by Grand, David
From Bloom’s position in the courtyard, he saw Simon detained at the door by a small throng of mannequins. He parted their closed shoulders with a small movement of his chin and made his way outside. As Simon walked toward him, Bloom noticed Isabella’s confidante point the fox’s snout in his brother’s direction. She then said something that caused Isabella to lift her hand to her cheek. Her eyes now trailed Simon’s movement around the edge of the dance floor, and when they reached Bloom, she must have seen with what disappointment, with what revulsion, he had been watching her, because she removed the mask she had been wearing an instant earlier, or, perhaps, Bloom considered, she put one on for him. Some woman wearing a bird of paradise in her hair now touched Isabella’s shoulder, and there it was again, an arched brow, a smile wide and open enough for a snake to slither through, her face in its entirety a figure of cartoon surprise. Isabella soon excused herself from her company and walked over.
How long have you been sitting here? she asked Bloom as she greeted Simon with a brush of her cheek to his.
Just long enough, Bloom heard himself saying. He didn’t intend his words to sound accusatory, but they did, and he didn’t make an effort to correct his tone. When Isabella heard this, her eyes looked to the table on which sat Bloom’s open tablet, and seeing what image was there, she now knew better than to ask how he was getting along. She nodded her head in recognition of his mood, and then, after a brief pause, Simon, who had undoubtedly heard the intolerance in his brother’s voice, interrupted the awkwardness by saying to Bloom, I don’t think I ever told you, Joseph, there was a brief period of time when I was a student that I worked in a department store to make up for the poor wage Sam paid me in the theater. This store, they made the softest, most supple, most elegant gloves you have ever seen. Leather gloves worn by the most fashionable women. To secure my position, I visited Sam’s tailor and conned the poor man to put on Sam’s bill two of the tailor’s finest shirts and two of his finest suits made from the finest material he had available. I went on to Sam’s shoemaker and did the same. Once I was in costume, I took on the role of salesclerk, and the manager, seeing how well I had studied my part, put me on the floor. One of my responsibilities—the very reason I was keen to take the job—was to interview the young women who modeled our merchandise. We would advertise for women with delicate hands. Long fingers. Long and thin and elegant to observe in motion. And from this advertisement, in came dozens of beautiful girls, any one of which you’d think were worthy of the position. Simon, now addressing Isabella, said, But you’d be surprised what it takes to show a fine pair of gloves. It takes a very special pair of hands to make a woman of a certain position, a very elegant sort of woman, fall in love with her handwear. Here, he said, motioning to Isabella. She looked to Bloom, then politely offered Simon her arm, at which point Bloom’s brother ran a knuckle over the generous length of Isabella’s forefinger and up over the curve of her wrist. Here, you see? You see this uninterrupted line? This almost imperceptible line extending from the very tip of the finger to the height of the forearm? This perfect line, right here, on you, my dear, this incredibly rare line that exists only on the rarest of women, this is the continuous line I spent many weeks searching out on God knows how many women, and because of how rare it is, rarely, very rarely, would I ever find it. You wouldn’t think it, he said to Bloom, but a fine pair of hands, Joseph, a really fine pair, is as rare as the rarest of precious gems. Simon now paused and leaned his forehead toward Isabella. Had you walked onto my floor, on you, I could have shown our entire line. With you, I could have made a bundle. He now gave her hand a gentle pat, set it down at her side, and pulled himself away.
It was impossible to see in the dim light, but Bloom was certain from the smile on Isabella’s face, a smile he recognized from their postcoital entanglements, she was aglow, and seeing in her expression how taken she was with Simon, he could feel himself growing hot.
Simon now leaned over Bloom and shut his tablet. He slid his hand under Bloom’s chin and turned it to Isabella’s face. Be a gentleman and take your wife for a little twirl.
Bloom pulled his face away from Simon. No, he said. Maybe later.
Then, said Isabella, perhaps Simon will.
Yes, said Bloom, by all means, Simon.
Don’t you mind? said his brother.
No, said Bloom, waving them off.
Well, you should.
No. Go. Dance. Be merry.
