Angelology Page 8

  “I’m sorry,” Verlaine interrupted. “I know that this is out of line and that I shouldn’t have come at all without permission, but I’m hoping that you’ll help me. Your expertise might get me out of a rather difficult situation. I certainly didn’t come here to cause you trouble.”

  Evangeline looked at Verlaine a moment, as if trying to gauge his sincerity. Then, gesturing to the wooden table near the fireplace, she said, “There is no trouble that I cannot handle, Mr. Verlaine. Sit, please, and tell me what I can do to help you.”

  “Thank you.” Verlaine slid into a chair while Evangeline took the one opposite. “You probably know from my letter that I’m trying to find proof that a correspondence took place between Abigail Rockefeller and the abbess of St. Rose Convent in the winter of 1943.”

  Evangeline nodded, recalling the text of the letter.

  “Yes, well, I didn’t mention it in my letter, but I’m in the process of writing a book—actually, it was my doctoral dissertation, but I’m hoping to turn it into a book—about Abigail Rockefeller and the Museum of Modern Art. I’ve read nearly everything published about the subject, and many unpublished documents, and a relationship between the Rockefellers and St. Rose Convent is not referenced anywhere. As you can imagine, such a correspondence could be a significant discovery, at least in my corner of academia. It’s the kind of thing that could change my career prospects entirely.”

  “That is very interesting,” Evangeline said. “But I fail to see how I can help you.”

  “Let me show you something.” Verlaine dug in the inside pocket of his overcoat and placed a sheaf of papers on the table. The papers were filled with drawings that upon first glance appeared to be little more than a series of rectangular and circular shapes but became, once she looked more closely, the representation of a building. Smoothing the papers with his fingers, Verlaine said, “These are the architectural plans for St. Rose.”

  Evangeline leaned over the table to see the paper clearly. “These are the originals?”

  “Yes indeed.” Verlaine turned the pages to show Evangeline the various sketches of the convent. “Dated 1809. Signed by the founding abbess.”

  “Mother Francesca,” Evangeline said, drawn to the age and intricacy of the plans. “Francesca erected the convent and founded our order. She designed much of the church herself. The Adoration Chapel was entirely her creation.”

  “Her signature is on every page,” Verlaine said.

  “It is only natural,” Evangeline replied. “She was something of a Renaissance woman—she would have insisted upon approving the plans herself.”

  “Look at this,” Verlaine said, spreading the papers over the surface of the table. “A fingerprint.”

  Evangeline leaned closer. Sure enough, a small, smudged oval of ink, its center as tight and knotted as the core of an aged tree, stained the yellowed page. Evangeline entertained the thought that Francesca herself might have left the print.

  “You have studied these drawings carefully,” Evangeline observed.

  “There is one thing I don’t understand, though,” Verlaine said, leaning back in his chair. “The arrangements of the buildings are significantly different from their placement in the architectural plans. I walked around outside a little, comparing the two, and they diverge in fundamental ways. The convent used to be in a different location on the grounds, for example.”

  “Yes,” Evangeline said. She had become so engrossed in the drawings that she forgot how wary Verlaine made her feel. “The buildings were repaired and rebuilt. Everything changed after a fire burned the convent to the ground.”

  “The fire of I944,” Verlaine said.

  Evangeline raised an eyebrow. “You know about the fire?”

  “It’s the reason these drawings were taken out of the convent. I found them buried in a repository of old building plans. St. Rose Convent was approved for a building permit in February 1944.”

  “You were allowed to take these plans from a public-records repository?”

  “Borrow them,” Verlaine said, sheepish. Pressing the seal with the edge of his fingernail so that a slim crescent formed on the foil seal, he asked, “Do you know what this seal marks?”

  Evangeline looked closely at the golden seal. It was positioned at the center of the Adoration Chapel. “It is roughly where the altar is,” she said. “But it doesn’t seem exactly precise.”

