m not sure all crises have solutions. Maybe resolutions, if one is given the right things to say at the right moment.”

Yolande put her arm about her husband. “That is your gift, Allie. You are very blessed. Is everything going to be all right? I told Katherine what it—you know—was about. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” The bishop let Katherine’s hand go. “All I could do, for today at any rate, was to stop my poor young priest from acting too impetuously. His wife’s a fool, but a nice fool, and I think she’s learned her lesson. That pompous senior warden I’m not sure of. When people start using Jesus to justify wrongdoing, there’s not much they’re able to hear. Well, enough of diocesan problems. How was the concert?”

“Excellent,” Yolande said, casting a long side glance at Katherine.

“Do sit down, Madame,” the bishop said. “This chair is a good one for you, I believe.”

“Thank you.” Katherine felt tired from the tension in the chapel with Yolande. She looked at Bishop Undercroft and tried to visualize him as Felix had seen him in San Francisco, but could see only the young Lukas. Lukas had not looked like a Greek god; with his height and strength he was more like a Viking. Or, irony of ironies, a young wolf. Lukos is the Greek word for wolf. But she had not known that until long after both Wolfi and Lukas were dead.

“I have a little treat for you,” Yolande broke across her thoughts. “Fatima is going to sing for us. I’ve kept telling you what a, you know, lovely voice she has, and I think it’s time you heard it. She’ll be less self-conscious with her mother not there. Mrs. Gomez doesn’t think much of music.”

Fatima was standing at the head of the steps to the living room, looking clumsy and embarrassed. The formidable Mrs. Gomez, Katherine thought, would indeed likely have intimidated her daughter even further. Yolande went to the record player and put on an orchestral recording of some folk songs. Fatima stood stolidly through the first song, frozen in her lumpish fright, looking as though she were never going to open her mouth, but at the second song she began to sing. And suddenly she was no longer ugly or stupid-looking. Her voice was clear and pure, and she sang with her eyes closed, her arms dropped loosely to her sides, lost in the music. The simple melodies showed off her range well; it was even wider than Yolande’s, and the quality of the voice was infinitely richer. Katherine was grateful that Yolande had trained the child with these simple songs.

When the record ended, Fatima opened her eyes. The applause was enthusiastic.

As the child started to scurry off, Yolande said, “Wait, Fatima, you must take a bow now. You did very well, and I’m proud of you.”

Blushing painfully, the girl bowed in clumsy imitation of Yolande, then scuttled off.

Yolande looked at Katherine, “What do you think?”

“She’s extraordinary.”

“A good investment on my part, n’est-ce pas?”

“I should say that Fatima has a superb teacher.”

Yolande blushed with pleasure, and the group began talking about Fatima and her surprising voice, and again Katherine withdrew, leaning back and resting.

After a while she realized that the dean was no longer there, and then Suzy rose, thanking the Undercrofts and saying that it was time to leave. Katherine pushed out of her chair, murmuring her thanks, and Yolande said, “It was more than a pleasure to be with you. It was a privilege. Thank you for letting me talk to you. I can’t tell you how much that means to me. I don’t have many women friends. I need someone who understands music, as you do.” She stood at the door to Ogilvie House, elegant in her white and gold, waving them off.

The air outside was oppressive. One of the peacocks strutted by, dragging his long tail in the dust. Topaze emerged from behind some bushes.

“What are you doing here?” Suzy asked rather sharply.

“Waiting to take Fatty home. Ma doesn’t want her on the subway alone.”

Suzy’s manner softened. “Do you want to come in and wait?”

Topaze shook his head. “Too hot. Just wanted to say good night to the music lady.”

“Good night, Topaze,” Katherine said, and he bowed, deeply, then moved away from them onto the grass.

“Poor kid,” Suzy said. “He quite often walks Emily home from school in a funny, protective, old-fashioned way. And I’m grateful to him for that.” She opened the glass doors to Cathedral House and a blast of hot air rushed out at them. “The office air-conditioners are off for the weekend. Sorry. It’s fairly comfortable once we get up to the apartment.”

“After climbing Mount Everest,” Mimi said. “You go on up, Suzy. We old folks will take it more slowly.”

“You go on, too,” Katherine urged. “You’re used to dashing up and down stairs at Tenth Street. Felix and I will climb at a pace suited to our exalted age.”

At the first landing, Felix stopped to mop his brow. “How did you like my homily?”

“It made me believe that you were truly a bishop.”

He laughed ruefully. “Is it so difficult?”

“Not difficult at all. And I liked what you said. It reminded me of Wolfi.”

“Thank you.” Felix bowed slightly. “Thank you, my dear. You couldn’t say anything that would please me more. I’m glad you had a chance to see me functioning, at least a little.”

They started up again, and at the second landing Felix paused once more. Despite Katherine’s arthritic knees, the stairs were not as hard on her as they were on Felix. Rather curiously she asked, “How on earth did Mrs. Gomez come to cook for the Undercrofts?”

Felix said carefully, “She is a magnificent cook.”

He was prevaricating. “How did they find her?”

Again carefully, Felix said, “The cook Yolande had returned to South America, and she needed someone.”

“So how did she find Mrs. Gomez?”

“People who can afford servants know where to ask around, and I think Yolande’s old cook knew Mrs. Gomez, who is, I must say, a far better cook. However, according to Emily, Mrs. Gomez got fired from her last job because she hit one of the children in the family.”

“How would Emily know that?”

“I suspect Tory told her. Little pitchers have big ears. We’d better start climbing again, or they’ll be sending out a rescue party for us.”

And indeed, Jos and John were coming down the stairs, offering help.

“We’re slow,” Felix said, “but like the proverbial tortoise we get there, and without any help from you young hares.”

He had been holding out on her, Katherine thought, though she was not sure why she was so certain about this. But there was more to Mrs. Gomez coming to work for the Undercrofts than that they needed a cook.

Dean Davidson had changed to blue jeans and a striped T-shirt; he had cooked the dinner, some kind of Spanish stew with beans and sausages and vegetables, rather highly spiced. Katherine was glad she had a hearty digestion. She sat at his right during the meal and relaxed into the general noise of family dinner-table conversation. Emily and Tory argued until Suzy threatened to send them from the table. Jos prodded his mother into telling him, in detail, about some complicated emergency heart surgery she had performed that morning. Felix and the dean, ignoring the rest of the conversation, began discussing who would be elected the new suffragan bishop.

“It will be hard to find someone with Merv’s irenic qualities,” the dean said, “and a peacemaker is what we need in this diocese.”

“Mother Cat is generally popular,” Felix said.

“True, but I doubt very much she’d accept being put up for election. St. Andrew’s is very dear to her heart.”

“Sister Mary Anna is an excellent headmistress and takes care of most of the administrative work.”

“Also true. But Mother Cat wants nothing to do with ecclesiastical politics.”

“They’ll ask her to run, anyhow,” Felix said.

