The Small Rain

by Madeleine L'engle

  “And probably as dangerous as drugs. Oy veh, I understand it only too well. I have a strong streak of nasty curiosity myself.”

  Katherine looked at Fatima, who was handing her plate of sandwiches to a group of priests. Selling information was nothing new, she supposed, even for children.

  6

  Mimi turned toward another group as the two Davidson young men approached, the elder with a pitcher of fresh lemonade.

  “I’m Jos,” he said, refilling Katherine’s glass. “The number-one Davidson offspring.”

  “Chronologically,” the younger boy said. “I’m John, and I’m number two. Jos—his real name is Josiah, but he prefers Jos—is in his first year at N.Y.U., pre-med, and I’m a junior in high school.”

  “John’s a musician.” Jos set the pitcher of lemonade on a long table behind a sofa. He was a big brown bear of a young man, not handsome, but good-looking in a reassuring kind of way. “He plays the violin.”

  “Like Bishop Bodeway,” John said.

  Felix had left his conversation and come over to them. “Much better than Bishop Bodeway. John’s a real musician.”

  “But you did—” Katherine started.

  “I had delusions of grandeur,” Felix said wryly. “Actually, I played fairly well, and still do. But John’s the real thing.”

  A soft, adolescent blush suffused John’s cheeks. “Uncle Bishop is my great encourager. Dad plays the English horn, and we sometimes get together and play.”

  Josiah said, “Lots of it sounds horrendous, but we have fun. Sometimes Bishop Bodeway comes, too.”

  “It doesn’t really sound that bad,” Felix protested. “I’ve taped some of our Sunday evenings.”

  Josiah said earnestly, “We play your records a lot, Madame Vigneras. It’s a real privilege to meet you.”

  And John, shining, added, “It really is.”

  “Thank you. You’re very kind.” Her answer was less automatic than with most of the people she had met at the Davidsons’. John’s admiration was the kind that comes only from an artist; she suspected that Felix was right and the child was going to be good.

  The priest who had been introduced as Canon Ulgrade came up to shake her hand and say goodbye; she had the feeling that he had no idea who she was, but had been told she should be treated with respect. Mrs. Undercroft rose, shaking small girls away as though they were flower petals.

  “We really ought to be going,” Katherine murmured. She was tired.

  Felix reached for her hand. “Katya, it is so good to see you. Allie and I’ve been reminiscing about our first meeting at that concert hall in San Francisco. Allie doesn’t play an instrument, but he loves music. Dave, by the way, could have made a career of the English horn if the priesthood hadn’t called him.”

  Katherine looked around for Mimi, but did not see her. This gathering of bishops, deans, priests, was an alien world and she wondered that Mimi was so comfortable in it.

  “Madame Vigneras.” Bishop Undercroft had come up to them. “I realize it’s time for you to go home, but may I take you into the library for just a moment?” He held out his arm and she took it. He slowed his pace to match hers, and led her into a room filled with books and comfortable chairs. There was a fireplace with a bouquet of shasta daisies in a white vase, giving a spring-like feeling to the room, which would be cozy in winter with the fire lit, but was, on this May afternoon, stuffy, smelling of crumbling leather.

  “Parties sometimes creep up on Suzy,” the bishop said. “The Davidsons more or less keep open house, but this afternoon they asked only Yolande and me, Felix, Llew, and you and Mimi. Or so they thought. Wind of your presence drifted across the Close, and people are so used to the Davidson hospitality that they tend to come crowding up, uninvited, despite all those stairs, and of course Suzy and Dave would never turn anyone away. Did you enjoy the concert?”

  “Yes, very much indeed. Mr. Owen is a fine musician.”

  Bishop Undercroft nodded. “Felix found him for Dave. He has a nose for discovering the right people at the right time, and Dave is enough of a musician himself to recognize quality when he hears it. Perhaps Felix has found you again at exactly the right time.”

  “I’m very fond of Felix,” Katherine said quickly, not knowing what was coming. Bishop Undercroft’s resemblance to Lukas von Hilpert still took her off-guard. Their voices at least were totally different. Lukas had been a bass, and while his English was fluent, far better than Katherine’s German, it had been heavily accented. Bishop Undercroft’s voice was lighter, the inflections crisply English.

