Lord Warburton’s nose might be a shade too large; one gray-blue eye, if one looked closely, appeared to gaze slightly to one side, as if in deference to the speaker—his features were neither small nor even. One might have said that his thin upper lip was too stiff—whether from a lack of sensuality or an excess of it, no casual observer could have guessed. Yet the overall appearance was unquestionably good; people liked and trusted Warburton on sight.
Lazarus, on the other hand, portrayed illness and lack of grace with every move. His clothing was ill fitting and out of date, as if he’d long ago given up looking in a mirror; he wore the sort of dandyish velvet smoking jacket that might have been popular in the 1930s. Lazarus did not walk so much as shamble, and his hands habitually strayed nervously into his pockets. His face was lean, homely, and wolfish, with a yellowish cast. His hair, a striking pale shade of whitest gold, made him appear both older and more childish than his twenty-six years. Each time he walked past his father, he gazed at him with love and a tenderness he disguised with ceaseless antics and teasing—placing a napkin on his father’s head as he walked by and then removing it the next time he passed, handing him a fan of leaves, or ruffling the old man’s thinning white hair.
Whatever Lazarus was saying—and he talked nearly nonstop—it made his companion chuckle, with murmurs of disapproval: “I say, you don’t really mean that,” and, “Even you don’t believe what you are saying.”
“What are you going on about?” asked the father at last.
“Absolute nonsense!” declared Lord Warburton. “Lazarus says the world will be ruled by machines. He claims we will let them think and talk and calculate for us . . . even trust them to find our wives. He says we’ll find our immortality hidden in the entrails of some mechanical device.”
The son came round in front of his father’s chair, and made a minute adjustment in relation to the angle of the sunlight. At any moment it might rain. At any moment anywhere in Ireland, it could rain, always. Lazarus stooped before the old man, and in the instant their steady gazes locked, one saw at last the real bond between father and son.
“Stop fussing. I’m getting on quite well,” said the father.
“Have you drunk your tea?”
The father lifted his empty cup. “Yes, and enjoyed it.”
“Can I get you some more?”
The old man considered it. “Well, maybe. I’ll wait and see,” he said. “Don’t want to rush into anything.” His way of speaking, even after decades of living in his adopted country, was plainly American.
“Are you cold?” asked Lazarus. “There’s a breeze blowing.”
The father rubbed his legs experimentally. “Can’t tell unless I feel.”
“Shall I fetch someone to feel for you?” asked his son, teasingly.
“Oh, someone will always feel for me. That’s the luxury of being old. Don’t you feel for me, Lord Warburton?”
“Of course.” The larger man, who had been playing with the small dog, answered immediately. His clipped accent marked him as an Englishman. There was none of the soft burr and lilt of the North Irish. “Though you do look wonderfully comfortable, I must say.”
“I reckon I am, mostly.” The old man smoothed the wool shawl over his knees. “The truth is we’ve been comfortable so many years I just don’t notice anymore.”
“Yes, that’s the bore of comfort,” said Lord Warburton. “I would think you’d be miserable under that heavy wool shawl, though.”
“No, he must have the shawl!” cried the son. “Don’t put ideas into his head.”
“It’s my wife’s shawl,” said the old man, simply. “I’ll have to give it back to her when she comes.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” objected his son. “You’ll keep it to cover your poor old legs.”
“Hey,” objected the old man. “I guess my legs are as good as yours.”
“That’s not saying much, Daddy. I’m a poor specimen.” Lazarus shook out one skinny leg woefully. “Won’t you have more tea? This comes from Paris.” Lazarus lifted the lid of the teapot and sniffed at it. “I can’t tell it from Lipton’s,” he admitted.
“‘Valor is stability, not of legs and arms, but of courage and the soul.’ Montaigne.” The father held up the cup, while the son poured. “My boy is an excellent sick-nurse, Lord Warburton. I call him my sick-nurse because he’s such a sick boy himself.”
“Daddy!” the ugly young man exclaimed.
