The Delicate, Passionate World of Gregory Morgan and Vivien Prevette / Book 2: The Courtship

The Pepperton Press

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Scotch Plains, NJ  07076-9998

First printing, November 2018

Copyright © Mia Marko, 2018

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Visit the website of The Delicate, Passionate World at www.delicatepassionateworld.com.

ISBN:  978-1-7325546-2-7

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CONTROL NUMBER: 2018909302

Art elements and frontispiece drawing by Milagro Bethel Rivera.

Book Layout by Michal Marko. 

Printed by Thomson-Shore in the United States of America

Gore, M. (2006) Martyr [Recorded by Depeche Mode]. On The Best of Depeche Mode, Volume 1 [CD]. London, England: Mute Records.

To my Angel, in all his mortal and immortal forms,

to the greater glory of His unspoken name.

I’ve been a martyr for love, and I will die in the flames. As I draw my last breath, as I’m closing on death, I will call out your name … I knew what I was letting myself in for. I knew that I could never even the score.

-Depeche Mode, Martyr

The Delicate, Passionate World

of Gregory Morgan and Vivien Prevette

Book 2 – The Courtship

INTERMEZZO

V

ivien awoke feeling dreadful, mouth dry and her tongue like sandpaper.  She wondered what sort of ailment this might foreshadow when the previous night flashed before her eyes.  There was the bar, there was her somehow staggering to Gregory’s place in the dark, and then she remembered Gregory holding her.  She vaguely remembered telling him she loved him – had she really done that?  No, surely not.  Perhaps it was all just a really awkward dream.  Embarrassed, she dragged herself out to the washroom and completed her morning tasks.  On the way back she spied Gregory’s dark umbrella propped up against the wall.  So it had been no dream, then.  I’m sorry, Gregory, she thought, heart overflowing with remorse.  She picked up the umbrella, hugged it to her chest, and cried softly.  Then she took the umbrella inside with her, wiped at her eyes, and sat down at the dining table where her mother had laid a slice of toast and a hard-boiled egg in front of her.  Vivien found she couldn’t muster the needed courage to eat the egg but she reluctantly picked up the toast and took a cautious bite.

Her mother walked over from the kitchen with two cups of tea for them and then sat down across from Vivien.  You look the worse for wear, said her mother.  How many drinks did you have?

Three, I think, answered Vivien morosely.  I am so sorry!  She stared down at her plate, eyes filling with tears.

Well, I think you learned something, at least? probed her mother.

Yes, I did, Mother, said Vivien quietly.  It was a terrible evening!

Yes, it certainly was!  I was worried sick about you, and you put yourself into a potentially dangerous situation!  I assume we are clear that under no circumstances is this ever to happen again!  On the other hand, it was also an interesting evening in one respect.  Mr. Morgan put a question to me last night and it has led me to a question for you, said her mother.  Would you like to know what it is?  Vivien nodded.  Before we speak of it, tell me, what is the nature of your feelings for Mr. Morgan?

Already feeling wooly-brained, this shocking question landed on Vivien like a toaster dropped from a fourth-story window.  I – I don’t – I … beg your pardon? she stuttered.

I wish to know how you feel about our friend and frequent visitor, Mr. Morgan.  He is charming, he is most handsome, but he is also highly unusual and more than a bit strange.  Would you not agree?

Vivien’s brain felt like it was now on fire.  What should she say?  Sober, she could not put into words the nature of her feelings for Gregory Morgan, not even if threatened with burning at the stake.  It could suddenly not be put into any words that she knew and was willing to speak aloud.  This was a feeling deep inside her beyond the reach of any words.  Still, she suspected there was a right way to answer this question and a wrong way, and she wanted desperately to be told what the correct answer was because it seemed very, very important to get it right.  Oh … ah … yes.  Yes, he is – unusual, but he is also a very kind friend.

Yes, yes, but does he appeal to you as a potential suitor? asked her mother impatiently.

There was no way around it.  She had to answer somehow.  I don’t know, I suppose … well, I suppose he might, that is to say he does, but it hardly matters because …

Why does it hardly matter? asked her mother, her brow furrowing with her question.

