Deadly Pedigree

18



His ticket to the play was waiting for him at the box office, along with an attached note from Una: “You’re late–I’m angry!” The studentworking the ticket window told him that Una had paced around outside, expecting him; she confirmed that Una was in an ugly mood.

He’d put on a wrinkled, nearly clean white shirt in his car; now he tried to make his squashed tie and coat look somewhat more presentable. Ready as he ever would be to face Una’s ire, he walked through the Art Nouveau lobby of Fortescue Auditorium, through double swinging doors, and then down the aisle into the dimmed light of the intimate theater. Sadie Fortescue College was highly regarded as the traditionally women’s, fine arts-centered branch of Freret University.

Nick immediately recognized the wrestling scene of As You Like It. Dion served in one of his several roles as Charles, the boasting wrestler. His tall frame was padded out to make him a formidable match for the smaller, scrappy Orlando, who was about to vanquish him in an upset.

For late summer, not a bad crowd. A heartening number of students. Must be bad weather in the Florida panhandle.

Una had excellent seats in the middle section; but he’d have to scurry over a dozen people to get there. During a wonderfully overacted raucous moment in the onstage action, Nick plunged down the row, trailing his briefcase and copious apologies after him.

“Puh-lease! Do you mind! Watch where you’re stepping,” a familiar voice protested. The Usurper. In the dimness, he hadn’t yet recognized Nick.

“Frederick, doing a little thesis advising tonight? Oh, it’s you, Hilda.” Mrs. Tawpie stiffened at Nick’s sarcasm and shrank away from the armrest she shared with her husband. Nick gave Frederick’s famously expensive shoes some good stomps.

“Where have you been?” Una snarled in his ear. He could see she didn’t really want an answer; he shrugged a plea for understanding. She gave him a quick glare of disappointment and returned her attention to the play. After a few moments, her hand found his in the darkness. Ah, sweet forgiveness!

And so they settled back in their seats and entered the timeless world of the feuding dukes and the band of worthy exiles wandering in the forest of Arden, engaging in philosophical fencing and amorous feints. Whenever the pompous Duke Frederick strutted on the stage, Nick made sure to laugh with inappropriate volume in the real Frederick’s direction.

“A fool, a fool! I met a fool i’ the forest, a motley fool. A miserable world!” said Dion as Jaques, beginning the splendid “thereby hangs a tale” passage. He was magnificent, topping even his most outlandish classroom performances, some of which Nick had been privileged to see. Just about every time Dion delivered his lines, the actors after him had to wait for the audience’s applause to die down before continuing with the play.

Something Jaques had said, Nick wasn’t sure what, made him “deep contemplative” in the protective darkness. He replayed the events of the last few days in his mind; suddenly, the characters he had met and read about moved on a bright stage…

He saw Hyam Balazar, a boy of seven or eight, standing at a ship’s railing, searching the Atlantic horizon to the west for his new island home which his mother, behind him, assures him is near. Then, Hyam, growing up in lush, tropical Caribbean surroundings, working in some kind of exchange with his father, speaking French publicly, maybe refusing to speak Yiddish at home. Nick saw beautiful dark women, naked and beckoning, through Hyam’s young man’s eyes. And then the exciting European cosmopolitanism and urban evils of New Orleans; the lonely years of travel in his wagon as a peddler; the land, the beautiful spread of acres he falls in love with as he rides through it by chance, vowing to acquire it; the shop in Natchitoches and the drudgery of merchandising; the incremental financial and social successes; the slave auctions; the building of Mitzvah; the planting; the marriages, the deaths, the births; Mulatta Belle, leaning on Hyam’s arm as they stroll through Natchez, as he gambles on a riverboat–he too rich and powerful to suffer reproach for loving her, she too beautiful and defiant to care what society thinks.

