Gramercy Park. Paula Cohen

my dear? In what way?”

      “It was only after you left that I remembered … I never even asked what it is you do, and what has brought you to New York …”

      He throws his head back in a shout of laughter, then raises her hand and kisses it … and still she is not afraid of him, for all his strangeness.

      She is not naïve, and knows the reason for his return: his remorse at displacing her … and easing her loneliness may help to both soften the blow and relieve whatever compunction he feels for being the cause. But it does not matter why he is here; nothing matters, so long as she can watch him and listen to him—and, when he is not looking, hold the hand he had kissed against her mouth, or press it to her cheek.

      If she is not changed from yesterday, neither is her room; it waits today just as it did then—as if time stands still here—and she pours out the tea and listens, her elbows on the table and her head resting on her hand. He speaks today of his country and his family, elaborating upon stories he only touched upon yesterday, taking inspiration from her bright, mobile face, for Clara says little but is an eloquent listener, and her expressions mirror his, nuance for nuance.

      Both seem, in fact, to be listening as much with eyes as with ears. The face she watches is happy, wistful, darkly alive with the memories he tells, and she thinks that he must be lonelier than he knows, here in this strange land, and never takes her eyes from him until the tea is long gone and both suddenly realize that blue dusk has crept through the windows, and it is hard to see the other’s face across the table.

      He leans back in his chair, smiling at her in the gathering darkness. “I must seem,” he says, “the most egotistical, self-indulgent man on earth. You should have stopped me long ago.”

      “I loved listening,” she says. “You made them all come alive. I feel as if I know them now … especially Fiorina. I like her very much.”

      “The baby, yes. The two of you would get along well. She is only a little older than you.”

      Clara lifts her chin, her smile gone. “I am not a baby,” she says, rising from her chair.

      Alfieri rises with her, protesting: “Miss Adler, I meant no disparagement of your years …” But she does not answer. Instead she takes a box of matches from a side cupboard and goes from table to table in silence, lighting the numerous candles set about the room—ten, fifteen, twenty—until the pretty chamber glows and flickers like a magic cave.

      Alfieri watches her move about. By the candlelight’s soft sorcery he sees her for the first time as she should be: all traces of illness erased; and her body—as she bends to kindle a cluster of tiny flames, or stands on tiptoe to touch her lit taper to another on a high shelf—is not the body of a child.

      “If you promise to forgive me,” he says quietly, lost once more in some half-remembered enchantment, “I promise not to tease you again.”

      She does not answer at first, and he is wondering what to do to make amends when she says: “You spoke so much of your brothers and sisters.” She does not look at him, all her attention centered on the candles. “You spoke of them, and their children, and your mother and father, but you never once mentioned your wife.”

      “Did I not?” He smiles at her, watching her light the last of the candles on the mantelpiece beneath her portrait. “That is because I have no wife to mention.”

      She says “Oh!” quite casually, crosses the room to place the matches back in their cupboard and turns toward him again, not quite looking at him.

      “I must call Margaret,” she says, “to clear away the tea things and lay the table for dinner. I usually dine alone, but if you would like to stay …”

      He shakes his head and she falls back a step, as if struck, nodding quickly. Gathering her skirts about her, she moves toward the bell rope that hangs beside the mantelpiece, but he reaches it before her and takes her outstretched hand.

      “I cannot stay,” he says gently. “I promised to be somewhere else, never imagining …” Her head is down, her hand motionless in his. In the candlelight the curve of her cheek is achingly sweet. “I would stay if I could.”

      She raises her eyes to his. “Would you come again?”

      “Whenever I can. As often as I can. Tomorrow.”

      “No.” She looks away, distressed. “Not tomorrow. There will be someone else here tomorrow.”

      “Who?” he says abruptly, and the word is out before he realizes the arrogance of his question. Fool! What right has he to ask her whom she sees?

      She does not seem to notice. “My guardian’s lawyer.”

      “Mr. Chadwick?”

      She raises her head again, wondering. “Do you know him?”

      “Only by name,” he lies. “As the seller of this house.”

      “Yes, of course,” she says. “He comes for luncheon twice each week.” Something in her voice makes him look at her more closely. “To see if I am mending.”

      “He is a friend?”

      “Of my guardian. But he has been very good to me since my guardian’s death,” she replies. “He has paid for the doctors, so many doctors, and allowed me to stay here.”

      “Why would he not? This is your home.”

      “Not any more.” Her voice is barely more than a whisper. “Not since my guardian died. Mr. Chadwick says that I’m here on the sufferance of the estate, and as executor he could put me out at any time, if he wished. But he lets me stay, though he needn’t. Someone else, someone not as kind or as generous, would have sent me to a charity hospital. Or an asylum.”

      “Did he tell you all this?” Alfieri has gone very still. “Did he tell you this himself?”

      “Everyone tells me. The doctors … even the servants. About how grateful I should be. And I am grateful.”

      He draws her over to the sofa, sits down beside her still holding her hand, wanting to quiet her fears, to tell her of his plans to divide up the house between them, but he says nothing. If Chadwick refuses, as he is likely to do … if the plans come to naught …

      “Madonna,” he says, “I will come back. The day after tomorrow, yes? And we will sit together, and have tea, and this time I will be quiet and listen while you tell me about yourself.”

      Even by candlelight he can see the uneasiness creep into her eyes. “I have nothing to tell,” she says, and slips her hand from his. “Nothing. My family are all dead.”

      “So you told me yesterday. But what of you?”

      “I have nothing to tell.” The words flow from her like a litany, oft-repeated. “My family died when I was thirteen, I went to an orphanage, my guardian saw me there, he took me in.” She makes a little gesture with her hands. “He took me in because he was kind and I had no one … he was my last hope. And now he is dead too ….”

      “Piccola,” he says, drawing her hands from her face, “there is nothing you need to say. We will sit quietly, you and I, and if we speak of anything at all it will be the weather, or the latest foolish fashions … have you seen the sleeves the ladies are wearing? They are called ‘leg-of-mutton,’ and indeed they look as if some poor sheep is missing an extremity …”

      She laughs, wipes her eyes, folds her hands in her lap. Shamefaced, she says: “You are a guest. You don’t want to hear my troubles … I am sorry I bothered you with them.”

      “There is no one whose troubles I would rather hear. I would help you with them if I could. Will you let me try?”

      Her eyes lift to his—trusting, guileless—and his heart turns over. “You cannot help me,” she says. “But I would be so happy if you came to see me again. I like you very much.”