“Well, you are. I wish you weren’t. But I guess you can’t help it, after all.”
“Montaigne suffered all his life from kidney stones,” said Lazarus, setting the tea back on the table and stuffing his hands back into the pockets of his shabby black velvet jacket.
Lord Warburton let out a low whistle of admiration, looking from father to son.
“We are a fount of useless information,” Lazarus admitted.
“Were you ever sick, Lord Warburton?” the father asked.
Lord Warburton considered it. “Yes, sir, once, in the Persian Gulf.”
“He’s making light of you, Daddy,” said Lazarus. “Warburton is a great tease.” He fiddled with a radio lying on the grass, till some jazz music came on with a spurt of saxophones. “Ah! Hear that?” He listened with a hungry, rapt expression.
The old man grimaced. “That sounds like machine-gun fire, not music. I don’t understand any of the new tastes—not the new humor, not the songs. It’s a sure sign of old age. But you don’t look like you’ve been ill a day in your life, Lord Warburton.”
“Warburton’s sick of life, he says. He was just telling me so; going on and on about it,” said Lazarus.
“Is that so?” asked the old man seriously.
“Your son is the wrong man to come to. Doesn’t believe in anything at all—nothing but music and machines.”
“It’s because of his illness,” explained the father. “Lazarus feels he never had a chance. But he’s really the most buoyant human being I’ve ever known. Like one of those toys you push over—he bounces right back again. My boy often cheers me up.”
“Is that praise or condemnation, Daddy? Are you accusing me of playing the clown?” Lazarus snatched up three oranges from a bowl and began expertly to juggle. He furrowed his brow in concentration and kept throwing them ever higher. The other two men watched admiringly, if with resignation. They had watched these performances many times before.
Lazarus, ever aware when his audience’s interest flagged, piped up again. “Do you know the Pagliacci story?”
“Even if I do, I’d hear it again,” said the old man comfortably.
Lazarus kept on juggling, adding in a fourth orange. His face grew pale with effort, but his voice remained light. Years of living abroad in Ireland had given it a musical lilt, if not exactly an Irish accent. His lack of easy breathing had made it perpetually husky as well. “A man is in the depths of despair, you see. He’s been depressed for months; finds no reason to go on living. Can’t eat, can’t sleep. Miserable. He’s going to kill himself, he tells his doctor.”
“Why on earth would anyone tell his doctor such a thing?” interrupted Warburton.
“Because he wasn’t English,” snapped Lazarus. “The doctor says, ‘Look here, my man. I know the perfect cure for your depression. The great clown Pagliacci is in town this week. You can’t help laughing when you see him. He’s brilliant! Dazzling. Go watch him perform. I guarantee you’ll forget all your troubles.’
“‘But doc,’ says the man gravely, ‘that’s the whole problem. I am Pagliacci.’”
“Ah.” The old man clapped his hands together. “I am Pagliacci! Very good.” As an afterthought he added, “But sad.”
Lazarus stopped juggling and sank down on the lawn. He did his best to disguise how ill and out of breath he was. “Lord Warburton’s case is sadder. He’s bored by life. I’ve never said that—never. I find life only too interesting.”
“Too interesting. You can’t allow it to be that, either, you k
now.”
“Can’t help it, Father.” Lazarus held his hands out helplessly. “Would you like to see a new card trick?”
“Always,” Mr. Sachs answered promptly.
Lazarus removed a pack of playing cards from his breast pocket. His loose lips curved upward, hooked at the ends. His irises were so pale they looked nearly colorless. “Pick a card . . . any card. Take your choice.”
“You say that,” said his father, deliberating before selecting one. “But it isn’t true.”
“If you don’t like that card, pick another.”
“No, I’ll stick. You’ve no excuse for being bored, either of you.”
“Remember the card, Daddy. It’s no good if you just glance at it and forget it.”
“I never forget. When I was your age,” Mr. Sachs went on, “I hadn’t heard of such a thing as being bored.”
“You must have developed late.” Lazarus shuffled expertly, with a rattling flourish. “Now put the card in the middle of the pack, please.”
