Ollie's Cloud
Page 17
“You didn’t know your mother very well?”
“I was young when she was killed in Persia.” Anne hands a copy of Midnight March to Lady Cowper, explaining, “It’s all in the book, actually.”
Lady Cowper does not touch the book in Anne’s outstretched hand. “If you’d be so good as to sign it for me, dear,” she says.
Embarrassed, Anne sets the book onto the table’s surface and opens the cover. “Of course, I’m so sorry,” she says, her cheeks pink-tinged with embarrassment. Lady Cowper must think her such a jinglebrained mushroom! She takes up her quill, dips it into the inkwell, and begins to inscribe her name on the title page.
Lady Cowper eyes the ink-spattered gloves on Anne’s delicate hands. “Oh, my dear, this will not do at all.” As Anne finishes her signature, Lady Cowper reaches out gracefully and takes Anne’s writing hand in her own, gazing at it dolefully. “Not with the Season upon us.”
Suddenly Anne understands the woman’s meaning and again her cheeks rouge brightly with the ruby betrayal of her mortification. “I’m so sorry. I was… I sent my husband to—”
“Don’t worry, my dear. Your hands are about the same size as mine.” Lady Cowper opens her satin, pearl-rimmed purse and plucks from it a pair of white silk gloves. “These will do, I believe. I always have a second pair, just in case.” She hands the gloves to Anne. “We can’t have a new Member of Almack’s signing her name in stained gloves now, can we? Some very important people will be seeing you today.”
Anne removes her dogskin gloves and slowly takes Lady Cowper’s. She begins to put them on before she comprehends what has just happened.
“Lady Cowper,” she timidly says, “did I hear you correctly? Have I been accepted into Almack’s?.”
“It was one of your grandmother’s final wishes, and after meeting you—gloves notwithstanding, under the circumstances—I see no reason not to honor her wish. Of course, there will be the matter of the subscription fee.”
“Oh, that will be no problem I assure you.”
“Of course not. You can bring it to the first Wednesday ball.”
“Of course. There is one other little matter that just occurred to me. I was wondering about my husband, you see… whether he will be permitted to accompany me to the balls.”
“Ah, yes, Mr. Herbert Eaton of the London Times. Forgive me, my dear—so many of the young ladies we accept are unattached and prefer to attend our events unaccompanied. Of course, we have our rules.”
“Oh yes, I understand completely. If it is not possible—“
“I suggest you bring your Mr. Eaton to the Rooms. Let me see now—” Lady Cowper pauses and rolls her eyes toward the ceiling, as if consulting a calendar up there, then continues: “Wednesday afternoon would be a convenient time for us. We can interview him then. Naturally, I am only one vote, but if he makes a favorable impression on the Committee, then—” Lady Cowper raises a flat palm in a gesture of optimism.
“How generous of you!” Anne hands the book to Lady Cowper.
“I shall read it with great interest before the Season begins,” the older woman says. “I’m certain it will be much discussed this year. You may keep the gloves, my dear, but do be careful with the quill.”
Lady Cowper wheels and glides effortlessly out of the store, the very picture of dignity.
With the excitement of the afternoon, Anne has forgotten about Herbert’s mission of mercy, so she is surprised when he enters the book store with a long flat box tied with a pale yellow ribbon. He is in a much better mood than when he left, a wide grin exposing uneven teeth yellowed by pipe smoke. The musty smell of ale that clings to him like an aura explains the length of his absence.
“Here they are, my sweet,” he says, proudly holding out the box for her to take, which she does. But as her hands grasp the shiny package, Herbert notices the silky white gloves that she is wearing. Not an ink stain on them! Confused, he looks up at her and says, “I was quite certain that you needed a new pair of gloves. Or was it stockings?” He cocks his head and looks down at her ankles. The ale has addled his brain.
“Yes, Luv, I did. Until Lady Cowper loaned me a pair of hers.”
“Lady Cowper!” he shouts. “Herself?” He is impressed.
“In person. I’ve been accepted into Almack’s for the Season.”