The dean smiled at Katherine. “One thing that kept me from the Church for a long time was all this politicking, but I suspect you don’t escape it anywhere.”

She nodded. “But I was lucky. My husband, and then my manager, kept me out of it.”

“We’ve discussed it enough for tonight. The subject’s going to be around until autumn when we have Diocesan Convention. This is not going to be an easy election. In one of C. P. Snow’s novels there’s the very political election of a new master of a college, and one of the dons says, ‘I want a man who knows something about himself. And is appalled. And has to forgive himself to get along.’”

5

“Now.” The dean clapped his hands for attention. “Let’s get organized so that we can make music.” With a wave of his arm he swept everybody from the table, shouting out instructions. Jos and John did the dishes, while the little girls prepared coffee, and then they all assembled in the airy living room. Katherine was placed in one of the comfortable chairs by the fireplace, where she waited expectantly.

John was as good as she had hoped he would be. She heard Dave murmur to his wife, “John approaches the violin the way I approach the chalice and paten.”

Felix’s playing was better than Katherine had anticipated. His technique was rusty, but he handled the bow well, and his tone was clear. Dave played the English horn as though pouring through it all the pain and loneliness of his life, of the lives of everyone around him, everyone surrounding the Cathedral. After a certain amount of badgering by Felix, he played the overture to the third act of Tristan.

“That does something to me,” Mimi said. “I’d like to put my head down and howl.”

“Let’s have something cheerful.” Dave took sheaves of music from a mahogany rack. “Something we can all play. Warm up your recorders, Suzy, Tory, Jos. Here, let’s tackle this Vivaldi, and then we can try some Diabelli.”

The three recorder players were adequate, though certainly no more than that. Dave had switched from the horn to the flute and murmured that his lips were out of shape, but he played well. Emily, accompanying, was tense, scowling at the music. She played with precision, and she listened, Katherine noted, to the other instruments. But whether or not she had the same kind of talent that John did was impossible to tell from her accompanying.

Then, without warning, Emily banged her fists down on the keys with a loud discord, shouted, “It’s intolerable! I’m playing horribly!” and stormed out of the room. In the distance came the sound of sobbing and banging.

“Leave her,” Dave said to Suzy.

“How can she be so awful?” Tory demanded indignantly.

Felix started to rise.

“No, Bishop,” Dave said. “Don’t go in to her.”

“But she’s in pain—”

“Not really—” Mimi started.

Felix cut in, “I didn’t mean physically.”

“Please, Bishop,” Dave restrained him.

“I do apologize,” Suzy murmured.

“Let’s get on with the music,” John said.

Jos looked at his recorder. “Em’s temper’s never been the best, but lately it’s been getting out of hand. Why do you let her get away with it?”

“I don’t think we’re letting her get away with it,” Suzy demurred.

“My dears.” Felix held up his hand for silence. “Don’t you see what Emily is doing?”

“No,” Tory said.

“What, Bishop, please?” John asked. “She’s always had a quick temper, but since her accident—”

“Since her accident she’s been spoiled rotten,” Tory said.

“Hey, hold it, Tory,” John warned. “You used to be the spoiled baby and you resent—”

Again Felix held up his hand. “Children. Quiet. Your parents have not spoiled Emily, nor have you. But she’s angry. Wouldn’t you be?”

Tory scowled. “Sure, but I wouldn’t take it out on everybody.”

“You would if your talent—that which is death to hide—had been taken away in one instant.”

Tory looked sullen. “Since I don’t have any particular talent, I wouldn’t know.”

“Tory,” Suzy remonstrated.

John repeated, “Hold it.” He looked directly at Katherine. “Uncle Bishop is right, Madame Vigneras, Em was terrified this evening. She knows she can’t ever dance again, but she doesn’t know whether or not she can play the piano. Can she?”

Katherine returned his gaze. “I don’t know, John. I couldn’t tell enough from her accompanying. One thing I do know, she has the artist’s drive. And I’ve seen one talent destroyed and the drive turned in another direction. When she has her program worked up I will listen to it, but I will not insult her by making a decision on the basis of this evening.”

“Thank you,” Dave said. “Some people tend to be sentimental where Emily is concerned, and she sees through it immediately. I’m not happy about her explosions, but I think she has a certain amount of cause.”

“And you leave her alone,” Mimi agreed. “That’s the best way of handling a tantrum. Pay it no attention.”

“Well—” Suzy sighed and turned to Katherine. “You’ve certainly seen us naked and unadorned.”

“I have children and grandchildren,” Katherine said. “And I agree with Felix and Mimi—and John—about Emily.”

“Right,” Dave said. “Shall we get back to some music?”

“How can we,” Jos asked, “without Em?”

“Shall I try to get her to come out?” Suzy suggested.

“No.” Mimi spoke quickly.

Again Suzy sighed. “As a mother I leave a great deal to be desired. I’m away from my children—at the hospital too much—”

“We like you the way you are,” John said. “Part-time you is better than most full-time mothers I know.”

“Thanks, John, that’s balm to my heart. But if we’re to go on playing, shouldn’t I—”

“No.” Katherine eased herself out of the chair with the help of her stick. “I’ll accompany.”

She was not accustomed to accompanying, and she found it a challenge to listen to the others, to try to guide them. Tory had a tendency to accelerate, so Katherine emphasized the beat and the melody until the child had checked herself.

“Oh, wow,” Tory said when the suite was over, everyone finishing more or less at the same time. “That was terrific. I could feel myself speeding up and then Madame Vigneras pulled me back. And I never understood that sort of hiccupy—”

“Syncopated,” John supplied.

“Yes, that part.”

Dave set more music on the piano, in the stands. “Just one more. That is, if you can bear it, Madame.”

“One more. I’m enjoying it, but it’s getting late.” Katherine looked at the music. “Good. I’m moderately familiar with this. My eyes are no longer what they used to be for sight-reading.”

“A lot better than mine,” Felix said. “We haven’t played that for ages and I fumbled all over the place.”

She smiled at him. “You’re not half bad, Felix. Ready?”

He pushed his half-moon spectacles into place. “It’s hot. They always slide when it’s hot. Yes, let’s go on.”

While they were playing, Emily came back and sat on the sofa beside Mimi, not speaking. Mimi patted her gently, and continued listening to the music.

When they had finished, Emily rose and went to Katherine. “I’m sorry. It was extremely discourteous of me to fly off the handle like that.”

Katherine regarded her, nodding acknowledgment. This apology was not coming easily.

“I have an absolutely vile temper,” Emily continued. “I’m sorry it got out of control, everyone, truly I am.”

“We missed you,” Felix said. “You cover up for my mistakes better than Katherine does.”

“You didn’t make mistakes—” Tory started.

Felix said, “Where we really missed you, Emily, was in the ballet music, because you play that with more authority than anyone else. Which makes me think—don’t you have a ballet dancer as one of your tenants, Katherine?”

