The Map of the Sky (32 page)

Dear Miss Harlow,

As I have no idea which hat you would choose, I am sending you the shop’s entire stock. And I take the opportunity to declare that you would make me the happiest man in the world if you allowed me to get to know you well enough to send you a single hat next time.

Montgomery Gilmore, the blameless owner of a churlish hound

The same afternoon she sent a card in return, thanking him for his gifts:

I am most grateful for the thirty-seven hats, Mr. Gilmore. I must confess it is a very effective way of making me unafraid of another dog eating my hat in future. My mother and I would both be delighted to have the opportunity to thank you in person if you would kindly accept our invitation to tea tomorrow afternoon.

Emma Harlow

The girl’s drily humorous tone pleased Murray even more than her invitation. True, there was nothing spontaneous in the message that might indicate her desire: Emma had simply observed the rules of etiquette, no doubt at the instigation of her mother, who would not wish her daughter’s name to appear in the little black book of civilized New York society as the girl who did not know how to express her thanks for a gift. Murray called at their house at teatime, prepared to make the most of the situation. Although he knew nothing about wooing young ladies, he assumed it was similar to clinching a good deal. He turned the mother’s head with the sheer size of his fortune and investments, to the point where the good lady must have fancied he owned the planet as well as part of the universe, so that before they had finished off the cakes, she had already given him permission, if he so wished, to pursue her daughter. Emma’s mother’s approval made Murray deliriously happy, until he discovered that in order to woo Emma he must join a long list of other suitors. That band of lithe, self-assured contenders made him miserable. For a moment he even considered throwing in the towel but then thought better of it. Giving up was not in his nature; he would challenge those whelps and win, by Jove he would. He could hire someone to bump them off one by one. But, while swift and easy, such a method would arouse suspicion sooner or later and could end up incriminating him, the only one of her suitors left alive. The police were no fools, although they might seem so at times. Besides, he preferred to beat them in a fair fight. It was really a question of using his ingenuity, which he possessed in abundance.

Thus, Murray arrived at their second meeting brimming with optimism, although unfortunately that did not prevent it from turning into a disaster. He was able to charm Emma’s mother, and even Mr. Harlow, who, despite showing no interest in meeting his contrary daughter’s suitors, turned up in the drawing room for tea that afternoon, intrigued by his wife’s rapturous descriptions of Murray. Indeed, he was so captivated by Murray’s conversation and investments that he even arrived
late for shooting practice for the first time in his life. In short, Murray enchanted Emma’s parents, but as soon as he was alone with Emma, he became tongue-tied. During the stroll in Central Park that Emma’s mother had suggested they take to round off the visit, he remained silent most of the time, simply giving her adoring sidelong glances as she walked beside him with dainty steps, shading herself with her parasol. The more he observed her, the more he discovered her hidden charms. He saw that her eyes contained a flush of innocence combined with a glint of cruelty, as though she had some panther in her, and he fancied that beneath her arrogance a stream of kindness flowed, as from an underground spring. Her supercilious exterior no doubt owed itself to that faintly exotic beauty that set her so apart from the other young girls. Yet while Murray was observing all that, absorbed in his own euphoria, he failed to notice how tedious their stroll must seem for Emma. She made him aware of it by giving a yawn as exaggerated as it was contrived before posing a question, the reply to which was undoubtedly of no great interest to her.

“So, Mr. Gilmore,” he heard her say, in a resolutely disdainful tone. “How do you like America? I imagine that, accustomed as you are to the old country, you must consider us little better than savages.”

“Indeed,” Murray replied hastily.

Emma gazed at him in surprise.

The millionaire tried to correct himself: “No, I didn’t mean that . . . What I mean is that I like America. I like it very much. America is a great nation! And of course I don’t consider Americans savages, least of all you.”

“Am I to understand, then, that you think my mother more of a savage than I?” the girl chided him gently as she twirled her parasol, the shadows playing on her face.

“Oh, certainly not, Miss Harlow. Nor are you more of one than she . . . I mean to say . . .” Murray became flustered, stumbling over his words, perfectly aware the girl was mocking him. “Neither you nor your
mother deserve such an epithet. That of savages, I mean. Nor does any member of your illustrious family, naturally . . . nor any of your neighbors or friends . . .”