“That is wonderful news! What a Season this will be. And my book is out just in time. Boothby’s timing is impeccable, isn’t it?” His spirits are soaring so high that he risks a sardonic thrust of his verbal sword in retaliation for his injured pride: “I didn’t know that Evangelicals were admitted into the Best Circle.”
Anne flinches but chooses to ignore his remark. Instead, she parries: “After you meet with the Committee, my dear, I’m sure they’ll permit you to accompany me.”
“Permit me to—?” The phrase—the concept—steals the joy from him. He grows suddenly somber, his moods magnified by the two pints sloshing in his belly. “What am I to make of that? A group of old women passing judgment on me?” But then he remembers the well-publicized incident with the Duke of Wellington. Thoughtfully now he says, “And when will this audition take place?”
“I’m sure it’s just a formality, Luv. Please be a good boy and try not to spoil this for me?” She leans forward and kisses him, stifling a gasp at the stale odor of alcohol that he exudes.
He can smell her sweet and humid breath, feel her soft lips so succulent and tender, her warm body pressing against him. The flesh is weak. As she withdraws, he can see her lips pouting as if the kiss had not ended, and her moist eyes smiling at him expectantly.
“Of course, of course,” he says, or something like that. As soon as he speaks, he forgets what he said. What he wants now is another pint of ale to marinate his twice-wounded pride. “I’ll be off, then. “I have some business. The carriage will pick you up at six as we planned.”
He turns and hurriedly leaves Bumble & Stryker to the care of his wife. Marching blindly through the double doors to the street, he bumps into another pedestrian and mutters an insincere apology without looking up.
The jostled man, who follows Herbert with his eyes, is an odd sight on the London street. In contrast to the many clerks and businessmen who stride about in their severe waistcoats of black or gray and crisply pressed hats, he is attired in a flowing cream tunic and elaborately layered turban. He speaks quietly to a companion and the words, if heard by Herbert or any other Londoner, would be gibberish. The two men nod to each other, and then the first man looks into the shining window of Bumble & Stryker. There, on a carpet of burgundy felt, is a display of books called Midnight March to Freedom. The man cannot read the title—he can read only the simplest English—but he can clearly see the centerpiece of the display, a poster with a magnificent life-size portrait of the exotic Anne Chadwick imaginatively dressed as a harem girl; the publisher is counting on the woman’s exquisite beauty to sell a considerable number of books.
As he stares at the poster, the jostled man’s eyes glimmer in recognition of this beautiful woman. He tosses a question to his companion. Satisfied with the response, the man in the rippling tunic moves toward the entrance of Bumble & Stryker, past the line of autograph seekers who stare incredulously at his flamboyant costume, and into the sacred chamber of book signing. There he sees Anne Chadwick at the table. She is beaming with confidence, glowing with good fortune, her eyes turned downward toward the title page of a book as she scribbles her now-famous name in purple ink.
In another minute, if he does nothing, the man’s heart will pound through his chest. He wants to approach Anne Chadwick, but as he steps forward his companion restrains him, whispers in his ear. The man nods.
Better to have a plan. The famous author will not be difficult to find again.
Chapter 20
To Ollie’s dismay, Midnight March to Freedom is the literary sensation of the Season. In his room at the Charterhouse, as he finishes the last page of the book, he feels ashamed and depressed. F
or Ollie, the book is an embarrassment, a betrayal. He can barely recognize himself in its pages. The heroine, Anisa, seems a stock character out of some idiotic Surrey melodrama. And the villain, the kelauntar, is a lustful alcoholic and drug addict who abuses the women of his harem and robs from the village that he so corruptly governs. Unfair! This is not the father that Ollie remembers. The story of young Ali, the progeny of England, the prodigy of Persia, is all wrong. Jalal, the true prodigy, has been erased from the story and Ali assigned his virtues. How can there be a story about Ali without mention of his other half, Jalal?