Well, because he has expressed no wish to court me, said Vivien.  There, she had said it.  Her mother may as well know that, for all of their strange connection, Gregory had not yet intimated an interest in courtship as such.  Even in their most intimate moments, there was an overtone of parent-child in their relationship that made traditional courtship seem perhaps permanently out of bounds.

You are mistaken, said her mother.  He has expressed a wish to court you.  He asked me yesterday if he might come calling on you.

Vivien dropped her toast.  The laws of the cynical universe still holding, the toast landed butter-side down on her plate.  He had asked her mother …!  He really did care, he had intentions of courtship with her, even though she was so much younger and just an uneducated seamstress living in this small, run-down apartment … Why?  Are you sure? she breathed, blinking up at her mother as if stunned by a sudden bright light.

Of course I am sure.  I am to get back to him with my decision, which is why I wanted to know your thoughts on the matter.  I still think you are too young, but maybe that is a mother’s protectiveness speaking.  I was not all that much older than you when your father and I met, so perhaps it is already time …  But I would not want to encourage him to come calling if you do not wish to receive him as a suitor.  What should I tell him, Vivien? asked her mother.

So it was true!  She should think about this, should consider everything very carefully, should proceed with caution and sense …  But then the thoughts in her mind were overridden by the loud, enthusiastic, emotional chorus crying he cares! he cares! he really cares for me!  She felt the warm fire within her brain shift down her throat and then to her chest, from where it proceeded to glow out of her with a brilliance that she could not suppress, like Nadine’s face in the café when she had been sitting with Frank.  Now Vivien could feel her own face breaking into a wide, exuberant smile, tried to fight against it or at least reduce its wattage but there really was no hope of that because she was suddenly so gloriously happy.  Even the egg suddenly seemed palatable.  She reached her hand out and stuffed an entire half of it in her mouth at once, eager to hide her immense smile with it.

Her mother smiled back.  Oh, so this is how it is, is it?  I can see your reply in spite of your stuffing that egg in your mouth.  You are not fooling me!  So this news makes you happy, I see.  I take it that your answer is that you would like to see him come a-courting?

Vivien nodded, happy to be spared the need for words and glad she had a reason not to give them as she was still chewing.

I will permit him to come and call on you, then.  But do not say yes just because he is so handsome.  Truly, he means something to your heart, Vivien? asked her mother gently.

Vivien swallowed, pulled together her courage, and said Yes, he means a great, great deal.

Vivien’s mother reached a hand across the table and tucked a strand of hair behind Vivien’s ear.  You must know that Mr. Morgan was also very disappointed by your poor decisions yesterday.  I think he must be very fond of you and forgiving as well to ask to court you even in the wake of such a scene as you made at his place yesterday.  Think on this and do not let it happen again if you wish to secure his good opinion of you.

Vivien looked down again and nodded.  I understand, Mother, she said quietly, an ache touching at her heart.  That horrible yesterday …!  Gregory would probably never look at her quite the same again.

Very well, said her mother, finishing up her own small breakfast and standing up from the table with a smile.  Eat the rest of your egg.  As for me, it seems that I have a letter to write.

CHAPTER 12 - PART II (continued from Book 1)

Pessimism, weakness in the face of beauty, flirtation, fear

T

he next morning after Vivien’s unforgettable drunken visit to his apartment, Gregory woke up after his few hours of sleep still feeling exhausted.  In his dream he had held Vivien for hours and hours, reliving all of his overwhelming desires of her and torturing himself with her sweet nearness until he wanted to kick a hole through his wall.  He reached out for her hair ribbon which was now lying on the table beside his bed, and he moved the smooth length of it through his fingers as he stared at the ceiling in the pre-dawn darkness, wondering what in God’s name had possessed him to ask Vivien’s mother if he might court her daughter.  He had not had a plan to ask for this, it had been entirely spontaneous, and now that he had asked he wondered if it was evidence of him being not as morally strong as he should be.  If he had been truly holy, he would not have asked.  As the trite saying went, had he won the battle only to have lost the war?  He knew he had no business courting Vivien Prevette but he also knew that, in order to keep seeing her and to be allowed to be alone with her, this was the necessary next step because, as Wolf had so tactlessly pointed out, this was how the world worked.  What other reason could there be for wanting to spend time alone with a beautiful young girl?  At some point, the expectation would now presumably hang on him to make Vivien his bride.  He could get out of it by running away or by staging his death or perhaps by saying he had changed his mind, but it was not going to be pleasant in any case.  For a while he let himself fantasize that he could find a way to make good on his stated intent for courtship, that they could be together in a fairy-tale future where all things, no matter how unreasonable or unlikely, could still come true.  Then he came back to his reality and berated himself for what now seemed a horrific mistake.  Well, her mother could always say no, or Vivien could turn out to not want him when sober ...  It was surely foolish to begin to contemplate all of the future complications when they had yet to go on any rendezvous, their early visits to the Café du Monde notwithstanding.  If they were meant to court, Vivien and her mother would acquiesce.  If it was not meant to be, they would say no and that would be that.  He would just have to wait and see.  The possibility of having set irreversible forces into motion filled him nonetheless with trepidation, aligning perfectly with his unadmitted motto of it is never too early to begin worrying.