And there is young Ivanhoe, in the study of Mitzvah, being taught by Hyam himself, to the measured ticking of a clock. Young Jacob taunting younger Ivanhoe, calling him names, fighting with him, not bold enough yet, and too afraid of his father, to cast out his half-brother. Euphrozine, whispering plots to Jacob, urging him on in their gambit for complete control when their ailing father would finally die. An old man’s hand grasping a quill pen as it scratches out three letters promising land. The death of Hyam. The cruel reign of Jacob and Euphrozine. The war, Jacob’s horrible injuries, which drive him nearly mad; his humiliation, which finishes the job. The death of Mulatta Belle. Ivanhoe, writing his diary at the end of each day in his barbershop, wondering if anyone would ever read it, hoping that his carefully crafted testament will somehow secure the future for his descendants–

“Nick? Nicholas Herald! Are you asleep? You can’t be; your eyes are open.”

Una tugged forcefully at his coat sleeve. The house lights were up, the curtain closed. It was intermission, thrown in by the drama department as a ploy to entice people to buy tickets in the lobby for the upcoming season.

Nick came to. Damn! He’d missed Jaques’ great hymn to melancholy, his favorite part. But something just as wonderful had come to him in his reverie.

“‘From hour to hour, we rot and rot, and thereby hangs a tale,’” he mumbled from memory toward the curtained stage. Thoughts of Ivanhoe’s first diary entry, of what Erasmus III had said about keeping important papers in the family Bible, of Twice’s demented oration on mortality and eternity…all swirled around in Nick’s consciousness.

I know! I know where to find Ivanhoe’s letter! He jumped up, just stopping himself from dashing to the nearest exit.

“What happened to your face?” Una asked, noticing a few scratches and bruises. “If you’re drunk, Nicholas Herald!” She wagged a warning index finger. When extremely put out with him, Una lapsed into frigid formality. One of his grandmothers used to do the same thing; he thought it was cute.

“Drunk? Not yet, my dear. Not yet. Come on, let’s get some champagne before these artsy-fartsy types suck the bottles dry.”



In the urbane chatter of the lobby, second champagne in hand, he explained to Una why he hadn’t phoned her for the past few days–leaving out any mention, of course, of his barbaric butchery and borrowing of irreplaceable documents.

“While I was gone, did you notice anything in the news about an old guy who committed suicide over in the Irish Channel?”

“Yes, I believe…I’m certain I did. It was in the Times-Picayune. A small article. I didn’t know him, so I didn’t really give it a second thought. Why do you ask? What did that unfortunate man have to do with you?”

“He was my client, Una. He didn’t kill himself. I think there was foul play involved.”

“You mean he was…murdered?” She stumbled over the baleful word.

“I’m not sure. Another client of mine might be responsible.”

“Oh my God!” she blurted out; and then, in a lower, conspiratorial whisper, “It just occurred to me: a tourist was fished out of Lake Pontchartrain.”

“So,” Nick said, “that’s par for New Orleans. What makes you think it has anything to do with the old man or me?”

“She was from Poland and worked in her state’s archives. She was the equivalent of a genealogist!”

“Ah,” said Nick, massaging his neck. Being scared shitless was tiring work. “I see what you mean.”

“I don’t like this. Are you in any trouble, Nick? Please, please don’t get caught up in something that might…might lead to any harm.”

“The harm’s been done, long ago, and I have no choice anymore about whether I’m caught up in it or not. Someone’s already made that decision for me. But you can help.”

“Of course I’ll help, Nick. You know that.”

“You have a safe-deposit box, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Later, I want to give you some documents to keep for a while.”

“I’ve been wondering why you’re carrying that horrible briefcase around, here, at a play. How old is that thing?”

Nick ignored her question. “As soon as you can, put the documents in the box. Don’t tell anyone, anyone what they are or that I have anything to do with them. Better yet, don’t even read them. Una, I can’t deny that there might be some…”

“Trouble? That word again. This is serious. More than harmless genealogical research. Nick, what’s going on?”

“Maybe I’m like old Adam in the play; Orlando says he’s pruning a rotten tree that can’t yield a blossom. But I think I can right some old wrongs–and some newer ones, from what you’ve just told me.”

Una shook her head and put her hand on his arm. “I wish you were back in the boring old English department, living the life of quiet desperation you’d grown to despise. All the violent plots there were merely literary.”

