Читать книгу The Lighthouse Road - Peter Geye - Страница 5

III.

(July 1893)

Two days and two nights of oblivion ended on a Friday morning when Hosea woke from a dead man's sleep. A dozen champagne bottles littered the floor in a swath of dull sunlight. He pressed his eyes and imagined he could feel the dream retreating to its place in that part of his mind he could only access in a state such as he'd roused those days in the Chicago bagnio.

He found his pants under the bed and checked his pocket watch. He checked his billfold, too, which still held a stack of fifty-dollar banknotes. He kicked the threadbare bed linens from his legs and swung his still-stockinged feet onto the floor. The rush of blood to his head was swift. He was so parched he could not swallow. He needed a drink of water, so he rose and stood still until he found his balance.

But for his socks he was naked. His drawers hung over a lampshade, his linen shirt was tangled with the duvet on the floor at the foot of the bed. As he dressed, memories of the last forty-eight hours came back to him piecemeal, each more lecherous than the one before. When he was dressed he took stock of the room. Not bad as such rooms went. A carpet on the floor. A bed with a proper headboard. An electric lamp. An enormous mirror on the wall opposite the head board. A brass ashtray. A table and chair in the corner with an empty decanter and four used snifters, three stained with lip rouge.

At this hour of the morning the hallway was quiet, the water closet vacant. He stepped into it and closed the door behind him. He washed his face without looking in the mirror above the basin. He slicked back his hair and then put his mouth to the faucet and drank copiously. He drank until he thought he'd vomit and then rested a moment and then drank as much again. Already he was feeling better, the fire in his gut just smoldering now.

When he reached the bottom of the staircase he was surprised to see five women lounging on the divans. There was a barman behind the counter. The window looking onto Wrightwood Avenue was covered with crushed-velvet drapes, the only daylight coming in from the rose window above the entryway door. There was a young girl tending the coatroom, and Hosea stopped for his jacket and suitcase. She came from behind the half door and offered to assist with his jacket, but Hosea declined. He fished a bill from his wallet and put it neatly into her palm.

"You're Ava?" he said.

She looked over Hosea's shoulder at the barman, then looked at Hosea. She nodded.

"Well," Hosea said, then thought better of it and said nothing more.

She returned to her spot behind the half door and nodded again and Hosea crossed the lounge to the bar.

He asked for a soda water and after he paid he packed his pipe and the barman lit it. The barman also placed a copy of the morning Tribune before Hosea, who looked at the headlines but was too distracted by the thought of Ava behind him to read beyond the banner.

"Say," Hosea said, "might I talk to Mister Hruby?"

The barman grunted and disappeared into a doorway at the end of

the bar. A minute later he returned, Hosea's old friend Vaclav Hruby trailing behind him in a cloud of cigar smoke.

"You've made it out alive, friend," Vaclav said.

" Alive and clearer of mind," Hosea said.

Vaclav watched the barman resume his spot at the end of the counter, watched him pick up a newspaper and light a cigar himself.

When the barman was out of earshot, Vaclav said, "That's the lass." He nodded in the direction of the coatroom.

"Yes, I know," Hosea said.

"She's a good girl. She won't cause trouble."

"I'd like to speak with her. Alone," Hosea said.

Vaclav stubbed out his cigar. "I told her the score. But if you want to talk to her, go ahead. Why don't you wait upstairs in one of the rooms? Leave the door open. I'll send her up."

" Maybe it would be better to talk to her outside. Tell her to meet me at the artesian well in Lincoln Park. Give me a few minutes to get ahead of her."

"You're the boss, Grimm."

So Hosea walked out of the bagnio, pausing outside to look back at the inconspicuous brownstone. He knew of a dozen other such places in cities on the water, places as far away as Acapulco and Bombay. He walked up Wrightwood Avenue, crossed the trolley tracks at North Clark, and reached the park five minutes later. It was a hot morning, humid, with low clouds hiding a hazy sun over the lake.

Hosea pumped the well until a steady flow of the sweet water poured from the spigot. He bent at the waist and let it pour into his mouth. When he was finished he removed the handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped his lips and brow. He took a seat on a bench near the well, adjusted his hat, and turned his attention up the gravel path.

It was fifteen minutes before she arrived, wearing a different dress

than she'd had on in the coatroom. She walked quickly, a parasol over her shoulder. She wore white gloves. She was lovely.

"Good morning, Mister Grimm," she said, offering a slight curtsy.

"Good morning. Thanks for joining me."

"I'd do anything to get out of that nest of harlots," she said.

" 'Nest of harlots,' you say?"

She closed her parasol and stood before him. "Call them whatever you want."

"Please, sit down."

