“I know that,” said Hal. “I hope in time to collect the evidence and provide you with the footnotes you need.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” said Anish, appearing to relax and smiling fondly at his friend. “Add the footnotes to this”—he slapped the paper with his hand—“and you make an invaluable contribution to Shakespeare studies and a name for yourself.”
“I’m not interested in making a name for myself.” Hal shrugged. “But I do want to follow this thing through as far as I can.”
“Of course you do. You are pursuing important scholarship here that is bound to make a difference—”
“Let me clarify,” said Hal, interrupting his friend. “The thesis I gave you is not the result of laborious research. It was more or less handed to me.”
“An elaborate theory about Shakespeare’s Dark Lady simply fell in your lap?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes.”
“Curiouser and curiouser.”
“As you said, the difficulty now lies in the proof.”
“But you believe the proof can be had?”
“I do.”
“Am I to assume from what you have written here that it involves a visit to Venice?”
“You are correct.”
“And the unearthing of the lost sonnets to the Dark Lady?”
“Yes.”
“And you have some idea where they can be located?”
“Not I, but my source may be able to locate them.”
“A source that is not a source?”
“Correct again.”
“Perhaps I can be of help.” Anish considered. “I have access to a substantial grant for locating and studying old manuscripts. It’s the sort of thing they give out freely at Yale. Money, you know, flows copiously here; you have only to stand still and allow the waters to lap over you. I suppose it would be nice to divert the tide to my poor cousins in Calcutta”—he paused to consider this novel idea for a moment, then gave it up—“but these are literary funds, you know, not intended for humanitarian purposes. Such things must be kept distinct or we might as well all run off and join the Peace Corps. But we can certainly use the money for your project, which fits the grant outline to the letter.”
“Absolutely!” exclaimed Hal. “A grant for locating and studying rare manuscripts sounds like just what we need!”
“I’ll get on to it tomorrow and take care of the paperwork and logistics,” said Anish. “We can travel during your winter break when I’m between semesters. Meanwhile, arrange things on your end. Hopefully, all of us—your dubious source included—can be off to Venice in December.”
Chapter Thirty
Carla and MARK SAT AT THEIR KITCHEN TABLE SHARING A bottle of wine. It was an uncharacteristic event. Mark’s drink of preference was scotch, and Carla normally avoided alcohol on two counts: the undeclared premise of her Jewish upbringing that one drink would lead inexorably to alcoholism and Skid Row, and the practical fact that she never knew when she might have to pick Stephanie up from a late field hockey practice or run out for a bottle of Kaopectate for Jeffrey’s upset stomach.
Today, however, marked an exception. She was celebrating the transformation of Mark Goodman from a miserable schlepper into a happy and prosperous physician.
Mark’s PR efforts had been a success, yielding a considerable increase in patient volume. This new clientele was apparently drawn by the idea that a doctor who could write an essay and appear on TV with a good haircut must have a way with a scoping device. Mark had been inspired by this success to take a more proactive approach to the practice (in Yvette’s communications parlance). He had replaced the old office computer with a new top-of-the-line system. He had also hosted a seminar at the local JCC, part of a potential series, on the stress factors behind many gastric disturbances.
But a major improvement had come once again via Carla, who had taken to surfing the Web on the subject of medical office management. One of the sites she discovered contained a detailed analysis of the CTB and E&M codes, the rubrics by which doctors identified what they’d done when submitting reimbursement requests to insurance companies and Medicare. Carla pointed out the site to Mark, who, after a few days studying the codes as they applied to gastroenterology, was shocked to find how often he failed to bill for legitimate work.
“I’ve simply been a dope,” he declared, pleased to acknowledge his former imbecility now that it had been rectified. “I’ve been sloppy about learning the codes and taking advantage of them. It’s like a restaurant charging for a meal that includes only the price of the main course but not the appetizer and the dessert. That’s cheating yourself—and that’s what I’ve been doing. It’s a case of knowing the system and not being screwed by it.”
“Great!” said Carla, relieved to think they were no longer being screwed by the system. She took a sip from her glass of white Zinfandel and beamed across the table at her husband.
“By the way,” said Mark sheepishly, reaching into his pocket and taking out a small box with the name of a notable Cherry Hill jeweler emblazoned on the front. “I have something for you. A token of my appreciation and love,” he said in tones that were mocking and serious at the same time.
Mark knew it was customary for the husband to give the wife a “nice piece of jewelry” on the occasion of the child’s bar mitzvah. He vaguely remembered his father giving his mother such an ornament on the occasion of his own, twenty-five years ago. It embarrassed him to think that he was doing what his father had done—especially given his skepticism in matters of religious custom. But somehow, when it came down to it, he wanted to do the customary thing—an inclination that might help explain why things became customary in the first place.
Carla opened the box. Inside was a bracelet with a little heart dangling from it, with a diamond at its center. The diamond was not large, but it was quite sparkly.
“Do you like it?” asked Mark a bit anxiously. He knew that his wife was not one for expensive jewelry and was prone to say that a cubic zirconia was as good as a diamond.
“Like it? I love it!” exclaimed Carla. She suddenly found there was a discernible difference between a CZ and a diamond—or at least she was determined in this case to think so.
