The Lightning Keeper (46 page)

Even if Schenectady suddenly jumped to attention, there was little hope now of attracting labor to such a luckless site. It was easier to get ten men to cross a picket line than one to brave this vague peril, for superstition was more catching than influenza.

And so Toma made of himself a miner's canary, or an offering: he would spend the night in the very tunnel where the devil had pitched
his tent. There was no point in such a gesture unless it were observed; he had his bedroll and a bottle of water carried down at noon with instructions to put them as far into the tunnel as the bravest man would go. He went down at four, before the shift ended, and he carried with him things that Stefan had lugged up from the office, for he had the weekly report to complete for tomorrow's mail. At the last minute Stefan slipped a half-pint bottle into his pocket and whispered to him: “I made it myself. The least you can do is offer him a drink of slivovitz.”

He had been down in the excavations dozens of times, but never in such silence, a void that devoured the certainties of time and place. His father had told him of the ancient mines of Montenegro, and from that gold and silver were fashioned the treasures of the monasteries, whose beauty invited the grace of God, and gave the people of Montenegro, the true Serbs so few in number, the strength to fight off the Turks. And when the Turks were too strong, the people hid themselves in the mineshafts and in the deep, interconnecting caves in the
karst,
and no Turk dared enter these places.

Had the excavation followed the original plan presented to Steinmetz, Toma would be following a straight shaft instead of this uneven footing that twisted and dipped in pursuit of the red rock. He made two trips to carry his belongings to the end of the tunnel, where scattered tools spoke of a panicked retreat. It was on his second trip down that his mind began to map the journey, as it had in the mountains of his youth when survival depended on knowing where the north star lay behind the blackest clouds, and each turning of the mapless trail was committed to memory. So many paces south, then quartering to the southeast for another forty-five, wavering left and right as the rock ran, and down, always down. There was a pattern that he could not grasp.

He settled himself on the blankets—it was a good thirty degrees warmer down here—took a pull from Stefan's bottle, and began to work. His chamber was not only soundless but sealed against drafts and changes of temperature. He would have been grateful for the company of a mouse. When he looked at his watch it was only a few minutes before seven. He would have guessed he had been working for many hours. He ate his dish of boiled beef and cabbage and drank a little more of Stefan's brandy. Was it possible that a high wind passing over the top of the shaft could produce musical resonance? Well, there
had been no such wind. Would drills and the clash of pickaxes echo in the ear or the mind? Had the tunneling released a gas that deranged the senses? The suspicion of the workmen seemed equally plausible, and perhaps if he stayed down here long enough he would look forward to a visit from the Devil.

Twice during the night he started from his sleep. He lay awake, examining the silence, wondering if he should strike a match, and eventually slipped back into his dreams. When he did at last light the lantern he saw that it was an hour past dawn. He was eating stale bread soaked in gravy when he heard a shout, probably from the mouth of the tunnel.

“Mr. Peacock! Halloo!”

“I'm here.”

“Do you need help?”

“No, thank you.”

Let them go on about their work in the west tunnel, he thought. The less said about this nonsense the better, and he certainly did not want to answer any questions about how he had slept.

He stooped up the tunnel with both lanterns to inspect the streaks of dull red rock. Twice he hit his head on the low jagged roof. What an awful space to work in. Could he carry out this labor alone? Certainly he could drill the holes and drive the spikes, but someone, perhaps Stefan, must help him with the segmented lengths of iron. Perhaps there had been some benefit to this night after all.

He left one lantern near the mouth and crept back down to the bottom to gather his things. And there it was: the music he had doubted and scorned, faint but audible and certainly recognizable.

 

T
HE GREAT ROOM
in the Truscott mansion was not a restful space for a single occupant, especially one who had time to observe that his fingernails were not what they might have been, despite the care taken, and that his best black coat had inexplicably shed two buttons. Lily had shown him in, saying that Mrs. Truscott was upstairs with the doctor and he might wait in here. She did not say why the doctor was in the house, but cast a sidelong glance to gauge his reaction, and perhaps to judge for herself whether this was a man worth dying for.

The rumor of what had happened was all over town by the following morning, and Toma eventually heard a version of it from Stefan, who knew it from the mailman. Olivia had been unconscious for two days, but it now seemed that she would pull through. And what odd timing it was, her trying to do away with herself on the very eve of Harriet Truscott's return. Stefan glanced up at Toma after this remark, suddenly aware of its awkward content, and wished that he could take the words back. But Toma, with a very slight gesture of his hand, absolved Stefan and seemed to dismiss the idea that Olivia's fate mattered greatly to him. It would have been more accurate to say that what Olivia had done, and why, was the last subject in the world he wanted to think about.

He rose when he heard footsteps on the stair and nodded to Dr. Crowell as Harriet saw him to the door.

“Toma, please come out of Fowler's zoo. I can't think why anyone would want to sit in there, but it seems to be Lily's idea of protocol.”

“She has her reasons, no doubt.”

She came to him and took both his hands in hers, a mark of her own protocol. He had had no idea how they ought to greet each other.

“Let's go sit in the library. Will you have tea? Or coffee?”

“I must, uh…”

“Of course. You have to see poor Olivia. I have just been speaking to Dr. Crowell about what can be done. But there is no hurry, is there? Will you not have coffee with me? It has been such a long time.”

“Yes, please.”

He was content to let her carry the conversation, and if he paid less than rapt attention to news of the senator's consuming work on Capitol Hill, or to details of life on Q Street, that deficit was made up by his concentration on her face: those planes somehow harmonized and softened, the bloom of color as if she had just come in from a long walk, and above all the clarity of her gaze. He had imagined this reunion so vividly, so fervently, that the experience of it now resembled a memory or a dream.

“Toma.”