“I developed quick—that’s my point. When I was your age, I was working twelve hours a day. You wouldn’t be bored if you gave yourselves something to do, something that held your interest. You’ve both got too much time, too much money. Too little at the center.”
“I believe it’s a black card, am I right?” asked Lazarus, squeezing shut his eyes.
The old man nodded.
“A number card, I think . . . a low number.”
“I say, Mr. Sachs,” objected Lord Warburton. “You’re hardly the man to accuse us of being too rich!”
“Daddy isn’t that rich,” argued his son. “He’s given away vast amounts of money.”
“What greater proof of wealth can there be?” asked Lord Warburton, spreading open his hands. He had a large, handsome face and strong forearms, but his hands were small for his size, plump and freckled.
“Focus on your card,” Lazarus reminded his father. He snapped his fingers. “I will now make it jump to the top of the pile.” He fanned out a handful of cards, all red suits, with only the card on top facing down. “All red—except a single card. Yours, I believe?” He flipped the card and held out the two of spades.
“Wonderful,” said the father, sipping his tea in part to hide his delight. “Now show Lord Warburton my favorite trick.”
Lazarus groaned. “His favorite is the simplest. Any child could do it with a week’s practice.” Lazarus hid a card. Revealed it. Turned his hand, so the others could see him hiding it behind his fingers.
“Simplicity is the highest form of art,” the old man said. “And of life.”
“But leave a little room for beauty,” pleaded his son. “For embellishment. And for the beautiful embellishment of untruth when the world becomes too much to bear.”
“He’s joking again,” said Lord Warburton.
“When there are no more jokes, you’ll have nothing left,” chided Mr. Sachs.
“Fortunately there are always more jokes,” said Lazarus.
“I don’t believe that,” said the old man. “There are serious changes afoot. East Berlin, West Berlin. Korea. Right here in Ireland, despite the good times. The spaces between us are growing—we can’t agree on anything. The chasm between rich and poor, differences in religion . . . race . . . point of view. None of it’s a laughing matter.”
“I agree with you, sir,” said Lord Warburton eagerly. “That’s just what I’ve been arguing about with your son.”
“Take your British House of Lords, for instance—”
“Exactly!” exclaimed Warburton. When excited, he tended to blush a deep pink-red. “There are serious changes afoot. Some are bound to be very strange indeed. They may do away with the House of Lords altogether—replace it with a House of Ladies,” added Warburton, stroking his chin. “I’ve been mulling over some advice you gave me last month, sir—to devote myself to a purpose, hang my hat on a cause. But one hesitates to take hold of a thing when it’s all likely to be blown to smithereens.”
“Are we talking about the end of the world again?” groaned Lazarus. He bent down, lifted his smaller dog into the air, and swung it gently from side to side. “What do you think?” he asked the dog. “Are we all going to be blown sky high?”
“I’m not just talking about the atom bomb,” said Lord Warburton. “When everything’s shifting ground, everything is uncertain.”
“Grab hold of a pretty woman,” Lazarus suggested.
“The women themselves may be sent flying!” exclaimed Lord Warburton.
“No, the women will stand firm. They may send us flying,” said old Mr. Sachs, “but we’ve had the run of the planet and made a mess of it. The women might save us—at least, the best of them will.” He tapped the arm of his chair for emphasis. “I mark a difference between them. Find an interesting woman and marry her, and your life will become much more interesting.”
“Yes, but where does one find an interesting woman?” said Warburton. Both listeners were aware that Mr. Sachs himself had not made the luckiest choice in his own marriage. He spent no more than twenty days a year in the company of his wife. Perhaps Mrs. Sachs was fascinating—it was hard to say; she was so seldom present. The two younger men busied themselves around the tea things, and Warburton popped several small scones into his mouth in rapid succession while Lazarus looked on admiringly. The Englishman had a prodigious appetite.
“I wonder what an interesting woman would make of me,” Lord Warburton added.
“She’d have to be able to feed you,” said Lazarus.