Katherine had almost forgotten about Dorcas and her problems. For a moment it seemed to her to be heartlessly tactless of Felix to bring her up, but then she realized that to refuse to talk about ballet with Emily was as stupid as refusing to talk about someone who has died. “Yes. Dorcas Gibson. But she isn’t dancing now, she’s pregnant.”

“Very pregnant?” Tory asked with interest.

“Very visibly pregnant, at any rate. Do you know her, Emily? Was she in your company?”

“Yes, but we kids didn’t see much of the real company—except those who teach in the school. During the Nutcracker, I got to know her a bit a couple of years ago when I was dancing Klara, the little girl, and she was the Sugar Plum Fairy. I wasn’t supposed to dance Klara—it was a girl a year older, but I’d been told I’d have a chance the next year. But she got a stress fracture in her foot the day before the opening, and I slid into the role. A good thing, because I couldn’t have done it the next year.” Her voice was factual, with no residue of self-pity. “Dorcas is nice. She talked with us kids, and told us stories about when she’d been in the school, and she helped me with a couple of steps where I was getting out of rhythm. I like her. I hope she has a nice baby.”

“Is her husband a dancer?” Tory asked.

“He’s a banker or lawyer or something gross like that,” Emily said.

“What’s he like?”

“He’s a turd,” Emily stated categorically.

“Emily!” Suzy protested.

“Don’t you mean a nerd?” Jos suggested.

“Turd.”

The air was becoming charged again. Felix said, “Did you know that once upon a time, thousands of years ago, I played the violin in a nightclub in the Village? I was awful, but it was all that kept me from starvation for a full season. Now, children, it’s past my bedtime.” He wrapped his violin in a white silk scarf before tucking it in its case.

Mimi rose. “Bedtime for us, too.” She glanced at Katherine. “I have to be at work early tomorrow morning.”

“As do we all,” Suzy said. “Dave has been known to throw people out who haven’t left at what he considers a suitable hour.”

Emily let out a guffaw. “One time he left the room and came back in his pajamas, carrying his toothbrush.”

“Don’t tell Madame Vigneras all my secrets.” The dean turned to Katherine and Mimi. “I’ll drive you home.”

“No, Dave. You or the boys walk us to Broadway and see us into a cab.”

The dean walked with them and stayed till he’d closed the door of their taxi.

6

As they neared Tenth Street, Mimi suggested, “How about a back rub?”

“I’d love it. But, as you said, you have to be up early.”

“I’m wound up. It’ll help me unwind. Take your bath and I’ll be down.”

Katherine, too, was wound up. Emily had touched her more with her outburst than with her calm courage. The child was going to attack life like an eagle; but a one-taloned eagle is woefully vulnerable.

—And no one can help her, she thought,—as no one could help me. We’re on our own. No wonder I yell for a God I do not understand in times of stress. Every time I’ve tried to depend on a human being it’s been disastrous.

She took her bath and lay down on her bed, waiting for Mimi.

The cardinal, her idol. She had gone running to Wolfi. He would tell her what to do, would make it, somehow, all right.

But he couldn’t. She had been a blind fool. He had no answers for her. The carved wood statue of the Virgin had no answers.

She had left the lights and shadows of Wolfi’s cathedral and told the chauffeur she wanted to walk. She moved blindly through the streets. Munich had become a familiar city, but she recognized nothing. She groped in her handbag for her dark glasses, as though they would disguise her pain, and walked directly into Lukas.

Not yet Lukas. Into Kommandant von Hilpert.

He caught her and held her. ‘Madame Vigneras!’ In prison he had called her Katherine.

‘Kommandant von—’

‘Nein. Herr Hilpert. Lukas. Please, Lukas. You are trembling, you are cold, you need coffee.’ Without hesitation he took her arm, led her along the street, around a corner, into a small cafe. He seated her and ordered coffee, ‘Mit Schlag ober, and pastries.’ He looked across the table at her. ‘I thought never to see you again.’

‘I’m sorry …’ She was still half in shock, and seeing Lukas von Hilpert was almost as shocking as the cardinal’s proposal.

‘What is it?’

‘Nothing,’ she said quickly. ‘I was just—very depressed.’

He rested his hands on the table. She noticed that he wore a wedding band. ‘Were you? So was I. It has been a dull day. Until now. But why are you in Munich? I saw no notice of a concert.’

‘I came to see Cardinal von Stromberg.’ So unused was she to evasions that she blurted out the truth.

‘And have you seen the eminent cardinal?’

‘He wasn’t there.’ Nor was he, the great éminence grise she had been running to see, the marble statue who had never existed except in her own imagination, the earthly father who would make all things well.

‘My wife is one of his many admirers,’ Lukas said, and dismissed him. ‘I have been to your concerts. How you have matured in your playing!’

‘Thank you.’

‘I wanted, but I did not presume, to come backstage.’

She nodded. She would not have been pleased to see him. She did not understand why she was pleased to see him now.

‘Your husband’s music is played frequently.’

‘Yes, he is becoming a fine composer.’

‘He is all right?’

‘Moderately. He was tortured at Auschwitz.’

He made an anguished face. ‘I did not know. There was much that I did not know when I talked to you in that funny school building outside Paris.’

‘There was much I didn’t know, either. I can’t condone what the Germans did, but—oh, God, what the Americans did—’ She looked out the window at the rubbled street. ‘This was retaliation above and beyond—’

She had not tasted her torte and he gently pushed her plate to her. ‘Bombs are never a solution. That is true. But we Germans, with our poisonous religion, caused all this devastation.’

‘Religion?’

‘Oh, yes, believe me, religion. You went to see a cardinal? Do not ever look for help in religion. It is all a lie, a diseased deceit.’ For a moment the tension of lines drawn between nose and mouth reminded her of Justin, despite Justin’s fine-boned darkness and von Hilpert’s muscular fairness. ‘I embraced the Nazi religion with all my soul. I believed that we were building a better, purer world, and that I was part of this army of holy people. You find this amusing?’

‘Not amusing at all.’

He leaned across the table toward her. ‘Katherine—unlike the majority of my fellow countrymen I cannot pretend, now that the war is over, that nothing really happened, nor that I, myself, am unchanged, and we can pick up and go on as before. I cannot pretend, to myself, or to you, that I had no personal responsibility whatsoever for all that happened, even the things I did not know about.’ A slight smile eased the severity of his face. ‘Eat,’ he urged. ‘I knew that we were working on the atom bomb, and I knew what was involved. We would have used it just as ruthlessly and stupidly as you did. When you are a religious fanatic, the cause of your religion is all that matters, not human life.’

Again she looked out the window, shuddering at the devastation of a block of buildings shattered and gutted by bombs and fire. ‘This—all this outside—is nothing in comparison to Hiro—’ She broke off, swallowing painfully, and took a sip of her coffee.

He cleaned up some last chocolaty crumbs. ‘I am grateful that we did not get the atom bomb first. But it is a burden on the conscience of all humankind.’ He laughed, an unamused, angry snort. ‘I talk like this and eat cake.’

She took, then, a bit of her pastry.

