Coronets and Steel (56 page)

“It’s beautiful.”

“That artist, a man named Janacek, was well known here. He was a Riev carpenter. In his free time he made religious art. The king began the conspiracy with Janacek, who was connected to the rabbi at that time through his wife. He was already involved in disguising the temple against possible invasion—everyone had heard what was happening to Jews in Germany.”

“Is the Blessing behind how the religions get along? Because that sure doesn’t match the rest of history.”

He said, “Pretty much, yes. Anyway, his wife and daughter obtained work as laundry women at the palace, and among the baskets of linens she took away to wash at the close of the day were quantities of gold.”

“So she sneaked it all out of the palace?”

“A lot of it. Milo and his cousin Grigorian helped, in countless wheel-barrows of sewage rolled right through the city. This was before the pipes were put in. Milo was supposedly overseeing the project, which was to be finished in time for the festival. Janacek had had the reputation for keeping his art to himself in his basement until he was ready to show it, or this never would have worked. Milo said that the night the statues were finished and they went down to see them, all gleaming golden in lamplight, is something he will never forget. This was early in August.”

“And the plaster?”

Alec’s smile deepened. “That was the fun part. They had to act fast, as the procession and installation were planned for the thirteenth. He and Grigorian and some artist friends—the sister of one of them is Emilio’s wife, who was in on it as well—all sat up at night, drinking wine and plastering. Poor Janacek could not bear to watch. A couple days later they painted the figures, this time under Janacek’s direction. On the thirteenth, the figures were unveiled, and the townspeople were astonished to find the great work done in plaster! But Janacek explained that the figures were solid oak underneath, built to last. The plaster was to further protect the wood, and could be changed every few years. The unlucky blokes chosen as bearers sweated the figures up the stairs and out into the streets on their way to the mountain.”

“I bet they weigh a ton.”

“That was the bad moment, Milo said. Wondering if someone would question their weight. But no one did. Oak is heavy, after all.”

“And so they’ve been here all along, despite the Germans, and the Soviets, and Tony. That’s great!” I laughed. “Are they all gold?”

“No, five have been converted. Milo found an artist who has been replacing the figures on Janacek’s model, working from photographs. I’ve been overseeing the exchange, one at a time. She thinks the aging process on the plaster is to keep visual continuity. Hers are wood underneath. She doesn’t know about the gold.”

Aware of tiredness pulling at my muscles, my shoulder, I sank onto a pew and stared silently up.

I enjoyed the story, until the thought popped into my head that if Gran had not married Armandros she too probably would have been part of the conspiracy.

“Married” Armandros?
Oh, Gran.

“Something wrong?”

He must have felt my change in mood; I bounced up again from the wooden pew and burst out, “I guess I can see Gran giving Armandros a fake name when she emigrated to the States, but what I can’t get past is her wearing that ring her whole life. It’s like she was living a lie.”

“Do you think she was lying?” His gaze was steady. “How many people do you know whose marriages are absolutely legal and for whom the whole process means nothing? From everything you’ve told me about her, my guess would be that the ring was a symbol of her good faith, even if the priest blessing it was false.”

I thought of people I knew who out of ignorance, or boredom, or greed, or transient lust, get married and then divorced and then married again a year later. I thought of Gran, who had not been able to make a meaningless marriage with Alec’s father.

I thought of Alec, who was expected to make one with Ruli von Mecklundburg.

“Shall we go?” Alec suggested.

K
ING MILO WAS FRAIL, but he sat straight in his chair, and he looked kingly. There was nothing faltering in the deep-set gray-blue eyes or in the slow, precise French.

He was staying in an old stone-walled house down in the valley behind Our Lady of the Assumption. It was a quiet house, shaded by old oaks and perched on the bank above a deep-running river. I expect it was a religious retreat; a black-robed Benedictine brother opened the door to us, and there were religious symbols on the walls of the simply furnished rooms.

Milo remained in his armchair before a roaring fire and apologized for not getting up. His face was long and lined and craggy; except for the eyes it was difficult to see much resemblance to Alec. He had the same steady, reflective gaze, which narrowed to express humor the same way his son’s did.

I sat on the edge of the other big chair with my hands in my lap and my ankles crossed, like a schoolgirl at a formal tea, and let him lead the conversation. He offered refreshment once, and though I remembered Alec’s having mentioned lunch I sensed that the plans had been changed. I said “No thanks,” then met Alec’s eyes as he stood behind his father’s chair, and he lifted his chin slightly in agreement.

The conversation was short. Milo asked me what I thought of Dobrenica and after I told him some of my impressions, he went on to ask a number of questions about Gran, and about my mother, about music and books and art.

Alec remained in the background, listening. After half an hour or so, about the time I finished my impressions of Vienna, I detected a shade of hoarseness in Milo’s voice. I glanced Alec’s way for clues, and caught a flicker of his eyes toward the door.

I finished up quickly, “And I saw the London Ballet. That’s when I met Alec. You know the rest.”

I didn’t know how much he knew, but I left it at that.

Alec said, “How’s your shoulder? This has been a rather long first day.”

“I’m tired,” I said truthfully, starting to rise.

“I’ll take you back to town.”

“Thank you for visiting me, Aurelia Kim.” Milo extended a hand and gripped mine with brief but firm warmth. “I trust you will visit again.”

“I’d like that,” I responded sincerely.

When we were outside, Alec said, “I’m sorry about the lunch. He must have taken a bad turn last night and a messenger, if one was sent, did not catch up with me.”

“Oh, yes. The unreliable phones.”

He spread his hands. “There are many who still condemn the hydroelectric dam as frivolous. How do you feel?”

“Like week-old kitty litter. I think it was poor Josip’s well-sprung chariot that did me in. You sent him home, I take it.”

