“Oh my dear,” Puffin said, “your Otto von Auto needs a whole lot more than that. He needs a three-week head-to-toesies lube totalment at the Spa Mercedes in Stuttgart.”
“In other words,” Blacky said, “he needs nothing that money, money, and more money couldn’t cure. Just what Father Metz doesn’t have.” He buried himself in the paper.
“But there’s no reason Father Metz has to know that we know that!” Puffin said.
“No, he should know that we know,” Claire said. “Then he’ll lower the price.”
“What price?” Puffin said. “We only want him for the weekend.”
“That’s true,” Claire said. “I get so carried away.”
They looked kindly at her, these two men, understanding her, liking her very much indeed. They were happy to take her over, invest their important weekend in hers, for she had something the other women didn’t. She was safely married, safely mothered, safely familied in her own country and would make no further claims on them once her allotted time was up. They approved of the life she was loath to refer to, the untidy children, a bad-tempered husband, and God-fearing parents.
Claire, for her part, liked them too. She’d always been aware of the way her eager optimism and love of life rankled people, especially women. These two didn’t mind at all. And they chatted with a fastidious irreverence she found adorable. Claire would laugh and laugh, and they, eyes shining with so appreciative an audience, would go on and on. No, she was a splendid girl. She didn’t need them at all.
“Now, Claire,” Puffin admonished, noticing Claire’s thoughtfulness, “don’t go getting pangs of guilt about taking advantage of an old priest. He would want us to go to Diessen. We could take the girl, Stella. Get her out for a bit. That’s where she’s always headed. It’s where she likes to go. She has to take two buses and the trolley.”
“We could take Mara, the movie star, along as well on our drive in the country,” Claire suggested.
“Oh, jolly. Now we’ve got one hysterical mourner and one horrendous has-been. Just put them both in the backseat, please. I’ll sit up front with you,” Blacky said.
“Mara wouldn’t come,” Puffin assured him. “Temple wouldn’t like it.”
“Is he that possessive?” Claire asked.
“Not possessive. He can’t stand her. He just doesn’t want it leaking out what a mess she is.”
Claire was almost ashamed of the relief this remark afforded her. She went absolutely expansive with goodwill.
“Well,” she said, “all the more reason she should come, then. It will do her good. Diessen is one of the cure spots, isn’t it? Good mud. Good for the blood. Good for the soul. How come Temple Fortune cast her in a leading role if he can’t stand her?”
“Oh, those two go back a long way,” Blacky said. “She was in his first commercial hit, you know.”
“Well, that’s not why,” Puffin said. He lowered his voice. “Our backer wouldn’t put up the money if she wasn’t going to star in the film.”
“I didn’t know that,” Blacky said.
“Neither of them will want to come anyway,” Puffin said. “It will wind up just the three of us. Better, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know,” Blacky said. “Isolde mentioned going. I like a mob. Maybe Isolde will come. Just her cup of tea. And she has her own car.” He thought of those plush leather seats. He could ride back with her.
“I’m sure Isolde has tons of things to do.” Claire lamented the whole day she’d lost sleeping. She remembered the reason for which she was supposed to be in Germany. “And who knows if you can still have the wedding at the Mill? You might have to find another place.”
“Nothing to stop us now,” Blacky said. “We’re having it straightaway.”
“Already! You can’t have a wedding so soon! It will have to be next Saturday.”
“This is not America, Claire,” Blacky reminded her, “with printed invitations and entire cows rotating on spits. We’ll simply call everyone up and put a tent on the lawn. Tch. It’s a pity, really—von Grünwald would have jumped at the chance to have our wedding there. Just the sort of old money/new money thing that goes down so well at the Mill. Outdoors. Trachten or tux.”
“That’s the traditional Bavarian dress,” Claire explained to Puffin. “It’s considered formal wear in Munich, de rigueur for the opera. It’s charming.”
“I wonder if we could get everyone to wear this Trachten.” Puffin thought out loud. “Get some background stuff for the film, edit it in back in London.”