Murray’s convoluted explanation caused a fresh silence to fall between them. Fearful lest it prove fatally long, he tried to think up another topic of conversation, one her many other suitors would broach with ease. But once more it was Emma who broke the silence.

“I imagine that a busy man like you, who spends his time carrying out mergers that increase his wealth, must have little time for ordinary amusements . . . You probably consider them frivolous, or even beneath you. I’m sure this very instant you are far away, lost in thoughts of your innumerable business deals, while trying to hide the fact that you consider this stroll an obvious waste of time.”

“If my clumsy silence has caused you to harbor such thoughts, then pray accept my heartfelt apologies, Miss Harlow,” the increasingly bewildered Murray apologized hurriedly. “I assure you I had no intention of giving you such a wrong impression.”

“I see. Am I to understand that I am mistaken, then, and that you simply prefer to enjoy the healthy exercise of walking without any other activity to distract you from the difficult task of placing one foot in front of the other?”

“I . . . well, yes, it is true, I greatly enjoy taking exercise. I’m not a man who likes to be inactive, Miss Harlow. I find walking . . . er, invigorating. And I believe that, as you pointed out . . . it is good for one’s health.”

“Very well, now I know what it is you want, let us continue our stroll plunged into a healthy, invigorating silence.”

Murray opened his mouth as if to speak, then instantly closed it again, unsure of how to respond to her remark. He heaved a sigh, as the dreaded silence descended upon them once more. And so they walked on, Murray still struggling to find a way to initiate a conversation while Emma twirled her parasol in a desultory fashion, aiming an occasional
kick at one of the stones strewn across the path, making no attempt to conceal her increasing irritation. Murray made a last desperate attempt.

“May I ask what your hobbies are, Miss Harlow?” he said rather diffidently, fearing the possible consequences of such an innocent question.

“Clearly you aren’t accustomed to speaking to refined young ladies, Mr. Gilmore, or you would have no need to ask. Like any self-respecting young lady, I play music, sing and dance to perfection, and in order to improve my mind and enrich my education I read widely, in my own language as well as in French, which I speak fluently,
mon cher petit imbécile.
I also regularly attend the theater, the ballet, and the opera, and every day I try to . . . 
invigorate
myself by walking in Central Park. As you see, a life of pure enjoyment.”

“Is that so? I beg your pardon, but you don’t seem to enjoy your life very much, Miss Harlow,” Murray could not help remarking.

“Really?” The girl gave him a puzzled look. “What makes you say that?”

“W-well . . . ,” Murray stammered somewhat nervously. “I still haven’t had the pleasure of hearing . . . your wonderful laugh.”

“Ah, now I understand! In that case, forgive me, dear Mr. Gilmore, for not having made more of an effort to laugh like an idiot for no reason at all, thus depriving you of that pleasure. But don’t confuse not hearing my laugh with my not having one. The fact is, the things that amuse me don’t usually amuse others, and so I am in the habit of laughing by myself or to myself.”

“A lonely sort of laughter . . . ,” Murray murmured.

“Do you really think so?” the girl snapped. “I daresay you’re right. But when the stupidity of others is the only thing that amuses one, then it is only good manners to laugh to oneself, don’t you agree?”

“Am I to infer that you have been laughing to yourself during our entire walk?” Murray jested by way of making peace.

“My good manners prevent me from answering that, Mr. Gilmore, and my principles from telling a lie. Draw your own conclusions.”

“I already have, Miss Harlow,” Murray said in a tone of resignation. “And I’m proud to have been the cause of your amusement. But don’t you ever laugh at anything other than human stupidity? Haven’t you ever laughed for a different reason, or for no reason at all? Simply because it is a lovely day, or the cook has made your favorite dessert—”

“Of course not,” the girl cut across. “I fail to see why everything working out perfectly should be grounds for rejoicing.”

“—or because you have fallen in love.”

Emma raised her eyebrows, astounded.

“Is love a source of hilarity for you?”