“Yes, with thanks, since he would not take money. Who is he, one of the Waleskas?”

“Just married the oldest daughter.” I wound my hair around my hand again, and as the car started to roll, I leaned back and shut my eyes.

“Shall we stop somewhere for a meal, or would you rather we postpone until dinner? If I go straight back now, I might be able to shake free of business by seven.”

I sighed. “Perfect.”

The clouds were disappearing, leaving a warm afternoon. The city had never looked so lovely.

 

Nat’s door was unlocked, but she was not there. I found a bowl of fruit and a piece of yellow cheese wrapped up in white paper on Nat’s main table, where the usual clutter had been shoved aside. Propped against it was a note in a hasty scrawl,
It’s twins—might need a C-sec—make yourself at home! N.

I nibbled some cheese, ate a plum, washed it down with water, then curled up for a nap. It was 6:30 by the time I had dressed and brushed the snarls out of my hair. Alec arrived soon after. “Nat not here?” he asked as he stepped in.

“Nope,” I said, feeling inexplicably nervous. As if he had grown, or the room had shrunk. I rummaged busily, found her note to show him, and retreated.

He glanced at it, then at me across the room fiddling with a lamp, and smiled. “Shall we go?”

“Sure.”

I picked up a sweater. Alec followed without touching me, and we got into the car. The air was summery; I twisted up my hair again, and crumpled the sweater into a ball in my lap as the car loudly made the climb out of the city.

The drive was not long. Alec pulled off the road onto a narrow track that bumped along for a hundred feet or so then ended under a grove of oak. “Here we are.”

“What’s this?” I said, looking about me.

“I thought you might like a picnic. I know I’d welcome a few hours without interruption.”

“A picnic? Sounds great. As long as Tony’s not invited.”

“Tony? So he took you on a picnic, did he?”

“At Sedania. It’s so pretty up there. More than Aunt Sisi deserves,” I added.

“My father gave it to her when she was married,” Alec said with a wry smile as he tossed the keys on his hand. We were still sitting in the car. “At her request. More of a demand, I suspect. I know he always regretted it, even though he doesn’t believe that the site is a portal to the Nasdrafus.”

“He should take it back. What’s supposed to be the portal, that weird old archway?”

“That’s the tradition. Did you see things there?”

“Yes. For a moment. I still don’t get it. Six senses? I still don’t know how much of what I saw is real and what isn’t.”

“Maybe we need to relook at what defines ‘real,’” he said. “One of my friends, Beka Ridotski, has a great-aunt who is a Salfmatta.”

“Isn’t Beka Jewish? How does she reconcile using the Catholic novena to do her magical stuff?”

“She doesn’t. All the religious traditions have their own forms.”

I hit the car door latch. “Are there any forms outside of religious tradition?”

Alec got out of the car, and sprung the lid to the trunk. “Maybe. I don’t know—since I have no proof that magic exists, I haven’t pursued the methods by which it is invoked.”

“Okay. My brain is about to explode from the idea of redefining reality. So I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that, and let me say that I hope your dad takes Sedania back, because it’s so beautiful, and Aunt Sisi doesn’t deserve it. Can I carry something? One hand’s better than none.”

“Here. How about this rug?” Alec held out a quilt and I tucked it under my arm as he picked up a basket and another quilt. He slammed the car trunk down and tossed the keys on the seat. “This way. We should make the spot before the light disappears.” He added, smiling, “You are not being abducted, by the way. The keys are there in the car, and you’ll find a light in the bottom of the basket if you decide to leave.”

“And strand you up here?” I laughed.

“I know where I am. I hiked all over these slopes when I was small.”

I followed him down a short trail, and then I forgot everything as we emerged on a ledge beside a small waterfall plashing into a stream. Below us lay the city of Riev, which was beginning to glow golden with night lights. Above, the sky was purpling swiftly, punctuated by glimmering stars.

“Nights this clear and warm are rare here,” he commented, setting his basket down and spreading out the quilt. “I thought it would be a shame not to take advantage of it. And best of all—” He gestured for me to sit down. “Reithermann’s evil twin could show up, or Tony could gather the remains of his boys and swoop down on the city, or the council could challenge one another to duels, and none of ’em can find me. For tonight.”

“You’ve been on the run even more than I have.”

“I am always on the run. Part of the job. That’s both the joy and the pain of it.”

I remembered what he had said about vocation and avocation and knew he was not complaining, he was stating a fact. “What d’you have? A Pedro-picnic again?”

“No, this I sorted myself. Pedro was busy preparing a consolation banquet for your aunt, who had the brass to throw a formal party in honor of her daughter’s return, tonight. She can vilify me as much as she likes but I will not be there to hear it. Kilber will.” He smiled, knowing I’d share the joke.

And I laughed at the thought of Aunt Sisi having to deal with Kilber’s grim countenance. Whether she and her guests ignored him or not, he’d be a nice, big, grizzly gray elephant in her refined drawing room.

“Basic fare, therefore,” Alec said. “Fresh bread, some turkey slices from the homely Ysvorod kitchen, an aged cheddar, medium-sharp—oh. Plums. And—ah! Half a chocolate bar. Good chocolate. For drink we have the Benedictines’ home-brewed dark ale, and afterward, vintage Adam’s ale there in the stream.” He opened and flourishingly displayed each item as he named it.

“Nice! Um hmmm,” I nodded primly each time. My mood had changed. Whether he’d planned it intentionally or not, there was no vestige of
droit de seigneur
in the place he had picked, in his manner, or even in the food he had selected. He could so easily have taken me to the royal castle and whistled up an army of minions to wait on us while we sat at either end of a thirty foot long table loaded with gold plate. Or we could have gone to some exclusive place that only the rankers knew about, where the food and the talk was international and sophisticated—and political.