“Fall in love with anyone you please,” said the old man, waving one arm, “but not with my American niece.”
Lazarus burst out laughing. “Warburton will take that as a challenge. My dear daddy, don’t you understand your Englishmen?”
“I don’t think I have the honor of knowing your niece,” said Lord Warburton. His pale eyes twinkled. “In fact, this is the first I’ve heard of her. Is she very interesting?”
“We barely know her ourselves,” answered Lazarus. “I haven’t laid eyes on her since we were small children and went for swims together and things. Come to think of it, she was pretty intriguing then.”
“She is recently orphaned,” explained Mr. Sachs. “My wife is meeting her in Dublin, against the young lady’s objections. She wants to fend for herself.”
“Does anyone over the age of twelve count as an orphan?” asked Lord Warburton. “I always picture some vixen with bright-red hair and freckles. I hope she won’t be true to type.”
“I have heard that her elder Archer cousin back in America has the good looks. Famous for it. This girl seems to be the more independent-minded of the two,” said Mr. Sachs.
“Ah—a homely, independent orphan. We can safely bet that Lord Warburton will let her alone,” observed Lazarus. He plucked a blade of grass from the lawn and began to chew it.
“When does the young lady in question arrive?” asked Lord Warburton, ignoring his friend.
“It might be any day—or not for weeks,” said Lazarus. “My mother communicates by telegram. She doesn’t believe in the telephone. ‘Changed hotel, very bad, impudent clerk. Niece in hand, quite independent.’ We’ve been puzzling over that. Does she mean ‘independent’ in a political or a financial sense? Or is she just fond of having her own way?”
“Whatever else, it’s sure to mean that,” chuckled Warburton.
“I don’t envy the hotel clerk,” said Lazarus. “My mother must have chewed him up pretty thoroughly.”
“Will you at least let me know when this interesting girl arrives?” begged Lord Warburton.
Mr. Sachs swiveled to face him. “Only on condition that you promise not to fall in love with her!”
“Am I such a bad match, really?” pleaded Lord Warburton, his handsome brow furrowed more in bewilderment than worry. He was the catch of the county. And he was not done developing himself; he was still young, he had time. He was one of those rare beings who took an active interest in impr
oving himself.
“I’m sure you are much too fine for my niece,” said Mr. Sachs. “I hope she hasn’t just come here in search of a husband, as if there were no good men back home. So many American girls do that these days.”
“She’s sure to be engaged, Daddy,” Lazarus put in diplomatically. “American girls usually are.”
“Yes,” agreed Lord Warburton, “though I can’t say it ever makes much difference to them. And as to my being too fine, one can but try.”
“Try as hard as you like, but don’t try charming my niece.” Mr. Sachs’s sharp old eyes gleamed. “Have you ever been in love, Lord Warburton?”
“No, sir.”
“Never? Not even in the Persian Gulf?”
“Nowhere.” The young man’s smile wobbled slightly.
The look Mr. Sachs gave him was piercing, though not unkind. “Then perhaps you would not suit, after all. You seem to be out of the habit.”
Chapter Four
A few weeks later, Lazarus lay dozing in his father’s wicker chair, his neck at an awkward angle. The old man used the first hours of the day to dedicate himself to business, but Lazarus had no such pressing occupation. When he was bored, he slept. He woke, startled. No hand touched him, but he felt as if he had been touched.
The figure standing at the edge of the lawn was dressed in black and white, in a dress composed of hundreds if not thousands of tiny dots—like a figure in a Pointillist painting. At first Lazarus thought he might still be dreaming, or inventing visions. But the female apparition, spirit, whatever it was, crossed toward Lazarus’s barking dog, walking with quick confident steps. To Lazarus’s amazement, she stooped down and in one fluid motion his dog leaped into her waiting arms like a trained circus animal.
“I’m afraid you’ve just stolen my dog,” said Lazarus.
“Can’t we share him?” asked the stranger. Her voice was low and musical.
Beauty and Attention: A Novel Page 3