‘Religion is a virus, virulent, deathly. It is a lesson I had to learn the hard way, and at the expense of many other people.’

‘What are you doing now?’ She closed her eyes briefly against the surrounding destruction.

‘I manage a number of theatres, not only here, in Munich, but in other cities. I am the manager, in fact, of the hall in which you have played, but I thought it best not to make myself known to you.’

‘So it was you who sent me the roses in the lovely crystal bowl!’

‘You liked them?’

‘I was overwhelmed. A bowl like that is not what one expects from the usual manager.’

‘You kept it?’

‘Wasn’t I supposed to?’

‘But of course.’

‘I love it. I take it with me whenever I travel. Thank you.’

A crisply uniformed waitress—all uniforms in Germany tended to be crisp, she thought—offered them more coffee from a large silver pot. Behind her came a waiter, also crisp, with a bowl of whipped cream and more pastries. Katherine accepted the coffee and cream, ‘but nothing more to eat, please.’

‘You have been to the Heiliggeistkirche?’ von Hilpert asked.

‘No.’ The coffee was fragrant and tasted almost as good as it smelled. ‘I’ve never had time when I’ve been here.’

‘Well, then.’ He smiled, as though deliberately moving out of darkness. ‘We must go, so that you can see the ten original Maruska dancers which Erasmus Grasser carved in wood for the town hall—I think you do not have other plans? We will not talk of horrors but of art; of creation, not destruction.’

They spent the rest of the afternoon together, until the museum closed, and then he asked, ‘Where are you staying?’

‘The Vier Jahreszeiten.’

‘When are you returning to Paris?’

‘My husband doesn’t expect me till after the weekend.’

‘Then you will have dinner with me?’

If she had dinner with him she would not have to see the cardinal. ‘But don’t you—’

‘My dear, any plans I might have had—and I assure you that in fact I had none—would be unimportant in comparison with this opportunity to spend an evening with you. I have wanted, when you have played in Germany, to get in touch with you, to do more than send you flowers as any anonymous manager may do, but I have considerably less assurance than I did. How would Madame Vigneras respond to a message from her erstwhile jailer, her enemy? But I am not your enemy now.’ Again his face contorted into an unhappy grimace. ‘My children are confused because West Germany is such a good friend of the United States, and why, when, as they say, we were at war with the United States? And why is the United States quarreling with Russia, when they were allies during the war? Friend, foe, it is all on paper; people, human beings, are shoved around for the sake of power and greed. Power. I believed in it once.’

‘When you were commander of the prison.’

He slapped the fist of one hand into the palm of the other. ‘I used up all my believing then. Now—I believe only that this day is good because chance sent you blundering into my path, and you are being kind to me. That is enough to believe. I believe what your music says when you are playing. Isn’t that enough?’

‘Yes, it is enough.’

‘And—’ He smiled at her. ‘You went to see a cardinal and he was not there?’

‘Yes.’

‘You are religious? I have offended you?’

‘No. I am not religious.’

‘Then why would you need to see a cardinal?’

‘He is a friend—a lover of music—’

‘Sorry, I can see that you do not wish to talk about it. Above all things, I do not want to hurt you, and if you care about the Church—’

She stretched her fingers. ‘I play the piano. Wolfi—the cardinal—came to one of my concerts, and we became friends, through music.’

‘You are still a child, and I am hurting you, and I do not wish to hurt this beautiful child.’

‘I am not a child.’

‘You have a child’s vulnerability. Come. I’ll take you back to your hotel, and I’ll come for you at seven.’

7

She bathed, changed, then picked up the phone. The cardinal had said he would call her at seven. If she did not call him first, he would call her, and not finding her might well call Justin. She did not want a search party out for a missing pianist.

His secretary was put on the phone. ‘Yes, Madame Vigneras. The cardinal said I was to get hold of him if you called. Please wait.’

It was so long before the cardinal came on the line that she was on the verge of hanging up. Then she heard his warm tones. ‘Katherine, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting for so long. May I come?’

‘No—’

‘To talk—’

She shook her head at the phone. ‘No, Wolfi. I don’t know what Justin was thinking of, or you. I can’t just go to bed with someone in order to get pregnant, and then say goodbye and thank you very much. I can’t—I can’t make love without being involved with the—the—’

‘But, Katherine, we are involved. We’ve been making spiritual love for a long time.’

‘You’ve been making it with Justin, too, then.’

‘But of course. That is why this would be so right, for you to bear a child for Justin by me.’

She shook her head at the blind instrument again. ‘No. Wolfi, you are a priest, a cardinal—’

He spoke patiently. ‘I know. I would not enter into this lightly, or at all, believe me, if it did not seem so—so arranged in heaven.’

‘No.’ And then, slowly, ‘I would be involved with you in a different way. Our friendship has been more important to me than I can say. But this—it would be a completely different kind of involvement. I couldn’t just make love with you and get pregnant and go back to Justin and then never—never—’

‘Of course not. That was not what I had in mind.’

Her throat felt constricted. ‘How could Justin suggest this? How could he think I could just go to bed with someone with nothing but pregnancy on my mind?’

‘Kinderlein.’ The cardinal was again the priestly father. ‘I doubt if Justin was able to think it through that clearly. He is simply crying out of his own pain. Do you realize how devastating this is for him?’

She replied stiffly, ‘Yes, I think I do.’

‘You are a woman. There is no equivalent in a woman’s body. This intractable integrity is pride on your part.’

Where, before, had her integrity been something to be accused of? In her pain she could not remember. She did not have any feeling of pride, only of being battered.

The cardinal continued, ‘You can perhaps guess at what he is feeling, but you cannot understand. You cannot understand his desperate need to have you give him a child of your body, to call his own.’

She could not talk any more. She murmured, ‘I’m sorry, Wolfi, I’m sorry,’ and hung up.

But she did give Justin the child he wanted. Not the cardinal’s child—Lukas’s.

8

After dinner Lukas looked at her, saying, ‘We need each other. I think, for tonight at least, you need me as badly as I need you. I do not ask why. I do not need to know. But you need me.’

They walked in the direction of her hotel, his arm protectively around her. ‘Shall we stop at a drugstore?’ Lukas suggested.

She did not need to ask him to explain. ‘I am prepared.’ Prepared for what? To become pregnant. She did not like deception, Justin’s, the cardinal’s, her own. But she was tangled in it. She said, ‘Lukas, you talk about your children. What about your wife?’

‘My wife.’ His voice was flat. ‘Perhaps my wife, staying with my wife, is a small reparation for—oh, for the French school where you were prisoner. It is my wife’s house we live in. I love her parents—how ironic that is—I love my children. But my wife is a self-centered hypochondriac, incapable of loving anything except her own imagined illnesses. I am always grateful that my work takes me to many cities. I stay away as much as possible. When I am at home I am with my children. My wife does not sleep in the same room with me, much less the same bed. You need not feel that you are taking anything from her.’