A friend of Una’s from the history department came up to chat with them; but the conversation soon turned to university politics, the latest juicy grants and fellowships, backstabbing, and toadyism.

“I’ll get us another drink,” Nick said, making his escape.

The table holding the champagne glasses and little masterpieces of hors d’oeuvres with a decidedly New Orleans zing was off to one side of the lobby, beneath an impressive stained glass window somewhat in the Tiffany style, except with recognizable Louisiana motifs. Fortescue students in the early part of the century made these windows, as well as Fortescue Pottery, ceramics that have gained deservedly high regard.

Nick waited in a competitive wave of bodies to get to the table; New Orleanians get testy when deprived of their pleasures.

He was admiring the big backlit window above the bar when a woman said, “‘Persephone’s Return to the Marsh,’ it’s called. A gift from Artemis Holdings.” She was standing beside him, as beautiful as Persephone herself, Nick thought. “Zola Armiger,” she said, re-introducing herself. “We met briefly at–”

“The Plutarch. Sure. You’re not easy to forget. A gift, huh?” said Nick, pointing at the window. “Yeah, I see the tasteful donor plaque there. Tell me, does Artemis Holdings have a weekly quota of good deeds? Like a minimum daily requirement of some vitamin that keeps your public relations department happy? I’m halfway expecting you to tell me your company gave Shakespeare a stipend.”

“I wish we’d been able to, but I’m not quite that old. We’re still searching for our modern bard.” She seemed to be considering him for the position. “You wear your skepticism on your sleeve, which I suppose makes you the good scholar you’re reputed to be. Tell me, do you see an ulterior motive in everything?”

“Descartes is one of my heroes: doubt everything,” Nick said. The crush of people carried them a few inches closer to the bar. “Or almost everything,” he added, taking in her beauty.

“I assure you, we are what we appear to be.”

“You mean Artemis is a company full of great-looking women? Where do I sign up?”

Zola couldn’t suppress a laugh at his flagrant flirting. Her dark eyebrows, Nick noticed, were perfect sonnets of expression. Seeing them, Shakespeare wouldn’t have needed her money as a spur for inspiration.

Finally with new champagne glasses in hand, they walked to a grouping of pedestals topped by some choice Fortescue vases.

“A quota?” she asked. “Why should there be any limit to the good one is able to do? Artemis and the Samaritan Fund–which I manage–do good when the opportunity arises; we know this enriches us spiritually and teaches good corporate citizenship to others.”

“Three cheers for benevolent capitalism.”

She was determined to make her point. “We believe that the companies that treat their customers and employees with respect are the ones that will endure. Our quota of good deeds, as you call it, is our vote of confidence in such organizations. This philosophy might make enemies for us, might cause people to ridicule us–”

“Like me, for instance.”

“I don’t think you were being serious, were you? No, I sense that your sarcasm is a shield. You seem to me the kind of man who avoids seriousness whenever he can, who doesn’t like to show the depth of his feelings.”

“Take my skepticism as interest, then.”

“In me or my company?”

“Oh, definitely,” Nick said, intentionally vague.

She smiled brilliantly, without pretense. Her eyes lingered on his face and then darted off to scan the crowd, as if Nick could read her thoughts through her pupils.

Ah, if only I could…

“I’ve always admired teachers,” she said. “A friend of mine took a course with you a few years ago. He said it was a wonderful experience. Have you ever thought of giving courses in genealogy? Maybe I could arrange another grant from Artemis Holdings.”

“Another grant?” Nick asked, puzzled.

“Have you forgotten so quickly? That smacks of ingratitude.”

She thinks I’m teasing, but I don’t know what the hell she’s talking about.

“Oh, of course. What grant?” she teased back, giving a stagey wink and biting her bottom lip as if she’d been caught at something naughty.

His heart raced at the sight of her wet white teeth depressing her luscious red lip.

“I know all about it,” she said. “No sense being coy. Mother has told me about the funding you’re receiving now. She has her pet projects, her own enthusiastic, perhaps impulsive, way of doing things, which sometimes I don’t find out about until the machinery is already in motion. I understand: she’s obviously asked you to keep the grant quiet. So many worthy projects out there. Discretion is the better part of philanthropy.”