“Not a bad idea,” Claire said, imagining a layout for She She. Isolde would love to see herself in the editorial pages. Sort of a combination editorial/society thing. Everything black and white and then water-colored. She felt the surge of creative energy pick her up and put her right on keel. Nothing could destroy her now. This was the plane on which she belonged. Preoccupied. Generated by her plans. When it fit and she knew it was right, there was nothing better. Well, nothing except her children. But this was hers. This was her separate virtue of selfishness. She would shoot something at the Roman Bridge. The wedding party. Ideas raced in front of her.
“You know what I wonder?” Puffin said. “I wonder,” he laughed, “if Isolde gave von Grünwald a little push.” His pale-blue eyes glittered with conviviality.
“If she did”—Blacky reached for the check—“it was not the most inconsiderate thing she’s ever done.”
Otto von Auto tooled elatedly along the sparkling Mittlerer Ring. Claire was at the wheel. She loved the dashboard, reminiscent of what she imagined were her parents’ courting years. A Nick-and-Nora-Charles dashboard, full of craftsmanship and dreams. The seats were more than a little doggy and the springs exhausted, as Puffin kept pointing out. Porsches and huge modern Mercedes flew alongside and sped past, but Otto von Auto maintained his dignity. Keeping his even, full-out throttle at thirty miles per hour.
Puffin Hedges sat beside Claire, and Mara Morgen sat beside him. Blacky had gone ahead with Isolde. They hadn’t been able to find Stella, but Mara had been easy enough to get to come along. Without Temple Fortune on hand, the film crew pretty much fell to loose ends. Mara was happy not to have to sit another day out with them, pretending to be busy. She liked Claire, and photographers are so important to actresses. Claire had made sure to bring extra film along. Mara wasn’t in that bad of a state. At least not full-length. And in her form-fitting leotard, Mara had the slender, loping, strong back and high ass of the cheetah. The same small head and long legs. Claire could always backlight her through a couple of rolls and see what turned out. Plenty of hung-over starlets had been backlit out of oblivion. Mara’s pale skin was pulled taut against the cheekbones the camera so loved. Claire watched her watch herself in the side-view mirror. Mara would pout and narrow her eyes nearsightedly at her own image, softened by the mottled mirror. She crossed eyes with Claire and didn’t mind at all. It was just this sort of cool, professional narcissism a photographer looked for. It saved so much time slicing through coy false modesty.
Mozart was on the still perfectly good Blaupunkt.
“Stop the car! Stop the car!” Puffin cried.
“What is it?”
“It’s Stella!”
“Where?”
“There.” Puffin pointed to a small gathering of people waiting at the tram shelter. It was Stella all right, blond hair crookedly hacked off at the nape of the neck. She was standing there holding a basket with nothing in it, gazing morosely into space.
She didn’t see them. Claire eased the car over to the curb and flagged her down. Stella reacted very dully, Claire thought, as though this were an everyday occurrence, running into people one knew at an obscure intersection on the way to the town where one was headed. She almost refused to see them. Claire opened her door and got out. Stella’s face lit up. She snatched once, absentmindedly, at her neck, reaching for the hair no longer there, and dashed over to the car. The other people waiting at the tram stop glared a
t Claire as though she’d taken something valuable from them, as indeed she probably had.
“We’re headed for Diessen. Want to come along?”
“I’d love to,” Stella said, and climbed in.
“I thought you were Father Metz”—Stella smiled radiantly at them, including them all in her glow—“coming to track me down. I’m so glad you’re not.”
“Don’t like him either, eh?” Puffin said.
“I like him very well indeed. He just goes to such trouble to see that I’m all right. And I am all right. Really.”
“We’re all very sorry about your father,” Claire said, wanting to get that out of the way. She wasn’t comfortable with Stella’s cool acceptance of her father’s death. It was so unlike what her own reaction would be.
“How lucky for me that you’re off to Diessen,” Stella said.
“We got the idea from you,” Puffin admitted.
