Irish Gilt

by Ralph McInerny

  “Wonderfully. How could the kids not be interested? I am emphasizing the range of his interests—science, of course, but seemingly everything else. Dante, the conquistadores, the Southwest. The reading list of one hundred great books he drew up for students is remarkable.”

  “I didn’t know about that.”

  “You can find it in Weber’s biography.”

  “I’ve always meant to read that.”

  “He acknowledges your help.”

  “Does he?”

  “What was his brother Albert like?”

  “He became quite distinguished. Most of his career was spent elsewhere, but, as I said, he came back here during his last years. He is one of the few laymen to be buried in the community cemetery.”

  “I am going to stop there on the way home.”

  Father Carmody stirred. “I’d like to come with you.”

  So it was that, in Roger’s golf cart, they bumped across the lawn to Moreau Seminary and continued on to the community cemetery. Roger parked his cart on a pathway, and they got out. For the next hour, they wandered among the identical crosses marking the graves of the departed members of the Congregation of Holy Cross. At the southern end, in the shadow of a crucifix, lay Father Edward Sorin, and nearby was the grave of John Augustine Zahm.

  “He was a great favorite of Sorin’s,” the old priest said.

  “They visited the Holy Land together. Of course, Zahm wrote a book about it.”

  “Of course. Was that under one of his pseudonyms?”

  “No.” Zahm had published some books under an anagram of his name, H. J. Mozans, as well as under the names A. H. Johns and A. H. Solis. “Why did he use pseudonyms?”

  “Modesty?”

  Albert Zahm’s grave was at the north end of the cemetery. Father Carmody, as he had at every grave at which they stopped, traced the sign of the cross over himself and stood for a moment in silence. When he turned to look back the way they had come, he said, “I will be buried among youngsters.”

  “This place always reminds me of Arlington Cemetery.” Row after row of identical crosses moved away from the grave of the founder.

  “It’s older.”

  Roger smiled. It was a Notre Dame kind of remark.

  * * *

  He dropped Father Carmody at Holy Cross House and continued to his apartment, where he found Phil waiting for him.

  “Roger, this is Boris Henry.”

  The visitor rose from his chair, unfolding his body as he did, but remaining stooped. “This is indeed a privilege.” He thrust out his hand. “I understand we share an interest in Father John Zahm.”

  “Ah.”

  Phil had not risen from the beanbag chair that held rather than supported him. Getting out of it was a bit of a trick, a trick Phil now performed, rolling to one side, getting a palm on the floor, and then levering himself awkwardly to his feet. “I’ll leave you two alone.”

  “Mr. Henry and I can talk in the study, Phil.”

  “Boris,” Henry said.

  “Boris.”

  Phil dropped back into the beanbag and reached for the remote. Roger led Boris Henry into his office, where the tall man stood and looked wonderingly around, at the walls of books, at the computer, at the special chair that accommodated Roger’s bulk and enabled him to wheel rapidly from desk to bookshelves.

  “Marvelous,” Henry said, then took the chair Roger indicated. “Your brother tells me that you’re giving a course on Zahm.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Boris Henry nodded enthusiastically through Roger’s abbreviated account of what he was doing in the class. Finally, he sat back.

  “Now let me tell you what I would like the university to do.” There were a number of recently established centers at Notre Dame—Henry was all for them—and, of course, among them was what he called the granddaddy of them all, the Maritain Center. “Jacques Maritain was a great man. It is only fitting that he should be commemorated in that way. But, Roger, he was never on the faculty here. He was a guest lecturer at most. John Zahm was Notre Dame. He is what this place should be. You can see where my thoughts are heading.”

  “Tell me.”

  “A John Zahm Center, of course! Think of the variety of things it could foster—the relation of religion and science, science and literature, the moral responsibilities of scientists. The role of the Southwest in the history of the Church in this country. And he was a pioneer in what is now called women’s studies.” Boris paused. “To say nothing of his interest in the conquistadores and El Dorado.”

  “I think it is a great idea.”

