by Paul Boor
“Is it as good as the Brooklyn Bridge?”
“Better, ma’am.”
“Well, then, Mr. Klock, I must see this wonder.”
“And who better to show you than the ice merchant himself?”
“That settles it,” Nicolas interjected, grinning. “We’re off to Slade’s Emporium. You’ll settle with the pilot, Adam?”
“Yep. Before ya know it, I’ll be off this tub and onto dry land,” he proclaimed, giving the railing a slap and the lady a grin. “And not a minute too soon.”
Nicolas and Renée strode off the pier and down the harborside. When they crossed through Sailortown, Nicolas glanced up the alley near Alciatore’s tavern, a twinge in the pit of his stomach, then he pressed on, head down.
At the more civilized heart of the commercial district, they passed dry-goods stores and suppliers of sundries, until they reached Slade’s Emporium. On the sidewalk stood a man with placards fastened front and back proclaiming, NORTHERN ICE HERE. He shouted through a bullhorn: “Ice! Ice! The finest ice on earth! All the way from Canada, folks! Git yer ice at Slade’s! Yer modern icebox too!”
Slade’s was at the peak of its business day. Citizens crowded in front of the display window, where a profusion of cheeses, plump game birds, and sausages was hung.
Nicolas forged a path through the crowd and pointed through the window to a three-foot block of ice, its edges smooth, its surface glistening, clear and blue. At its base was a label:
PURE NORTHERN ICE
DIRECT FROM BONFERRI’S ICEHOUSE
DELIVERY NOW AVAILABLE
“It’s beautiful, Nick.”
“Its hardness is unsurpassed. It’ll last for months.”
“And oh! There’s a fish inside, with colors so vibrant! Look at that eye, like it’s swimming by, casual as a fish can be.”
Flushed with pride, Nicolas stared into the block of Van Horne ice. Here was the product of his labor, his livelihood, ice as hard as diamond, ice so pure it moved his heart to see it. “Well then . . . shall we get along to the Cotton Exchange?” he said with a sigh. “I’ve a payment to collect.”
Located at the center of the financial district, on the corner of Market and Strand Streets, the Cotton Exchange served as the architectural heart and commercial nerve center of the city of Galveston. The building was three stories, though the trading floor took up the entire first two floors. Pink sandstone griffins clung to the finest Texas granite; tasteful rooftop gargoyles gazed down from high atop the building’s spires.
Nicolas led Renée into the throng of cotton traders flowing through the high arched doors. Inside, the dealings of commerce raged on the trading floor.
Nicolas couldn’t help but notice the look of wonder on Renée’s face. “You’ve never seen this, have you?”
“I admit, it’s my first time inside. Quite impressive, isn’t it?”
The trading floor, a single, mammoth room with marble columns, crystal chandeliers, and an impossibly high frescoed ceiling, was as grand as any Roman temple. In the center of the floor was the bidding ring, mobbed by the traders, men in proper jacket and tie, their top hats undulating like the ocean’s surface. Arms shot into the smoke-filled air as the traders, clutching their precious calculations in hand, shouted bids on the lot of cotton on the block. On a narrow runway two men frantically chalked bids onto slates.
At the edge of the ring dockworkers slit bales of cotton open like eviscerated animals for inspection by the bidders. As a plantation’s lot of produce was bid on and sold, the carcass of cotton was hauled away and the bidders turned to the next lot.
Nicolas realized the unwritten rules of Galveston’s grand Cotton Exchange required that Renée, as a woman, take a sideline seat on a long marble bench marked “VISITORS.” “I’ll be but a few minutes,” he said, setting off across the expansive marble floor to the stairway on the far side of the trading floor.
Nicolas paused for a moment’s thought at the perimeter of the bidding ring. The South had lost its slaves and economic panics had rocked its commerce since the late seventies, but cotton was still king. Nicolas glanced back at Renée, the only woman in the grand, airy hall, her eyes clear and intelligent, a satisfied smirk on her face. He felt his chest fill with pride at having forged his own Yankee way here in the land of cotton . . . and at being accompanied by such a fine lady to collect his just reward.
Nicolas took the long marble staircase at the other end of the trading floor two steps at a time. He quickly identified the proper bursar on the upper-level office of the Sealy & Son trust and title company, and received payment.