“Let’s go out and celebrate,” Mark exclaimed—buoyed by the sense that he had done well with the gift. “Let’s go into Philly and have dinner. I think we have reason to treat ourselves.”
Carla looked up from admiring the bracelet and considered what her husband had said. It was true. Things were going surprisingly well. Not only was Mark’s practice humming along, but other family members seemed to be nicely on course.
Jeffrey, off chocolate milk for three weeks, was no longer more obnoxious than any average ten-year-old. He did his homework, was reasonably attentive in class, and had, as Dr. Samuels had promised, more friends. The latter fact had made such an impression on him that he not only stopped whining for chocolate milk but turned against the beverage entirely. The very sight of chocolate now had a violently antithetical effect—like the sight of a cross to a vampire.
Stephanie, too, had become more manageable. Carla had taken Samuels’s advice and dropped her daughter off at the King of Prussia Mall to search for a dress. Two weeks ago, the first time this course of action was implemented, a dress was not found but Stephanie did emerge from the mall with a pair of shoes. Carla could only take her daughter’s word that her feet, already a size 9, would not continue to grow in the interval between now and the bat mitzvah. (Stephanie had promised they wouldn’t, as though she had special powers to prevent this.)
“And what if the shoes don’t go with the dress?” Carla had asked. But Stephanie had reassured her that these shoes—black Nine West heels—would go with everything; Stephanie’s best friend, Elaine, seconded this.
“And are you sure you can walk in them?” asked Carla. The heels were very high and oddly shaped, giving the appearance of exotic stilts. One wrong step, Carla thought, might result in
a serious injury.
“They’re just for the service,” Stephanie explained reassuringly. “I’ll take them off at the party.” Carla was reminded that bar mitzvah etiquette dictated that girls immediately shed their high heels as soon as the dancing began. She made a mental note to pick up several dozen pair of sweatsocks at Marshalls. (A basket of socks, to guard against splinters and pneumonia for the unshod girls, had become a bar mitzvah staple.)
Then, a week after the shoes were discovered, came the dress. Carla was sitting in the King of Prussia food court, reading an article on effective feeding techniques for stroke patients, when suddenly Stephanie and Elaine came running toward her.
“I found it!” Stephanie exclaimed, holding up a Bloomingdale’s shopping bag. “I found the dress!”
“It’s awesome,” seconded Elaine. “It’s even nicer than Lisa’s.”
“Come on,” said Stephanie modestly. “There’s no way it’s nicer than Lisa’s,” she said—her tone suggesting that she really believed otherwise.
“Let’s see,” said Carla, curious to see the dress that so pleased her exacting daughter and her friend.
Stephanie gently extracted the garment from the bag. Out came the same black dress that Carla had presented for Stephanie’s inspection several months earlier.
“What do you think?” asked Stephanie happily. “Don’t you love the sleeves?”
Carla agreed that the sleeves were the dress’s finest feature, and gave a silent prayer of thanksgiving to Dr. Samuels for his excellent advice.
As for Jessie, Carla believed that Samuels’s prediction that the delusions would dissipate was beginning to come to pass. There had been the incident with The Merchant of Venice tape, to be sure, but that could actually be viewed as a good sign: It suggested that her mother was detaching from her fantasy life and exploring her interest in Shakespeare in a more realistic way.
“The next thing you know, she’ll be off to graduate school to get a Ph.D. in English literature,” noted Mark. “Now, there would be a useful outlet for her energy!”
Chapter Thirty-one
“Have you TOLD YOUR DAUGHTERS YET?” ASKED HAL. HE and Jessie were seated, as usual, in the Barclay Room of Ponzio’s. A hard-bitten waitress named Margie with a red beehive harido had, without bothering to consult them, brought a chopped Greek salad and a Reuben.
“Eat your sandwich,” said Jessie, avoiding a response to his question.
“If you won’t tell them, I will,” said Hal seriously. “We can’t keep meeting in secret like this. It’s not right.”
“Are you afraid for my reputation, maybe?” asked Jessie. “You didn’t care so much about it back then.”
“Jessie—how many times do I have to tell you that I am not that person? Or if I am, I have no knowledge of it, so you can’t make those kinds of statements.”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry. It just slipped out.”
“Getting back to the point,” said Hal. “Would you like me to call Carla and Margot and tell them what we have planned?”
“I’d like you to call Margot.”
“Okay,” said Hal. “I’ll call her tonight.”
“And ask her out?”
Hal stiffened slightly; Jessie had hit a nerve. He had wanted to ask Margot out—the thought hadn’t left his mind since Jessie’s Shabbos dinner. He had even, finally, determined to do so last weekend. But before he had a chance, he actually ran into her by accident.
It was a Thursday evening at the Pennsylvania Academy of Art, which was having one of its exhibitions of student work. He had gone to see the painting of a former student. Many of Hal’s former students kept in touch, and his social calendar was crowded with graduation parties, recitals, plays, and sundry other events involving people who had once been members of his seventh-grade class. One former student had even insisted that he attend the premiere of a porn film in which she had landed a role (and where the best that could be said was that the role was small and the porn, soft—though he had duly praised the performance for its “expressiveness”).