“How did you get Father Metz to loan you his car?”
“Long story, that.” Puffin met Claire’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. He turned to Stella. “We were going to stop somewhere outside Diessen and have some lunch. Would you point out a friendly spot? Somewhere charming and pretty?”
“Oh, but you must come with me, then. I’ll put you to Aidenried overlooking the Ammersee. It’s a beer garden, but you may bring your own fare.”
Everyone agreed that this was a good idea. They relaxed. It was always nicer to know where you were going.
They drove along, through the flat countryside and then the pleasant rolling Alpine foothills. It didn’t take very long to reach the more picturesque farms and country homes. Puffin pointed out the historical highlights of the area.
When the sun was high in the sky, they saw the town of Diessen nestled prettily in its own green hill. The facade of the famous rococo Stiftskirche stood out and greeted them like a great ship. A red sailboat swept the glittering lake. Church spires and maypoles stuck out here and there. The houses had solid wood balconies, painted sugary pastel colors, under broad overhung roofs.
Claire could well imagine Iris’s family strolling down to the lake and taking one of the sturdy rowboats out. Church bells pealed out noon. Every church tower held a clock, and every clock pointed to twelve. Not exactly like home, where even the bank hadn’t had a working clock in years.
They were all quiet for the Glockenspiele, or bell playing. Claire smiled to herself, remembering how Iris always mixed up those words: Glocke, or “bell,” in German, was so like “clock” in English. Iris was forever telling Claire to go answer the clock or to look at the bell when she wanted the time.
Was that what Iris had meant when she’d told her to look in the clock? Could she have meant to look in the bell? Of course. Suddenly, Claire couldn’t wait to return to the Mill.
“Hey!” Puffin Hedges cried. “What are you trying to do, get us all killed?”
“Oops,” she apologized as she slowed the car down, wedging it through the narrow alleys lined with flower stalls. If the diamonds were in the bell, they’d more than likely still be there when she got back. “I didn’t realize how fast I was going,” she said.
“Yeah, I know your type,” Puffin said. “When they stop us you’ll say none of us were driving. We were all in the back.”
Stella directed them up the very long hill toward a leafy marketplace of stalls for potters. They met there every May, gathering from all over the world to display and sell their wares. Claire parked the car along the road with the cars of the other tourists, and they left it there ready to receive the combination of admiration and jeers a car with running boards was sure to garner. Claire patted the voluptuous turn of the front end. “Good boy,” she told the old metal. “Good job.”
“Yeah, well done.” Puffin Hedges flicked the rusty bumper with the toe of his boot and raised his eyes sarcastically to heaven.
Claire and Stella each took up one of the baskets Evangelika had packed for them, but Puffin proposed they leaven them till later. “No need to trudge around loaded down.” But Mara had her great pocketbook. She always had to have her bag. They were all in fine spirits and galloped ahead. Claire made sure the car was locked, then changed her mind and left it open in case someone wanted to come back first for something to eat.
She fell into step with Stella, slipping film and lenses into different pockets around her many-pocketed vest. She was glad to get this time alone with the girl.
They walked up the slope together silently. Whatever men they walked past gaped openly at Stella. They couldn’t help it. She was just that stunning. Claire couldn’t wait to shoot her and told her so. “I only restrain myself from taking your picture because of your mourning,” she added, hoping she’d be pleased. And yet, somehow, there was something about Stella that made her know she wouldn’t be. She walked along, her shoulders back, not answering, reminding Claire of the women of the Kuchi tribes in Afghanistan. They were fierce and magnificent and, occasionally, toothless, but wildly photogenic with their remarkable faces and blazing colors. It wasn’t anything they said or did (who knew what they said or did?) but an air of self-possession that Claire never failed to pick up on and respect. And they very adamantly did not want their pictures taken. “Don’t tell me”—she turned to Stella—“you don’t want to have your picture taken, do you?”
They stopped beneath the grove of willows.
Stella smiled kindly at her. “No, no, I don’t.”
