The Map of the Sky (28 page)

As she studied the map, Emma could not help comparing the magical feeling of excitement she had experienced as a child to her present sensations, dampened by disappointment, which in her case had preempted reason. For magic had been torn from her life in too abrupt and untimely a manner, instead of slowly fading with the years. And yet, she said to herself in a sudden flash of insight, wasn’t that what growing up was all about? A progressive blindness to the evidence of magic dotted about the world, which only children and dreamers are able to glimpse.

With a wistful smile, Emma rolled up the map and placed it back in the desk drawer. She could not throw it away, for she had to hand it down to her own daughter when she reached the appropriate age. So dictated the absurd family tradition, which Emma had sworn to respect even though for her it was an empty gesture, for she was convinced she would never have any offspring: she was not and never would be in love, and therefore a man could scarcely inseminate her unless, like spores, his seed was carried to her on the wind.

XV

T
HIS IS THE LAST DAY YOU SERVE IN THIS HOUSE,
Emma thought, as her latest maid tugged violently on the laces of her bodice. How could such a scrawny girl possess the strength of an ox? She had not been there long enough for Emma to learn her name, but that did not matter now. She would ask her mother to dismiss whatever her name was without further ado. When the maid had finished dressing her, Emma thanked her with a smile, ordered her to make the bed, and went down to breakfast. Her mother was already waiting for her on the porch, where breakfast had been laid out that morning owing to the clement weather. A light breeze, gentle as a puppy, teased the shutters, the flowers on the table, and her mother’s hair, which she had still not gathered into her usual bun.

“I want you to dismiss the new maid,” Emma said.

“What, again, child?” her mother protested. “Give her a chance. She came highly recommended by the Kunises.”

“Even so, she has the manners of a heathen; she almost suffocated me lacing up my bodice!” Emma declared, sitting down at the table.

“I’m sure you’re exaggerating,” her mother exclaimed. “I expect that once you get used to her—”

“I never wish to see her again!” Emma cut in.

“Very well, my child,” her mother conceded with a sigh. “I shall dismiss Daisy.”

“Daisy, what a name for that brute,” muttered Emma, sipping her orange juice.

During breakfast, the maids paraded in front of Emma the customary array of gifts sent by her suitors every morning: Robert Cullen’s offering was an exquisite emerald choker; Gilbert Hardy’s, a beautiful cameo brooch made of sculpted pearl; Ayrton Coleman had bought her two tickets to the theater and a dozen cream doughnuts; and Walter Musgrove had bade her good morning with his usual bouquet of wild irises. Emma’s mother watched her nod halfheartedly as she was shown each gift; her daughter already had all those things, she thought. The only child of one of New York’s wealthiest families, she was not easily impressed with gifts. Her suitors were therefore forced to use their ingenuity. Yet none seemed able to please this young woman, who lived in one of the few town houses in New York that boasted a ballroom, preceded by an endless series of elegant rooms filled with artworks.

“Oh, Emma,” sighed her mother. “What does a man have to do to win your heart? I really wish I knew, so that I could instruct some of them. You know how much I’d love to have a granddaughter.”

“Yes, Mother,” Emma replied wearily, “you’ve been saying the same thing every single day since I turned twenty.”

Her mother fell silent for a few moments and gazed sadly up at the sky.

“A little girl running about would bring the place alive, don’t you agree, darling?” she said presently, renewing her attack wistfully.

Emma snorted.

“Why are you so sure it would be a little girl?” she asked.

“I’m not, Emma. How could I be?” her mother parried. “I simply wish for a girl. Naturally, it is for God to decide the sex of his creatures.”

“If you say so . . .”

Emma understood perfectly well why her mother had said this. Hitherto, only women had inherited the Map of the Sky: first Grandma Eleanor, then Emma’s mother, Catherine, and after her, Emma. It was as if the selfsame drawing had mysteriously inclined the embryo that would receive it toward the female sex. So that if one day Emma were to fall in love, an event she considered very unlikely, she would naturally
give birth to a girl. After which her womb would mysteriously dry up, as had happened to her grandmother and her mother, who following the birth of their first child and notwithstanding their respective husbands’ vigorous efforts, had been unable to repeat the miracle.

“And on her tenth birthday I would give her the Map of the Sky, I suppose,” she remarked sarcastically.

Her mother’s face lit up.