  “His books are out of print, Roger. Why not a collected edition?”

  “Convincing me is easy, of course, but you must talk to someone in the administration.”

  “That is the purpose of my visit. I have an appointment with the provost tomorrow. May I mention your enthusiasm for the idea?”

  “For what good it might do.”

  “Of course, it will cost money, but surely money is no problem for Notre Dame.”

  4

  The archives of the University of Notre Dame are located on the sixth floor of Hesburgh Library, a cornucopia of papers, memorabilia, and publications on which any history of the university or of any of its various personnel and aspects must be based. There, for some days, in a glassed-in workroom, sat Xavier Kittock, class of ’74, poring over the contents of gray archival boxes. On the table was a laptop computer, carefully placed so that no one who entered the room could learn of the project that engaged him. Secrecy was essential. Like other scholars obsessed with an idea, Kittock was certain that hordes of rivals were gathering to rob him of his subject. Surely there were dozens of others to whom his great idea had occurred. It was a matter of anguish to Kittock that the minions of the archives must know what he was up to. It was to lessen the danger of discovery that he dealt only with one archivist, Greg Walsh, a shy man whose speech impediment suggested that he would be unable to communicate Kittock’s secret.

  It was a phone call from Clare in Kansas City that explained Kittock’s haste and secrecy. “Boris has gone to Washington,” she had told him when she called the previous day. “He plans to stop at Notre Dame on the way back.”

  No need for her to spell out what that meant. Had Boris returned to Washington in the manner of one who, having found a gold coin, returned to the spot in the hope of finding more? It was in Washington that he had bought at auction a lot that proved to contain a travel diary of John Zahm’s.

  “Do you think he intends to give it to Notre Dame?” Kittock asked her.

  “I think he hopes to sell it to them.”

  “Of course.” Some time ago, Clare had given him the surprising news of Boris’s personal financial embarrassment. Thanks to Clare, the rare book business, sequestered from Boris’s own finances, flourished, but it was not money tree enough to support Boris’s gambling.

  “Have you found anything?” Clare asked.

  “Not really.”

  His wild hope had been that the information that was surely contained in the diary Zahm had kept during the travels on which his two volumes on the conquistadores and his later one on El Dorado had been based would be found among the Zahm papers. The only hope now seemed to be the diary Boris had come into possession of, and all the ass could think of was some immediate profit from it. For Kittock it represented far more.

  The adventurers of an earlier time had spawned a new kind of adventurer. Tales of sunken Spanish galleons full of gold had inspired expeditions to find and raise that long-lost treasure, and some had succeeded. Kittock had invested in one such expedition and spent some months with the visionary and his crew off the coast of South America. The expedition had not been a success, but others had been. How much treasure had been spent in the quest for such treasure? It was the source of the gold that had come to interest Kittock, especially the legend of El Dorado. At least two places had been thought to mark th
e site of that city of gold. Zahm had been to both, and it was Kittock’s conviction that the priest had learned that the object of the quest of so many did exist.

  Clare was unconvinced. “However much he admired those who sought it, he laments their greed.”

  Kittock nodded. “Cupidity was his favorite word. The later popular account is even more moralizing. That was a screen.”

  “I think the gold bug has bit you.”

  But it was Cupid rather than cupidity that had come to his aid with Clare. The first time he tugged her to him, she had come easily into his arms.

  “I can’t believe you never married,” he said.

  “Neither did you.”

  “The navy kept me busy, and a war or two.”

  “Maybe I’ve been waiting.”

  If she had been, it must have been for Boris. Her boss was a widower, and she was his good right arm; she was a very attractive woman, and Boris, after all, was a man. But apparently nothing had happened. Was there an undercurrent of resentment in Clare because of that? As their friendship deepened, it became clear to Kittock that her loyalty to Boris Henry did in fact have bounds. Perhaps Kittock would marry Clare. For the moment, he seemed to be using her. Their alliance was sealed when she called to tell him about Boris’s great find in Washington, the South American travel diary of John Zahm.

