Page 28 of The Phoenix Bride
“I will. I swear it.”
She kisses my cheek. “Farewell, David.”
“Farewell.”
She leaves. I look at the mezuzah, but I do not acknowledge it. Instead, I close the door very gently, to prevent my father from hearing. I cannot stand an interrogation, not now.
Returning to the parlor, I sit down and stare at the rug.
I still remember the day Manuel died. After the cart took him away, I went to Jan’s house. There I ground coffee beans, bag after bag, until my arm ached, until I could heap great mounds of it like dirt across his counters. I heard the crack of them beneath the pestle and imagined that they were the bones of my chest; that I was crushing myself flat, so I could remake myself into something better. It hadn’t worked, clearly. I am the same man I have always been.
And Sara wants me still. I don’t understand why.
“David Mendes,” comes a voice. Elizabeth Askwith is at the doorway. She is carrying a tray with tea and biscuits, frowning at the room. “Your guest is gone?”
“Yes, she is.”
“I came to offer refreshment. You said, David Mendes, that I ought to offer refreshment when your guests come.”
“Thank you,” I say. “But she left.”
She nods in some vestige of sympathy, although her face maintains its typical mixture of blankness and disdain. She puts the tray down in front of me. “It is brewed,” she says, “so you ought to drink it.”
“I don’t want any.”
“You ought to,” she repeats, and leaves the room.
I stare at the tea set without touching it, and then I notice that one of the pillows upon the couch was pushed out of place by Sara as she sat. I rearrange it, and everything is as it was before she arrived. It is as if she was never here at all.
Eventually, Elizabeth Askwith returns with a tray bearing two letters, both sealed with the Eden crest.
“Delivered while your guest was present,” she informs me. Once she is gone, I break the seal of the larger letter. In Lady Eden’s meticulous hand, it reads:
Master Mendes,
Enclosed—a bonus for your endeavors. My sister’s appetite seems to have improved.
My thanks, sir, for your aid, and your discretion.
Sincerely,
Lady Margaret Eden
The envelope contains a check for an extraordinary sum; enough to pay for my father’s medicines for the year. I stare at it in my hands with a heady mixture of elation and guilt.
The other envelope is sealed rather badly, and I expect that it was done by someone in a hurry. Inside, the writing is so hastily scrawled it takes me several minutes to decipher it:
Mendes,
I realized I never directly thanked you for your help. Your decoctions are effective—if disgusting—but you listened, too. Very few people have bothered to listen to me. I am grateful.
The tune we played: Froberger’s Second Toccata. You should be able to find a performance of a higher standard somewhere in this city; I’ve never managed to get it quite right. Froberger is greatly admired for his dances, but his early toccatas are truly flawless. Good music is a little like medicine, I think: everything in perfect balance. Both hands and heart required. Perhaps you might play again, someday.
Regards,
Cecilia Thorowgood
The ink is smudged; she didn’t bother to wait for it to dry.