  She assessed Verlaine, scrutinizing him with renewed interest. Whereas she had initially thought him little more than an opportunist come to pillage their library, she realized now that he had the innocence and candor of a teenage boy on a treasure hunt. She could not fathom why this should make her warm to him but it did.

  She certainly did not intend to signal any such warmth to Verlaine. But he seemed less hesitant, as if he’d detected a shift in her feelings. He was staring at her from behind the smudged lenses of his glasses as if seeing her for the first time. “What is that?” he asked, without taking his eyes from her.

  “What is what?”

  “Your necklace,” he said, moving closer.

  Evangeline pulled away, afraid that Verlaine might touch her, nearly knocking over a chair in the process.

  “I’m sorry,” Verlaine said. “It’s just that—”

  “There is nothing more I can tell you, Mr. Verlaine,” she said, her voice cracking as she spoke.

  “Hold on a second.” Verlaine riffled through the architectural drawings. Pulling a leaf from the stack, he presented it to Evangeline. “I think your necklace has said it all.”

  Evangeline took the paper and straightened it on the table before her. She found a brilliant likeness of the Adoration Chapel, its altar, its statues, its octagonal shape rendered precisely as the original she had seen each day for so many years. Affixed to the drawing, at the very center of the altar, there was a golden seal.

  “The lyre,” Verlaine said. “Do you see? It’s the same.”

  Her fingers trembling, Evangeline unfastened the pendant from about her neck and placed it carefully on the paper, the golden chain trailing behind it like the glimmering tail of a meteor. Her mother’s necklace was the twin of the golden seal.

  From her pocket Evangeline removed the letter she had found in the archives, the 1943 missive from Abigail Rockefeller to Mother Innocenta, and placed it on the table. She did not understand the connection between the seal and the necklace, and the chance that Verlaine might know suddenly made her anxious to share her discovery with him.

  “What’s this?” Verlaine asked, picking it up.

  “Perhaps you can tell me.”

  But as Verlaine opened the crinkled paper and scanned the lines of the letter, Evangeline suddenly doubted herself. Recalling Sister Philomena’s warning, she wondered if perhaps she truly was betraying her order by sharing such a document with an outsider. She had the sinking feeling that she was making a grave mistake. Yet, she merely watched him with growing anticipation as he read the paper.

  “This letter confirms the relationship between Innocenta and Abigail Rockefeller,” Verlaine said at last. “Where did you find it?”

  “I spent some time in the archive this morning after I read your request. There was no doubt in my mind that you were wrong about Mother Innocenta. I was certain that no such connection existed. I doubted that there would be anything at all relating to a secular woman like Mrs. Rockefeller in our archives, let alone a document that confirmed the correspondence—it is simply extraordinary that physical evidence would remain. In fact, I went into the archive to prove that you were wrong.”

  Verlaine’s gaze remained fixed upon the letter, and Evangeline wondered if he’d heard a word she’d said. Finally he took a scrap of paper from his pocket and wrote his telephone number on it. “You said you found only one letter from Abigail Rockefeller?”

  “Yes,” Evangeline said. “The letter you just read.”

  “And yet all of the letters from Innocenta to Abigail Rockefeller were responses. That means
there are three, perhaps four, Rockefeller letters somewhere in your archive.”

  “You honestly believe we could have overlooked such letters?”

  Verlaine gave her his telephone number. “If you find anything, would you call me?”

  Evangeline took the paper and looked at it. She did not know what to tell him. It would be impossible for her to call him, even if she were to find what he was looking for. “I’ll try,” she said at last.

  “Thanks,” Verlaine said, gazing at her with gratitude. “In the meantime, do you mind if I make a photocopy of this one?”

  Evangeline picked up her necklace, refastened it about her neck, and led Verlaine to the library door. “Come with me.”

  Escorting Verlaine into Philomena’s office, Evangeline removed a leaf of St. Rose stationery from a stack and gave it to Verlaine. “You may transcribe it onto this,” she said.

