“Or Milan. His hair is Italian dark, but he’s so fair.” Was that anxiety in his daughter’s voice reflecting the reality of her own olive skin? “Who in the world …?” she speculated.
“I don’t know him from Adam’s house cat,” Pierre answered over his shoulder as he turned to hurry toward his front door. Why not begin to use a few American expressions? A Southern one. He liked that one—a house and a house cat in Adam’s garden. The idiom caused the mythic world to jangle in pleasant discord against the bourgeois one.
Right behind her father, Arielle rushed to greet the new arrivals, but when she stepped into the sunshine, she let Pierre hurry on ahead of her. Arielle wished to appear composed—friendly but in nothing of a frenzy. She had liked Lucy Bergmann. She had thought her terribly lost and exceptionally naive for a middle-aged woman, but capable of basic honesty and caring. To what extent did Lucy care about her handsome traveling companion? Arielle wondered.
When he said his name was Adam Black, Arielle could not restrain herself from laughing. “Not Adam’s house cat, but the man himself?”
To her surprise, the young man blushed, looked concerned, and became silent. Hers was just a tossed-off, spontaneous laugh, but she saw he had some strange sensitivity about him. He wasn’t so very young—maybe thirty. Despite his clothes, he was lacking in sophistication. His mind lacked nimbleness, boldness.
“And where is my father’s plane?” Arielle asked, turning to Lucy.
Both of the visitors answered at once, but Lucy’s reply rang out more clearly. “I wrecked it.” Could it be possible that Adam had mumbled, “In Eden”?
Wary, Arielle could not stop herself from glancing at him askance.
Suddenly her father was shouldering her aside. He held out his hand to Adam, and then enclosed Adam’s hand in both of his. “We are delighted to welcome you. Enchanté,” her father said with just his particular mixture of warmth and polish.
In Adam’s face there was open gratitude. She watched their eyes meet—her father and Adam beginning to know each other. Perhaps even trust. He’s all right, then, she thought.
The taxi driver handed out another suitcase, large, to Adam.
“Is there another bag?” Pierre asked Lucy.
“No,” she answered. “We’re sharing.”
Together the quartet—Arielle thought of them that way—walked the stone path toward the house, her father ahead with Lucy, and she beside Adam, who carried the French horn case in one hand and in the other the suitcase that matched Lucy’s valise, though it had no decorative feathers. In the style of her father, Arielle just said, “We’re very glad you’ve come,” and let the rest of the short walk continue in silence. When she glanced back to watch the taxi disappear down the hill, she was glad she was not in it.
Her father walked with one arm loosely across Lucy’s back, his hand resting on the curve of her shoulder. Had he been wearing his Arabic robes, he would never have assumed such a familiar arrangement.
Later that night, after dinner, she would say privately to her father, “To my knowledge, you only met her at Nag Hammadi.” He would reply, “Not so. Remember I had spoken with her in Cairo, when she nearly broke down trying to address the symposium. And that is not all. When the piano fell in Amsterdam, I happened to be next to her. I put my hand under her elbow to keep her from falling.” Arielle would smile slightly even while giving her father the eye of suspicion. He would redirect her attention to herself: “And what are your intentions concerning the handsome Adam?” Instead of answering, Arielle would ask her father what he made of him, and her father would reply, “He has the perfume of a rare flower. He would require extraordinary care, more devotion than most people are capable of giving.”
But that afternoon, in the hallway to the bedrooms, Pierre asked Lucy in a direct fashion, “Shall you share a room?”
“I think not,” she said, “but would a connecting door be possible?”
“But of course,” Pierre said. “Exactly the arrangement my daughter and I have when we travel abroad together.”
“I don’t think he’s quite young enough to be my son,” Lucy murmured.
“Some people have young souls,” her father replied as he led them down the hall. “Some of us dally along the road to wisdom, or even to age.” Without even looking over his shoulder he tossed back the idea, “Perhaps you yourself have a soul that has rested as much as it