As soon as it was day, Gregory got himself down to the store so that he could talk with Wolf.  Wolf, who most likely never slept at all although they had never spoken about it, was already up and about.  I’m sorry that you had to walk in on that scene, said Gregory to Wolf, meaning it both as an apology and as a statement of fact that he wished Wolf had not walked in on them, stirring up all those eddies of sin and desire in his wake.

Ah, Gregor!  Sit down for a moment, if you have the time, said Wolf.  Gregory dutifully sat down.  "Do you remember at the beginning, when I first met you, how we spoke extensively about self-control and the many contributions that daily order and personal restraint make to allowing this kind of life of ours to be, in spite of everything, a reasonably happy one?  Well, now I wonder, aren’t you taking self-control a bit too far?  No man could take what you are taking!  You are holding yourself to an unreasonable standard!  Ach, and then you fall in love so easily and so deeply with the fragile and transient beauty of this world …  It is one of your most sublime personal characteristics, but you must realize it is also one of your least helpful."

You mentioned something about speaking urgently about information that Anastasia shared with you, said Gregory, brusquely changing the subject.  He was not going to have this entire conversation a second time.  If he had to hear again how this would only end up in someone’s bedroom, his hands were now free to pound the stuffing out of Wolf. 

Yes, and my apologies, said Wolf.  I want to remain in friendship with you, Gregor, but be kind to yourself as well.  Go easier on yourself.  That is all I wanted to say there.

So, about Anastasia, then? prodded Gregory.  It hardly seemed possible that there might be a topic he would wished to avoid so keenly that he would rather speak of Anastasia instead, but here it was.  Anastasia was the incredibly beautiful if harsh creature and acquaintance of Wolf’s from Europe that Wolf kept trying to pair Gregory up with.  Her great beauty notwithstanding, she reminded Gregory far too much of a horrible woman from his past, and every time he thought of that one an involuntary shudder swept him.

Anastasia came by yesterday evening when she arrived in the city and told me several things, most of them disturbing.  The situation in Europe is dreadful, as it has been for years, but now with the war in Spain going, and Hitler and Mussolini and Stalin making a mess of it everywhere else, it does look as if war is likely to spread again.  The kind of pressures that the government in Austria is under, fighting to stay independent …  It is noble and futile, and the word among espionage circles is that that independence is unlikely to last much longer.

Espionage circles? asked Gregory, surprised.

What exactly did you think it was that Anastasia was doing in Copenhagen? replied Wolf.  You see, she is a patriot, just like you.

Ha!  Yes, for the enemy!  And the front line cavalry has always been fine enough for me!  I would never stoop to espionage, said Gregory haughtily, but he was surprised nonetheless.  He always thought of spies as bland, unassuming men with mustaches who would blend in and go unnoticed.  Anastasia was about as unlikely to go unnoticed as a giraffe wrapped in bright pink gauze.  It had to bring additional risk to her work.

I imagine she is making very significant contributions, said Wolf.  And as for helping the enemy, isn’t there some old wisdom about the enemy of my enemy being my friend?  His wrinkled face contorted into a wry smile.  But that is not what I wanted to tell you.  There are two pieces of important news:  the first is that the Rector of the Faculty of Literature and History at the University of Innsbruck will be retiring in June, and he is the one that I personally entrusted my books to.  The second is that in May there will apparently be a rare book auction in San Francisco of works owned by the late Otto Kreutz.