On this particular day, he had entered the mausoleum-like Academy of Art, climbed the wide stone steps to the main exhibition floor, and been confronted by the sight of Margot Kaplan standing directly in front of him.
She was wearing a red dress, and her copious dark hair was twisted at the back of her head in a loose chignon. She was, he thought, worthy of taking her place beside the women in the John Singer Sargent and William Merritt Chase paintings that were scattered throughout the museum.
She was standing by the side of a tall, thin man in an expensive suit whose hair was brushed straight back in the European style. They were examining a canvas, obviously one of the more experimental pieces of student work, in which the edges had been charred as though rescued from a fire.
Margot, always acutely aware of being looked at, had turned to face Hal almost as soon as he reached the top of the stairs. As he approached, a look of surprise and pleasure flitted across her face. She put out her hand. “If it isn’t William Shakespeare,” she said. “Fancy meeting you in a modern picture gallery. Pierre de Villiers, meet—Hal.”
“Hal Pearson,” said Hal, taking her hand and then, reluctantly, letting it go. He was pleased that she remembered his first name but irritated that she had forgotten his last (or pretended that she had).
Pierre gave Hal a quick glance but did not extend his hand. “You are an artist,” he declared, as though he couldn’t be bothered with the inflection required for a question.
“No,” said Margot, who was examining Hal closely, as though his presence held a certain fascination for her, despite herself. “He’s my niece’s seventh-grade English teacher.”
“Ah!” said Pierre, as if this now rendered Hal completely insignificant, and turned back to the canvas on the wall.
“Pierre’s a friend,” said Margot vaguely, “and a serious art collector. He wanted to see what our young American artists were up to.”
“And what do you think our young American artists are up to?” asked Hal, addressing himself to Pierre’s back since Pierre continued to look at the canvas on the wall.
“Not much,” said Pierre, still not turning around but making a slight wave with his hand. “Very derivative.”
“Pierre collects cutting-edge art,” explained Margot. It wasn’t clear whether she agreed with his assessment about young American artists or was perhaps apologizing for it. “He’s found some wonderful things in Soho.”
“I’m sure he has exquisite taste,” said Hal. He had begun to grow annoyed at the idea that Margot was in any way attached to this appalling person.
She must have sensed his feeling, because her manner grew more brittle. “As a matter of fact, he has,” she declared. “He has one of the most celebrated collections of contemporary art in Paris and lends regularly to the Beaubourg for exhibition.”
“Then it must be a great honor to be part of his collection,” said Hal, giving her a pointed look. It was not in his nature to be ungallant, but something was pushing him in a dangerous direction.
Hal saw her eyes flash in the way they had at dinner, when they had quarreled—about what he couldn’t remember—and he was bracing himself for an acid reply when his student, a waiflike blond named Caroline, who had won a prize for a large canvas that depicted the war in Iraq using motifs from Picasso’s Guernica, ran over and pulled him across the room to meet her painting instructor. “The two people who most influenced my imaginative development,” she said, as she brought them together. “Mr. Pearson taught me to think, and Mr. Steinberg taught me to paint—not that the two things are really different.” Hal tried to pay attention to what Caroline and her instructor were saying about how thinking and painting were the same, but his mind remained fastened on the encounter with Margot. For days afterward, he replayed the scene, considering what he should have said to show himself to advantage in Margot’s eyes.
“All art is derivative,” he might have told Pierre.
“Look at Shakespeare. He borrowed from everyone. If you can’t see the energy and potential in a painting like Caroline’s, then you have no right to be looking at these pictures at all.” He wished he had said this, if only to make clear to Margot where he stood—and also, he realized, because he would have liked to fight a duel with Pierre. Given they had no swords, words would have had to suffice.
“So will you ask Margot out?” Jessie repeated the question, since Hal had been daydreaming about skewering Pierre with his words and had not responded the first time.
He now answered with uncharacteristic sharpness: “Your daughter wouldn’t go out with a lowly middle-school teacher, so I’m not going to humiliate myself by asking.”
“I think you sell Margot short,” said Jessie with a touch of maternal indignation. Then she shook her head sadly. “And one thing you weren’t before was a coward.”
“You’re doing it!”
“I’m sorry.”
Hal now assumed a gentler tone, though he spoke firmly: “I will call Margot and Carla and tell them about the trip, if you won’t. So make up your mind.”
Jessie took her fork and picked at her Greek salad for a moment. “They won’t let me go.”
“How can they prevent you? Anish is covering the expenses. They’re not going to hold you against your will or put you into an institution or something, are they?”
“No,” said Jessie slowly. “At least I don’t think so. But they’ll disapprove.”
“So let them.”
“And they’ll bad-mouth you. They’ll say you’re trying to take advantage. Or that you’re crazy too.”
“So what? Maybe I am. If I don’t care, why should you? But you have to tell them.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Jessie, sighing. “I’ll tell them tonight. Margot is coming to dinner.” She gave Hal a knowing look. “You could come too, if you want.”
Much Ado About Jessie Kaplan Page 16
