Page 14 of The Phoenix Bride
Someone walks directly into me. I stagger back and meet a pair of startlingly green eyes. It is a young man, dressed in pastel-colored clothing covered in ribbons, so that he streams like a kite in the breeze. He is soft featured, pale skinned, with a long wig that flows in light brown curls to his middle back. While well groomed, his sparse mustache seems somewhat halfhearted in its countenance.
“Pardon, sir!” he exclaims. “It seems my feet are most stubborn today; they refuse to cooperate with the rest of me. I have been stumbling every which way and what way and find myself most perplexed by the entire affair.”
“I—no matter,” I reply, puzzled. He sweeps a very deep bow, looks about himself with great confusion, and then wanders into the crowd. I follow his progress with some concern, frowning to myself.
Jan returns. “Are you well, David?” he asks, seeing my baffled expression.
“Yes, fine.”
He has settled with the pie hawker, it seems, for he clutches two pastries in his hands. He offers me one. “Apple,” he says.
“I can’t have a pie, Jan,” I say. “There is lard in it.”
“Oh. I am arse brained sometimes.”
“Give it here.” He passes it to me, and I walk over to the fountain, where the young girl is still splashing in the water. When she notices me, she takes a step back, frightened; I suppose that isn’t surprising.
I offer her the pie. “Here.”
She is wary, but too hungry to refuse. Her hands dart out with the speed of a comet, and she snatches the pie from me.
“Thanks,” she mumbles, and she crams half of it into her mouth.
“Eat slowly, or your stomach will ache.”
Ignoring the instruction, she chews the pastry openmouthed, crumbs falling into the water below. I sigh and leave her be, returning to Jan, who is smiling at me.
“We ought to return here soon. And let’s go out tomorrow evening, also,” he says. “I know you have no appointments then.”
“I shouldn’t,” I reply. “I told my father I would go to synagogue.”
“Will you?” he asks, and I wince.
“I ought to.”
“We could always go another evening—”
“Not— I don’t know,” I say. Unimpressed, he stares at me, eyebrows raised. “I…Very well. Tomorrow. But not Mother Tiffin’s.”
“Why not Mother Tiffin’s?”
“I’m not in the mood, Jan. Just an alehouse, please.”
He claps his hands. “Very well!” he exclaims too loudly. “An alehouse it is.”
He seems so relieved that I am willing to spend time with him, and I feel somewhat ashamed by it. I know that I have been solitary as of late. I have kept myself busy, kept myself distracted. Somehow, the simple act of living has become exhausting; it has led me to neglect him.
Driven by guilt, I ask Jan if he will have supper at my home. He agrees very happily. We take a cab together. As we drive, he talks of coffee and the fountain and his current Great Love, Peter, who has been his Great Love thrice before and shall no doubt soon cede the position to someone else. I pretend to listen, but I am dwelling upon the shock in the eyes of the girl in the fountain, and Cecilia Thorowgood’s shuddering breaths, and the woman crossing herself as I passed her. I should be used to such things; I should be accustomed to both grief and prejudice. It feels a failing of mine when I allow them to trouble me so.
We pay the fare. I open the door to allow Jan into my house, and he passes through. I pause to glance at the mezuzah, raising my fingers to it. For a moment, I believe I will touch it, but I don’t. Instead, I drop my hand and follow him inside.
—
I am picked up by a carriage the next morning for my return tothe Eden townhouse. It is a marvelous thing, gilded like a Bible, with the initials R. E. emblazoned upon the door. Thehorses are white, and the driver has a blond wig with ribbons tied to its ends. We rattle through the city, people staring as we pass.
The gates of the townhouse are opened for us, and we are brought into the courtyard. I step down to the cobblestones and look back to the fence. I hadn’t noticed yesterday, but the gates are crowned at either side with bizarre stone objects. They look something like pinecones with hats. I frown at them, trying to decipher their meaning, but I find no answer.
The footman leads me inside. The foyer is as horrifyingly gauche as it was the last time I saw it: decorated in a gaudy and expensive combination of green and gold, a large portrait of a frowning Cavalier glowering at me to the left of the stairs. Beside it stands a tall case clock, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, which shows the tides of the river on its face rather than the time. Countless mirrors glitter on the walls, expanding the room from enormous to gargantuan.