She sat on the bench beside him, crossed her legs and adjusted her skirts.

"Vaclav has informed you of my reason for being here, is that right?"

"He's a pig."

Hosea sat back and looked at her. A smile played across his face. "I'll save you the trouble of a lifetime of discovery and tell you that all men are pigs."

"You think I don't know that?"

"How old are you, Ava?"

"I'm thirteen."

"Thirteen."

"I'll be fourteen at Christmastime."

"Tell me, how did you end up in the employment of Vaclav Hruby?"

"I'm his slave is more like it."

"Is your tongue always so sharp?"

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to be wise."

"So you're unhappy working for Vaclav?"

"It could be worse."

"Yes, I suppose it could always be worse." Hosea tried to read the meaning of her quips. "I wonder, has Vaclav spoken of me?"

She uncrossed her legs and put her elbows on her knees. In that

pose she looked every bit the child she was. "He said you want to adopt me. Move me up to Minnesota." She looked over her shoulder at him. "Is that far away?"

"Minnesota? No, not far at all. Where I live — I should say where I'll soon live — is on a lake much like this one —" he gestured at the wide waters of Lake Michigan "—a lake called Superior. Though the town is much smaller than Chicago. The whole of it would fit in Lincoln Park." He looked south. " Might fit twice."

"I don't mind a small town. I was born up in a small town in Wisconsin."

"What happened that you ended up an orphan?"

"Can't say. I never knew my parents. I was born into that godawful orphanage. I ran away as soon as I thought to."

"And came to Chicago? Why?"

"I stole two dollars from the orphanage. Chicago is as far away as I could get."

"I see."

"Don't think I'm a thief. It's the only time I ever stole anything. I had to. The headmaster at the orphanage was awful. I've worked for Vaclav for two years and never stole a red cent. And I could have. It would be easy."

"That's good. That's good. I wouldn't want to adopt a thief."

"Why do you want to adopt anyone?"

Hosea looked at her, knew from the look in her eyes that it would be easiest to tell her the whole truth now, that any omission or lie would come back to haunt him tenfold. "I hope you'll let me ask you a question, and I hope you'll be honest. I put great stock in honesty."

"Okay," she said.

"I want to know what life has been like for you at Vaclav's."

She looked at him, confused.

"You've been a hostess, yes? And worked in the coatroom I see. Anything else?"

"Oh! No, nothing else. Well—"

"You must be completely honest, remember."

She didn't so much as flinch when she said, "I said Vaclav was a pig."

"Do you mean to say he has made you available to his clients?"

"He made me available to himself, is what I mean."

"Dear God," Hosea whispered. "You poor child."

"It was nothing the headmaster at the orphanage hadn't done."

Hosea put his hand on hers and looked her firmly in the eyes. "I want you to know that I will never, ever treat you that way. I will protect you as though you were my own flesh and blood."

"Why?" she said.

"Why?" he repeated.

"You don't even know me."

"Do you have any idea what fate awaits you at Vaclav's? Do you know what your life would be like a year from now?" He stood up and buttoned his coat. "I can offer you a life free of that fate. I would like to." He knelt before her. "Tell me, Ava: Why haven't you run away from Vaclav?"

"It's a warm bed and hot food."

"There's more to life than that."

She looked at him as though she were the adult. "Not when you don't have it. Let me ask you a question, Mister Grimm: How do I know you're honest as you say you are? You said yourself all men are pigs. You just spent two days tangled up with some of Vaclav's best girls."

"A fair question. Fair indeed." He stood again. "I am a man of resources, Ava. I've traveled to all the corners of the world. I'm educated." Now he sat next to her. "I'm not religious, even if I once was, but I do have a meditative streak. Places such as Vaclav's serve as my Asclepieions. Places where I can restore myself." He paused, considered whether to continue in such a vein but thought better of it. "All of which is to say that though I have my— how shall I say this?— uncouth tendencies, I am also a man more capable than most to subvert those tendencies. I am, at heart, a simple man." He nodded his head in self-approval. "I have enemies, though. It's probably not a good idea for me to be in Chicago in the first place. But I needed to see Vaclav. I needed to see about you." He straightened up. "I have represented myself to the people of Gunflint as a family man. They expect me to return with my daughter."

"Do you have a real daughter?"

"No, no. I wish I did. I was married once. Many years ago. In Paris, France. My wife passed. We never had children."

"Who are these enemies? Why won't they follow you to Minnesota?"