The emotional account of Ollie’s spiritual salvation under the god-empowered hands of believers at Walter Nettleship’s house will set off shouts of hallelujah from the Evangelicals, but causes Ollie only pain. The written account of confession and conversion is not his experience at all, but an outsider’s. It is religious propaganda. None of the feelings attributed to him are true. He had experienced fear, guilt, humiliation and anger, not peace and joy and spirit-filled intoxication as Anne had imagined, or perhaps invented. He had not publicly spoken in the language of angels, or had he? He certainly had not reached toward the heavens to embrace the one true God and denounce the false god of his father’s profane religion. Not that he can remember.
On a particularly warm day in early May, Ollie walks across the grounds of the Charterhouse. Ollie is watched closely by two men in a closed black carriage. One of these men wears a billowing turban. The lower part of his face is covered by a ruddy beard colored with henna. With a finger pointed like a pistol, the turbaned man’s companion, dressed in English attire, gestures toward Ollie. The carriage driver cannot understand the excited Farsi that the companion speaks, but it is clear that the man in the turban has been looking for this boy.
As Ollie walks, his coat hitched over his right shoulder, a faint shout in the distance makes him stop. It sounds like, “Mr. Chadwick!” Ollie turns toward the source and sees a tall, reedy man running toward him.
“Mr. Chadwick!” The shout is louder now.
Ollie waits for the man to approach. Reaching him at last, the man bends over and places his hands on his knees to catch his breath, then wheezes a hoarse, “Mr. Chadwick, I was hoping it was you.” The Englishman is about forty and, judging from his poor physical condition, better suited for sitting than running.
“I am Oliver Chadwick, if that is who you seek,” Ollie says.
“It is, indeed. May I have a word with you?”
“I’m afraid you have an advantage over me. You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
“Forgive me. I am Eardley Pickwick. May we speak?”
“Unfortunately, I have a class shortly.”
“Yes, of course. Just a moment of your time, please.”
“I really must be going to—“
Just then Ollie is interrupted by a stream of Farsi that is so unexpected, so startling that at first he does not recognize it. The words slam against him with a force that moves him backward a step. Pickwick steps forward to make up the distance. It has been a very long time since Ollie has heard anyone speak Farsi.
The strange-sounding words buzz in Ollie’s head for a few seconds, then sort themselves out. Still confused about their source, Ollie now interprets the Farsi into English. How odd—to be translating from his native tongue into English instead of the other way around. He really has become a true English gentleman. The message of the translation is tantalizing: “Mr. Chadwick, a friend of mine, a gentleman from Persia, is currently visiting London. He is familiar with your book and would like to meet you.”
In Farsi, Ollie replies, “You speak the language very well for an Englishman.”
The conversation continues in Farsi.
“Yes, I was born in London of English parents,” Pickwick replies, “and I have lived here all my life, except for two years abroad. In Persia.”
“And why did you visit Persia?”
“I am an adjunct professor of middle eastern studies at Oxford, with a specialty in languages. An Orientalist, so to speak. I spent two years in Persia doing research and perfecting my Farsi. Although, I’ve been told, it is still far from perfect.”
“Excuse me, sir. Please don’t think me rude, but I am now late for my class. If you’ll excuse me, perhaps some other time—“
Pickwick urgently reverts to English, and the coarseness of the language catches Ollie’s attention. “Mr. Chadwick, the gentleman of whom I speak has come all the way from Persia to meet you. He is in the carriage over there.” Pickwick gestures toward the solemn black carriage standing perhaps a hundred yards away. “He has some news that will be of great interest to you.”
“News you say? Of what?”
“Please, Mr. Chadwick. Come and meet with him in the carriage. He will explain everything. This conversation will prove to be much more important than your class.”
Ollie stares at the carriage. Inside the closed cabin, through a window, he can just make out the shadowy figure of a man shifting in his seat. Ollie’s curiosity is piqued, but the memory of his encounter with Reginald Pennick is still fresh in his mind. Don’t place yourself in isolation with a stranger, he tells himself. Be careful. Be smart.