Nick decided to nod. Mrs. Armiger was lying to her own daughter about him and his mission. Why? He hated backing up lies not his own.

“You know how older people can be about passing on control to the next generation?” Zola said. “So, when will the book be ready?”

You ought to hear about some of your mother’s other special projects, Nick wanted to say. She didn’t know about the sordid foundations of Artemis Holdings, the company and family history of treachery, bigotry, and who-knows-what-else. She was completely innocent. The playful look in her eyes, devoid of any double-meaning, the bantering, childlike tone of her conversation, convinced him that in life, as in her stock-picking, this beautiful woman yet saw the world as she wanted it to be.

“The book. Oh, sure,” he said, playing along. “Well, you know how these things are. Lots of research, travel, that sort of thing. Maybe in a year, year and a half…”

The lights dimmed a few times, signaling the dawdlers to return to their seats.

“I’d enjoy hearing more about it, Nick. Angus at the Plutarch said your friends call you that. I hope you don’t mind.” And after a moment’s hesitation: “Some of my friends and I are going out after the play, to hit some bars over on Magazine. There’s just so much high culture I can take in one night. Why not come with us? I’ve always been interested in genealogy and would love to hear your thoughts. And bring Professor Kern. The Rotting Fish-heads from Pluto are playing at the Gumbo Club. You’ve heard of them, haven’t you?”

Though he hadn’t, he said, “Got all their 45s.”

Zola caught on immediately to his jesting insincerity. “Well, find me after the play if you’re interested. Keith Richards is supposed to sit in for a jam session…. Did you hurt yourself?”

“Oh, this?” Nick asked, touching his face. “Electric razor malfunction.”

Zola didn’t know quite what to make of the answer. In farewell, she let her hand rest in Nick’s for a delicious moment that felt to him like a lifetime. “Hope to see you soon,” she said.

Shaking himself free of the gorgeous woman’s spell, he searched the lobby for Una, but she was gone.



“I thought you were bringing me a champagne.” Una was pouting. “You forgot me. The story of our friendship.”

“Damn, I’m sorry,” said Nick. “I got mired in a conversation with a bigwig on the board or something at the Plutarch. Time just got away from me.”

“I know who she is. Rather pretty, isn’t she?”

“If you like that sort of look, I guess.”

Two or three people hissed them into silence. There was a definite chill coming from Una’s vicinity as they watched the play resolve itself into dancing and marriages–a happy ending that depressed Nick terribly.



In the shadows of the parking lot, Nick gave Una the spoils of his two-day Natchitoches rampage.

A sporty red Volvo pulled up beside them.

“Nick, Una! Come with us, please. There’s plenty of room,” Zola, in the front passenger seat, shouted out to them over the car stereo and the engine noise. Two other women and a man in the back seat clapped, sang to the music, and in general acted silly.

“What do you say, Una?” Nick asked.

“I think not,” she answered, giving the crowded car a look of extreme disapproval.

“No ‘I have to do my nails, hair, whatever’? No ‘I have to get up early tomorrow’? Just ‘I think not’?”

“I think not!” She stalked off toward her own car, with his bundle of pilfered papers under a sweater she’d needed inside, but not out here in the humid warmth. He was relieved to see she was taking his insistence on stealth to heart.

Nick watched her for a moment. Go with her you idiot. That’s what you need: a good woman, loyal to a fault; a settled life; intellectual companionship for a change–hey, marriage, even. She probably has a simple but scrumptious midnight repast and some excellent wine waiting for the two of you, hoping to take up where you both left off years ago. It will be on your head, Jonathan Nicholas Herald, if she turns into a Miss Havisham…

Nah!

He piled into the back seat of the red Volvo.

“Don’t worry,” Zola said, indicating the young guy at the wheel, “Donny’s Muslim. Can’t drink alcohol. He’s always our designated driver.”

Donny, however, inhaled deeply from a large joint as they zipped down quiet, narrow Uptown streets lined with parked cars and petrified yellow-eyed cats.