The thought of telling her the whole story occurred to him. It would be easy enough to do. Easy enough to tell her about the stud game turned deadly, about running through the levee with fifty thousand dollars in his briefcase, two Polack hoods chasing him, the knife still bloody. The fact was, the particulars of his fleeing became more remote the closer he got to leaving, seemed to matter less and less. Whatever ambition had once been in him was now satisfied by the mere notion of what he was building in Gunflint. So instead of answering her question he said, "My enemies are my own business. But they won't follow me to Minnesota. They won't know I'm there." He said this matter-of-factly. "Now, Ava, let's get back to you—"

"Tell me what your business is there," she said interrupting him.

"Why, I own an apothecary. Or I should say I'm building an apothecary. I'm also a trained dentist and surgeon. In France I was trained as an accoucheur."

"What's that?"

"A deliverer of babies. Like a midwife. I will be the town's general physician."

"And what's an apothecary?" She had trouble pronouncing the word.

"A place where cures are sold. Medicines and suchlike."

She nodded and began fidgeting with her parasol, opening it halfway and snapping it shut. For a long minute she said nothing, only toed the pebbled pathway and played with her parasol. When finally she did speak, it was very softly. "I don't care to go to school. I'm not a very good cook."

" Going to school won't be required. I hope you'll learn to cook. I also hope you'll help me at the apothecary. Otherwise you'll be free to do as you please."

Now she looked at him as she said, "And you'll leave me be? Won't do what Hruby and the headmaster done?"

"On my life."

He thought her face brightened. "All right," she said. "When will we leave?"

Hosea clapped his hands as he stood. "Excellent! Excellent, Ava! We'll collect your things at Vaclav's and leave at once. I believe there's a train at noon. Let's hurry along."

So together they walked back to the bagnio. It took her only moments to gather her belongings, all of which fit into a small suitcase.

Hosea paid Vaclav five hundred dollars. The two shook hands and agreed that the rest of their business could be conducted via the post. Together they were going to operate a brothel near Gunflint, the place the Shivering Timber would become. They would hire a stable boss and pay him twenty-five percent and split the remaining seventy-five percent. This was a condition of their bargain concerning Ava.

At ten o'clock in the morning Hosea and Ava boarded the trolley on

North Clark and rode it downtown. At noon they were sitting in a first-class berth on a train pulling out of Union Station, bound for St. Paul.

It was in that berth as the train trundled across the state of Wisconsin that Hosea laid forth his plan. They would spend the night in St. Paul, using the following day to outfit Ava. She would need a new wardrobe, one more in keeping with a girl of her standing. He informed her of the type of airs she ought to affect, counseled her on manners, spoke for what seemed hours on the merits of fine posture. Though he talked too much and of things she thought boring, she found Hosea to be an affable companion. He was witty sometimes, and at least he was never coarse.

They arrived in St. Paul after midnight, took lodgings at a hotel near the station, and in the morning went shopping for Ava's wardrobe. When they boarded another train that afternoon, this one bound for Duluth, they carried an extra trunk loaded with dresses and furs and a hundred fine undergarments.

"When we reach Duluth, we'll have to take a ferry up to Gunflint. We might have to wait a day or two. But Duluth is a nice city. If we must wait, perhaps we'll pass the time by finding a few more dresses for you."

"I don't think I need any more dresses," she said, but he could tell from her blush that she would happily take them. Though she'd been demure in accepting his gifts at first, he saw that she was quick to prize the soft things in life.

"One of my hobbies, Ava, is portrait photography. Have you ever had your portrait taken? I presume not."

"I never have, no."

"I'm having a studio added at the apothecary. It's a large building. Will be the largest in Gunflint. Our living quarters will be a flat on the third floor. The second will have my offices and the studio."

"What's a studio?"

"A place to take pictures. I hope you'll be a good subject."

"I can't imagine it'll be too hard to have my picture taken."

No doubt she had her charms. "I suppose not!" he said.

Six hours after they left St. Paul the conductor came through to announce their arrival in Duluth.

"We're nearly there," Hosea said. "Are you excited?"

"It's been a real fun time so far," she said, her childishness blooming.

" There are a few more things, Ava. Important things."

"Okay."

"I want people to believe you're older than thirteen."

"All right."

He smiled, looked her up and down in the seat across from him. "You've certainly got the figure of a young woman."

She didn't even blush.

"And though you've a beautiful name, I think I'd like to call you Rebekah instead. It was the name my poor lost wife had always intended for a daughter. From this moment forward, you'll be Rebekah Marie Grimm."

"Rebekah," she repeated. "Rebekah. Rebekah." The name put a smile on her face. "A new dress," she said, smoothing the pleats of her gingham gown. "And a new name. Here in Minnesota. I'm all new." She looked up at him. "Rebekah it is. Father." She flashed a knowing grin. "Rebekah Marie Grimm."