  Verlaine took a pen and got to work. After he’d copied the original and returned it to Evangeline, she could detect that he wished to ask her something. She had known him all of ten minutes, and yet she could understand the turn his mind had taken. At last he asked, “Where did this stationery come from?”

  Evangeline lifted another sheet of the thick pink paper from the stack next to Philomena’s desk and held it between her fingers. The top section of the stationery was filled with Baroque roses and angels, images she’d seen a thousand times before. “It’s just our standard stationery,” she said. “Why?”

  “It is the same stationery that Innocenta used for her letters to Abigail Rockefeller,” Verlaine said, taking a clean sheet and examining it more closely. “How old is the design?”

  “I’ve never thought about it,” Evangeline said. “But it must be nearly two hundred years old. The St. Rose crest was created by our founding abbess.”

  “May I?” Verlaine said, taking a few pages of the stationery and folding them into his pocket.

  “Certainly,” Evangeline said, perplexed by Verlaine’s interest in something she found to be quite banal. “Take as many as you’d like.”

  “Thanks,” Verlaine said, smiling at Evangeline for the first time in their exchange. “You’re probably not supposed to help me out like this.”

  “Actually, I should have called the police the moment I saw you,” she said.

  “I hope there’s some way I can thank you.”

  “There is,” Evangeline said as she ushered Verlaine to the door. “You can leave before you are discovered. And if you are by chance found by one of the sisters, you did not meet me or set foot in this library.”

  St. Rose Convent, Milton, New York

  Still more snow had accumulated while Verlaine was inside the convent. It drifted from the sky in sheets, collecting upon the svelte arms of the birch trees and hiding the cobblestone walkway from view. Squinting, he tried to locate his blue Renault in the darkness beyond the locked wrought-iron gate, but there was little light and his vision could not compete with the thickening snow. Behind him the convent had disappeared in a haze; ahead he saw nothing but a deepening void. Negotiating the new ice under his shoes as best he could, Verlaine edged his way out of the convent grounds.

  The crisp air in his lungs—so delicious after the stifling warmth of the library—only served to add to the exuberance he felt about his success. Somehow, to his astonishment and delight, he had pulled it off. Evangeline—he couldn’t bring himself to think of her as Sister Evangeline; there was something too alluring, too intellectually engaging, too feminine about her for her to be a nun—had not only given him access to the library but she had shown him the very item he’d most hoped to find. He’d read Abigail Rockefeller’s letter with his own eyes and could now say with certainty that this woman had indeed been working on a scheme of some sort with the sisters of St. Rose Convent. Although he hadn’t been able to get a photocopy of the letter, he recognized the handwriting as authentic. The result would surely satisfy Grigori and—more important—bolster his own personal research. The only thing that could have topped this would have been if Evangeline had given him the original letter outright. Or, better yet, if she had produced as many letters from Abigail Rockefeller as he possessed from Innocenta—and given him those originals outright.

  Ahead, past the bars of the gate, a sweep of headlights broke through the blur of snowflakes. A matte black Mercedes SUV pulled into sight, parking next to the Renault. Verlaine ducked sidelong into a thicket of pine trees, an act of instinct that sheltered him from the harsh headlights. From a needling crevice between the trees, he watched as a man wearing a stocking cap followed by a bigger, blond man carrying a crowbar emerged from the vehicle. The physical revulsion Verlaine had felt earlier in the day—from which he had only just fully recovered—returned at the sight of them. In the headlights’ glare, the men appeared more menacing, larger than was possible, their silhouettes blazing a brilliant white. The contrast of illumination and shadow hollowed their eyes and cheeks, giving their faces the stark aspect of carnival masks. Grigori had sent them—Verlaine knew this the moment he saw them—but why on earth he had done so was beyond him.

  Using the edge of the crowbar, the taller man brushed at a line of snow clinging to one of the Renault’s windows, running the metal tip over the glass. Then, with a show of violence that startled Verlaine, he brought the crowbar down upon the window, shattering the glass with one swift crack. After clearing away the shards, the other man reached inside and unlocked the door, each move quick and efficient. Together the two of them went through the glove compartment, the backseat, and, after popping it open from inside, the trunk. As they tore through his belongings—disemboweling his gym bag and loading his books, many on loan from the Columbia University library, into the SUV—Verlaine realized that Grigori must have sent his men to steal Verlaine’s papers.

