The Book of Air and Shadows - Michael Gruber [194]
“Brilliant,” he said, “I almost wish it were real.”
After that we talked about Mickey and the dead Bulstrode and the scholarly life, and about Mary, Queen of Scots, and how no one was able to actually pin down what she’d actually done. Had she really conspired to kill her husband, Lord Darnley? What had possessed her to marry a maniac like Bothwell? Did she write the incriminating letters that plotted the assassination of Elizabeth? Why did she never, in the entire course of her life, stop to think?
I said I didn’t know—it was all Masterpiece Theatre to me. It wouldn’t be the first time, however, that the fate of nations swung on someone wanting a piece of ass to which they were not strictly entitled.
“Yes, but what would Shakespeare have made of her? I mean he had absolutely nothing to work with on Cleopatra and Lady Macbeth and the women in the history plays and here he had loads of material, and it was all about something that happened in his grandparents’ time. He must have heard people talking about it when he was a kid, especially in a Catholic part of the country like Warwickshire.”
“Well, we’ll never know, will we? Speaking of conspirators, have you heard from the Russians?”
“Not a peep. I can’t believe you’re not interested in this. You’re supposed to be the romantic one in the family.”
“Me? I’m the prosaic one. Intellectual property law? You’re the war hero. And priest.”
“The most antiromantic profession.”
“Please! There’s nothing more romantic than a priest. The unobtainable is the essence of romance. That’s half of what brings the suckers in, the fascination with celibacy. Plus you guys get to dress up as women without looking ridiculous.”
“Or not very ridiculous,” said Paul, grinning. “Although as I recall, you were the one who used to dress up in Mutti’s clothes.”
“Oh, now you’re definitely trying to drive me crazy. I never dressed up in—”
“Yeah, you did, you and Miriam were always going through her bureau. Ask her if you don’t believe me. She sends her love, by the way.”
“Where is she?”
“In transit. She called last night. She wanted to know what we were up to, but didn’t want to seem prying—you know how she tries to weasel stuff out of you when you’d be perfectly willing to tell her if she’d just ask up front?”
“Yeah, and getting anything out of her is like picking crabmeat. Does ‘in transit’ mean she’s in Europe?”
“So I gathered,” said Paul vaguely. “My impression was that she’s on her way to see Dad.”
“How about you? Going to join them?”
“I might, as long as I’m here,” he said, with his annoying smile.
“All forgiven, is he?”
“It comes with the job.”
“And he’s all apologetic for what he did?”
“Not in the least. He’s never said a word to me or Miri about that time, or about Mother. He thinks I’m a jerk and a clown and treats Miri like a servant. As far as I can see he hasn’t changed one bit since Brooklyn, except he’s older, richer, more corrupt, and boinking successively younger women. Oh, and of course, politically he’s a total fascist, way to the right of Kach. Death to the Arabs, Sharon a sellout, the usual.”
“Charming. Paul, why the hell do you waste your time with him?”
His turn to shrug. “Filial duty. Or so Miri doesn’t have to carry the whole load by herself. Or maybe I have hope that he’ll put himself in a position where I can give him what he needs.”
“What would that be?”
“I’m not sure. Penitence and reconciliation? My prayer is that I’ll know it when it happens. In the meantime, he’s my father, and although he’s a nasty bastard he’s still part of me, and it does me good to see him every once in a while. You should try it sometime.”
I said I’d pass on that and he didn’t press me. He never does. I can’t recall the rest of the conversation and I had left my little machine in my room, but I vividly recall the next time I saw my brother, which was when he burst