Wolf paused and looked at Gregory, apparently waiting for a sign of recognition.  Gregory scanned his memory (a thing quickly done since there was not much to go through) and turned up nothing.  I’m sorry, did we discuss this before? asked Gregory.

The book, Gregor, the book!!  The one I have been seeking all these years!  The one about the origins and purpose of longevity and the true nature of time! replied Wolf excitedly.  A gleam had come into his ageless eyes.

Now the gears of Gregory’s memory clicked into place.  This is that passionate project of yours, am I right?  You have been looking for this one book for years, and you almost found it when someone else -

Otto Kreutz, interjected Wolf.

- when Otto Kreutz got there first.  I confess, I thought you told me that story just to make yourself seem interesting.  So there is such a book? asked Gregory.

Yes, there is, written by the seventeenth century Belgian sage Pieter van Aerts.  It is supposed to explain many things that I would much want to know.  In all of these years in the antique book trade, I have been waiting for this one particular book to come into my hands, said Wolf, moving the book press over and sitting down across from Gregory at the table.  His eyes were sparkling with interest beneath his bushy eyebrows. 

If you just wanted to read it, Gregory said, then why didn’t you ask this Otto fellow if he could show it to you?  Waiting all this time to find out what is written in one book – it seems likely that you might be disappointed once you see what is actually in it.

Well, you are not entirely wrong there, admitted Wolf.  It does seem like a kind of foolishness, but I have read accounts of individuals who have seen this book and if even half of what they say is true, well … I simply have to see it for myself.  And as for Otto Kreutz, that pompous fool, he always refused to meet with me.  I decided I would simply outlast him, as it appears I now have.  So you can see that I feel I must go out to San Francisco for this auction, because there is a chance that this book will be among the items in the sale, and if it is then I must at least try to acquire it.  I am thinking that if you can watch over the store for two weeks in May while I am out, then when I return we can close the store for the summer and go out to Austria for my other books.

I can manage the store, as long as you will not ask me to make many of the book repairs myself.  That could lose you more customers than would closing for a few additional weeks, said Gregory lightly.

Wolf laughed.  No. Agreed, no major repairs, but if you can glue in a torn page here or there, that would be nice of you.

I suppose I could, here and there, agreed Gregory. 

They discussed the various options to get Wolf's books out of Austria.  It was going to be a challenge given the political climate of Europe at the moment and given the extreme value of many of the books, but as Gregory pointed out, Wolf had gotten himself a well-skilled Soviet spy to come and visit so he could get assistance with the necessary logistics.  And as for the timing, Gregory wondered if they should perhaps wait until politically things became more calm, but then Wolf pointed out that they would have to deal with the new Rector, and who knew what that individual might turn out to be like?  They agreed to make the trip out in June and be back in New Orleans by end of August so that the store could reopen in September.

June it is, then, said Gregory.  I will be glad to go with you in June, and to watch over your store in May.  I have already made myself the necessary note in my notebook.

Wolf looked over at him and smiled.  Thank you, Gregor.  I am most grateful.  Then Wolf pulled out his pocket watch.  I told Anastasia to come by my apartment this evening.  Are you free to join us, if your little Mademoiselle won’t be keeping you too occupied?

Gregory frowned, the warmer feeling that he had had when Wolf had smiled at him and thanked him now starting to dissipate again.  I am free to join you, he said.  I generally visit Mademoiselle Prevette and her mother on a few afternoons a week.  I am not in the habit of calling on them in the evenings, and last night excepted, I most certainly do not spend the very late evening hours with them.

Very well, then.  It is arranged.  I look forward to having you come at around eleven o’clock, said Wolf, standing up.  And not to worry, it will not be a total loss of an evening even if we bore you to tears with talk of politics.  Anastasia looks simply stunning, he added with a smile.

I’d rather look at you, said Gregory sarcastically.

Yes, I’m sure, said Wolf dryly.  I love it when handsome, young men tell me that.  Now, are you ready to take down the new supplies list that we need?  Oh, and write down tonight at eleven o’clock at my place, or we will wait and wait and you will never show up!