  “Felix needs you,” he said now. “You and he come from the same worlds—or at least the same generation. I worry about Felix being lonely. He has no family—though the Davidsons come close. If Yolande and I had been able to have children—but we couldn’t, and while we do a considerable amount of entertaining, largely in the line of business, Yolande is not very strong and needs a great deal of privacy. But I didn’t bring you here to discuss our problems or even to thank you for being Felix’s friend. I know he’s spoken to you about the possibility of a concert in St. Ansgar’s, and I just wanted to add my voice to his.”

  “I will think about it.” Katherine had definitely decided that she would give Felix his benefit, so why couldn’t she say so to Bishop Undercroft? Was it because she had refused to give a concert for Lukas von Hilpert? Was the past getting in the way of and distorting the present? There was no reason she could not say yes to this pleasant man who—

  “I need a glass of water,” she heard herself saying in an echoing voice, and she moved blindly to the nearest chair.

  She had never fainted and she did not faint now. Color faded from the room, as though she were seeing an old black-and-white movie. She bent over in the chair, putting her head down on her knees until blood returned to her brain and color to her eyes. Then she leaned back, eyes closed, trying to calm her breathing. This weakness of her body frightened her.

  “Madame Vigneras.” The voice was dusky, gentle.

  She felt a cool cloth being touched to her forehead, her cheeks. She opened her eyes to see Yolande Undercroft, a wet cloth in one hand, a glass of iced tea in the other. Bishop Undercroft stood beside his wife, looking distressed.

  “Shouldn’t we call Suzy or Mimi?” he suggested.

  Katherine took the tea. “Please, no. I do not need a doctor. I’m all right. I don’t want any fuss.” She took several sips of tea. Her pulse was steady now, her head clear. “It was just the heat—I’m not used to New York yet—”

  “May can be hellishly hot,” Mrs. Undercroft said, “and there’s no air in this room. Almost all of the guests—half of them, you know, uninvited—have left now. As soon as you feel able, we’ll go back to the living room. There’s a good breeze there.”

  Katherine nodded, sipping more of the refreshing tea. Mrs. Undercroft was not prying, and she was grateful.

  The younger woman moved a strand of silky black hair from her brow. “Go on, Allie. Madame Vigneras doesn’t want people poking their noses in. Go and be charming to the lingerers and send them on their merry way.” She chattered on, softly, one eye on Katherine. When the bishop left the library, she sat on a hassock by Katherine’s chair. “Better?”

  “Much better. Thank you.”

  Mrs. Undercroft continued to sit at Katherine’s feet, her dark eyes full of pain. “I’m sorry my husband upset you.”

  “No—no—” Katherine sat up straight in her chair.

  “It’s all right.” Mrs. Undercroft’s voice was soft. “I’m not going to ask you why. Allie sometimes does, you know, upset people, but it’s different with you … Are you up to going back to the living room?”

  “I’m fine, yes, thanks.” Katherine finished the tea and Mrs. Undercroft took the glass and set it down.

  As Katherine pushed herself up out of the chair, Mrs. Undercroft again gestured wearily, brushing her hand across her forehead; Katherine noticed with surprise that her fingers were nicotin
e-stained. “How I admire you—not because of your music—unlike Allie, I don’t know much about your kind of music. But your expression—even when you were feeling faint—there was such, you know, repose in your face, no trace of bitterness. There is still so much anger left in me, so many regrets, so much guilt, oh, so much guilt—Do you suppose I’ll have come to terms with it all when I’m your age?”

  “Very likely,” Katherine assured her. “It took me a long time.”

  “Truly?” The dark brown eyes were supplicating.

  “Truly.”

  They moved back to the living room as a group of little girls left, thudding down the stairs like a herd of young elephant calves. Tory Davidson and her friend Fatima stayed, both carrying plates with the remains of hors d’oeuvres. Tory held her plate out to Katherine. “There’s not much left, but you might try the egg salad. It’s special. Fatty’s mother taught us some of her secret recipes.”