Ollie fights his growing curiosity. Maybe there is news of his father. Or Jalal. But caution wins the battle. “If your friend would like to meet with me, then I suggest the George & Vulture at, say, six this evening.” The George & Vulture is a popular pub that is always busy at night, providing the security of a crowd.
Pickwick stares at the boy, restraining his frustration, but finally nods yes.
“Then I must be on my way. Good day, sir. I look forward to meeting you again this evening.” Ollie spins and begins to walk toward his class, aware that Eardley Pickwick—if that is his true name—stands behind him straight as a pillar, watching.
Ollie is suddenly aware that his heart is pounding and his mouth is as dry as a woolen shirt.
Chapter 21
Ollie arrives early at the George & Vulture on Lombard Street. The inn is already clogged with thick-bodied Englishmen stuffing their bellies with beef and marinating their tonsils with stout ale and ruby wine. After a few minutes, three jowly gentlemen, solicitors from the look of their blue satchels ballooned with papers, vacate a table near the front window. Ollie deftly slips in behind them, staking his claim. A weary barmaid hustles over to him, wagging a fat finger and jabbering loudly about the inappropriateness of usurping that small square space while so many others are waiting for the comfort of a seat. But Ollie has learned the art of negotiation. He holds up a guinea and the barmaid’s mouth clamps shut, her greedy eyes fixed on the gold coin.
“Thank you so much for reserving the table for me,” Ollie says, smiling coyly. “My friends will be here shortly.”
With a nod of sudden understanding, the barmaid plucks the coin from Ollie‘s hand and says, “You’re very welcome, sir. What’s your pleasure?”
“Some port, I believe.” Ollie is in the mood for wine. Herbert drinks port while he writes. It must fuel one’s powers of communication. And this evening Ollie will need all of his powers.
“Very good, sir.” The barmaid scurries off.
From the table, Ollie has a fine view of the Tower of London and the courtyard. Such a big city it is. As he waits for Eardley Pickwick and friend to arrive, he senses its ominous nature.
“You bloody well know I can’t afford a place like this!” A voice startles Ollie and he turns toward it, seeing a chum who is also interested in writing, a pasty-faced boy named Charles Dickens.
“Sit down, Charles,” Ollie says. “No, not over there. Here by me.”
Charles takes a seat next to Ollie. He looks around the room.
“I will pay for the evening, don’t worry,” Ollie explains. “You can save your money for the theatre. By the way, thank you for coming.”
“What’s this about, Ollie? I received your invitation, but I must say I’m puzzled as to the occasion.”
“Well, this is my first time to the George & Vulture.”
“My stepfather, Herbert, has brought me here several times. He claims the place is haunted by the ghosts of England’s most famous journalists.” Ollie points to a small table across the room. “You see, over there is where Jonathon Swift used to sit when he was editor of the Examiner. That was before he wrote Gulliver’s Travels… or perhaps during.”
Charles stares at the table, imagining the great Swift sitting there, swilling an ale and scrawling his masterpiece.
“At the far end of the bar—” Ollie gestures in another direction and Charles swivels his head—“Joseph Addison and Richard Steele of the Tattler used to debate their essays and, perhaps, find ample targets for their satire by merely looking about the room. Or so Herbert has told me.”
The barmaid pushes her way to Ollie’s table and sets down a glass of port. “Anything for you, sir?” she asks Charles.
“An ale, please,” Charles replies. “But tell me—is it true that Addison and Steele used to come here? And Swift?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir. Are they from the neighborhood?”
“Jonathon Swift, the author!”
“Ahh—Gulliver’s Travels. Aye, it’s true, sir—though I never met him m’self, bein’ as how he frequented the place a century ago. This old inn has been the home away from home for a number of gentlemen who were good with the quill, that’s true. I’ve been told that Daniel Defoe himself—Robinson Crusoe, you know...”
“Yes, one of my favorites,” Charles interjects.
“…had a table in the back room. But that was a long time ago, too. And this table you’re at—” the barmaid thumps the surface with her knuckles—“was the favorite of the great Samuel Johnson himself. I’ll be back with yer ale, sir. Will there be others?”