Grinning with pleasure at the bundle of large notes in his inner coat pocket, Nicolas skipped down the stairs and made his way across the crowded trading floor. He craned his head to see Renée over the crowd.
The visitor’s bench was empty. He felt his pulse pound.
Renée stood some distance from the bench, her back to the wall. She was confronted by two men—a red-faced, corpulent cotton trader with a much taller, lean gent standing behind him. Renée stretched up on her toes, clutched her hat, and edged toward the fat man, peering down at his balding head. Nicolas struggled through the crowd, his heart going out to her as she stood her ground.
“We will not!” he heard her say. “That is absurd.”
“Well then, we’ll do it ourselves!” the fat man sputtered, his spittle spewing in Renée’s face.
Nicolas broke out of the pack of bidders and rushed to Renée’s side. The tall beanpole of a man was young, perhaps twenty years of age, and of obvious refinement and wealth. He wore a well-tailored suit and a dark, well-manicured Vandyke beard that failed to obscure a pinched face badly cratered by smallpox. As Nicolas approached, the tall gentleman bumped the fat one from behind, prodding him toward Renée; then he stepped back, looked away, and put on a disinterested look. The fat man pointed a finger at Renée’s nose like a schoolmaster threatening to paddle the class ruffian.
“Sir!” Her hands trembled at her sides. “I’ll not take such ignorant comments to heart. Our faculty will stand together, and my uncle certainly won’t give up his life’s work because of superstitious yokels like you.”
Nicolas stepped in and faced off with the rotund, jowly gent, getting a sour whiff of the man’s suit, like stale laundry. “Pardon me,” he said, offering his hand. “I am Nicolas Van Horne of New York.” The fat man glared. “Perhaps I can be of some assistance?”
“I was speaking with this lady here.” The fat man sneered. “And it’s none of your concern.”
“I happen to be escorting the lady, which makes it my concern, sir.”
The tall gent with the Vandyke edged forward again. He puckered his narrow, badly scarred cheeks and spoke over the fat man’s shoulder. “The question my friend is putting to the lady, quite simply, is why in God’s name they chose Galveston for their college.”
“Please,” Nicolas said, folding his hands behind him and addressing the tall gent. “Perhaps we might discuss this at some more convenient time. I’d gladly stand you gents a brandy after trading closes, or—”
“What? What?” the fat one blustered, rubbery jowls shaking. “The stench is awful from that place, and at all hours of the night.” Again at Renée: “Bad enough your lackeys open graves, and the god-awful bits and pieces of human flesh turning up all over the island . . . now we’ve heard of your unholy experimentin’ and . . . and this town won’t stand for it!”
The tall gent nodded his head like a marionette and grinned at Nicolas.
The cotton trader again pointed a pudgy finger. “Why . . . the latest we hear, you’re chopping young boys into bits and pieces for your blasphemous experiments . . . and don’t deny it. Sorcerers! I say . . . a coven of witches drawin’ down the moon, and you’re the chief witch!”
“Sir!” Nicolas straightened to his full height. “I must call you out for such talk.”
The man glared back, sputtering.
“I’ll make you regret thos
e words,” Nicolas said, balling his fists.
The tall, ugly gent slid between them and, lowering his voice, spoke to Nicolas. “Really, sir, it’s hardly your business, eh? Don’t be a fool.”
“I’ll not hear a lady insulted.”
“Of course.” The taller man nudged the fat man away and backed him toward the trading ring. “Of course.”
Nicolas took a step in pursuit, but Renée grabbed his arm and held tight. “Don’t, Nick.”
“The sooner it’s gone, the better!” the fat one shot over his shoulder as his companion wedged him into the crowd. “Witch!”
With that final epithet they were lost in the crunch of traders.
“Come on, Nick,” Renée said, clearly shaken. “We mustn’t concern ourselves with such ignorance.” Still holding firm on his arm, she steered their way out the door of the Cotton Exchange and gently tugged Nicolas down the Strand. “I’m so sorry.”
“Who were those men?”
“I only know the tall one—Hutch Sealy’s son. He goes by Trey. A highly respected family, the Sealys.”