‘I’m sorry. After you promised not to ask me anything.’

‘I ask you nothing.’

He was tender, gentle.

Justin’s lovemaking had been frantic, almost violent, as if in some kind of anguished premonition. She had been excited as their love exploded with brilliant fireworks, almost frightened. She had responded to the urgency without realizing that such a pitch of passion could not be sustained.

Lukas brought her slowly up to the heights.

In the morning, he said, ‘My parents-in-law have a small castle in the mountains. We will go there for the weekend.’

‘But your parents-in-law—how can—’

‘They love me. They understand. I stay with my wife for their sake as much as for the children. I do not absolve myself of all blame for my wife’s condition; they do.’

More than one night with Lukas was needed … ‘Yes.’

He kissed her gently, murmuring, ‘Katherine, I do not pretend to know what sent you fleeing to Munich, and I do not want to know. All I want is to rejoice in this beauty. When I was your jailer I was too bound up in ideologies, and zeal for conversion, to be human. And I had had, after all, an adolescent crush on your mother. I want to reassure you that your mother in no way comes between us. It is you I want, you.’

She pressed her cheek against the springing gold hair on his chest, so different from Justin’s softer black. ‘I know.’ There was no question.

He stroked her slowly and rhythmically. ‘I know, too, that when this weekend is over, we will not see each other again. Not this way.’

How did he know? What did he know?

His hand stilled as he stated, ‘You are in love with your husband.’

‘Yes. I always will be.’

“All right. No questions. For whatever reason I am being given this gift, I accept it with incredible joy. And yet—’ His hand began to move again. ‘Somehow, even when it would have seemed the most impossible, when you rejected me in prison, and you were right to do so, I always knew that one day this would happen.’

9

They drove for half a day, and then took a miniature train.

‘There are no cars in the village where the Schloss is.’

‘What is it called?’ she asked.

‘Let it be nameless. A fairy-tale village, with a castle of dreams. I must warn you—it is very small—it hardly bears the name of Schloss—but it is old and beautiful and I love it.’

They were greeted with deference by an elderly couple who came out from the small cottage that served as gatehouse. Was this where Lukas came with his—

As though reading her, he said, ‘I come here often with the children, for skiing in winter, hiking in summer. And we are always here for Christmas. We have a great tree, and it is like the first act of the Nutcracker.’

He brought her a heavy shawl. ‘It is colder here than in Munich. If you need anything else, my mother-in-law’s clothes will fit you.’ They walked through the winter-bare woods, the trees just starting to soften against a pearly sky. They slept in a vast four-poster bed. He asked her if she was taking precautions, and again she replied, ‘I am prepared.’

The elderly couple fed them, mostly with vegetables from the root cellar, or from the pantry filled with canning jars, and with their own wine from the damp, cool cellars. They drew her bath, laid out her clothes, clucked over her with loving approval, and she was grateful.

The prison on the outskirts of Paris had been the darkness of nightmare. This was the golden light of fairy tale. While it was happening, it was forever; there was no time.

And then it was over.

Lukas put her on the train and then walked swiftly away.

She did not cry on the train, not until she got back to Paris, to her husband, and then she hid her tears, did her utmost not to let him see that she was in deep depression. She had been right when she had cried out to the cardinal that she could not sleep with someone in order to get pregnant and then forget it. During that intense weekend at the Schloss she had, in fact, fallen in love with Lukas, and the knowledge that it was over, that she would probably never see him again, seemed intolerable. When she worked at the piano she saw the music room in the Schloss where she had played for Lukas on a square rosewood piano with a light, sweet tone. Resolutely (like a heroine in a Victorian novel, she thought bitterly) she would push the images away. She and Justin went on a brief tour through Scandinavia, and that helped. When they returned she went to the doctor, who confirmed that she was pregnant. When she told Justin he exclaimed, ‘So that’s why you’ve been so moody!’ He was radiant at the news. How could he be? But he was. ‘We must call Wolfi,’ he said.

She asked, calmly, ‘Does he know that we—that we are doing—this?’

‘Of course,’ Justin said. ‘I tell Wolfi everything.’

And what would the Wolf have told Justin? ‘You call him.’

‘He will want to talk to you, too.’

‘No. I can’t. Not about this. This is—private—between you and me.’

‘But Wolfi will be the godfather.’

‘You talk to him. I can’t.’

He put it down to the kind of aberration to be expected of a pregnant woman. When he dialed the operator she left the room, left the house, and walked for an hour.

Gradually Lukas receded from the forefront of her mind. She did everything in her power to feel that the life within her belonged only to herself, to (but how?) Justin.

10

“Katherine!”

Abruptly she returned to the present, to New York, to Tenth Street.

“Where on earth were you?”

Mimi was standing by the bed, holding alcohol and lotion. “I had a phone call from a colleague in Detroit which kept me so long I was sure you’d given up on me.”

“No, I’d never do that, Mimi.”

“You were certainly off in space somewhere. I had to call you three times before I could get you away from wherever you were.”

“Not so much space as time. I told you I’d come home to come to terms with my memories.”

Mimi turned off the lights by the bed, leaving only the reading lamp by the chaise longue to hold back the shadows. Katherine relaxed under the strong, competent hands. She was no longer remembering, or thinking; she was content to let the tensions flow from her body, to enjoy the comforting movement of the sure fingers. Sleepily she asked, “Do you know the garden-apartment tenants?”

Mimi’s hands slowed, then continued, “By sight. They’ve only been here a year. I doubt if I’ve spoken more than a few words with them. Why do you ask?”

Still sleepily, Katherine murmured, “I was wondering why Emily Davidson called him—Terry Gibson—a turd.”

“Emily, like me, tends to make snap judgments. I would guess that, like me, she’s usually right, but not always. Gibson strikes me as a total Establishment type, striding along with his briefcase, concerned about making money and his male macho image and not much else. Not Emily’s type.”

“I’d like to have seen her dance the Nutcracker.”

“I did,” Mimi said. “She was stunning. She knocked your breath away and then melted your heart. Now be quiet. You’re waking up and I want you to go to sleep.”

Katherine relaxed, letting all her muscles loosen, and sliding into a dream of Emily dancing, and being pursued by the giant rodents from the ballet. When the phone rang, her limbs jerked in shock.

“The world breaks in again.” Mimi reached for the phone and handed it to Katherine, who rolled over to take the receiver.

“Hello.”

“So the famous Madame Vigneras is up to her old tricks again!” a voice said. “We know what you are doing right now, you and the great Dr. Oppenheimer. You may think that you are better than other people, but we know that you are worse, and what you are up to, and you cannot hide from us—”

Katherine slammed down the phone.

“Ma mie! What was it?”

Katherine’s voice was cold with rage. “One of those filthy calls accusing—”

“Accusing who of what?”

“You and me of—” She glanced toward the window.

Mimi replaced the phone on the night table. “It’s entirely my fault. People assume I’m lesbian, and anybody who’s my friend must be one, too. It’s nasty, but not to be taken seriously.”