Nick’s couch felt like heaven. It didn’t hurt, either, that Zola was next to him. They were mechanically kissing and pawing each other, both dead tired but too stubborn to admit it. They reeked of bar vapors from the Gumbo Club–where Keith Richards, or his double, had indeed jammed with the band–and the four or five other dives they had crawled through. A cassette tape he must have bought from the band was in his shirt pocket.

He vaguely remembered the last place, a blue-collar bar, all the latest rage among students and the hip crowd. The regulars, old men with grizzled faces, union caps, and unfiltered cigarettes, whose fathers and grandfathers had imbibed there, had huddled at one end of the bar under the television and watched them with bewildered and resentful eyes. The itinerant rakehells were thrown out when Zola and several others, including Nick, started dancing on the pool table.

During their hours together, he and Zola had discovered much to talk about, much to laugh about. They found that they shared a fondness for things out of the ordinary, as well as the typical New Orleanian’s obsession with food and drink. Nick had genuinely enjoyed the evening, and he believed she had, too.

Zola drew back and looked around Nick’s cramped apartment. “I shouldn’t be here. We’re not twenty years old anymore. We adults are supposed to know better than to get involved on the first date.”

“It wasn’t even a date.” He kissed her. “And we’re not as involved as I’d like, yet.”

“Well, I just want you to know that I don’t always do this. I mean, go to a man’s apartment. But I feel I know you. After what Angus told me, and what Mother has said. Your life has been so, I don’t know, so colorful, exciting, unpredictable. A lot different from mine. I’ve always been sure where I came from, where I am, where I’m going. I see in you an antidote to that, that predictability. Do you know I even called up the newspaper articles on your dismissal from Freret?…Oh, I’m babbling like a teenager with a crush. How embarrassing.”

“A tired teenager. I’ll get you a cab in a few minutes. But I want to tell you a secret of my own, now: I felt something click, too, that day at the Plutarch. I’ve been thinking about you a lot since then.”

“You could call me sometime. We could…go out for dinner.”

“I’d like that.” He kissed her again and stood up. “Now, that cab.”

“Water!” Zola croaked in an exaggeratedly raspy voice as Nick weaved toward the kitchen to call a cab. “Cold water, I beg of you, kind sir.”

When he returned five minutes later, she was passed out on the couch. He corrected her twisted posture so she would be able to walk later in the day, and went back to the kitchen to cancel the cab. Then he began to trudge toward his bedroom.

He glanced blearily at his desk, surrounded by cliff walls of books and folders threatening an avalanche. He noticed that the mail for the last few days had been stacked neatly, the junk catalogs and sweepstakes offers off to one side of the important-looking stuff. Hawty strikes again!

Through an old pair of glasses mended with Band-Aids, he perused his mail. Bill, bill, credit-card statement, bill, bill, collection agency, last notice, another one…and a thick tan envelope that had seen several previous mailings. A note taped to it read: “Came postage due at the office. You owe me $4.50. Hawty.” The envelope had lots of small-denomination stamps, the kind that fall victim to rate hikes and are rarely used afterward. No return address.

Nick had a vague sense of familiarity with the scrawled handwriting that had directed the package to him. The most recent postmark was Monday–the day after Max Corban had been murdered!

Yes, he remembered now: he had seen this handwriting that day in his office, when the old man had written down his address and phone number, and the name Balazar.

Nick ripped into the envelope.

It was from the poor old guy, all right, probably mailed just before whoever it was got to him. He must have known something awful was about to happen, and wanted the information safe; probably didn’t expect Nick to get there in time. Nick now recalled the urgent tone during their telephone conversation.

He pictured Corban’s street in his mind: wasn’t there a mailbox just outside the house? Yes, of course; two actually. The old man had cheated the murderer of ultimate victory. His envelope was in one of the mailboxes as Nick walked just a few inches beside it.

That was Sunday; the next day, the envelope was picked up.

What Nick found inside was a leftover, deadly bombshell, a long-buried remnant of old hates, like those being dug up in French and German gardens even today.

Looking at the beautiful woman sleeping on his couch, he understood.

“This is all about you, Zola, isn’t it?” he whispered. “About keeping you from ever knowing what she did.”





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