With a stern look he had never before received from Isabella, she placed her hand in Simon’s, and together they walked onto the dance floor. Upon seeing them, the orchestra leader called up the horn section with his baton and waved the musicians into a lively rhythm. Hearing the music change pace, the men and women milling about inside the house started to pair off and make their way outdoors. The courtyard, Bloom could see, was soon going to fill, and at the sight of this onrush, his physical discomfort began to intensify. How, he thought, could he have handled himself more poorly? His chest tightened at the sight of Isabella’s breast brushing against Simon’s lapel. His heart began to beat in a flutter every time she turned up her nose and lifted her eyes to look at him. The mentholated air began to smell sweet and inadequate for breathing. A woman of ghostly pallor whose hair was coiled and encrusted with small jewels now sat down across from him and asked Bloom if he was all right.
Why do you ask?
You look faint, she said.
No, said Bloom, I’m fine.
I know faint, she said, and you look it. Weak in the eyes.
Bloom excused himself, and feeling a heaviness in his legs, he stood up. He managed a smile, and leaving his tablet behind, made his way through the crowd, exited the courtyard through the pergola, and moved on into the grove. When he reached the drive he walked between the hedgerows, passing as he went couples embracing in the shadows. He pressed on past these darkened figures to a turn that led to a dead end, and when he found it unoccupied, he blew out the flame of the nearest torch, and with a sweet waft of kerosene filling his nose, he lay down on a bench to look into a moonless sky. And here he shut his eyes and lay still. When his head had cleared, when he was once again able to hear his own thoughts, he felt a hand brush over his hair, and there he found when he opened his eyes Roya sitting beside him. She lifted his head and placed it in her lap, and there, in the dark corner, she continued to caress him, to pacify him. They sat this way for a long time, and when Roya stopped moving her fingers through his hair, she sat Bloom up and took his hand. Together they walked out of the garden and she led him to the cellar door. They descended into the vaults and went to the opening of the chamber, and there Roya sent Bloom up into the darkness, into the quiet of Manuel’s secret room.
* * *
There Bloom sat and stared at the projection table, on top of which he saw, after some time had passed, Isabella walk into the gallery and shut the door behind her. She lay down on the chaise, where she covered her face with her hands. A few moments later, in walked Simon, who, seeing her distraught, sat at her side.
They didn’t speak. They merely observed each other. And Bloom could see what was in Isabella’s mind.
Simon soon placed a hand on her cheek to wipe away a tear, and he let his palm rest there. Isabella didn’t push it away. Rather, she lifted her hand and placed it over his, and held it there. She now lifted her chin so Simon could better see her eyes, and as she turned her face to his, she smoothed over his knuckles with her fingers. She said something to him and he said something in return. Upon hearing whatever it was she said next, he bent down and kissed her forehead. For quite a while he kissed her there on her brow, then turned his cheek and affectionately pressed it to where his lips had been. Simon said something more to her, then removed himself and walked out of the room. Isabella now sat up, her face no longer forlorn, but repaired. She touched the corners of her eyes, righted her dress, then she, too, exited the room.
* * *
Bloom now sat and thought. Was this what Simo
n meant when he said Isabella was lost? Did he fail to mention that they were lost together?
For the remainder of the night, he considered what he had seen.
He had seen it, hadn’t he?
And if it was what he saw, what was he to do?
Was there, he wondered, anything he could do?
Should he react in the ways he knew men to react when betrayed by those they held dearest?
Or should he pretend not to have seen what he had seen? Perhaps he hadn’t seen it at all? Perhaps he could convince himself he had imagined it?
Should he not be able to pretend, however, what then?
His instinct was to forgive.
But when he thought of forgiveness, he wondered, How does one forgive such a thing? He began to live out in his mind a future in which he did forgive, and as he did so, it occurred to him what sacrifices this would entail. He thought: If this was true, as it certainly appeared to be from the expressions he observed on Isabella’s and Simon’s faces, would he have to watch for the indefinite future his wife look upon his brother in that way?
He allowed this to play out, and found this scenario unbearable.