Katherine was trembling. “The other time they brought in Felix, too—they accused me of being his mistress.”

Mimi laughed, a robust laugh of mirth. “Dear Felix. Well, in the morning we’ll call the phone company and get your number changed.”

“I like my number,” Katherine said stubbornly.

“Too bad. If you don’t want these calls to continue, you’ll have to have a different number and a private listing. I’ve had to do it, too. I can’t be bothered with people using the telephone as a receptacle for their vomit.”

Katherine lay down. She felt as though the anonymous caller had physically assaulted her. She had expected anonymity in her retirement, no more horrors of dead rats, perverse callers. “Vomit. That’s what it’s like. We had one caller in Paris who breathed into the phone, but never said anything.”

“I think I’d prefer the outrageous suggestions to breathing,” Mimi said. “You never know what a breather is going to do. Those who get their sexual kicks verbally seldom do anything violent.” Her voice was brisk, matter-of-fact. “You are all tense, just as I had you beautifully relaxed.” Her hands began to knead, bringing calm back to tight muscles.

“Why,” Katherine demanded, “are people determined to think of one in terms of sexual activity?” Realizing that she was repeating her words to Dorcas, she said, “I do not like to be limited. I am all of myself. But first and foremost I am Katherine, pianist.”

“Hush,” Mimi said. “If you can delineate people according to their rutting habits, you don’t have to make allowances for normal human complexity. I love you, Katherine. I don’t want to make love with you, but I love you, and that is natural. I love to touch you, and that, too, is natural, and I don’t give a hot hoot in hell if it is misinterpreted. As to what is normal and what is abnormal, probably all sex which is not purely for the purpose of procreation is abnormal, so let’s not worry about being normal. And stop looking out your window. Nobody is looking in. That idiot phone call didn’t come from across the way. It’s connected, somehow or other, with the Cathedral.”

“The Cathedral? Why on earth—”

“Last winter I had a few similar calls. I got a friend from the hospital to stay with me for a week, and when one of the calls came in I hotfooted it downstairs to Quill’s. Fortunately, this was one of the times when he was home, and I got hold of the operator while upstairs my friend kept the caller on the phone, and the number could therefore be traced. It was from the front reception desk at Cathedral House. At midnight.”

“And who was it?” Katherine’s voice was shocked.

“No way of telling. It could be somebody who’d got hold of a key and had a duplicate made. It could be somebody who works at the Cathedral, from one of the canons down to one of the maintenance men. It could be anybody. I saw no reason to go to Dave about it—I’d satisfied my own curiosity. He has enough problems. I had my number changed. And that was that.”

“Oh, Mimi.” Katherine closed her eyes. “I thought retirement was going to simplify my life. No more crises, no more personality clashes, no more of life’s complexities. I thought I could sit with my piano and my books and sort out my memories and die with everything tidily arranged.”

“Katherine, I know you’re naïve, but not that naïve, please.”

“I did not expect this kind of thing.”

“Nobody expects it. But there are a lot of sick people in the world, and more yearly. The statistics are not pretty. As to being straight, I doubt if anyone worth knowing is entirely straight. We all have our kinks and quirks. My own private life wouldn’t pass any vigilante group’s regulations for moral virtue. Katherine, you are never going to quiet down if we keep on talking. Be quiet. I love you, and I value our friendship, but I love you in the most straight way possible. You know that. So pay that idiot phone call no mind. Tomorrow, first thing, I’ll get your number changed.”

11

When Mimi had left, Katherine felt quiet enough so that the poison of the phone call no longer burned. She curled up comfortably, turning her mind to happiness, dreaming first consciously, then slipping into the shallows. She was standing by the piano in the house in Paris, Justin beside her, his hand spread out over her belly, an expression of bemused joy in his face. She had felt quickening that day.

‘Minou,’ he said softly, ‘wanting this child is not just to appease my gargantuan pride. I want your baby. Not just any baby, your baby, which is as close to having our baby as we can come. And it will be our baby, and we will be a family.’

She could feel the tiny movement against Justin’s hand. That there was life within her suddenly became real.

He continued, ‘We are one, you and I, and I do not underestimate that. But it will be good for us to be a family. Good for our marriage. I do not like my pride, but it is a fact. I cannot seem to get rid of it. But this is far more than that; it makes that negligible. Do you understand?’

She was not yet far enough away from the physical presence of Lukas. Justin, she thought sadly, had come further than she. ‘I’m beginning to.’ And then, leaning against him, ‘I understand that I love you. And you love me.’

‘And we will love the baby. Our baby,’ he said, and held her close.

12

In the morning, while she was having coffee, someone from the phone company rang, giving her a new number, and telling her that it would be in service by early afternoon. She would give her new number to a few people—only a few. She would write to Julie immediately. Mimi. Felix. Probably Dorcas. The Davidsons? Would she have to explain to the Davidsons? What a stupid, unsavory business. She looked at her watch. With the change of time and Kristen’s odd, musician’s hours, she’d likely be at home.

She was. “Mormor, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“To an anonymous phone caller. I’m changing my number. Do you have a pencil handy?”

“Yes, here, let me get my book. Okay.”

Katherine gave her the number, and Kristen said, “I had an anonymous caller once, before I married Martin. He made all kinds of lewd suggestions. What a bore for you.”

“Mine doesn’t make suggestions, and I can’t tell if it’s male or female. It accuses me of various peculiar sexual activities. It’s quite absurd.”

“What are these ridiculous accusations?”

Kristen’s voice was amused, and the very amusement took away from the ugliness of the calls. “For one thing, I’m supposed to be carrying on an affair with Felix—my retired bishop friend.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you,” Kristen said. “Is he attractive?”

“Not in that way, though I find him endearing.”

“Mormor, I’m glad you called. I was thinking about you.”

“Were you? Why?”

“Oh, lots of reasons. I suppose the world is beating at your door, as usual, people pouring out their woes? There’s something about you that makes people want to bare their hearts to you. Sometimes we used to get jealous, afraid you’d love some wounded sparrow more than us.”

“Never. You know that.”

“I do now. Mormor, did you feel sick when you were pregnant?”

“When I was pregnant with your mother. For the first three months I felt miserable. It goes away.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. Are you going to a good doctor?”

“The best in Oslo. Mormor, I’m getting cold feet. I want this baby, but I’m just beginning to do well professionally. The only thing that gives me hope is that you did it, too, had babies and kept on with your music.”

“I hope you’ll be a better mother than I was.”

“Nonsense. But I’m lucky. Martin’s mother is more than willing to take care of the baby while I’m working.”

“Good.”

“She frightens me a little,” Kristen said. “All that domestic energy. I’m more comfortable with you, Mormor, and not just because we are related by blood. I’m your kind of person. I’m making some new recordings, by the way, all of Mozart’s stuff. I should have them ready for you for Christmas. Mormor, I have to ask you something.”

“What’s that?”