“Yes, I’ve heard. Well, the flabby one’s as low as any on the waterfront, I’d say, and this Trey, egging him on, he’s just as bad despite his fine duds.”
Nicolas and Renée regained some calm as they passed out of the financial district, ambling along side by side with their heads down.
“Why are such men so set against the college?” Nicolas asked. “I can’t figure.”
Soon they passed a row of restaurants where the smell of grilled meats wafted into the street. Nicolas’s stomach gave an unexpected turn; he remembered he hadn’t eaten a thing since his brioche at breakfast.
“We call this ‘Restaurant Row,’” Renée said. “It’s famous throughout the South.” She turned to him and touched the sleeve of his coat. “I’m sorry our little tour turned so ugly, Nick. It’s been nice, otherwise, wouldn’t you say?”
“Splendid, otherwise.”
“I say we carry on from here. Shall we, then? How about supper later this evening?”
“Well . . .” Nicolas hesitated, unable to think. “I . . . I . . .”
“Perhaps it’s forward of me to ask, but it’s a modern day. People can say what they like.”
“Of course they can. No offense taken, Renée.”
“Then it’s settled. I shall finish in the lab, make my evening rounds on the wards, and we’ll dine tonight at Trudeau’s. Their sweetbread omelet is simply divine. I don’t care if it is Lent, we should enjoy ourselves, don’t you think? Life must go on.”
“It certainly must.”
“Well, I’m off to the lab then.”
“I wonder . . . might I observe?” Nicolas asked. “I saw that thing—your uncle’s particle?—under the microscope, you know.”
Now Renée was taken aback. “. . . Sure, Nick. You’re welcome to accompany me.” She took his hand briefly. “Let’s ride the trolley. After I finish with the cells and rounds on my patients, I’ll head home and you may call for me at eight.”
Nicolas’s mind raced. He checked his watch twice on the short walk to the trolley. Seated uncomfortably next to Renée on the trolley’s hard wooden bench, he struggled to restart their conversation over the screech of steel on steel. “Those feathers in your hat—are those ostrich feathers?”
“Heavens, no.” Renée tittered and leaned closer to be heard. “They’re from the roseate spoonbill. It nests right here on the island. Touch them, if you like,” she said, cocking her head toward him.
Nicolas brushed the back of his hand across the feathers, then blushed—a rarity for Nicolas Van Horne.
“They’re not nearly as dear as ostrich,” she added gaily, then settled back on the bench as the electrical carriage jerked and bucked its way to the Medical College of Galveston, where, in truth, Nicolas Van Horne—his cheeks suffused with color—had no further business.
21
In Her Laboratory
The laboratory was stifling. The floor-to-ceiling windows had been thrown open, but the breeze died and the midafternoon sunlight streaming in from the west turned the room blood-warm. Sulfur and carbolic hung thick in the air. Nicolas was relieved to see that the gurney with the dead boy from Buffalo had been removed. He imagined the partly dissected corpse floating in a vat below, locked with its secrets behind heavy steel doors.
The Spaniard, Renée’s laboratory assistant, stared into a small microscope on the lab bench. Petri dishes—perhaps a hundred—were lined up in neat rows on the bench in front of him. Renée spoke a few words in Spanish. Fernando looked up from the microscope, shrugged his shoulders, and gave a long answer that, to Nicolas, seemed convoluted no matter the language.
This fellow Fernando was a handsome young man with brooding, dark eyes. His cheeks, nose, and jaw, framed by the jet-black bush of neat sideburns, appeared chiseled from dark granite. Nicolas guessed the young chap must’ve been close to Renée’s age, in his late twenties, certainly not yet thirty.
“Fernando tells me the cells are alive,” Renée said as she hung her feathered hat on a hook along the wall. “But I’d best check for myself . . . he’s so slow to learn these techniques.”
She pulled a heavy rubber apron from another hook and wrapped herself in it. With a well-practiced movement she bound her tresses behind her neck with a black ribbon, then displaced her understudy at the microscope, which was a simpler instrument than her uncle’s ponderous contraption with the high-power lenses and brilliant limelight. She peered down the tube and adjusted the microscope’s mirror to better reflect the light from the windows. Fernando, his arms crossed, stood by and fixed Nicolas in a stony stare.
