Gramercy Park. Paula Cohen

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СКАЧАТЬ he stops with a quick intake of breath.

      Something—someone—is curled within it.

      Except for Upton, somewhere in the bowels of the house, he should be completely alone, and so for several heartbeats he only stares in disbelieving silence. The figure does not vanish from beneath his gaze; it merely huddles deeper into the cushions, moving Alfieri to confirm the evidence of his eyes. As he stretches out his hand to touch what he knows cannot be there, the figure puts its hand out to ward off his, and Alfieri finds himself grasping the fingers of …

      A child. A little, pale, sad-eyed child clothed in black, more like the ghost of a child than a living one … except that its fingers are real, small and very cold, and the nails are ragged and bitten. The child raises its head—her head—and meets his eyes for one moment only, then looks away.

      It is long enough.

      Her face glimmers white in the gloom, and he can see the marks of illness plain upon it. A hint of freckles once dusted her cheeks; they have faded now, with the rest of her, and the blue hollows beneath her eyes look like old, old bruises. The eyes themselves, gray-green and very clear, are even older: windows onto some ancient, bottomless grief; haunting, in the face of a child.

      His own joy of a moment ago is dwarfed by the magnitude of this pain. He covers her hand with his own, speechless in the presence of such sorrow, and raises it to his lips.

      The shadowy room, the silent house, the young girl with her old eyes: there is a dreamlike quality to them all, as if Alfieri has stepped out of the stream of time into a moment which has been there always, waiting for him, and which he has always known would come. He will never entirely leave it again; for the rest of his life a part of him will be there still, in the dusky room, at the instant she raises her eyes, with his lips against her hand.

      The moment passes; the child lowers her eyes, her hand slips from his; the spell is broken. Time takes up where it had left off: the wind stirs the curtains, the sound of a passing carriage rises from the street below. Nothing has happened at all, except that Alfieri’s life has changed forever, and that he knows it.

      “Who are you?” he says, when he can speak again. “How did you come here?”

      “I live here.” She speaks with her head down, and directs her words to the fingers clenched in her lap.

      “Here? But this is an empty house.”

      “It’s not empty. I live here.”

      “With the furniture all covered over and no light? How do you live in this place? Are you alone?”

      “Two of the servants have stayed on. There are candles for the evening.” Her words, almost inaudible, are disjointed and utterly incomprehensible to him. “Don’t look at me, please. Just let me go away again. This is the closed part of the house, and I mustn’t be found here. I was walking for my exercise, but I became tired and fell asleep. The music woke me.”

      “You are not one of the servants. That is not possible.”

      The wan cheeks flush an imperceptible pink as she draws herself up in the depths of the chair and lifts her chin for the first time. “This is my guardian’s house.”

      “Truly? I was told that the owner of this house had died.”

      The momentary bravado fades; she droops again and her small voice falters. “He did. But he was still my guardian.”

      He looks at her bowed head. “My dear, I am so sorry. I was not thinking …” She does not move.

      “What is your name?” he says gently.

      “Clara. Clara Adler,” is the whispered reply.

      “Then, Miss Adler, as there is no one to introduce us properly, please allow me to introduce myself. I am Mario Alfieri.”

      “How do you do, Mr. Alfieri.”

      “Well, thank you. Very well. And how do you do, Miss Adler?”

      “Better,” she says. “I am better, now. I have been ill.” Her own words suddenly recall her to herself. “Oh, but you mustn’t look at me,” she says, shrinking further into her chair.

      “Why?”

      “My hair …” At her words he realizes, with a small jolt, that it has been cut pitifully close, like a boy’s. Unable to hide the disgrace of her shorn head with her hands, she covers her face, instead. “Please don’t look at me.”

      “And if I told you,” he says, “that until this very minute, when you brought it to my attention, I had not noticed your hair, would you believe me?” He touches her sleeve. “I promise you it is true.”

      “How can that be?” she says through her hands. “I am so ugly.”

      “Not ugly. Never ugly. Only recovering from an illness. Your hair will grow back.”

      “Not for years.”

      He laughs. “Do you wish to know why I did not notice your hair? I was looking too much at your lovely eyes.”

      She lowers her hands. Those eyes are spilling slow tears, which she wipes with the handkerchief he offers her. “I am sorry,” she says. “Please don’t think badly of me.”

      “Badly? Of you?” He shakes his head. “You are still weak and you have had a shock, which is my fault. I do not wonder at those tears. Are you strong enough to return to … where do you live in this great house?”

      “My rooms are on the next floor. I will be all right. I am stronger than I look.”

      “The stairs will not be too much for you? Let me help you.”

      He takes her hand again and helps her to rise. Her head, with its ragged, dark curls, reaches no higher than the middle of his chest.

      “You needn’t,” she says. “I can get there by myself.”

      “No gentleman,” he replies, “would ever permit a lady of his acquaintance to return home unescorted. Now that we have been introduced, I must see you safely home.”

      They climb the stairs together, stopping every four or five steps to allow her to catch her breath and rest.

      “You are so kind,” she says. “I hope it didn’t frighten you too much to find me there.”

      “Oh, after the initial shock I bore up quite well. I must admit that, at the very first instant, I did think that I had stumbled upon a ghost—which would have been most interesting, for I do not believe in them—and for a few moments I thought that I would have to rethink all my most deeply held philosophies. But it is you who are truly brave. To wake and find a total stranger in your house, tearing the covers from the furniture? How I must have frightened you!”

      “No,” she says. “I heard you singing. I knew you wouldn’t hurt me.”

      When they reach their destination, Alfieri opens the door for her and stands aside to let her pass.

      She hesitates, not knowing what etiquette might demand in such СКАЧАТЬ