Gregory took out his pocket notebook once more and jotted down the evening appointment time and then all of the supply items.  Then he went out, jumped on his bicycle, and the day moved on quickly after that.  His mind kept returning to Vivien, to the evening that he had had with her, and to the question that he had left with Vivien’s mother about being permitted to call on Vivien as a suitor. What a moment that would be, when he would go and ask Vivien herself if she would have him for a beau!  Their friendship had already started to change.  Both the moment in his kitchen when Vivien had discovered his lack of plates or foodstuffs, and the moment when she had staggered through his door drunk and vulnerable, had created situations of discomfort and uncertainty between them but had at the same time given birth to a far greater degree of intimacy.  She now knew things about him that he had wanted to hide, and if Wolf was right, Gregory now knew things about her that she may not yet have even admitted to herself about the nature of her feelings for him.  Was this how people came closer together, he wondered, through mutual discomfort and fear?  He was so lost in his thoughts that he rode right past the street he needed to take to get to the paint and varnish store, and he had to turn around and go back.  He spent most of the day in an unfocused haze.

In the early evening he went out for a solitary stroll, then sat by a window at a table in a café in the French Quarter, pulled out his pocket notebook, and wrote some more notes to himself for his journal.  He watched the people moving out in the street until darkness fell and then he headed out into the early night to take care of a small meal for himself.  He had eaten the night before last so he would probably be alright.  It was just as an extra precaution; there was no point in coming to Wolf’s hungry so that Wolf could point out to Anastasia Gregory’s cooling hands and fingertips beginning to turn bluish, and describe him as an example of a creature so failed as to not even be able to take basic care of itself!  From his previous meetings with Anastasia, he knew that she was the kind of harsh, punctual, almost militaristic creature that would look down on someone who smelled like drink and looked like he was barely dragging himself through his existence.  He went home and scrubbed up in the bath and put on a crisply starched shirt and new collar before he made his way over to Wolf’s.  Wolf opened the door, welcomed him, and took his hat and coat.  Anastasia was already inside, looking out the window, with her back to the door.  She was wearing a clingy white satin gown that left her entire long, smooth back bare.  Anastasia was never cold.  She started her days backstroking through the Volga, presumably after having broken the ice on it in winter with her high heels – or possibly with her teeth.  Her shoulders were athletic and impressive.  Her dark hair was now cut modernly short, adding to her demeanor as a woman of action.  She was not interchangeable, of course, with the woman who had once toyed with him for a few months and then left him, but there were so many similarities that it was always more than slightly off-putting.  There was the domineering tone, the feeling that he was being looked down upon, the emotional coldness.  Unlike the other one, Anastasia was not well-mannered or genteel in her mannerisms, and he could only associate that with the lower strata of society.  He really worshipped women, the superior, soft-voiced, flower-like creatures who were the caretakers of beauty in the world, and he could not forgive Anastasia that there was nothing at all lady-like about her.  She looked rather like the kind of seductive creature that might eat him for a small snack.  Gregory gulped.

Wolf returned from having put Gregory’s hat and coat away and found Gregory still in the doorway, gaping at Anastasia’s bare back.  Oh, come now.  Don’t be shy, Gregor.  Come inside!  He reached around and closed the door behind Gregory.

Anastasia, presumably tired at last of having her goddess-like backside admired, turned to face him as if she had just discovered that Gregory was there, which was obviously not possible.  How theatrical and fake she was!  Gregor!  It is good to see you once more, she said.  Violet eyes … he had forgotten about that.  There was probably not a more devastatingly beautiful woman in all the wide world … well, unless it was the other one – the horrible one.  Her voice was low and rich, and her Russian accent was as strong as her shoulder muscles.  He saw that her long, painted fingernails were holding a drinking glass.

Anastasia, how do you do? he said, bowing low.  It has been a long time.  You look marvelous.  What is the glass for?  Have you decided to take up bourbon while you are here in Louisiana?

She gave a small, curt laugh.  Vodka, Gregor!  I have changed my views since we last met.  Stalin is currently purging all the non-drinkers from the Politburo, don’t you know?  Nothing is more suspicious in Russia than a teetotaler.  It was impeding my career.  Moreover, I saw that all of that liquor drinking did not slow you down much so I thought I would give it a try.

Hasn’t slowed him down much?  Ha!  Don’t you know it has made his memory like a sieve? cried Wolf, shaking his head disapprovingly and moving towards his brilliantly lit dining table.