  He wouldn’t be driving back to New York City in his Renault, that was for certain. Endeavoring to get as far away from these thugs as possible, Verlaine dropped to his hands and knees and crawled along the ground, the soft snow crunching under his weight. As he crept through the thick evergreens, the sharp scent of pine sap filled his senses. If he could remain under the cover of the forest, following the shadowy path back toward the convent, he might escape unnoticed. At the edge of the trees, he stood up, his breathing heavy and his clothes mottled with packed snow: A stretch of exposed space between the forest and the river gave him no choice but to risk exposure. Verlaine’s only hope was that the men were too preoccupied with destroying his car to notice him. He ran toward the Hudson, looking over his shoulder only after he’d reached the edge of the bank. In the distance the thugs were getting into the SUV They hadn’t driven off. They were waiting for Verlaine.

  The riverbed was frozen. Looking at his wing tips—the leather now completely drenched—he felt a rush of anger and frustration. How was he supposed to get home? He was stuck in the middle of nowhere. Grigori’s monkeys had taken all his notebooks, all his files, everything he’d been working on for the past years, and they’d trashed his car in the process. Did Grigori have any idea how hard it was to find replacement parts for a 1984 Renault R5? How was he supposed to walk through this wilderness of snow and ice in a pair of slippery vintage shoes?

  He navigated the terrain, striding south alongside the riverbank, taking care not to fall. Soon he found himself standing before a barricade of barbed wire. He supposed that the fence marked the boundaries of the convent’s property, a spindly and sharp extension of the massive stone wall that surrounded the St. Rose grounds, but for him it was yet another obstacle to his escape. Pressing the barbed wire with his foot, Verlaine climbed over, snagging his coat.

  It wasn’t until he had walked for some time and had left the convent grounds for a dark, snow-covered country road that he realized he’d sliced his hand climbing over the fence. It was so dark that he couldn’t make out the cut, but he guessed it to be bad, perhaps in need of stitches. He removed his favorite Hermès tie, rolled up his bloodied shirtsleeve,
and wrapped the tie around the wound, forming a tight bandage.

  Verlaine had a terrible sense of direction. With the snowstorm obscuring the night sky, and his utter ignorance of the small towns along the Hudson, he had no idea of where he was. Traffic was sparse. When headlights appeared in the distance, he stepped from the gravel shoulder into the trees at the edge of the forest, hiding himself. There were hundreds of small roads and highways, any one of which he might have stumbled upon. Yet he couldn’t help but worry that Grigori’s men, who by now would be looking for him in earnest, could drive by at any moment. His skin had already grown raw and chapped from the wind; his feet had gone numb as his hand began to throb, and so he stopped to examine it. As he tightened his tie around the wound, he noticed with stunned detachment the elegance with which the silk absorbed and retained the blood.

  After what felt like hours, he came across a larger, more heavily trafficked county highway, two lanes of cracked concrete with a sign that posted the speed limit-fifty-five miles per hour. Turning toward Manhattan, or what he assumed was the direction of Manhattan, he walked along the ice and gravel shoulder, wind biting into his skin. Traffic grew heavier as he walked. Semitrucks with advertisements painted across their trailers, flatbed trucks piled high with industrial cargo, minivans, and compacts sped past. Exhaust mixed with the frigid air, a thick, toxic soup that made it painful for him to breathe. The seemingly endless stretch of highway ahead, the bitter wind, the mind-numbing ugliness of the scene—it was as if he had fallen into a piece of nightmarish postindustrial art. Walking faster, he scanned the passing traffic, hoping to flag a police car, a bus, anything that would get him out of the cold. But the traffic moved by in a relentless, aloof caravan. Finally Verlaine stuck out his thumb.