Kristen sounded unwontedly hesitant. “I know that retirement doesn’t mean you aren’t busy—but—will you come, when the baby is born? I need a buffer between me and Martin’s mother.”

“What about your own mother?”

“I love Mor. You know that. But she’s terribly busy with the business. And she’s not a musician.”

Katherine paused. Then, “I want to come. Even if only for a few days. But not if it will hurt Julie. We don’t have to make a decision right now. I will come if it seems the right thing to do.”

“At least you didn’t give me a flat no.”

“I could never do that. Now. Have you got my new number?”

“Yes. Thanks, Mormor. I love you.”

“And I love you.”

Why was it so easy with Kristen and so precarious with Julie? Why was she so zealous about not hurting Julie’s feelings when Julie could hurt and not even seem to be aware of what she had done?

13

Katherine and Justin, Julie and Eric, shared their wedding anniversary, more by chance than design. Norway is at its loveliest in early June, and when, on rare occasions, usually a major anniversary, Katherine and Justin were able to be in Aalesund, it was a great joy. There was a time when Katherine, on tour through Europe, got a call from Justin. Julie had suggested that they come to Aalesund for their mutual anniversaries. Katherine would be in Germany and she could fly to Bergen and meet Justin there, and they would then fly the little grasshopper to Aalesund. Justin had had pneumonia in the early spring and was still very frail; it was an effort for him; but they had wanted to be with their children and they had supposed that they were wanted.

The thought of three nights in Julie and Eric’s guest room, looking through the pine trees across the fjord to the still snow-capped mountains, was a refreshing one, coming as it did in the midst of a rigorous tour. It would be a delight to have the grands come scramble into bed with them in the morning, to do some brisk walking, to relax. When Katherine and Justin met in Bergen, stopping for tea in their favorite small hotel, they were filled with anticipation.

‘And that we have been married all these years is a miracle,’ Justin said, stirring sugar into his tea. ‘That you should still love me—’

‘That we should love each other,’ Katherine said. ‘Yes, it’s a miracle, and I’m grateful. And it will be lovely to share it with the children.’

But when they arrived in Aalesund, Eric’s brother, Leif, met the plane, looking embarrassed, shifting from one foot to the other. He was taking them to the hotel, he said, because the Farfar and Farmor had come from Trondheim to share in the festivities and were staying at the house.

Katherine would never forget the look on Justin’s face, the paleness as though the rebuff had been a blow, for it slowly changed to a flush. She felt anger and pain for herself, but outrage for her husband.

‘Let’s go back to Paris,’ he whispered in French.

‘No. We have to see it through.’

What had it all been about? It was a major anniversary for Katherine and Justin, not Julie and Eric. Wouldn’t it have been more natural for Eric’s parents to have been put in the hotel?

When they saw Julie she was all spontaneous effusion, kissing them, welcoming them, assuming that of course they understood. What were they to understand? Eric, beaming as usual, explained that his parents were not used to hotels and would be less shy if they stayed in their usual place in the guest room. And they were used to the children and all their noisiness, and he was sure Katherine and Justin would prefer the peace and quiet of the hotel; they would, wouldn’t they?

There was only hurt in the explanation, no comfort. Julie gave a big dinner party the next night in Katherine and Justin’s honor, but they still felt as though she and Eric had rejected them.

Eric had been behind it, rather than Julie. But Julie had not seen what Eric was doing, had not understood the pain it caused, and this lack of awareness on her part was added pain.

That’s past. Long past. It doesn’t even hurt any more. Not terribly.

She heard the postman in the vestibule, and went out to get the mail. Some fan mail. Something that looked like a greeting card. Catalogues which made pleasant browsing when she was too tired to read. A note from Nils saying that his novel had been accepted enthusiastically by his publishers, but that he had to cut three hundred pages from the eleven hundred. He was furious. A long letter in Juliana’s round, careful handwriting; it was full of news of the farm; Katherine would save it to read carefully at bedtime. A note from Julie, businesslike, dutiful. Perhaps she should phone Julie, rather than writing, but her daughter was not likely to be in until after five, Norwegian time. She opened the rather bulky greeting-card envelope. In it was a get-well card. How odd. She looked at it curiously. It still felt bulky. She opened it, and there, she realized, after a moment of blankness, was a used condum.

Whoever made the obscene phone calls wasn’t satisfied with the sound of his or her own voice. Instead of being horrified, she was furious. This was filthy, and stupid, and abominable. What shocked her was that if the phone calls were somehow or other linked to the Cathedral, so must this unsigned card and its contents be.

She put it all in the fireplace, went into the kitchen for a match, and burned it.

14

The next morning she woke feeling heavy and headachy. She drank her coffee and played through her early-morning exercises, and the heaviness lifted somewhat. In the kitchen she prepared watercress and cream-cheese sandwiches. It had been arranged that Llew would drive her up to the Cathedral and the Bösendorfer, and she was fixing him a light lunch. It would surely lighten her mood to work over the program, and she was looking forward to the lunch with Llew, who had assured her that he was going to be in the neighborhood anyhow, and it would be no trouble to pick her up.

Just as all was in readiness and she had turned back to the piano, the doorbell rang, followed by an urgent knock. “Who is it?”

“Dorcas.”

Sighing, she opened the door.

Dorcas said flatly, “Well, he’s done it again.”

Katherine looked at her questioningly.

“Been with Ric. I went to have lunch with June—she called and asked me. I didn’t ask her. We had lunch at her apartment. There was a baby in a cradle—so sweet—and another in a high chair, and June was feeding him while we ate. It was all—oh, beautifully domestic. And then, while we were eating homemade oxtail soup, and that was beautifully domestic, too—she told me calmly that Ric has always been what she calls AC-DC.”

Katherine waited.

“June said Ric was highly sexed, and she wasn’t particularly, but she was his number-one person, the one he came home to. He’s the father of their children and a good father, she said, and his outside affairs don’t hurt their marriage. And then—oh, God, Madame Vigneras, she said she’d asked me to lunch to talk because she didn’t want Terry getting too serious about Ric. I think she was a little afraid that if Terry got too serious it might threaten her domestic setup, but she said she didn’t want Terry hurt, because he’s a nice guy. Terry hurt? What about me?” Dorcas’s voice, which had been rising as she talked, suddenly broke. “I couldn’t live like June. It isn’t a compromise I could make.”

Katherine sat down beside the distraught young woman, moving her hand gently over the long brown hair.

Dorcas made an effort at self-control. “Maybe I’m too absolute about marriage vows, too old-fashioned. I know this kind of thing isn’t supposed to matter any more—but that’s how I feel.”

“I tend to be rather absolute myself. Do you know that this is true? Is June possibly a troublemaker? Have you talked to Terry?”

“No. Should I?”

“I can’t make your decisions for you, Dorcas, but I’d think you’d want to find out the truth.”

“And if he admits it? If he wants a setup like June and Ric’s?”

