The Alienist - Caleb Carr [51]
“Clear, sir?” Kreizler finally answered, still not looking at Strong. “Certainly you are ill-mannered, but as to clear…” He shrugged.
Strong stood up. “Then let me be plain. If you were to associate yourself with the Police Department in any capacity, Doctor, it would constitute just such a way for our enemies to discredit us. Decent people have no use for your work, sir, for your abominable opinions of the American family, or for your obscene probing into the minds of American children. Such matters are the province of parents and their spiritual advisors. If I were you, I should limit my work to the lunatic asylums, where it belongs. At any rate, no one associated with this administration has any use for such filth. Kindly remember that.” The mayor stood up and made for the exit, pausing to turn briefly on Sara. “And you, young lady, would do well to remember that hiring women to work at headquarters was an experiment—and that experiments often fail!”
With that, Strong disappeared. Theodore lingered behind just long enough to whisper that future public appearances by the three of us might not be wise, and then he took off after the mayor. It was an outrageous but nonetheless typical incident: there were undoubtedly many people in the audience that night who would have said very similar things to Kreizler, given the chance. Laszlo, Cyrus, and I, having heard it all before, didn’t take it as hard as Sara, who was a newcomer to this kind of intolerance. For much of the remaining performance, she looked as though she might be preparing to blow Strong’s brains out with her derringer; but Maurel and Saville’s final duet was so superbly heartrending that even angry Sara put the real world aside. When the lights went up for the last time we all stood and bellowed bravos and bravas, getting a small wave from Maurel in return. As soon as Sara caught a glimpse of Theodore and Strong in their box, however, her indignation was back in force.
“Honestly, Doctor, how can you tolerate it?” she said, as we made our way out. “The man is an idiot!”
“As you will soon discover, Sara,” Kreizler said calmly, “one cannot afford to pay the slightest attention to such statements. Although there is one aspect of the mayor’s interest in this matter that does concern me.”
I didn’t even have to think about it—the idea had occurred to me while Strong was talking: “The two priests,” I said.
Laszlo nodded to me. “Indeed, Moore. Those two troublesome priests—one wonders who arranged for such ‘spiritual advisors’ to accompany the detectives today. For the moment, however, that must remain a mystery.” He checked his silver watch. “Good. We should arrive exactly on time. I hope our guests will do the same.”
“Guests?” Sara said. “But where are we going?”
“To dinner,” Kreizler answered simply. “And to what I hope will be a most illuminating conference.”
CHAPTER 10
* * *
It is often difficult, I find, for people today to grasp the notion that one family, working through several restaurants, could change the eating habits of an entire country. But such was the achievement of the Delmonicos in the United States of the last century. Before they opened their first small café on William Street in 1823, catering to the business and financial communities of Lower Manhattan, American food could generally be described as things boiled or fried whose purpose was to sustain hard work and hold down alcohol—usually bad alcohol. The Delmonicos, though Swiss, had brought the French method to America, and each generation of their family refined and expanded the experience. Their menu, from the first, contained dozens of dishes both delectable and healthy, all offered