  Katherine accepted one of the bite-sized sandwiches and then, as Fatima rather forlornly proffered her plate, took one from the lumpy child, too.

  Felix came over to her. “Did you have a nice chat with Allie?”

  So the bishop had said nothing about her faintness; that was both perceptive and kind. “Very pleasant.”

  John Davidson charged up, carrying a pitcher in each hand. “Lemonade or iced tea?”

  “Neither, thank you, John, I’m already floating.” She looked with appreciation at the boy’s still-untried good looks. He was likely in his mid- to late teens, with a fair complexion and light brown hair, and his father’s dark eyes and brows, an arresting contrast. Josiah and Tory were attractive young creatures, but John and Emily had received the most interesting combination of genes and chromosomes.

  Felix urged Katherine to one of the fireplace chairs. Mimi, carrying an empty decanter, paused apologetically. “Katherine—I truly didn’t mean—just let me help Suzy tidy up a little of this mess and we’ll leave.” She moved on to the kitchen.

  Emily came into the living room, passing Mimi; Katherine noticed for the first time that she walked with a slight limp. “May I get you anything, Madame Vigneras?”

  “Not a thing, thank you.” Emily was going to be the spectacular-looking one of the family when she put a little weight on her bones and her childish angles softened. The bronze skin, though not quite as dark as her father’s, was startling with her fair hair. She and John exchanged looks, then John spoke.

  “Madame Vigneras, Em and I were wondering—we—that is the Cathedral—there’s a Bösendorfer in St. Ansgar’s chapel, and we were wondering if you’d like to try it?” Silence followed and he broke it by asking, “Is that a terrible imposition or something?”

  Felix said, “John, I’m trying not to pressure Madame Vigneras about the benefit.”

  John looked baffled. “I don’t know anything about a benefit. I just thought she might like it—sort of as if someone offered me a Strad to play.”

  Emily added, “It’s cooler in the Cathedral than it is here. Mom and Dad don’t have air-conditioning, because of conserving energy, you know—” She stopped, as though she might have said something rude.

  “I don’t have air-conditioning, either,” Katherine reassured her. “My doctor in Paris was convinced that air-conditioning in summer and overheating in winter are responsible for sinusitis, bronchitis, arthritis, and most of the physical ills we suffer from nowadays.”

  Josiah said, “I bet your doctor’s right. At any rate, my biology prof would agree.”

  John said, “But about the Bösendorfer—”

  Katherine looked at John and something about his eyes reminded her of Michou, and she wondered briefly if Michou might have turned out to be anything like John if he had lived. Michou, too, had played the violin, extraordinarily well for one so young … She said, “Yes, John, I’ll go try your Bösendorfer. And, yes, Felix, I’ll give you a benefit concert.”

  Before Felix could reply, John cried, “Bishop! Now we can get the tower of light!”

  Josiah explained, “The Cathedral is cruciform, you see, and from the air it looks like a great cross—it’s beautiful—lots of planes fly over it coming into New York.”

  Felix’s voice was high and excited. “Katya, you’re an angel! What we want is not a stone tower, but something quite different.”

  John broke in, “It was Dean Morton’s dream—Dad’s a great admirer of his. St. Paul and St. Peter are tall towers, so the central tower would have to be even taller, and if it were made of stone, then it would destroy the cruciformness and look sort of top-heavy—”

  “So what we are hoping for,” Felix continued, “is a tower of light, laser beams of incredibly condensed light rising up in the shape of an almost infinitely high tower.”

  “That sounds fascinating,” Katherine said, “and highly innovative.”

  “More than innovative,” Felix said. “Dean Morton had great vision, and the idea that it might really and truly be realized—I’m overwhelmed.”

  Katherine smiled at the general enthusiasm. “It sounds like a worthy cause for a benefit.”

  “It would be absolutely gorgeous,” John said.

  “If you know anything about architecture—” Felix started.

  “I don’t.”

  “Well, then—all I can say is that to see it come about would fulfill my wildest dreams.”

  “Wait, Felix, I doubt if one benefit concert will do all that.”

  “It will be a start, a good start.”