I don’t think tha-at t is the source of his memory troubles, said Anastasia, slinking towards the table herself now, coil after white satiny coil, like a snake.  In her weapon-worthy footwear, she was almost as tall as he was, Gregory noticed.  It’s probably all those falls from horses in his early years, as he once told us.  Anyways, I still rarely drink, but when I do I prefer to have the best, and here she tapped her long fingernails so hard against the bottle on the dining table that it rang like a bell.

What’s this? asked Gregory, walking over to look at it.  The label was covered in Cyrillic text.  For all he knew, it was Moscow drain cleaner and Anastasia was trying to do him in.

Why, it’s the best vodka in the world!  Only very high Party officials are ever served this, said Anastasia, seating herself slowly and carefully as if her posterior was made of breakable glass.  Gregory watched her with interest, trying to determine if this was supposed to be seductive or if it was a case of hemorrhoids.  Anastasia saw him watching and smiled.  It was probably not hemorrhoids, but he could always wish that it was.

I take it that you are a very high Party official, then? asked Gregory, sitting down and letting her pour more of the vodka into her glass and then hand it to him.  There was no glass at his own place setting; Wolf was always discouraging Gregory’s drinking.

Don’t insult me, Gregor.  I am above all of that, and I owe allegiance to no man, said Anastasia in an arrogant tone.

Do your espionage colleagues know this? asked Gregory mildly.

Children, stop bickering!  I feel like I am presiding over a kindergarten, with unruly youngsters at table!  I knew I should not have allowed any alcohol here, despaired Wolf.

Yes, you never let me bring any here or have anything at the table.  Why does she get to? asked Gregory, sniffing at the clear liquid and then taking a gulp.  It was pure fire all the way down.  Hmm, not bad, this stuff. 

I brought it as a gift, said Anastasia.  Everyone does that in Russia.

But you know Wolf does not drink, so I can only assume that this is a gift for me, said Gregory, adding a sickly smile just for his own enjoyment.

Or it could be that I knew I would need it to get through an evening with you! snapped back Anastasia, violet eyes blazing with temper beneath her dark eyelashes.  Oh wow, but she was glorious when angry, Gregory had to reluctantly admit.  It made him remember exactly how he had fallen before, with the other one.  He had gone down without any fight.  Mortal men unprepared for what they were dealing with would probably drool on Anastasia’s lethal, dagger-heeled shoes. 

I give up, sighed Wolf resignedly.  This will be a long evening!  Will you two lovebirds stop chirping at each other long enough to let the game begin?

That’s right, you can have me later, da-arling, said Anastasia in her exotic accent and with a smile over at Gregory that showed every one of her teeth, even the ones in the back.  For now we must restrain ourselves at the table.

Gregory rolled his eyes and poured himself another suddenly much-needed drink.  He had hardly gotten a sip down when she reached over, grabbed the glass from him, and drained it in a single gulp.  So much for that.  He pushed down the sensation of a freshly bruised ego, looked longingly at the bottle, and wondered if they would end the evening with him just swigging straight from that.  Wolf cleared his throat and brought Gregory’s attention back to the card game, which was just beginning.  They had to refresh Anastasia on the rules, and then the game commenced.  Anastasia, stubbornly failing to adapt herself to the social custom of her host, proceeded to play with all of the hard competitiveness of one challenged to the death.  At least she refrained from conversation, though, so that was a good thing.  The light of all those candles in the silver candelabra reflected off of her bare arms, and the gems at her earlobes sparkled brilliantly.  Her neck, long and pale and slender, remained unadorned.  Everything about her was breathtaking.  I have been here before and know what lies on the other side with a creature like this.  But poor, foolish men of New Orleans, look out! thought Gregory grimly. 