And here in reaction to these unbearable thoughts arrived an anger he couldn’t suppress. Here arrived a primal rage that erupted in a primal roar. He lifted his head to the pitched roof and wailed.
Yet, he thought when he had finished howling into Manuel Salazar’s void, if he were to act on this primal scream, what good could come of it?
What would happen if he tried to impede them? If he shouted his protest. Disallowed them. Dictated to them. Condemned them. Punished them. Exercised his vengeance upon them.
And here his better nature reappeared.
This was his brother and his wife, for whom he would want, under any other circumstances, love and happiness. He was entangled in their lives so deeply, to seek revenge against them was to seek revenge against himself. To condemn and punish them was to condemn and punish himself.
Yet he was certainly angry enough to condemn and punish, and now that he recalled the way Simon touched her, the way Isabella shared with him the full openness of her eyes—a look he thought until that moment belonged entirely to him—here wrath revisited him.
And again he screamed into the rafters.
And then screamed some more.
Nothing he could do, he came to realize, would leave him in peace.
He now better understood what drove Hamlet so sideways and upside down. To forgive his duplicitous brother and his duplicitous wife would be in words only. Words words words, and nothing more. To condone their feelings for each other, to say, Who am I to struggle against your desire, your passion? Who am I to dissuade you from what your love demands? would only result in Bloom going more mad than he already felt.
No, he wouldn’t be so beneficent. He wouldn’t be so accommodating. Nor would he risk repeating the past. He wouldn’t give himself over to superstition and orders of predestination and replay the story of his mother and Leah, of his father and Freed.
The option he preferred, therefore, was to do nothing.
And here he contemplated the paradox of Abraham’s faith.
He chose to believe in their conscience. He chose to believe that by doing nothing he would leave them to dwell in their transgression alone. Every time they looked at each other, touched each other, so much as had a wanting thought of the other, he would leave them room to suffer their guilt and shame.
He was assured enough in Isabella, at least, that no matter how her concerns had been altered, she was a woman of conscience. She would never forget how devoted Bloom had been to her. She wouldn’t be capable of disregarding his kindness and compassion. His love. Their memories together, no matter how hard she tried to ignore them, he was certain, would eventually devour her.
And so, before he left Manuel’s chamber the following morning, he was decided. He would say nothing. He would do nothing. He would pretend he had seen nothing. As if it never happened. But he wouldn’t forget, and his eyes would remain open.
* * *
When Bloom climbed out of the cellar, he poured himself a cup of coffee in the kitchen and carried it through to the parlor. Meralda had opened all the windows and doors, but the house still smelled of stale champagne and tobacco smoke, of sweat and tinctures of a variety of perfumes. Bloom reclined in his father’s chair with thoughts of drifting off to sleep, but after he’d taken only a sip of his coffee, Isabella entered and with exasperation and some relief said, There you are!
Here I am!
Where have you been?
I went for a walk.
You just left.
I did. I walked away.
Without a word?
It would seem you and Gottlieb were right to have been worried about me last night. And now it’s confirmed. I’m not good in a crowd.
Isabella shook her head. She walked over to the chair and sat on its arm with her back to Bloom. I really thought it would do you some good to mingle with people. She looked over her shoulder to glower at him. I certainly didn’t think it would do you any harm. And then, the way you looked at me in the courtyard …
How?
As if you despised me. Reviled me.
No, said Bloom. You’re mistaken.
No, said Isabella. I’m not.
It was only my confusion you saw. I didn’t know what to make of you in that scene.
No, you didn’t see your face.
Nor did you see yours.
What was it you saw that caused you to react as you did?
It’s what I didn’t see, said Bloom. I hardly recognized you. I didn’t know you.
But that was me.
No, said Bloom, it wasn’t.
Is it really so hard to grasp that I sometimes flit around a party to gossip and joke? Is it really so perplexing I take an interest in people?
That, said Bloom, I understand. What I don’t understand, what I find baffling, is that you’ve chosen artifice and pretense over every other part of you. The vital parts of you I just happen to love most of all. You’ve hidden that Isabella somewhere far away from me.
