up in lush, tropical Caribbean surroundings, working in some kind of exchange with his father, speaking French publicly, maybe refusing to speak Yiddish at home. Nick saw beautiful dark women, naked and beckoning, through Hyam’s young man’s eyes. And then the exciting European cosmopolitanism and urban evils of New Orleans; the lonely years of travel in his wagon as a peddler; the land, the beautiful spread of acres he falls in love with as he rides through it by chance, vowing to acquire it; the shop in Natchitoches and the drudgery of merchandising; the incremental financial and social successes; the slave auctions; the building of Mitzvah; the planting; the marriages, the deaths, the births; Mulatta Belle, leaning on Hyam’s arm as they stroll through Natchez, as he gambles on a riverboat–he too rich and powerful to suffer reproach for loving her, she too beautiful and defiant to care what society thinks.
And there is young Ivanhoe, in the study of Mitzvah, being taught by Hyam himself, to the measured ticking of a clock. Young Jacob taunting younger Ivanhoe, calling him names, fighting with him, not bold enough yet, and too afraid of his father, to cast out his half-brother. Euphrozine, whispering plots to Jacob, urging him on in their gambit for complete control when their ailing father would finally die. An old man’s hand grasping a quill pen as it scratches out three letters promising land. The death of Hyam. The cruel reign of Jacob and Euphrozine. The war, Jacob’s horrible injuries, which drive him nearly mad; his humiliation, which finishes the job. The death of Mulatta Belle. Ivanhoe, writing his diary at the end of each day in his barbershop, wondering if anyone would ever read it, hoping that his carefully crafted testament will somehow secure the future for his descendants–
“Nick? Nicholas Herald! Are you asleep? You can’t be; your eyes are open.”
Una tugged forcefully at his coat sleeve. The house lights were up, the curtain closed. It was intermission, thrown in by the drama department as a ploy to entice people to buy tickets in the lobby for the upcoming season.
Nick came to. Damn! He’d missed Jaques’ great hymn to melancholy, his favorite part. But something just as wonderful had come to him in his reverie.
“‘From hour to hour, we rot and rot, and thereby hangs a tale,’” he mumbled from memory toward the curtained stage. Thoughts of Ivanhoe’s first diary entry, of what Erasmus III had said about keeping important papers in the family Bible, of Twice’s demented oration on mortality and eternity…all swirled around in Nick’s consciousness.
I know! I know where to find Ivanhoe’s letter! He jumped up, just stopping himself from dashing to the nearest exit.
“What happened to your face?” Una asked, noticing a few scratches and bruises. “If you’re drunk, Nicholas Herald!” She wagged a warning index finger. When extremely put out with him, Una lapsed into frigid formality. One of his grandmothers used to do the same thing; he thought it was cute.
“Drunk? Not yet, my dear. Not yet. Come on, let’s get some champagne before these artsy-fartsy types suck the bottles dry.”
In the urbane chatter of the lobby, second champagne in hand, he explained to Una why he hadn’t phoned her for the past few days–leaving out any mention, of course, of his barbaric butchery and borrowing of irreplaceable documents.
“While I was gone, did you notice anything in the news about an old guy who committed suicide over in the Irish Channel?”
“Yes, I believe…I’m certain I did. It was in the Times-Picayune. A small article. I didn’t know him, so I didn’t really give it a second thought. Why do you ask? What did that unfortunate man have to do with you?”
“He was my client, Una. He didn’t kill himself. I think there was foul play involved.”
“You mean he was…murdered?” She stumbled over the baleful word.
“I’m not sure. Another client of mine might be responsible.”
“Oh my God!” she blurted out; and then, in a lower, conspiratorial whisper, “It just occurred to me: a tourist was fished out of Lake Pontchartrain.”
“So,” Nick said, “that’s par for New Orleans. What makes you think it has anything to do with the old man or me?”
“She was from Poland and worked in her state’s archives. She was the equivalent of a genealogist!”
“Ah,” said Nick, massaging his neck. Being scared shitless was tiring work. “I see what you mean.”
“I don’t like this. Are you in any trouble, Nick? Please, please don’t get caught up in something that might…might