The Tarock game ended with Anastasia winning, and she won the next two games as well.  Gregory found himself missing Karl, with whom he could at least have whispered what a fool she was making of herself.  Not that Anastasia wouldn’t have heard him – her senses were so acute, she could probably hear a mouse pissing in a corner – but at least Karl would have happily agreed with him.  Then, eventually, after Gregory had stolen the glass back and helped himself to more vodka, Wolf indicated that it had been enough and they could move over to the sofas.  Anastasia sat down in that same ridiculous way again and then leaned back against the cushions, the fine shape of her torso emphasized by the tightness of her satin gown.  Gregory sat down across from her and thought again about his temptation with Vivien the night before.  He realized that here was an extremely beautiful woman he could probably touch every inch of if he made the right appreciative noises this evening, but he did not want her.  There was nothing soft, kind, or feminine here.  At the same time, the more vodka he drank, the harder it was to not look at her.  A self-declared admirer of painting could not stand by unmoved while contemplating the glories of a Rembrandt, and neither could a self-admitted admirer of beautiful women fail to enjoy the landscape that Anastasia so carelessly rolled out before him, with full intention that Gregory should look and admire.  As long as she didn’t try to touch him and didn’t say anything, he could probably look at her forever without tiring of the scenery.  Satisfied that she was being adored, she looked over at Gregory through half-closed eyes, all but purring.  He didn’t think she minded the view back in his direction either.  Too bad that she always had to open her mouth and say something rude and ruin the temporary détente between them. 

So, do you still go to the theater and then sit there surrounded by beautiful women, Gregor, as was your custom? asked Anastasia.

No, I have given them up.  I found it was distracting me too much from the intellectual content of the performances, retorted Gregory.  "And on the intellectual front, I am proud to say that I have recently rewritten Keats’ poem ‘Eve of St. Agnes’ to my own satisfaction."  Anastasia gave a loud, annoying laugh.

Pardon me, but for the moment can we leave off discussing Gregor and his ladies?  I want to know more about the news from the Old World, interrupted Wolf.

Well, you asked about the war in Spain, replied Anastasia.  I was there for a few months, on assignment.  Things there are rapidly going from bad to worse.  Just recently, I saw things at the siege of Madrid that looked like the Russian Revolution all over again.  We never really make any headway, I think.

Then why even bother with the espionage work? asked Gregory.

"Well, I have to do something, said Anastasia, looking over at him with a smoldering glance.  I don’t have a bookstore to keep me busy, and even my nights can get monotonous, would you believe it.  I need something to do."

Ah, so you do it for sport, said Gregory. That was certainly why the other one, the horrible one, had done with him what she had done – for sport.  And men were said to be the cruel and rough ones!

Certainly I do it for sport!  I hope you do not think I do it for the love of Mother Russia!  Even if that were true, I would not want to have such a sentimental reputation,  Anastasia laughed again.  But tell me, Gregor, if Uncle Sam should get himself into another war in Europe, you would go and fight again, am I right?

Gregory shrugged.  I hope we would be wiser in America than to go and do it again, and if not, that at least I would be wiser.  It would take a lot for me to ever re-enlist.  Nothing that I am currently aware of in existence could induce me.

Gregor still has shrapnel in his leg from the last war, explained Wolf.

Ooh, crooned Anastasia, turning to stare at the wrong part of Gregory’s trousers.  You will have to show me later.

Wolf and Anastasia then launched into a lengthy discussion on the political state of Europe.  Gregory, who only gave Stalin two thoughts a year, filled the time with admiring Anastasia, albeit in a purely theoretical and abstract way.  To imagine that one day his little Vivien would grow up and he might get to see her in a gown of this style, to see so much of her skin at once …  The dull political conversation went on for a while until finally Wolf asked Tell me what is new with my good friend Dieter.  I receive his letters but suspect he does not put everything in them that he might say in person.  Has he really not considered getting out of Munich yet?

The last time I asked him this he frowned and said why leave now, it was just getting interesting, said Anastasia.  I think he was being sarcastic.  Then he moaned for the next two hours about the latest European news.

Oh, that sounds like him, agreed Wolf.  I need to write to him and see if he will be around for us to pay him a visit while we are in Europe.  I am very worried about Austria, as you know, and about my books.

I saw books burned for warmth in Spain last winter, said Anastasia.

Wolf shuddered as if that were the worst image of war that he could conjure in his mind.  Then he lay the details of his exact difficulties before her.  

Anastasia listened, then threw her head back and looked up at the ceiling.  The smooth curve of her neck was a glorious thing to look at, just like the horrible one’s had been …  How to do this …  How to get your books out, with the least amount of trouble … Give me a moment, she said in her resonant voice.  Gregory and Wolf looked at each other and waited.  Anastasia ran a hand through her hair in the inelegant, rough way a man might do, took a deep breath, and then sat back upright.  It will be easy, she said, leaning forward, violet eyes ablaze.  It can be done like this.