“You see, Nick, if we’re to develop the anti-toxoid my uncle Francis has dreamt of”—Renée sounded remarkably like her lecturing uncle—“the cells we extracted from the boy’s lymphoid tissues must remain viable. Alive.” Her face slowly lit with a smile. “And we’re in luck. I believe the cells have divided.”
“May I look?” Nicolas asked.
Nicolas leaned over Renée’s shoulder and peered into the microscope. A petri dish containing a shallow layer of pink fluid lay under the lens. Shadowy blobs swam into view.
“We must count them to be sure,” Renée said. “If they’ve doubled in number since yesterday, it’s conclusive they’re alive.”
Renée took to her microscope again and began clicking a small handheld counter. Fernando fidgeted, his arms crossed, then cleared his throat. “He really should learn this,” Renée said, steadily clicking. “I hardly trust the fellow to . . .”
Fernando paced two or three steps, up and back, mumbling, then blurted something in Spanish and abruptly walked out of the laboratory. Renée waved him off without looking up from her count, the laboratory door swung shut, and Renée and Nicolas were alone.
“I just don’t understand that man,” she said, still peering down the microscope. “For one thing, he’s not the brightest star in the firmament.”
“Perhaps it’s his poor mastery of English.”
“He supposedly worked with the finest minds in Europe—Cajal in Barcelona, then Pasteur’s lab in Lille—yet he hasn’t grasped our work. He has no scientific . . . what’s the word? . . . objectivity. When we harvested the cells from the boy—you understand I had to autopsy the little fellow to harvest lymph nodes—Fernando became terribly upset.” Renée looked up from the microscope and set down her counter. “Heaven knows we’ve enough superstition on this island,” she said with a frown. “The way Fernando reacted, you’d think we were raising the boy from the dead.”
Nicolas couldn’t help but snigger. “I’ve had that exact thought, Renée. Just now, you did say the boy’s cells are living, didn’t you?”
“Yes, luckily.”
“Then, in a way, you have raised the boy from the dead.”
Her smile spread broader than he’d seen. “Touché,” she said, sliding the petri dishes down the bench.
She took up a slender glass pipe
tte, attached a small rubber hose, and, using her mouth for suction, drew pink liquid from a flask. Lifting the top off the first petri dish, she dripped a precise amount of the pink fluid onto the cells.
“What’s that you’re doing?”
“This is their nourishment,” she replied. “I’m feeding the cells.”
“May I try? I’m quite good with my hands.”
“You’ll need an apron.”
Nicolas peeled his jacket off and plucked an apron from its hook.
“Like this, Nick . . . Yes, that’s it . . . Very good . . . very good indeed.”
At the end of the hour, Renée had entered her data in her notebook and the petri dishes were neatly stacked on the warm slate of the lab bench. They shed their rubber aprons. Renée slipped into a long white jacket. “I must be off to the wards now. The other physicians and students will be waiting.”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever met a woman doctor.”
“Well, now you have.”
“Until supper then?”
“Yes, my dear Nick. Supper at eight.”
22
At Myer's Shop
Nicolas raced down the Strand, breathlessly scrambling from storefront to storefront in his frantic search. “What did she call it?” he asked himself. “Roseate . . . something . . . but no . . . Renée Keiller deserves something more precious than a local feather. A bird that nests on the island indeed! She’s a lady doctor and a scientist searching for a cure. She needs an ostrich feather, the finest available, and dyed pinker than any silly bird rummaging about in a sand dune.”
He settled on a shop owned by a Mr. Myer, whose goods were prominently advertised by a painted board on the sidewalk:
FOREMOST SUPPLIER
OF MEN’S AND WOMEN’S
ACCOUTREMENTS
PURVEYOR OF FINE SILKS
Nicolas noted how the window display caught the attention of Galveston’s most elegant ladies in their light cottons and taffetas, modern puff sleeves, wasp waists, and full bustles, their silk parasols twirled overhead to shield delicate complexions from the sun. Clearly, Mr. Myer dealt in fine apparel. Ostrich feathers of the finest quality would be readily available, dyed to any color of the rainbow.