“Yes.”

“You look as if you are about to fall asleep.”

“There hasn't been much time for sleep. I am sorry.”

“I went to the office yesterday afternoon—thank goodness Mrs. Evans is up and about—just to look around. I thought you might come.”

“No. I was working with Stefan down in the tunnel.”

“Stefan can't be much help down there. And what is all this about the south tunnel anyway?”

“What do you know about that?”

“Only what was in the telegram.”

“Well…”

“Well?”

“There has been a difficulty with the men. They do not wish to work in that particular tunnel, and so Stefan and I are finishing up.”

“You haven't time for that, and Stefan is no laborer. I should never have left you two alone together, even for a week, much less six.” She leaned back and closed her eyes. “It seemed like forever. But now I am back.”

There was an odd exuberance in her mood that Toma could not place, and which seemed out of keeping with the unhappy circumstances of the household. She was back, and he was here: perhaps nothing and no one else mattered. Encouraged by his reading of signs, he grew bold.

“I will tell you about the tunnel, if you want to know.”

“Why wouldn't I?” she asked, laughing. “Were you not afraid of what you might find down there? Even a little bit?”

“I admit to some odd dreams.”

“And so you have no idea what it was that upset the men? No wonder Dr. Steinmetz is so testy in his telegram.”

“I do have an idea. In fact I know with certainty what sort of monster this is.”

She assumed an expression of such earnest anxiety, such disbelieving dread, that he could not help smiling.

“Are you the cat, Toma, and I the mouse?”

He whistled two bars of music. She frowned at him.

“My father used to whistle, and my mother said it was a vulgar impulse and he must not do it in the house.”

More softly now he whistled the same melody.

“The ‘Polonaise.' It is one of my favorite pieces of music.”

“No doubt that is why you played it this morning. And last night, at about eight o'clock, you played the cradle song, the one you played in Washington.”

“Can it be that you would spy on me?”

“I did nothing of the sort. I was minding my own business. It was you who intruded upon me.”

She shook her head, annoyed at this riddle. “You hear the music in the south tunnel? It is not possible. What else do you hear?”

“Only that, nothing else. As to how, I would guess that we ran out of mountain, and the red rock has led us somewhere near your…what do you call it?”

“The music room.”

“It is sitting right on the rock. There can be no other explanation.”

She looked in her lap now, curiosity suddenly shrouded. “I imagine you must have waited for some time last night.”

“Yes.”

“And your supper?”

“I found something to eat afterward. I wasn't hungry. I…”

“Please don't. Don't say any more.” She got up and went to the window.

“You are angry with me.”

“I am not angry. I am sad.”

“I think there is much else to be sad about.”

She was standing close to the window, looking down over the white lawn at the still frozen lake, and when she responded to his suggestion with a sigh the pane clouded over. She rubbed the glass with her handkerchief, making no improvement.

“It would seem, dear Toma, that we cannot be apart any more than we can be together. It would be best if I did not play.”

“At all?”

“It doesn't seem right.”

Toma stared at her, shocked to silence by his miscalculation and this consequence. If only he had said nothing about the mystery of the tunnel.

“What is it? Are you ill?”

“Would you take this from me?”

“Take what?”

“Your music. You would give up the pleasure of playing, and take from me the pleasure of listening. Why?”

“I do not like to think of you stuck in the earth like a rat while I play. What if someone…?”

“Should know? What if someone should know that I am listening in my burrow?”

“What if someone should know about us?” Now it was her turn to stare, appalled that she could have said such a thing.

“Us,” he repeated, hardly daring to say the word. “What is in your mind when you think about us?” He looked at the toes of his boots when he spoke.

“I think about the great work that you have achieved, starting from nothing.”

“No, us. What is it about us that must not be known?” Now he looked at her so she could not hide from the question, and was surprised when she answered so readily.

“You ask me to describe something that I dare not even acknowledge. I have no words. But it is there nonetheless, like the mountain above us the night we were skating, seen or unseen, acknowledged or not. I am the child in the nursery who will not look into the dark corner.”

“Only darkness and fear? Nothing more?”

“I did not mean that at all. A thing may be both beautiful and terrible, or joy and sorrow dwell in the same moment. Suppose one could see into paradise and know one could never go there?”

“Shall I tell you what I see?”

“Please, yes.” She sat down on the chair next to his.

“My paradise is furnished with little things: a glass bottle with flowers; an argument over the spacing of carrots in the row; your music in the tunnel. I do not ask for more, but I cannot accept less. The music was a gift I had not expected, like what you call a miracle. You made me so happy, without trying, without knowing.”

He turned his head to look at her and saw the color rising in her face as she fidgeted with her ring.

“Oh, I knew. I was thinking about you when I played the Brahms, and my father was listening, half asleep, as he was in Washington. So you see…I knew.”

“Well, then, you have his happiness to consider.”

“Yes. That is what I shall tell myself. But really…”

He rose from the chair, afraid that if he let her talk on she would find new difficulties, other arguments.

“I am going up to see Olivia now. I'll be in the office on Tuesday. Will you come?”

She nodded and tried to smile at him, but then thought of what he would find on the third floor: the face without expression, the eyes that stared at nothing and never closed. Tuesday. Somehow between now and Tuesday she must find the courage to tell him her news.

Lily, bearing the coffee, rounded the corner of the doorway. “Is he gone, then?”

“Yes, Lily, he has gone up to see Olivia.”

“And it's high time too, I shouldn't wonder.”

“That will be all, Lily. Just put the tray down there.”

Lily seemed inclined to reconsider her harshness. Had she noted the grubby nails and missing buttons and decided that Toma was in need of kindly intervention? “Shall I take something up to him, then?”

“No. I think we must leave him alone now.”