  “I’ll be glad to provide a start. Let’s go to the Bösendorfer; I’ll have to go down the stairs slowly. Can someone tell Mimi to meet me in half an hour? I can’t manage to climb these formidable stairs twice in one day.”

  “I’ll tell her,” Jos said, “and I’ll drive you home. I’m sure Dad will let me have the car.”

  “Just tell Dr. Oppenheimer,” John urged. “We don’t want the world coming with us to St. Ansgar’s. Just Bishop Bodeway and Em and”—an afterthought—“you, of course.”

  “I’ll slip in when I’ve checked everything out,” Josiah said. “You go ahead.”

  Emily turned her blue eyes on Katherine. Although she had not spoken, she had been listening intensely. “I’ll show you the way.”

  There was something about Emily’s quiet focus which reminded Katherine of herself at the same age. Emily, therefore, must be a difficult child.

  7

  It was indeed cooler in the Cathedral. As they entered, Llew was leaving the organ loft, carefully locking the door behind him.

  “Madame Vigneras is going to play the Bösendorfer.” John’s enthusiasm raised his changing voice to a high pitch and then abruptly lowered it. “Come listen.”

  “Children!” Katherine remonstrated. “I’m not giving a concert. I am simply trying out an instrument I have been promised is excellent.”

  They heard the thud of heavy footsteps and a guard came toward them from the direction of the nave, raised a hand in recognition, and turned away.

  “Have you got the keys?” Llew asked.

  John nodded, and took Katherine’s arm, very gently, as though she were made of porcelain, and led her around the ambulatory, pointing out the various chapels.

  “We’ve named the girls’ johns at school after the chapels.” Emily’s eyes twinkled. “St. James, St. Ambrose, St. Martin, St. Saviour, St. Columba, St. Boniface, and St. Ansgar.” She was limping along beside them. “All the chapels here have to be kept locked. The gold candles and crucifixes have been removed, but people are still looking for something to rip off.”

  “Or vandalize,” John said. “This is St. Martin of Tours, the French chapel.”

  “St. Martin gave half his cloak to a beggar,” Emily explained.

  They continued around the half-moon until John said, “St. Ansgar’s,” and pulled out a ring of keys as formidable as Felix’s. He opened the ornate grilled gates and led the way in, turning on lights.

  Felix was pointing out a small red cross inserte
d in the stained glass of one of the windows, explaining that it was the mark of the maker and that these particular windows were very old and had come from England, but turned as John let out an expletive. “What’s up?”

  John pointed at some pennies placed in a pattern in front of the altar. With an outraged gesture he bent and swept them up. “They’re at it again!”

  “At what?” Katherine asked.

  “Black magic,” Emily said, scowling. “Witchcraft. It’s supposed to be more potent in a church. One time Dad even found a dead chicken at the foot of the high altar.”

  “A chicken?”

  “A sacrifice to the devil.” Felix’s voice was heavy. “Cathedrals attract a lot of darkness.”

  John sounded a little uncertain. “I suppose darkness doesn’t go where things are already dark.”

  Felix nodded in agreement. “Black magic has been on the increase in New York since—oh, way back in the forties when the Haitians first began to move into the city; and of course it’s not only the Haitians; there are plenty of other groups involved in the worship of alien gods.”

  Llew held out his hand. “Give me the pennies, John. I’ll put them in the garbage.”

  John dropped them into the organist’s hand. “On All Souls’ Day the guards have to watch to make sure the blessed candles aren’t stolen.”

  Felix agreed, somberly. “And we have to be careful that only experienced priests celebrate communion on that day, to make sure the Hosts are swallowed. Otherwise, one will be used for a black mass.”

  Katherine shuddered. “How ghastly. I’m afraid I’ve been completely out of the world of anti-religion as well as religion.”

  “Anti-Christianity,” Felix corrected. “Devil worship is a religion, and a powerful one.”

  John, too, gave a convulsive shiver as he led Katherine to the piano. “Music, please. That will clean all the ugliness away.”

  She started off, as always, with Bach, then played her father’s merry First Kermesse Suite (never the Second).

  John was kneeling on the stone floor by the piano, and when she turned from the keyboard she saw his face, rapt, ravished by the music. She would like to hear him play the violin.