Once a curing shed, his studio held stacked canvases, old welding equipment, and a fire curtain but no acetylene; in one messy corner, the floor was ridged and stained with concrete drips.
In his third year at Gwendolyn Gardens, after the ghat road was finally complete, he’d been overcome by a profound melancholia during the big rains, with little desire to leave his bed. Cromwell would have none of it. He made Digby rise, dress in rain gear, and trudge to the fields in the steady downpour, to the far side of the estate, where runoff from the slope threatened to overflow the irrigation sluice. They dug drainage ditches. Later, Cromwell brought him to the shed. “He put me to work splitting wood. ‘Be useful,’ he said. I cut enough for three monsoon seasons. I noticed one of the logs take the shape of a toy soldier. I tried to refine it. I ended up with toothpicks. But it didn’t matter. What mattered was using my hands. Rune used to quote from the Bible: ‘Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest.’ Cromwell doesn’t know the Bible, but he’s discovered the same principle. From wood, I moved to limestone. But I didn’t have the patience and I moved to watercolors again.”
“Digby,” Elsie said. “Since Ninan’s death, I’ve had the urge to use big tools. Like a sledgehammer, a bulldozer . . . or dynamite.”
“Are we still talking about art?”
“I want my hands to do big things. As big as this view. Bigger.”
He left her in the studio. Looking back from the door, he was pleased at her transformation. She was in a canvas apron, bandana, and goggles, standing before a limestone slab, swinging away with the mallet while her left hand moved the chisel. Her strokes had quickly become decisive, opening a seam, letting a sizable chunk topple free without a second glance. Already, the top of the slab formed a rough cylinder. She threw herself into it with an animation, a controlled fury he hadn’t expected.
When he returned from UPASI in the late afternoon he could hear the hammer ringing. She didn’t notice him at first. Fine dust coated her hair and every inch of exposed skin. When she removed apron, goggles, and bandana, her face was transformed, having shed its terrible weariness. They walked up to the house together.
She looked at her hands. “Digby, you’ve repaid your debt to me now, you know,” she said.
The next few days he attended what was left of Planters’ Week; but he skipped the evening social events.
On the eve of his guests’ departure, Digby knocked on Franz and Lena’s door. Lena’s voice told him to come in. The couple had changed into evening regalia and were ready to return to the club. Franz was standing, while Lena, seated on the edge of the bed, was transferring things to a small purse. Their faces were turned to him expectantly. Seeing his expression, they became very still.
Digby felt blood rising in his neck. “Lena? Franz . . . ? If . . . If Elsie wants to stay here then,” he stammered, “I’m happy to bring her back when she’s ready. To you. Or wherever she needs.” He was sure his face was red now. “The thing is . . . You see what a difference it’s made. I mean the sculpting.”
“It could be more than sculpting, Digs,” Lena said.
A silent signal passed between wife and husband. Franz went out, thumping Digby on the shoulder as he left.
Lena said, “Digby, have you asked Elsie what she wants?” He shook his head. She chose her next words carefully. “Digs? I don’t know what’s best for her. And yes, I do see. It’s miraculous. She’s found a reason to go on.”
“Yes, Lena! The thing is—”
“The reason might be you, Digs.”
Digby sat down heavily on the bed beside her, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. Lena put her arm around him.
“Digby, are you in love with her?”
The question was shocking. His tongue moved to deny it at once. But this was Lena, his “blood sister,” as she was wont to say. He stared at his hands as if the answer lay there. Slowly, he straightened up. He met her gaze.
“Oh God, Digs. Well, she may be in love with you too. She’s so fragile, though. And vulnerable. And don’t forget she’s already—”
“Lena,” he interrupted, not wanting to hear the word she was about to utter. “Even if I was, even if I am . . . Even if I do love her, what does it matter? I don’t want . . . I’m not expecting it to lead to something. I’m forty-two, Lena, a confirmed bachelor. I’m seventeen years her senior. But if staying at Gwendolyn Gardens helps heal her wounds, I can offer her that, at least. She’s rediscovering herself by working. It might be her salvation.” Lena merely looked at him, not appearing to listen. “Lena. If you’re worried that I won’t be a gentleman, I promise—”
“Oh Digby, just stop.” Her eyes were moist. She stroked his cheek, then gave him a gentle kiss. She said softly, “Don’t promise. Just be you. Be good. Be true. And don’t be a gentleman.”
Elsie worked all the next day in the studio. He stayed out of her way. Nothing had changed. Everything had changed. They were alone.
He left it as late as he could to fetch her to dinner. As he approached the shed, he couldn’t hear the clink of her mallet. Panicked, he ran the last few yards. He found her seated outside on the bench, watching the sky turn pink.
He sat next to her, out of breath but trying to conceal it. She smiled at him but looked incredibly sad. How stupid of me. Did I expect a sculpture to erase her memory? She leaned her head against his shoulder.
After a quiet dinner, both of them picking at their food, he said, “I want to show you one of my favorite paintings before you sleep.”
He led her to the loft off the second floor and then up the ladder to the roof, where he’d set up two reclining cane chairs. He tucked a shawl around her against the chill. The cook had left a flask of hot tea, laced with cardamom and whisky. Gradually, as their eyes adjusted, the ink-black coat of night revealed jewels embroidered in the cloth. Then, after more time, the lesser stars appeared, like shy children peering around the cloaks of their parents. Above them, Orion stretched his bow. They were silent for a long time. He saw her trace a finger across the sky, as though the rising plume of the Milky Way flowed off her fingertip. She seemed to be in rapture, staring up, speechless.
He handed her the cup and poured.
“As a child in Glasgow,” Digby said, “I’d go to the rooftop if the skies were clear—that wasn’t often, mind. I could find the North Star. That consoled me. My fixed point. After my mother died, I couldn’t believe in God. But the stars? Still there. In the same place. They made the idea of God inconsequential. I come up here in summer when the nights are clear. I look up for hours. Sometimes I wonder if this life of ours is a dream. Maybe I’m not really here at all.”
“If you’re not here, then I’m in your dream,” Elsie said. She said quietly, “Thank you, Digby. For everything.”
The next morning, he found her cross-legged on the carpet in his library, the sun streaming through the tall windows and through her hair. One of his folio-sized art books stood propped open before her.
“Digby!” she said, looking up. The pleasure in her voice gave him a catch in his throat. He sat down next to her. Together they stared at the photograph of Bernini’s Ecstasy of Saint Teresa. “Look at the angel and Saint Teresa. Next to each other but separate. But all from one piece of stone. See the flowing fabric, the movement? How? How did he look at the stone when he began . . . and imagine this?” Her voice had become hushed. “He made it for this space in the church, with the sun pouring in from a skylight in the dome. It’s pure magic. Oh Digby, if I could go to Rome tomorrow, I would.”
“You can, Elsie.” Let’s go. She stared at him. Then she laughed. But she saw he wasn’t smiling. Slowly, tears welled up in her eyes.
He rose and returned with two cups of coffee. Elsie said, “Yesterday I tried to correct what I should’ve left alone. One side of the stone fell away.”