  Kittock had flown from his home in Florida to Kansas City and exulted with his old roommate in his find. “Let me see it.”

  “Maybe later.”

  Later never came, and this had fueled Kittock’s hunch. Perhaps the two of them, he and Clare, could become partners in the venture.

  “He hasn’t a cent to invest,” Clare said.

  “He has the diary.”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you looked at it?”

  She dipped her chin. “No.”

  “Don’t you have access to the rare book vault at the store?”

  “It isn’t there. It’s in a safe-deposit box at his bank.”

  Kittock knew a moment of panic. Had Boris been struck by the same epiphany he had? Kittock had on previous visits mentioned the expedition he had gone on.

  “Sunken gold?” Boris had been skeptical.

  “Some has been found.”

  “Treasure Island,” Boris said dismissively. At the time he seemed to find the whole idea fantastic, but he could have had second thoughts. Now, his intention to visit Notre Dame on his return from Washington suggested that Boris had in mind a more immediate return on his investment. Investment! He had bought the box containing the diary for fifty dollars.

  How had such a precious item ended up in such a box? Well, first, it hadn’t been recognized as precious. As far as Kittock could guess, getting rid of the box along with many other things had been a result of the madness that had seized many religious houses after the Council. From Clare he had learned that many seminary libraries had ended up in bookstores all across the country, books gotten rid of with abandon on the assumption that nothing they contained was relevant anymore. Now, of course, there was a brisk trade in such items. Holy Cross College in Washington, where Zahm had lived after leaving Notre Dame in 1906 after his stormy term as provincial, was not exempt from this madness. After his death, many of Zahm’s books would have ended up in the library there or in boxes consigned to the attic. Had anyone even opened the box before the auction? Actually, it had been called a garage sale.

  After two days in the archives, it had been impossible to avoid the curiosity of Greg Walsh.

  “If I knew what you were after, I could be of more help.” The archivist managed to stammer this out.

  So Kittock told him a story. Walsh would know of Weber’s life of Zahm. “It was originally his doctoral dissertation,” Kittock reminded him.

  Walsh nodded. “It is a marvelous book.”

  “I am thinking of a life of Zahm for kids,” Kittock told him.

  The idea was prompted by an experience Kittock had had in the campus bookstore on a visit last fall. On game days, anything not nailed down could be sold to the visiting fans. At a table in the hallway, a woman author was signing copies of her book. Kittock drew near. He looked over the shoulder of a lady who had just purchased the book. Book! The pages were of thick cardboard, perhaps a dozen in all. There was a Notre Dame slogan on each illustrated page. It might have been the product of a few days’ work, and here it was, selling like popcorn. Kittock wandered away, brooding.

  Walsh seemed to find the idea of a life of Zahm for young adults plausible. “Good luck with it.”

  “Kids would be particularly fascinated by his accounts of El Dorado.”

  Walsh couldn’t agree more. “There are letters, too, you know.”

  Kittock wished he had thought of the excuse of a book earlier. Walsh proved very helpful now that he knew what sort of thing Kittock was after. Letters written from South America to Zahm’s brother Albert seemed to contain hints of what Kittock was sure would be found in the diary.

  * * *

  He went to Grace Hall for lunch and was seated at an outdoor table pretending that spring had come when Greg Walsh joined him.

  “Okay?”

  “Sure. Of course.” Kittock was not pleased. He ate lunch here most days and had come to believe that his interest in one of the waitresses was returned.

  Walsh seemed to speak more easily if he did so while chewing. It was the first thing approaching a conversation Kittock had ever had with the archivist. He was telling Kittock that Roger Knight was giving a course on Zahm.

  “Really?”

  “A crowded field. Do you know a man named Boris Henry?”

  Kittock looked warily at the masticating archivist. “Why do you ask?”

  “Another Zahm enthusiast.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Because Boris Henry had called the archives, asking after the Zahm holdings. “He’s coming this afternoon. You can meet him.”

  “We were roommates.”