“Yes, indeed,” she said dreamily, “and it will be as magical a moment for her as it was for you, Emma. Why, I can still see the look of excitement on your little face when I unrolled your great-grandfather’s drawing.”

Emma sighed. Her mother was impervious to irony. It simply did not occur to her that anyone might say something for any other reason than to please her, and if she suspected otherwise, she would stop listening. Nothing and no one could ruffle Catherine Harlow, thought Emma. However, she refused to give up trying, she told herself, frowning as she saw one of the maids approaching the porch from the house carrying the mail on a small tray. After the dull procession of gifts came the string of invitations to dinners, balls, and sundry events that coming week. She hoped there would be nothing she could not wriggle out of by professing some passing ailment. She was fed up with attending parties and dinners where everyone engaged in slandering those absent whilst observing perfect table manners. Happily, this time only one sealed envelope lay on the tray. Emma opened it with her usual apathy and read the neat, elegant writing on the note inside:

My dear Miss Harlow: I do not know your heart’s desire, but I assure you I am the man who can satisfy it, impossible though it may be.

Montgomery Gilmore

Emma tucked the note wearily back into its envelope. As if she hadn’t enough suitors, now Gilmore seemed to be renewing the assault. The
latest in a long line of admirers, each as wealthy as he was insipid, Montgomery Gilmore was an impossibly tall man, with a soft, round face, like a snowman when it begins to melt. He repelled Emma as much as if not more than the others, for not only did he lack the saving grace of good looks but also she found him far more conceited than his rivals. Or perhaps it would be more correct to say that he was less adept at reining in his natural boastfulness. The others were, in the main, consummate charmers, and those who lacked experience appeared to have swallowed whole the guide to being a model suitor, which included how to dissimulate their arrogance beneath an elegant cloak of modesty. This, on the other hand, seemed to be Gilmore’s first encounter with that universe known as womankind, and he behaved toward her with the same vigorous spontaneity with which he no doubt conducted himself in the world of business, which had been ruled over since time immemorial by men as exuberant as he. However, Emma was not a piece of property to be acquired, nor a contract to be argued over; she was someone who, while considering gallantry a tedious if necessary ritual, could at least appreciate when it was performed with a measure of skill. Accordingly, she demanded some minimum requirements of her suitors, which Gilmore insisted on ignoring.

Two meetings with the man had sufficed for Emma to realize that, although she might in time feel a lukewarm affection toward one or two of her other suitors, Gilmore could only provoke a growing revulsion in her. Both meetings had taken place at her house in the presence of her mother, as was customary with any serious courtship. During the first of these, Gilmore had simply introduced himself, vaunting his possessions and investments in order to leave Catherine Harlow in no doubt that the man courting her daughter was one of the wealthiest in New York. In other respects, he had proved a person of ordinary tastes, who held more or less conventional views on politics and other social affairs about which Emma’s mother had questioned him in order to test his integrity. And, yes, he had shown an indefatigable, brazen, almost exasperating self-confidence. This he had kept up during their second meeting,
to which, to Emma’s astonishment, her mother brought along her father, who was not in the habit of deigning to meet his daughter’s suitors. Yet, when her parents had allowed the two of them to take a romantic stroll together in Central Park, the staggering self-assurance Gilmore had shown when describing his tiny empire suddenly crumbled, and he replied to her questions in a clumsy, stumbling manner. Then, in what seemed to Emma a desperate bid to prove once more that he was a worthy representative of a supposedly intelligent race, Gilmore fell into pride and arrogance. At no time did he make use of that amorous language most men employ when alone with the woman they love. Emma did not know whether Gilmore’s clumsiness in matters of the heart was due to his inability to treat love as anything other than a business transaction, or whether he suffered from a kind of crippling shyness that prevented him from enjoying intimate conversations with women. Whatever the case, it made no difference, for Emma did not feel the slightest attraction for that man who was by turns painfully shy and infuriatingly smug, and she was certain she never would. And so, as they were traversing one of the overpasses on their way out of the park, Emma demanded Gilmore abandon his futile wooing of her. To her surprise, he did not turn a hair. He simply shook his big head and grinned to himself, as though her opinion on the matter was of no consequence. Then, amused at his own ingenuity, he said,
If I stop courting you, Miss Harlow, it will be the first time in my life I don’t achieve what I want.
At those words, Emma had left him high and dry in the park, incensed by the impudence of that brute, who hadn’t the first idea how to treat a lady, and, what is more, appeared proud of it. The following week, Emma heard nothing from Gilmore. She concluded that upon reflection he had decided to give up courting her, a pursuit that required a great deal of effort for very little reward. No doubt he would be better off devoting himself to the more straightforward matter of business.

