Gramercy Park. Paula Cohen

would be a relief. Madness, at least, being shadowy, had offered her places where she could hide. But it has all come back to her now, one death resurrecting another, grief reviving grief … and here, in this boundless desolation, the vision stretches endlessly: the past remembered clearly, the present lived clearly, the future—oh, not the future of his tea leaves—seen clearly.

      What she has done is always with her now, as is what is left to her; and the two are joined inextricably, the one engendering the other, and both are linked through what she is. It is like being the point where two lines cross; like peering through the wrong ends of telescopes into remote distances on both sides of her life at once; like looking forward and backward together.

      There is no forgiveness in either direction. No pity. No hope.

      She wipes her eyes. Waking to the sound of his voice, she had thought, at first, that she had died, and for the moment she had felt such joy, knowing that her misery was over at last. And then she had opened her eyes and seen him, and he was his voice made flesh, dark and beautiful, and she was glad she was not dead … forgetting, as she watched and listened, that alive or dead is the same to her now. If she were different, if she were not who she is …

      Never mind. He had been kind. He had kissed her hand and read her tea leaves. How could he know that there was nothing to see in them because she had ceased to be long ago?

      If she were different, if she were not who she is …

      Alone in the dawn, Clara curls herself up, and cries.

       Chapter Four

      THE GRAY LIGHT WARMS and turns to gold, the creatures of the night melt away like dew, and the pace of the city quickens with the progress of the new day. Clara sleeps at last in her sun-warmed room and, mercifully, does not dream.

      Thaddeus Chadwick, although he had bidden Mrs. Astor adieu only shortly before dawn, rises at his usual hour, which is eight o’clock. Chadwick needs little sleep—an advantage, perhaps the only one, of advancing years—but even in his youth sleep had been a luxury he could forgo at need. Far more important to him is the orderly management of time. If Mrs. Astor’s life is measured in cotillions and balls and levées, Chadwick’s is measured in hours and minutes and seconds, each day being so finely calibrated that one can be certain of exactly where he is at any given moment, just by looking at a clock.

      Nine o’clock finds him at his breakfast in the morning room. His house is one of a graceful row of houses fronting the north side of Washington Square, its red brick faded by time to a rosy hue, and the morning room, at the back, looks out onto his small garden, where the lately radiant dogwood trees are now losing the last of their pink and white blossoms.

      This is his favorite room of the house: a sunny chamber filled with shining, dark furniture lit by the gleam of brass, the table laid with a snowy cloth and fine china. It is a room with a clear conscience, a room indicative of a healthy appetite and a good digestion, and it illustrates the guiding principle that informs every aspect of Chadwick’s existence: serenity. As a bachelor, he can shape his life to suit his wishes, and he does precisely that. No voice is ever raised in his presence; no untoward emotions ruffle his days or intrude upon his nights. He floats through life upon his small feet, his placid smile upon his lips, observing the world benignly, and the occasional furor—such as the sudden death of his friend Slade, or the equally sudden affliction of Slade’s little ward—falls into his life with no more effect than that of a pebble flung into a glassy lake: the ripples soon die away, leaving the water as tranquil as before.

      Take, for instance, the unexpected approach of the tenor last night, with his ridiculous offer to buy the Slade house. He—Chadwick—had been irked at the time, it is true, but his annoyance was as much a reaction to the high-handed manner of the man who made it as it was to the proposition itself. Reflecting upon it quietly this morning, however, over his eggs and toast, it occurs to him that the Italian has done him a very great favor. The sale will do more than merely fill the coffers of the Slade estate to better than overflowing and relieve him of an unnecessary burden (as Alfieri had so astutely pointed out, to give the Italian devil his due); it will also provide him with the opportunity to bring to fruition a plan—a most important plan—which has merely been waiting for the right set of circumstances to occur before he could set it in motion.

      And this is the time. He has not grown rich in the service of others by failing to know when the proverbial iron is hot enough to strike, and the tenor’s desire to own the Slade house has suddenly fired this particular metal to white heat. Chadwick is pleased, with himself as well as with events. Alfieri’s arrogance—and particularly his insolence in requesting the girl—is something he can easily put by … for now. It is important to maintain one’s mental balance, however, for the mind functions best when not clotted up with petty annoyances and ill humors; and besides, as the Italians themselves say, revenge is a dish that is best tasted cold.

      But he is in no hurry. Nothing must disturb the routine—serenity, always serenity—and a glance at the clock tells him that he has the better part of an hour yet, before his scheduled arrival at his office. The documents needed to put his plan into effect are already prepared—they have been so for months—and are waiting to be filed with the courts; all that remains is for him to affix his signature.

      With a small sigh of contentment, Chadwick folds back his newspaper, pours himself more coffee and, raising the cup to his lips, mentally salutes Alfieri. Because of the tenor, the greatest plum of his—or, indeed, anyone else’s—life is almost within his grasp. And if it takes a little time for his fist to close about it … well, what of that? Lighting his first cigar of the morning, he gazes out into the flower-decked garden, a happy man with all the time in the world.

      The clock moves on, and noon finds Alfieri en route to his appointment with the attorney who will do battle on his behalf for the house of the late Mr. Slade. The morning has not been easy for him; he has had the curious sensation, since waking from a fitful sleep—and a brief one, as he, too, had left Mrs. Astor at dawn—that every passing minute poses some increasing threat to the solitary child in the great, empty house, and he keeps a preoccupied silence during the ride downtown.

      He is accompanied by his friend of the previous evening, Stafford Dyckman, who has known the tenor long enough to recognize when speech will be unwelcome; long enough, indeed, to be quite comfortable in the complete absence of any conversation. He sits wordlessly beside Alfieri as their carriage threads its way through the noontime crush of lower Broadway, intruding only occasionally upon his friend’s thoughts to point out some feature of interest on the bustling New York pavements.

      Their destination, the offices of Daniel Buchan, Esq., is very near Wall Street, and so close to the graveyard that surrounds Trinity Church that its second-floor windows look directly out onto the weathered, tilted stones of the green and quiet burial ground. Dyckman makes the introductions as the church’s chimes ring out a quarter past noon.

      “Your view is quite beautiful, Mr. Buchan,” Alfieri says as he and the attorney shake hands, “but perhaps somewhat … suggestive for your clients?”

      “Actually, Signor Alfieri, the view is for my improvement. I find it most helpful. On those occasions when I succeed for a client, this view helps me to maintain my sense of proportion. It serves the same function as the slave who would ride in the chariot with the hero during ancient Roman triumphs, whispering ‘Remember, you are mortal.’” He is as dark as Alfieri, but small and balding, and his brown eyes are bright and very shrewd.

      “On the other hand,” he says, ushering his guests to their chairs, “on those occasions when I do happen to fail, I look out the window and take solace from the fact that, win or lose, we all come to the same end eventually.”

      “A comforting sentiment, to be sure,” Alfieri says, smiling. “But as I am considering retaining your services, Mr. Buchan, I would be a great deal happier if you could assure me that the former occurs considerably more often than the latter.”

      “Often enough