The Thousand - Kevin Guilfoile [103]
Nada blew hot breath at her bangs. She set the new tile on her father’s old desk and flattened the creased newspaper all around it. How did Burning Patrick know who she was? And if he painted the tile specifically for her, what meaning did it have?
She wrapped it in the newsprint again, mostly to keep Jameson from seeing it. If he saw it, he would want it. He might even claim it was rightfully his, given that she had acquired it while on his retainer. Nada had no intention of giving it up.
At lunchtime in the kitchen, Nada asked Molly what was going on.
“Where, dear?”
“Big men with chairs,” Nada explained. “I passed them in the hall.”
“Concert,” Molly replied, and she began arranging an elaborate plate of crab cakes and salad and frites for Nada without asking for her order.
On her second day, Myra had taken Nada on a proper tour of the house, and except for the master suite, which Myra had designed herself, the part of the renovation of which she was proudest was clearly the second-floor chapel. It was nearly two stories high and on either side of its narrow aisle were eight rows of tiny pews. It was a scaled-down version of a real church, but it was just large enough for a small ensemble at the altar and, with a few extra chairs, a modest audience. Myra boasted of the beautiful sounds shaped by the peculiarities of the room as well as acoustic innovations engineered specifically at her husband’s request, and she even demonstrated with a note from her throat, a competent, tuneful sustained D.
“What kind of concert?” Nada asked.
Molly said, “Mr. Jameson does this sometimes. Brings in musicians for a private concert, invites his friends. They usually pick some obscure piece of music—sometimes it’s modern; sometimes it’s a long-forgotten piece the commercial orchestras no longer play. I make a fancy buffet based on a recipe he finds in an old book someplace. Usually with game nobody actually thinks of as food anymore.” Molly made a face and held up a photocopy for Nada to see, but trying to decipher the elegant web of calligraphy twisted the knife in her head. She used to be able to turn off physical pain just by thinking about it. She could isolate a headache and her spider would zap it, make the pain go away. She had been a teenager the last time she’d had pain so persistent.
“What’s the music this time?” Nada was no expert, but she knew a modest amount about classical music from childhood osmosis.
Molly consulted a piece of paper. “The Viola in My Life Two, by Morton Feldman.” She shook her head. “I wouldn’t know a symphony from a rap song. Woody Guthrie, that’s the people’s music. This nonsense”—she waved her hands, presumably at the workmen setting up the chapel or maybe at serious art in general—“is no different from sports cars and yachts. Just rich people showing how much money they can spend without it hurting. But then, Mr. Jameson gives enough of his money to people who need it that I suppose he should be allowed an indulgence or two.” She garnished the plate and set it at the small painted table in the room off the kitchen where she and Hugh played cards and read newspapers and ate meals and otherwise passed their days. “Sit. Eat.”
Nada took a napkin and a fork and knife and sat and rubbed her right eye.
“Headache, dear? You should tell Mr. Jameson you’re not feeling well.”
Nada said, “Yeah. It’s weird.”
“When I hurt my back, Mr. Jameson took me to the best doctor. Dr. Huang. He was wonderful. Fixed me right up.”
“I think it’s just the heat.”
“Oh, this blackout is terrible. We’re so lucky Mr. Jameson owns a generator. And solar panels and whatever. These poor people all around us, though. Let’s hope they get it straightened out soon.”
“Are you staying here tonight, then?” Nada asked. The Jamesons kept a servant’s suite made up for nights when Molly and Hugh were working late.
“No reason to go home. Our apartment is hotter than that Thermador oven.”
Hugh appeared in the door. “Are you talking about me?”
Molly frowned. “Hotter than an oven? Don’t we both wish.”