“No, but it is a reason to rejoice,” the millionaire parried. “Have you never been in love, Miss Harlow? Have you never felt so alive, so intensely alive that you have to laugh out loud to stop yourself from bursting with joy?”

“I’m afraid your question is too forward, Mr. Gilmore.”

“That could be the reply of a demure young lady, but also of someone afraid to admit she is incapable of falling in love,” replied Murray.

“Are you insinuating that I’m incapable of falling in love simply because I don’t prostrate myself at your feet?” Emma cried.

“My good manners prevent me from answering that, Miss Harlow, and my principles from telling a lie. Draw your own conclusions.” Murray smiled.

“Mr. Gilmore, you can’t woo a refined young lady with such impudent remarks. No self-respecting lady would allow—”

“I don’t care what others would do!” Murray exclaimed, with such passionate vehemence that the young woman could not help pausing, disconcerted, in the middle of the little bridge they were crossing. “I don’t care what is proper and what isn’t. I’m tired of this game! The only thing I care about, Miss Harlow, is knowing what it takes to make you happy. Tell me, what makes you happy? It’s a very simple question that only requires a simple answer.”

“What makes me happy?” Emma almost stammered. “But, I already told you . . .”

“No, you didn’t tell me, Miss Harlow. And more than anything, I need to know what it is you desire,” Murray insisted, with the same determination he displayed when negotiating a contract, tired of this ritual whose absurd rules were alien to him.

Emma looked straight at him, disturbed and upset by his sudden change of tone. And then, something happened: it was as though a fissure had opened in the young woman’s dark pupils, and, like peering through a hole in a wall, Murray glimpsed through the flutter of eyelids a small girl gazing back at him with pleading eyes. That angry, sad girl had black ringlets, wore a yellow dress, and was clutching a strange scroll of paper tied with a red ribbon. Startled, the millionaire wondered who this was. Was he seeing Emma as a child? But how could that be? Or was he simply imagining her as a little girl? But if so then how could he conjure her up in such vivid, precise detail? Her hair, her dress, the strange scroll . . . Murray had no idea, yet he sensed he was in communion with Emma’s soul, that some form of miracle or magic was occurring between them, making the impossible happen, allowing him to see her as she really was. The illusion vanished as quickly as sea foam left by the waves. Yet, before the little girl sank back into the shadows, before the fissure in the eyes staring at him closed up once more, Murray was able to know everything about her: he knew that she was not happy, that she could not remember ever having been happy, and that, in truth, she was not sure she ever would be happy. And above all he knew that that little girl was afraid, terribly afraid, because the woman in whose body she was trapped was slowly smothering her, and that soon there would be nothing left of her. That glimpse lasted only an instant, but it was more valuable to Murray than a lifetime’s acquaintance. When the little girl vanished, and Emma’s pupils recaptured their intense arrogance, Murray averted his gaze, shaken to the roots of his being. That little girl had been pleading for help, and he knew, with absolute certainty, that he must save her. That only he could prevent her from disappearing forever.

“Well, Mr. Gilmore,” he heard Emma say, as though speaking to him from a dim, distant place, “since you are so keen to know what I want, I
shall tell you in plain English, and hope that you mean it when you say you only desire my happiness.”

Murray looked up slowly, still overwhelmed by that peculiar, unexpected communion he had experienced with the girl from whom Emma appeared so estranged. He must make the glimpsed girl smile so that the woman whom she was trapped inside could also smile. He had to show her how wonderful the world was, the myriad reasons it contained for making its inhabitants happy, even though he himself had doubted this. Yet what did the real world matter when he had enough money and imagination to create any world she desired, a world where everything was perfect, and whose laws she alone would decree.

“I want you to stop courting me,” Emma said brusquely. “That’s what I want. I shall never reciprocate any of your sentiments, and I’m afraid that, unlike many women, I wouldn’t be capable of pretending something I don’t feel. So, you may keep your precious time, Mr. Gilmore, and I suggest you put it to some better use than trying to attain something that, although your pride prevents you from recognizing it, is beyond you.”

Murray smiled at her and shook his head gently.