The Language of Paradise: A Novel (35 page)

Gideon waited, his expectation ebbing as they walked on in silence. He realized he had a great deal to learn about the absence of speech: a nullity at first, then textured with sounds; every bird cry and creaking branch, every grinding circuit of wagon wheel distinct, oddly significant.

They had arrived at the bend where they usually parted. Leander turned to him and smiled. Gideon wondered how they would say good-bye—whether they would embrace or part with a wave, as usual.

“I am a Jew,” Leander said.

Gideon stared. His long study of Hebrew had led him to believe that he knew a great deal about the Chosen People, but his knowledge was academic. He had never met one.

“So now you will understand the true nature of my so-called magic,” Leander said. “If the world regards you always as a son of the circumcised, you have a choice. You can live your life within the walls they have built around you, consorting only with your own kind, or you can become a shape-shifter. I didn’t extricate myself all at once. It took some years, but in time I learned to pitch my tent in other men’s minds. Make myself at home in their ghettos. In a space so confined, it is not long before you are intimate with unspoken needs and secret longings—often hidden from the host himself. Witness our poor James. He is tormented by the house even as he refuses to acknowledge it. There it stands, his great gift of love, a monument to betrayal and deceit. In a sense, he has transferred the idolatry he once felt for the young woman to this artfully constructed wooden box. Only now, his worship is inverted: the house must neither be seen nor spoken of, such is its potency.”

They were standing in full sun. Leander swiped at a flap of dark hair that had fallen over his brow. “You cannot reason with belief; you can only work within it. I appealed to his righteousness. What kind of example did he set for his Reverend father’s parish, letting a useful structure go to waste? Worse, maintaining it as a shrine to the vanity of the one who commissioned it? Mind you, I never spoke the lady’s name, I referred to her only in the abstract. Would it not be better to consecrate the place to a higher purpose? A school, perhaps. A house of study for gifted scholars, the only criterion a love of learning, the children of farmers sharing desks with the children of merchants and bankers, each paying what they can. In Boston one might find such an enlightened institution, but locally? In six months, a year, who would remember that the house hadn’t always been a school? Well, he wouldn’t hear me at first. He turned his back to me, muttering that the children of the poor were better off learning an honest trade, and if I was so worried about them, why didn’t I improve my teaching to begin with? But he didn’t walk away, and I could tell from the tautness of his shoulders that I had snagged him. I sunk the hook deeper. A respectable occupation for the apostate brother-in-law. A home for the expectant sister. Then I mentioned the rent. He is a practical man, is James. I saw him calculating. Such a sum every month, and in the bargain, three fewer mouths to feed. The family homestead restored, himself in his father’s place at the head of the table.”

Leander snapped his fingers. “He capitulated like that. Months of resistance, of refusal—gone. He wanted to be free, poor boy, whether he knew it or not. I was only the facilitator.”

As Gideon listened, he realized that Leander was right: there was only one fact, and once revealed, all other information must be siphoned through it. Though he had never met a Jew, he knew what people said about them. He had to admit that his friend fit the popular image in some respects. Swarthy, with an indefinable air of foreignness. Brash under the veneer of refinement. Clever, with the native shrewdness of the perpetual outcast. How skillfully he had manipulated James, insinuated himself into their lives, molded them all to his will as if his desires were theirs. The money he was about to spend so liberally—where had it come from? Surely not his schoolmaster’s stipend. Gideon looked this leering caricature full in the face, and, with a single shaky breath, dismissed it.

“Why . . . why have you pitched your tent with us?” he asked.

Leander had been watching him all this time, keen but without expression. Gideon was sure he must have registered each stage of his thought as it made its lurching pilgrimage from common wisdom to fable.

“Even wanderers must rest sometimes,” Leander said. He lifted his hand as if to wave, and ruffled Gideon’s hair lightly. Then he was on his way.

