He hesitated. He wanted to touch the diary. A chill had come over him, an overpowering sense of another person or personality, he didn,t know quite which. The man appeared so happy in the photograph, eyes crinkled with good humor, dark hair tousled as if by a breeze.
Reuben looked around the room, at the crowded shelves, the old maps taped to the plaster, and back at the desk. He felt a curious love for this man, well, an infatuation, perhaps.
"As I said, if the right buyer presents himself, all of this goes to storage. ASAP. It,s all been photographed, you know. Long ago, I had it done. I have files of photographs of every shelf, every desktop, every bulletin board. It,s the only kind of inventory I,ve attempted, so far."
Reuben stared at the blackboard. The chalk writing had surely faded. What was left was scratched into the blackness. But it was in English and he could read it, and he did:
" ,The glow of festal torches, - the blaze of perfumed lamps, - bonfires that had been kindled for him, when he was the darling of the people, - the splendor of the royal court, where he had been the peculiar star, - all seem to have collected their moral or material glory into the gem, and to burn with a radiance caught from the future, as well as gathered from the past., "
"You read it beautifully," she whispered. "I,ve never heard it read out loud before."
"I know that passage," he said. "I,ve read that before. I,m sure I have."
"You do? No one,s ever said that before. How do you know it?"
"Wait a moment, let me think. I know who wrote that. Yes, Nathaniel Hawthorne. That,s from a story called ,The Antique Ring., "
"Why, darling, that,s quite remarkable. Wait a minute." She began to search the shelves. "Here, here are his favorite writers in English." She pulled an old tattered leather-bound hardcover from the shelf. It had gilt-edged papers. She started turning the pages. "Well, Reuben, you take the prize. Here,s the passage, all right, marked in pencil! I would never have ever found this on my own."
He took the book from her. He was flushed with pleasure, and beaming at her. "It,s kind of thrilling. First time my master,s in English literature ever proved useful."
"Darling, your education is always going to be very useful," she said. "Whoever convinced you otherwise?"
He studied the pages. There were many markings in pencil, and those strange symbols again, dashed off, it seemed, revealing in their opacity what a complex and abstract thing written language is.
She was smiling at him with such obvious affection. But maybe it was a trick of the light from the green-shaded lamp on the desk.
"I should give this house to you, Reuben Golding," she said. "Could you afford to keep it if I did?"
"Absolutely," he said. "But there,s no need to give it to me, Marchent. I,ll buy it from you." There, he had said it, and now he was blushing again. But he was ecstatic. "I,ve got to go back to San Francisco - talk to my mother and father. Sit down with my girlfriend. Make them understand. But I can and will buy it, if you,re willing. Believe me. Look, I,ve been thinking about it since the moment I got here. I,ve been thinking, I,ll regret this all my life if I don,t, and you see, if I buy it, well, Marchent you,ll always find the door open, anytime night or day."
She smiled at him in the most serene way. She was both very present and very far away.
"You have your own means, do you?"
"Yes, always have. Not the means that you have, Marchent, but I have means." He didn,t want to go into the details of the real estate magnates who had founded the family fortune, and the trust funds arranged long before he was born. But how his mother and Celeste would scream when he told them. Grace worked every day of her life as if she was penniless. And she,d expected her boys to do the same thing. Even Phil had worked all his life in his own fashion. And there was Jim giving up everything for the priesthood. And here, he would go into his capital for this house. But he didn,t care. Celeste would never forgive him. But he absolutely didn,t care.
"Rather figured you did," Marchent said. "You,re a gentleman reporter, aren,t you? Ah, and you feel very guilty about that, too, I see."
"Just a little guilty," he said under his breath.
She reached out with her right hand and touched his left cheek. Her lips moved but she didn,t really speak. A tiny frown touched her forehead but her mouth was still soft and smiling.
"Dear boy," she said. "When you write a novel someday about this house, you will call it Nideck Point, won,t you, and you,ll remember me in some way in it, perhaps, you know. You think you might do that?"
He drew close to her. "I,ll describe your beautiful smoky-gray eyes," he said, "and your soft golden hair. I,ll describe your long graceful neck and how your hands make me think of birds when you gesture. And I,ll describe your voice, that crisp, precise way you say your words that make it seem like running silver when you speak."
I will write things, he was thinking. I will write something meaningful and wonderful someday. I can do that. And I,ll dedicate it to you because you,re the first person who ever made me think I could.
"Who has a right to tell me I have no gift, no talent, no passion...." he murmured. "Why do people say those things to you when you,re young? Doesn,t seem fair, does it?"
"No, darling, it,s not fair," she said. "But the mystery is why you listen."
Then all the old scolding voices went quiet in his head suddenly, and only then did he realize what a loud chorus they,d always been. Did he ever take a breath without hearing that chorus? Sunshine Boy, Baby Boy, Little Boy, Little Brother, Little Reuben, what do you know about death, what do you know about suffering, what makes you think, why would you ever try, why, you,ve never focused on any one thing longer than - . All those words just dried up. He saw his mother. He saw Celeste - saw her small animated face and large brown eyes. But he didn,t hear their voices anymore.
He leaned forward and kissed Marchent. She didn,t turn away. Her lips were tender, rather like a child,s lips, he imagined, though he had never actually kissed a child since he,d been a child himself. He kissed her again. This time, something stirred in her, and when he felt that stirring, the passion was sparked in him.
Suddenly, he felt her hand on his shoulder, squeezing his shoulder, and gently pushing him away.
She turned around and bowed her head like a person catching her breath.
She took his hand and led him towards a closed door.
He was certain this was the entrance to a bedroom and he had made up his mind. It didn,t matter what Celeste would think if she ever knew. He had no intention of passing up this opportunity.