Katherine rose, remembering Kristen’s words: young people had always come to her, and the grands had not always been pleased—when they knew about it. She was still corresponding with one of Nils’s friends, now married and living in Copenhagen. “You will have to find out what you can and what you cannot live with. If you continue to feel, as you say, absolute about your marriage vows, I think you have grounds for annulment.”

“Wouldn’t that—annulment—make my baby a bastard?”

“I don’t think people think in terms of bastards nowadays. You could certainly, in any case, get a divorce.”

Dorcas shuddered. “I never thought I’d raise my baby alone. But if I have to, I have to.” There was an almost visible steeling of her spine. “Thank you for letting me talk. It does help me to think about it all a little more objectively. Terry makes a good salary. I’m angry enough to want to sue him for the world.”

“You haven’t talked to him yet,” Katherine cautioned.

“I suppose that’s only fair. But he’s already given me a bundle of lies. He promised to go with me to a marriage counselor and he broke the appointment. So, I’ll go back to dancing as soon as I can. I’m a good dancer, there’ll be a place for me in the company. But I’ll never be a real prima donna. I’ve had to come to terms with a lot of things while I’ve been pregnant, and that’s one of them. I’ll get solos, I’ll do moderately well, but I don’t have the—the passion for it you have to have if you’re going to be one of the great ones. That wasn’t easy to accept. I’d made up a glamorous picture of myself that just wasn’t real.”

“You’re very brave,” Katherine said.—What would I have done if I had had to accept that I wasn’t quite first-class as a musician? My entire life has been predicated on the fact that I am.

“Not brave. Just realistic. About time I dropped my dreams of being a great dancer and having a beautiful marriage.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. It’s good to set your sights high.”

Dorcas pushed back her long, Alice-in-Wonderland hair. “The thing is, in New York, people all have to do or be something. Something with a name, like doctor or dancer or director. Mother and wife don’t count.”

“If feminism means anything, it means that you’re free to be a mother or a dancer, or both, whichever you choose.”

“Not in New York City. And I can’t go back to Cedar Rapids.”

“Do you want to?”

“No. My parents are dead. I haven’t anyone or anything to go back to. But there was a reality, growing up there, that I seem to have lost, and it was a good reality.”

“Your reality is largely within you,” Katherine said, “and that’s where you are going to have to find it.”

15

The doorbell rang, and Katherine was glad she’d already prepared lunch.

“I almost forgot,” she said. “Llew Owen, the organist at the Cathedral, is coming to take me uptown to practice. I’m giving a benefit—”

“Yes, I know.” Dorcas rose cumbersomely. “We already have tickets.” She looked down, murmuring, “Thank you,” as Katherine went to the door.

Katherine introduced the two young people, and Dorcas left immediately.

“Something wrong?” Llew asked.

“Everything. You know, Llew, there are worse things in the termination of a marriage than death. I will always miss Justin, but no one can take our marriage away. We had it. And you had yours. But hers has just been smashed to bits.”

“Irreparably?”

“I’d guess so.”

“And she’s pregnant—”

“Yes. There’s no good time for a marriage to fall apart, but this is about the worst time I can think of.”

His mind was not on Dorcas. “The other day—when you were practicing in St. Ansgar’s—will I ever play like that, with that much wisdom?”

She pushed his words aside with her hand. “It took a great deal of painful experience to give me any wisdom at all, and my music is much wiser than I.”

He nodded. “I’ve learned that. It is healing me, whether I want to be healed or not.”

She moved to the kitchen. “Being alive hurts. I have found it best not to rush for the aspirin bottle.” She took the plate of sandwiches out of the refrigerator, lifting off the damp tea towel which protected them. “Sit down, Llew, lunch is simple.” She set the sandwiches on the table, brought out two bowls of soup.

“You’re very kind to have gone to all this trouble for me.”

“Nonsense. I haven’t had much chance to do any cooking in the past years, and I’m enjoying making mud pies.”

“Mud pies, nothing. This soup is fabulous. What is it?”

“A French way of using up lettuce when it starts to bolt. Lettuce and chicken stock, basically. Most of these sandwiches are for you. They’re only a bite each.”

Llew ate hungrily, giving full attention to the food, accepting two more bowls of soup. Then he looked around appreciatively. “What a beautiful picture!” He indicated the portrait over the mantelpiece. “Is it you?”

“Yes, and my son, Michou. I love it. It’s probably my greatest treasure.”

“I can see why. Dee and I—our apartment’s in Diocesan House, up at the very top. We fixed a room for the baby and I don’t—I don’t know what to do about it—the crib, the wallpaper Dee put on. Every time I go in I see the bear and the lion in the crib—what should I do?”

She answered crisply. “Why don’t you give the baby’s things to Dorcas? I don’t think she’s bought anything yet, and with her marriage breaking up, she’s not likely to. Then change the paper. How big a room is it?”

“Not very big. Big enough for a baby. I’m not sure I could get rid of anything there—it seems—”

“It seems like accepting that your wife and baby are dead? They are. Don’t hold them back. Don’t let them hold you back. Your love isn’t going to change with the wallpaper.”

He looked at her across the table. “Your son died when he was young, didn’t he?”

How long ago was it? And it still hurt. No wonder this young man found it difficult to give away his baby’s crib, the toys his wife had bought.

“Llew, I understand grief. You must know that it will never leave you entirely. There will be odd moments when it will wash over you like a wave. But you must leave it.” She picked up the soup bowls. “You’ve had enough?”

“More than enough. Thanks. Now I won’t have to worry about dinner.”

“Don’t start skipping meals,” she warned. “It’s all too easy when you live alone. I know.” She returned for the sandwich plates. “Just let me rinse these off.”

“I’ll do it,” he offered eagerly. “That was my job, doing the dishes.”

She glanced at him, then stepped aside to let him take her place at the sink.

He worked briskly and efficiently. “The car’s right outside. I was lucky. A car drove off and I grabbed the place. I don’t have air-conditioning—” He suddenly sounded anxious.

“Don’t worry. I’m beginning to get acclimated.”

“It’s never too bad in the Cathedral itself.”

He drove well, and although the car was somewhat shabby, the springs were still good. “You and Bishop Bodeway are old friends, aren’t you?”

“I knew him, long, long ago. And then we completely lost track of each other until recently. We’ve both done considerable changing.”

“He’s very special, Bishop Bodeway. After Dee died he never once said any of the silly things that people say. He didn’t even say any of the good things. He cried, and so I cried, too. And he talked about Dee and the baby instead of avoiding it, like most people. I wish I’d been around when he was Diocesan, and I’m more than grateful he’s about the Close as much as he is.”

Felix was surely a good example of the ability of the human being to change or, if not change, to develop in directions which might not have been suspected. And she had come far from the introverted adolescent who had known Felix so long ago and who had thought that the only way to live with hurt was to put a hard shell around it. That was the danger for Llew, but perhaps his music would keep him from it as, she believed, it had made her shed her protective carapace and move into love.

And once the shell is gone, it is gone. She was as vulnerable now as she had been when she first met Felix.