CHAPTER 29

____

RITES OF PASSAGE

I
T SEEMED THEY HAD BEEN MOVING FOR WEEKS, THOUGH IT
was only days. Wagonload after wagonload, Micah leading the horse uphill, slipping on wet leaves as slick as ice: Leander’s battered trunk, containing all his worldly goods not stored in the schoolroom; Gideon’s odds and ends and his small collection of books, along with a few essential volumes of the Reverend’s and the Hebrew Lexicon, toward which he felt a superstitious obligation; pots and pans, mattresses and bedding; the furniture that Mrs. Hedge had set aside for Sophy; and lastly, Sophy herself, riding in her tethered rocking chair like Cleopatra enthroned upon her barge. So many trips, such a quantity of objects, and yet, once their possessions were dispersed, the house seemed as empty as it had before. Worse than empty, Gideon thought. The settee looked lost in the vastness of the parlor, adrift in space like something left behind; the table was better suited to a game of whist than the serving of a simple dinner. He had lived for so long with Leander’s verbal embellishments of their future home that the reality shocked him. Who could anticipate that a few harmless sticks of furniture could so disturb the peace?

The sky, gray all day, had darkened to full dusk by the time they finished. Leander unpacked the basket of provisions Mrs. Hedge had sent to sustain them through the transition. “The First Supper!” he trumpeted, struggling to maintain his carriage atop a spindly stool. “Brother Gideon, will you give our little family a special blessing?”

Gideon gazed at each of them in turn, hoping for inspiration. He found none. Sophy was sagging in her chair, her head drooping. He felt a sinking fear when he saw how pale she was. They had been solicitous of her condition, refusing to let her lift anything heavier than a pot; still, he wondered if the move had been too much for her. Even Micah had bridled when Leander called for a grace. He was sitting with his elbows on the table, eyeing a roasted chicken like a wolf about to pounce.

“Tomorrow,” Gideon said. “We’re all too tired for ceremony. Sophy needs to rest.”

Fanny had made them a gift of their bedroom furniture from home. Earlier he and Micah had assembled the bedstead near the fireplace in the long room, to be joined by their old dresser, a simple pine wardrobe, and Sophy’s rocker. With a flourish he’d laid down a small hooked rug, congratulating himself on creating a cozy nest in a chamber intended for public gatherings. Now he saw the room through the eyes of his weary wife. The light of their candles grazed the barren floor and wall before finding the familiar pieces, huddled together as if for comfort. Sophy sat on the edge of the bed, her back rounded like an old woman’s. Gideon tried to remove her shawl, but she clutched it tighter. Leaning closer, he saw two tears sliding slowly down her cheeks.

“You mustn’t be discouraged, dear one,” he said. “It looks bare now, but we’ve only just moved in. You can’t see it properly at this hour. Wait until morning.”

“Mama cried when I left,” Sophy said. “Mama never cries.” Gideon understood that her grief was for herself, as well as for Fanny. Through all these weeks of work he had nourished a vision of the moment when he would show her the house. He had imagined her gasping as she took in the spaciousness of the rooms—her domain, as Leander called it. He had planned to save the conservatory for last, leading her out the connecting door into a blaze of light. In his mind the sun was high, the day brilliant, the glasshouse verdant with flourishing plants. He had not accounted for the time of year and the uncertainties of weather. He had not considered that this would be Sophy’s first night, ever, under another roof.

Gently he urged her to lie down. He took off her shoes and stockings, wishing he had thought to light a fire; it was only the middle of October, but the night air was cold and the large room was not embracing. Sophy burrowed into the pillow, sighed, and was still. Her tears were still wet; he dried them with his thumb. He spread the shawl over her, thinking how young she looked, how small for the six-month burden she bore.

He undressed quickly and folded himself around her, drawing the quilt up over them. His arm circled her belly—that arbitrary lump that, even now, stirred no natural emotion in him. “I’ll take care of you,” he whispered to the lump, forcing what he could not feel. Whatever was curled inside, he was responsible for it, and he feared he had already wronged it, bartered its future for his own selfish ends.