However, she was mistaken, as attested to by that untimely missive promising her the impossible in neat handwriting. Apparently, Gilmore had decided to continue wooing her in an even clumsier fashion. He had
been too lazy to send her flowers or jewelry and had concealed the fact beneath unpleasant bluster that irritated her even more. Gilmore deserved a rebuke more than any of the others, one that would put him in his place and, with any luck, finally dissuade him from wooing her. There was no lack of marriageable young ladies in New York, and Gilmore could devote himself to annoying someone more long-suffering than she.

After four o’clock tea, Emma went up to her room to devote the afternoon to the tedious task of writing thank-you notes to her suitors for the gifts they had regaled her with that morning. For the choker, she thanked young Robert, whose father was grooming him for the family business with the same rigor he used in training his mastiff dogs. And for the cameo, she thanked Gilbert, a wealthy young man who liked to vex her with his forwardness, and yet who became intimidated when she pretended to want to go further. For the theater tickets and sweets she thanked Mr. Coleman, an extremely sophisticated gentleman who was intent upon dragging her to the city’s theaters and galleries with the aim of improving her already charming mind by exposing her to the arts. And for the flowers she thanked Walter, the brilliant lawyer who bored her with his political ambitions, his social gossip, and his plans of their shared future, which Emma envisaged as a display case filled with luxury items where a special place had been reserved for her. She was very careful to show equal politeness and lukewarm affection to all, as she was aware that many of them would compare letters in the hope of discovering some sign that they were favored. A similarly thankless task occupied her maids’ afternoon as they ran hither and thither delivering envelopes. She left until last her reply to Gilmore, who besides saving himself the trouble of speculating about her preferences, had the audacity to challenge her by inviting her to ask him for something he could not possibly give her. Emma thought for a few moments, her latest-model fountain pen poised over the crisp white notepaper. No doubt he was expecting her to ask for something he would spend a fortune on. But Emma had no intention of stooping so low. At last, she wrote:

You are too kind, Mr. Gilmore. But my heart’s desire is something no one could ever give me. And I am afraid anything you might be able to give me I would not want.

Her reply satisfied her, for not only did it show off her skills at wordplay, but it portrayed her as a young woman who desired something beyond material possessions. It would make Gilmore realize she had no interest in playing his game and, more importantly, that she disdained anything he might have to offer. The message was perfectly clear; Gilmore could not possibly misinterpret or ignore it. Emma placed the note in an envelope and handed it to the last of her army of maids whom she had yet to send out into the city: the uncouth Daisy, whom Emma’s mother had still not gotten around to dismissing.

The maid walked off hurriedly toward Gilmore’s house, where she was received by his footman, a stiff, haughty youth who condescendingly instructed her to wait at the door while he carried the note to his master’s study on a silver tray.

Gilmore picked up the note absentmindedly, but as soon as he saw it was from Emma, he tensed in his chair. Emma, his Emma, had deigned to reply! He held his breath as he read the note, as if he were underwater. Emma, it seemed, had a fortunate talent for irony, which, even though he was the brunt of it, pleased him. There was every indication that when at last she agreed to join her life to his, he would never be bored. Moreover, while Gilmore was not versed in the art of gallantry, he had overheard many a gentleman in his club declare that for some unknown reason women were capricious creatures, capable of expressing themselves only by means of complex riddles, which men had to waste their time and energy deciphering. Faced with men’s undisguised simplicity, women, perhaps because they wished to feel superior, liked to hide their true desires behind a veil of irony. And Emma’s letter exuded irony, so Gilmore could only conclude that while the true meaning of her message unfortunately eluded him, one thing was clear: her words could mean anything except what they actually said. He reread the note
twice, hoping its true meaning would leap out at him, but no such miracle occurred. Then he placed it very carefully on his desk, as though any brisk movement might dislodge the letters, rendering her words permanently illegible. Now then, he said to himself, contemplating the note, how would he reply to her? He decided to play safe and take up the challenge clearly laid down in the second sentence. He picked up a card and, taking advantage of the chance to pay her a compliment he would never have been bold enough to say outright in the middle of Central Park, he wrote: