Sleeping Beauty (10 page)
I send you big, smacking kisses,
Coco
New York
February 3, 1876
Dear Mrs. Wild
,
Enclosed please find a bank draft and statement reflecting dividends in the amount of $2,893.44. These represent your dividends from the last quarter of 1875 in Levanthal Preferred Investments. We thank you, a valued investor, for your faith in us and look forward to continuing to serve your financial planning and investment needs
.
Most sincerely,
Julius J. Levanthal
signed in his absence by
H.I. Raddison, Vice President
Levanthal, Drexel, Raddison & Company
Mar 29, 1876
Coco
,
I here return to you L.D.R.& Co.’s letter, statement, and a new bank draft in the amount of 14,785 French francs, the result of my converting your check of $2,893.44 at the rate of 5.11 French francs to the U.S. dollar. Happy to help
.
Jay
Curses and Spinning Wheels
For the beauty Brynhild, sleep is a reprieve. Brave to the point of being defiant, she contradicts the wishes of her father, Odin—who punishes her by decreeing that she must marry a mortal. Odin tempers his edict when his daughter begs him to prevent somehow that this mean she marry a coward. Thus, he casts her under a spell of sleep and puts her in a deserted castle surrounded by a fire so fierce that only a man of great valor might pass through it. There, within her circle of flames, the beautiful valkyrie sleeps in full armor. When at last a mortal, Sigurd, comes through the fire, he removes the armor from her insensible body—literally removing her defenses and disarming her. By this, he awakens the beautiful maiden to the trust and intimacy of love
.
From the Preface to
The Sleeping Beauty
DuJauc translation
Pease Press, London, 1877
C
oco did not expect to see James Stoker again, least of all during her brief visit to Cambridge. For one thing, she had thought she would be in town only ten days, not one of which fell during regular term. Moreover, she had originally intended to stay several miles outside of town and thus the environs of the university. There should never have been cause for their paths to cross.
Except that a series of events put Coco in Cambridge longer than she’d expected, in residence off Chesterton Road at the very edge of the university, and on the north edge of Jesus Green at the precise instant James Stoker stepped off the sidewalk at the south edge and—unknowingly—began making his way toward her.
She watched him walk from between trees out onto the green and expansive sunny common, recognizing him instantly in spite of his attire: he was in informal dress, no hood or bands or doctoral scarlet, just a black academic gown billowing out and behind him as he strode across the grass. He walked with a slight bounce on the balls of his feet; she
knew him by his long-legged gait—by, alas, the
vivace
spirit he put into each step.
Coco smiled and stood watching from her far border of trees. She had more than enough time to turn away, to pretend she didn’t see him. Yet she couldn’t resist the sight of him in his somber, bookish clothes.
If one could call a flowing, open silk-faced robe over an umber tweedy-looking suit “somber.” She herself had always found scholarly gowns and adornments fascinating, from the simple black to the red robes and colorful hoods. Like the surplices and chasubles of priests. In any event, James Stoker certainly brought a stylishness to what one might have normally called respectably dull. It was not just his dapper suit, but also in the way he moved, in the square of his shoulders, in the way his hair glinted gold in the sun. He looked boyishly relaxed, yet delighted somehow—as if costumed, in gleeful disguise. She had the impression of a man granted permission—wearing it—to play, childlike, all day in a subject field he loved.
As he came closer, this impression was reinforced: he was humming. Oh, it was too much. Coco stepped out from the trees and walked toward him. She shouldn’t have, she told herself. How awful to encourage him even a little. How awful to enjoy looking at him, to anticipate meeting him, speaking to him again.
And how truly horrid of her to enjoy the astonished look on his face as he recognized her ten yards off and stopped.
Coco laughed to herself—and, alas, smiled widely at him. Oh, hang all self-reproach. Sir James
Stoker, knight, scholar, and hero to the Queen, was an impressive young man. Why blame herself for being impressed?
As she came toward him, he looked down, shook his head, looked up again, smiling in confusion, disbelief, and—his smile growing by the moment—pure delight. Something leaped in Coco’s chest. It felt good to please him. Too good, perhaps.
As she approached, he seemed to search for words, a man unsure where to begin. His smile became sheepish. He offered, “Friends, then?”
She nodded, herself with no appropriate response, only smiles. Too idiots grinning at each other.
He asked, “You received the flowers?”
“Oh, yes. They were marvelous. Thank you.”
“They went with my profuse apologies.”
“Accepted.”
He nodded. His hands went out, a man whose wonder measured the width of his arms, as he said, “But why are you here—how did you—oh, I hate what I did in London—just terrible—so sorry—oh, God—” He let out air between his lips, exasperation. “I’m making no sense—”
“I know what you mean. It’s all right.”
Which made him smile more broadly still and shake his head, while she laughed at his confusion. He said, “It’s all right that I slammed your door and stomped off, after…well, let us say I insulted you roundly.” He rolled his eyes, shook his head some more—no, it was not all right—all with an engaging self-deprecation. He said, “I don’t know if you’ll believe me, but I have never done anything as untoward as I did that day in the entirety of my life. I have lost sleep over it.”
She nodded soberly, squelching laughter. “Oh, yes, I believe you.”
His smile looked briefly taken aback, a would-be rake whose credibility came a shade too quickly. He insisted, “It was inexcusable. Let me make it up to you—”
“No, no, it’s fine. Really. Don’t worry—”
“God, I’m so absolutely undone to see you here. And delighted, make no mistake. Where are you going? What can I do for you? Will you have dinner with me?”
“No.” She blinked. No, no, no. She shook her head vehemently.
He just kept smiling, his amber eyes focused on her with his rare and inquisitive intelligence. “But why, how are you here?” he asked. “What are you doing in Cambridge?”
“Visiting a friend.”
“A friend?”
“Oh, my.” She realized, “In fact, I’m late.” She was flustered, more flustered than she could account for. She shook her head again. “I’m sorry.” She moved past him, then couldn’t resist pivoting to walk backward, maintaining eye contact—while maintaining the helplessly broad smile that had taken over her face. She couldn’t seem to stop beaming at him. It felt so good to see him, to stand in the fine, honest warmth of his fixed stare. How awful to feel this way. How wonderful. A friend, she told herself. That he was. A real friend. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I have to go. I have an appointment in ten minutes.”
“An appointment?” As she moved away, he began to follow.
She shook her head no. He halted.
To James, she seemed a mirage, a hallucination. He was afraid she would evaporate—or, more realistically, run—if he didn’t do as she said. Oh, he was going to be so well behaved this time. Yet as she backed away, he was seized with panic. He still had no idea where she was staying or how to get in touch with her.
Under her parasol, held so charmingly in her gloved hands, she made another French shrug, powerless against her “appointment.”
“Please,” he said, “let me make up for my rudeness.” As if a brilliant concept had been eluding him, he said, “If not dinner, then afternoon tea.”
“No.” She laughed, a slightly giddy sound that made his skin rise in goosebumps. Lord, she was lovely to his ears, to his eyes. Small and perfect, like a pretty flower at the peak of its bloom—so bright today, without a trace of melancholy. A happy woman. Who backed away from him, getting farther off by the second.
“A light supper then,” he suggested facetiously. God, how to keep her attention?
“No.”
“Elvenses.” Morning tea.
She laughed. “No.”
“Breakfast.”
“All right.”
James startled, then laughed heartily himself, with deep, full pleasure. “All right?” he repeated.
“Yes. I’ll meet you in the basement of Tolly’s across from King’s tomorrow morning at seven.”
He didn’t lecture till noon. “Seven?” Breakfast. At Tolly’s. In the midst of students clanging their
coffee spoons, rattling their newspapers. “Seven in the morning?”
She teased him. “Aren’t scholars always up early?”
“Not this one.”
She raised one eyebrow, laughing, tormenting him now openly. Still moving, she called, “Well, if you can’t come—”
“No—” He smiled. He frowned. He smiled again. Outmaneuvered. He told her, “All right. I’ll be there.” She was fifty feet away by then. He thought to ask, “Where are you staying while you’re here? I could come fetch you.” And why the devil was she here to begin with? he wanted to know. What sort of friend did she have in Cambridge?
But she only made another of her disarming shrugs. “I’ll be out walking,” she explained. No need to fetch her. Or know where she lived. “I’ll meet you in Tolly’s Cellar, then. Do you know where it is?”
“Yes. It’s tiny, crowded, and loud.”
Before he could suggest somewhere better, though, she had waved goodbye and turned—making Tolly’s Cellar their unchallengeable rendezvous point.
He watched Coco Wild saunter off, her hair shining like polished jet. She had the blackest, glossiest hair he’d seen this side of Egypt. Egypt, yes. She had that kind of power. A tiny Cleopatra with charm enough to bow down nations and all the great men within them.
He watched her go, watched her parasol bob over the flounce at the back of her dress. James couldn’t
look away. With each step, the bouffant of silk atop her bustle wobbled precariously, the taffeta itself taking on a sheen in the sun. Her dress was pale, pale pink—like the roses, he remembered—a blushing dress. As she walked into the distance, the pale color took on a silver luster, becoming a luminous counterpoint to her vivid black hair.
James followed the sight of her all the way across the bright spring grass of Jesus Green. But she had no sooner stepped through the trees on the far side, crossing the lane, than it occurred to him that he could follow her literally. She wouldn’t see him. He knew the back ways and alleys. Almost certainly, she had struck out for the main street. He hesitated a split second. Then he became the man of science that he was. He needed more data, the first available piece of information being, What sort of appointment did she keep at—he consulted his watch—three-thirty on a Tuesday afternoon?
He took off. As he headed for the border of trees, he shucked his telltale gown, wadded it up, and tucked it under his coat. He stayed behind the trees till he caught sight of her again. She crossed another lane, then a small square, then turned onto Bridge Street.
She went a good distance, Bridge Street becoming St. John’s (with James using buildings for cover, darting covertly like some melodrama villain); St. John’s Street became Trinity, which in turn became King’s Parade, the center of town. There she crossed Market Square to Miss Anabel’s Tea House, where—to James’s great surprise and chagrin—a young man was waiting for her.
He was tall and thin, dark-haired, a good-looking fellow in his twenties, James would guess, very well dressed. He greeted her with enthusiasm, embracing her, kissing her cheek, pulling her to his chest. James felt strange emotions skip across his heart, like pebbles across a dark pool into which he wasn’t certain he wished to dive.
She felt about the young man differently from the way she felt, for instance, about Levanthal. James knew a fearful yet near-rabid curiosity. Who was he, this young man? What was he to her? Who was the puzzling woman who called James himself too young, then went gaily off to meet a man who appeared even younger? Yet James’s questions and observations floated over murkier motives in himself as he stared at the two of them: envy, an obscure neediness, a longing that was unplumbed.
James heard the wisps of her laughter. She stroked her hand up the fellow’s arm once. Her young man made her laugh in a different way from that which James did. The sound was more intimate. More relaxed, James fancied, than when she greeted him.