“I didn’t think so. Would you mind telling me why not?”
“Uh-oh. Now I feel on the spot.”
“Please don’t. I’m sorry I asked. Forgive me.”
“No, it’s all right …” She sighed. “I might just as well tell you. I am going to join the order of the Sisters of Saint Catherine of Siena.”
“You’re kidding!”
“No.” Stella, now quite used to being mocked for this idea, said quietly, “I am not kidding.”
“But that’s wonderful!”
Now it was Stella’s turn to look surprised. As yet, she’d not told anyone of her decision who hadn’t met the idea with shocked denial.
“You must have had dealings with nuns before,” Stella said.
“Twelve years of Catholic school,” Claire said fondly. “Josephites.”
“Ah.”
“I’m disappointed,” Claire said, “but not surprised. Not really. As a matter of fact, it explains a lot. I mean, I couldn’t figure you out before. Now I can.”
“But why disappointed, if I may ask?”
“You won’t believe this, but I had you lined up for my new superstar model.”
“You’re not the first,” Stella said.
“No, I guess I wouldn’t be.” Claire picked up a stone and flung it into the field. She felt exasperated. She wondered if Jupiter Dodd’s offer really would be such a plunge into immorality. There didn’t seem to be any other way for her to make any money. Maybe she just ought to grow up, give up her naive ethics and get down to pitching in with the mortgage payments. It wasn’t as though the kids were babies and needed her at home all the time. All at once she remembered Stella in the doorway to her room with her glittering beads in her hand. They’d been rosary beads, of course! How stupid of her not to have picked up on that, she with a mother who had rosary beads for every occasion: her everyday’s, her Sunday best, her rosaries for the wake, and her hand-me-downs from long-ago aunts in Ireland—sparkling puddles beside her Sunday missal in her night-table drawer. Right in there with the holy cards of the dead she’d known and would again upon Resurrection. Claire laughed. “I was remembering you with your beautiful rosary beads. I should have known then.”
“Those were my mother’s and her mother’s before her.” She looked more closely at Claire. “I have upset your plans?”
“Oh, that’s okay. I should know better than to make plans without consulting the subject.”
“Or in this case, the object.”
“Touché.”
“Never mind. Ev
eryone else does. Did.”
“You mean your father?”
Stella reached for the tall reeds along the side of the road. Instead of yanking them out, she caressed them lightly with the palms of her hand. There was the hot sweetness of white lilac trampled on the road.
“What was your father like?”
“Ah. My father. My father was tough. He was tough. He intimidated everyone. Cosimo. Me.”
“And yet, now that I’m speaking with you, you don’t seem to be intimidated by life.”
Stella tilted her head mischievously. “But?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Removed.” All the nuns Claire had known, and she’d known so many growing up, had all been so no-nonsense and down to earth.
“Nothing wrong with removed,” Stella said.
“No, not in the line you’re going into.”
“This will shock you perhaps, but I am not sorry my father’s physical self has departed. I can find no feelings there but release.” She stopped and turned to Claire, challenging her with her waiting. Then, just as suddenly, she seemed to crumple. To give up. “It’s my brother I worry about.” She let go a long sigh.
“You’re afraid the world will eat him up alive?”
“My brother is too good. If it weren’t for him, I would have left the secular world already a long time ago.”
“Are you that much in a hurry to enter religious life?”
Stella Gabriella’s face took on that beatific sheen “society” considered unhinged.
“I can scarcely wait,” she murmured.
“To be removed?”
“To sit undisturbed in His presence.”
“Just how does that work? I mean, until you can sit undisturbed?”
“I give the wrong impression.” She plucked at her face.
“What about your pottery?”
“I can still work my wheel behind the cloister wall. Work is prayer, too. We are an order of handworkers.”
“And then, what? Like the Mother Superior sells the goods for the poor?”
Stella laughed. “To put it bluntly, yes.”
Claire hesitated. “I take it your father didn’t like the idea of your going into the convent.”
Keeper of the Mill Page 10