  Thank God for the warning. Back at the archives, Kittock gathered his materials and took the stairway to the main floor, not wanting to risk running into Henry in the elevator. Outside, he took a circuitous route to his car. He thought of going to the Grotto and lighting another candle. To fend off evil.

  5

  Boris Henry had married well, the daughter of a senior partner—an equivocal blessing, since this seemed to lock him forever into the dull work of the law.

  Max Munson had looked over his prospective son-in-law with controlled enthusiasm. “School?”

  “Notre Dame.”

  The frown disappeared and Munson beamed. That had been the open sesame. Dorothy, too, had gone to school in South Bend, but she and Boris had not known one another as students. They had met at a tennis club in Kansas City. The Munsons had the kind of lifestyle to which Boris aspired, and the dreariness of the law seemed the way to it. Marrying the daughter of a senior partner might speed up the process, of course, but that had not entered Boris’s mind, at least consciously. He had examined his conscience on the matter many times, particularly after the private plane in which Dorothy and her father were flying crashed in the Kansas hills. Grief and anguish gave way to astonishment when the wills were read. Suddenly he was affluent.

  He submitted his resignation from the firm, but this was refused. “Give it time,” he was advised. “The wounds will heal; life must go on.”

  Boris had already made preliminary inquiries about buying out the proprietor of an antiquarian bookstore that occupied the ground floor of a downtown building. A year before, he had agonized about making a purchase there; now he was bidding for the whole business.

  That had been fifteen years ago, and during that time the rare book business had changed dramatically. Boris Henry Rare Books now had a Web site, which effortlessly brought in both business and opportunities for acquisition. His stock was entered on a national database that consolidated the wares of hundreds of dealers across the country. While Boris still affected condes
cension toward the computer and the electronic revolution, in his heart of hearts he acknowledged that without such advances his business would be far more onerous than it was. It had become a pleasant, lucrative hobby that made few unwelcome demands on his time.

  Clerks came and went, in the manner of clerks, but the principle of stability was Clare Healy. Once Clare would have been classified as a spinster; now she could be regarded as an independent woman. This was, of course, an illusion. She was a willing indentured servant to Boris, bearing the full brunt of the day-to-day details of the business. Where do such women come from? Businesses have them, and universities, too, unmarried women who devote themselves to their jobs so far beyond the call of duty that no salary could begin to compensate them for the work they do.

  Had Clare entertained the thought that their relationship might rise above mere business? Boris certainly had. In the early years of her employment, Boris had taken her along on several business trips, and there had been a moment in New Orleans when, flush with wine and the exotic pull of the city, they came very close to becoming lovers. Ironically, it was the wine that saved Boris. Like Dr. Johnson, he found total abstinence less difficult than moderation in drinking. At a heightened moment, sitting in Clara’s room, reviewing the exciting day, he had simply fallen asleep. On such contingencies does virtue depend.

  He awoke to find that Clara had covered him with a blanket, leaving him in his chair. She was in bed asleep. He crept off to his room, and neither of them ever alluded to how closely they had fluttered to the flame. In the morning, Boris realized that he could never get along without Clara as manager of the business. Even a discreet affair would jeopardize that. From that time on, any overt affection between them was that of brother and sister.

  It was Clare who had suggested making Notre Dame books and memorabilia a subset of their offerings. Boris, who had been a wannabe jock in South Bend—this a kind of mask of his wide-ranging intellectual curiosity—had never been personally in the grip of the kind of sentimental loyalty that characterizes so many Notre Dame graduates. Clare’s suggestion had taught him how real that continuing interest in their alma mater was to the men and women who had spent four years at Notre Dame, years they invariably claimed were the best of their lives. Under the influence of this sentiment in others, Boris began to acquaint himself with his growing collection of Notre Dame items, and he read Weber’s life of John Zahm. Inevitably, books about Notre Dame sports were well represented in his holdings, but it was the history of the university proper that began to interest Boris. He had been a resident of Zahm Hall as an undergraduate but had no curiosity about the Holy Cross priest after whom it was named. The biography opened his eyes.