On the lake below the broad terrace where they stood, young couples sat in flat-bottomed boats, exposed to all eyes but solitary together in the midst of the pulsing city. Another day, Francis told himself, already plotting a return to the park when he could be alone with Anisette. They followed another path that swept past a pond where children and more than a few adults guided model sailboats in a scrambled armada of bright colors and flashing white canvas.
Michael, for his part, was getting tired. Despite the lemonade and the shaved ice, his legs were going wobbly in the heat and his head had begun to pulse. He had perked up momentarily at the sight of the toy boats on the water. In the cloudy haze of silence that wrapped him, he could almost hear the breeze pushing the boats and the water skimming against their tiny hulls. But as the wind rippled the pond, the thousand jagged shards of sunlight snapped him out of his reverie. He didn’t collapse, and he counted that as progress, but he was sapped and looked for a shady bench to collect himself.
Still, it was pleasant to be outdoors, to have found this bit of country in the middle of the city. And Francis and this girl on his arm looked so happy. It was undeniable; they both seemed to glow. Michael put his hands to his temples to shield his eyes—like a blinkered horse—and the sight of that happy couple, arms linked, filled the narrowed frame.
Hadn’t that once been him? Hadn’t he walked by a lake, near home, arm in arm with Eileen Casey? He had, and that sudden certainty was like a key opening a vault where his memories were secured. He had gone out walking with Eileen, far from the eyes of the village. Both of them on errands, but with a plan to meet. They had grown up fast friends, as many children do, though by fourteen, maybe fifteen, they knew it was for life. This one day by the lake—a moment conjured by the sight of Francis and this lovely girl in the soft pink hat—they had strolled with her hand on his arm: a first. The sun was low in the sky. They both knew they would be looked for—well, she would be; Michael’s father wasn’t one to keep a close eye. They walked as near to Ballyrath as they could without being seen together, and at their parting she released his arm, then pulled him to her and planted a kiss on his lips. Before he could respond—grab hold of her, return the kiss—she was already running toward home, laughing and whooping. Michael thought he would burst for joy.
He had recovered this moment, but his mind would not surrender to him the reason they weren’t together still. He had seen Eileen, he was sure of it, right before his memory went ragged. She was there, in a crowd, and she was dressed in black. She looked right at him and mouthed one word: Go! Was she angry with him? Was she telling him to leave her be?
FRANCIS PUT A hand on Michael’s shoulder. Here he was, taking in the sunshine, but he had seen the toll that bright light could exact on his brother: on the ship, on their walk downtown, and now here in the park. Michael had boxed up his eyes with his hands, like a man with a pair of binoculars. They were only a few blocks from Anisette’s home, but she had suggested a quick tour of the museum, which rose in front of them like the mausoleum of some fallen hero. Francis didn’t think Michael had much coal left in his furnace, but there was bound to be a spot where he could sit in the shade for a few minutes more. Sure enough, there was a bench at the base of the stacked marble steps, under a tree and buffeted by an unexpected breeze. Francis pointed to Anisette and himself, then aimed a finger up the steps. He lifted his eyebrows and held his palms open toward Michael: the interrogative. Michael plopped himself on the bench and leaned back against the wooden slats. With a quick motion of his fingers, he swept his brother and the girl away. Off ye go. I’ll be right here.
Through the front doors, there were tapestries and bulky statues. Neither had much interest in the art, though. Soon he would walk her down Fifth Avenue and up to the door of Bingham Castle. Even if she were to invite him inside—for tea, for dinner, for that gin he had mentioned—he could not accept. Michael seemed on the verge of one of his spells and Francis had to stop demonstrating to himself (and perhaps to Michael) that he was willing to place what he wanted—thirty minutes more with Anisette, in this most recent case—ahead of what Michael needed: a dark room, a cold towel on his head, and twelve to fourteen hours of catatonic sleep. But Michael was doing so much better, and though Francis knew he would see Anisette on Saturday, when they met the royals, it would hardly be a private affair. Mrs. B would be garrulous, Félicité would be infelicitous, and he and Anisette would get little more than a glance here, a smile there. And after that? There was Martin’s question again: What’s next? He didn’t know about next; he could only try to extend now.
They wandered through galleries full of paintings, late Byzantine through early Renaissance. Static, gilt-soaked portraits of Christ slowly gave way to voluminous robes, rounded foreheads, pinks and blues crowding out mosaic gold. One painting in particular caught Francis’s eye: the ministry of John the Baptist told in a single composition. A path snaked across the top of the canvas, doubled back on itself, and then turned again toward a barred window and a stone wall. At intervals along the path, a wild-haired John appeared, engaging in Baptist-like activities: here standing in the wilderness, locust in hand; there with his bowl, dousing the head of Jesus; past the first turn, taken into custody; and finally, by the cell door, with his head served on a platter. As Francis and Anisette crossed into the next room, saints gave way to citizens: Along one wall, paunchy merchants posed in silk and lace. On the other side of the room, shadows crowded the doughy faces of bürgermeisters swathed in black velvet, their white collars immaculate.
“This could be Dr. Van Hooten’s flat,” Francis said. “He’s quite the collector of Dutch faces.”
“Oh, dear me,” Anisette said. “I completely forgot. Dr. Van Hooten sent a letter to the house, intended for you. I have it here.” She opened her purse and withdrew the envelope, creamy, cotton-rich stock, folded stiffly in half.
“The good doctor promised to recommend specialists who could consult on Malcolm’s case. Let’s see what he has come up with.” Francis tapped one edge against his palm and tore a small strip from the opposite side. As he did so, it occurred to him that there was probably a more aristocratic way to open an envelope. The brief letter, which was thick with the credentialed acronyms of the medical profession, referred Malcolm to the care of a doctor at New York Eye and Ear. “Aha,” Francis said. But behind the letter was a single sheet typed by hastier hands and annotated in Van Hooten’s script: Your brother’s handiwork? The page began with three attempts at Michael’s name before switching to variations on the theme of Yeats:
Willliam butter Yeast
William Butler Yeates
William Butler Yeats is a stodgy old git