Something blunt, like the horn of a baby goat, butted the heel of his hand.

GIDOEN WOKE THE
next morning with his head throbbing, the sun slicing into him as if he’d overindulged in wine. He had stayed conscious for what seemed like hours, finally surrendering to a sleep torn by dreams. The only one he could remember was the last. He and Sophy were hurrying along a road that was, and was not, the village road they knew. It was pelting rain, and he was trying to cover Sophy with a cloak—a futility because she kept stumbling and falling behind. In desperation, he grabbed her arm and dragged her along, but after a few yards she fell on her knees. She looked up at him, water streaming down her face. “It’s time,” she said. He managed to get her to the shelter of a tree. She collapsed against the trunk, her belly undulating beneath her skirts. He reached under and tried to pull the thing out, his hand connecting with a hard, bony appendage but unable to grasp. “Stand up!” he commanded her. “Gravity is our friend.” Sure enough, two thin stalks of legs emerged; a narrow head, eyes squeezed shut and ear-leaves pasted to the skull; a slick, hairy torso followed by a pair of hind legs, still folded. When the creature was free, he set it on its feet, and, trembling, it stood.

The dregs of the dream were still with him: a mix of horror and helpless fascination that roiled his stomach and sent him running to the basin. He heaved a couple of times, but brought nothing up. He splashed some water on his face and stepped into the trousers that lay where he had dropped them. Only then did he look back at the tossed bedclothes and register that Sophy was gone. What if he had not been dreaming—if she had crept out of the house during the night, determined to go back home, and he had sensed her leaving through the fog of sleep? What if she had gotten lost, and wandered until fear and exertion brought her pains on?

The door to the conservatory was open. Gideon went through, feeling as if he was moving from one room of his dream to another. Just inside he stopped, dazzled by the sun glaring off the glass. Sophy stood with her back to him, barefoot in her chemise, brushing her hair. With each stroke, strands flew up and caught the light; it seemed to him that she was spinning her own nimbus. He took another step, and she turned. Her eyes were wide, her face rapt with a private joy he hadn’t seen since her dancing days. The airy sprite was gone. She was substantial now; she reminded him of one of Botticelli’s Graces, abundance swelling beneath her gossamer wrap.

“Oh, Gideon. Such a glory!” she said.

For all their grand plans, he and Leander had been far too busy building the conservatory to nurture plants to fill it. The glass had come from South Boston, and Leander had hired a small crew to help with the labor. Once the work was done, Gideon had spent hours worrying about what Sophy would make of their walls of glass. Without greenery, the haste of the construction would be evident, and how would he justify the extravagance? But, as if to compensate, nature had put on an impressive display. Beyond the clearing, a conflagration of scarlet and orange and gold flared as far as the eye could see. The glasshouse framed the spectacle; the wavy glass gave it the magical quality of a painting. Looking up to the slanted roof, he was momentarily startled by a band of sky, which seemed a brighter blue for being sequestered. In his fantasy he had been accurate about the brilliance, erring only on the season.

Gideon felt, absurdly, as if he had planned it all. He came up behind Sophy and put his arms around her. “In the winter, if you look
this
way,” he said, taking her hand, pointing with it, “you can see the village. You may even be able to find the parsonage.”

“In the winter,” Sophy said, resting against him, “we’ll be three. Can you believe it?”

The moment was so bounteous, his satisfaction so complete, that Gideon never thought to remind her they would be four.

THE AROMATIC SMOKE
of bacon cooking seeped into the glasshouse. Gideon had postponed telling Sophy about Leander’s origins. He suspected she’d be more interested than repelled—the Reverend’s daughter, after all—but was wary of taking the risk until their new family was established. Her opinion of the man was shaky enough. Now he questioned whether it would be necessary to bring the matter up at all. Leander might declare himself a Jew in the present tense, but he had lived for so long among Gentiles that he fried pig meat like a native.