Before the evening was out they had a rough outline of a plan sketched out.  Anastasia could be many things, but inept was not one of them.  Gregory had to admit that the quick cleverness of her mind far outshone his own.  Wolf went to fetch something from his study.  Gregory looked over at Anastasia and caught her looking back at him.  Our Russian Catherine the Great had not one but two famous lovers named Grigory, she said. Apparently, they were rather satisfying.  They must have been, because she was with them far longer than she was with any of the others.  The others never lasted very long, she added, giving him what he assumed she thought was a flirtatious smile but which looked far too predatory to pass for flirtatious.

Hmm, yes, but I am not sure that it worked out all that well for either of them, replied Gregory cautiously.

Oh come!  I know you are impatient to spend some time with me, Gregor, but what I have to tell you is that I have to take a trip to Washington first.  I will be away for the next three weeks.  You can take me out and show me your endearing little town when I return.  She laughed.

I will wait as best as I am able, replied Gregory, standing up from his seat.  He waited until Wolf returned, thanked him for the pleasant evening, thanked Anastasia for her visit, got his hat and coat, and let himself out, eager to be home and to have the social demands on him be over for the day.

[ GREGORY’S REVISED ‘Eve of St. Agnes’ can be found on THE DELICATE, PASSIONATE WORLD WEBSITE. ]

CHAPTER 13

Awkwardness, declarations of intent, intimacy, story-telling, the romantic hero, secrecy between two

T

he next few days were a torture of emotion for Vivien.  Riding these uncontrollable and overwhelming new emotions, she was elated and dejected by turns.  He wanted to court her!  No, he had changed his mind and was now filled with regret.  They would have rendezvous like something out of the motion pictures!  No, he had only said he wanted to court her for some other reason, yet to be revealed – possibly to keep her from drinking or acting foolish again.  They would have the most blissful times alone together!  No, her mother would probably never let them be alone and it would be some farce of a courtship, spent entirely in this apartment and under her mother’s watchful eyes.  She wanted to run and tell Nadine the news!  But what if it did not turn out to come true?  How foolish she would look then!  She was still in the midst of these increasingly disjointed mental ramblings when, a few days later, there came a knock at the apartment door and Gregory walked in, his hat swinging in his hands.

Was he always this gloriously handsome or was he particularly luminous on this day?  Or was it the knowledge that he had expressed interest in courting her that was coloring her perception of him?  He sat down carefully on the edge of the sofa and looked over at Vivien.  A sudden terror came over her.  What should she say?  How would it go?  What if she bungled this?  Her mother asked him how he was doing, Gregory was answering her, but Vivien noticed that something was different about him than on his previous visits.  It was with surprise that she identified what it was:  Gregory Morgan was nervous.  This man, who had walked in here and faced down the wrath of her mother at the beginning of their friendship as if it were no big thing, looked suddenly tense and worried.  What could be worrying him, she wondered?  Then all at once she realized that he might be wondering if she wanted him, if she might not turn him down.  Suddenly she wanted her mother off the scene, so that this uncertainty hanging between her and Gregory could be confronted without her mother there for an audience.

As if on cue, her mother said You received my letter, Mr. Morgan?  He nodded.  It is a pleasant enough day today, her mother continued.  Would you and Vivien like to go out for a walk together?  A half-hour stroll, and if you could combine it with a stop at the grocer’s, Vivien, to pick up a box of dry macaroni, that would be nice of you.

Does the half hour include these … foodstuffs, or can that happen after the half hour stroll? asked Gregory.  I would want to be back with Mademoiselle at the correct time.

The macaroni can happen after a half-hour stroll, said her mother magnanimously.

Thank you, Madame, said Gregory.  Then he turned his pale face to look at Vivien.  Mademoiselle Vivien, would you like to accompany me for a stroll?

Vivien wanted to throw something.  Oh, these ridiculous charades!  I should be pleased to go with you, she said, heart racing as she rose from her chair.  She would not be afraid.  She would just go and let what was meant to happen happen.

Gregory gave her a quick, shy smile.  Very well.  Vivien was half way to the door when he asked Mademoiselle, will you be taking a light coat, perhaps?

Vivien looked down, surprised to find that she was not in fact ready to go out.  She blushed.  Yes, I – I will go and fetch it, she managed to say.  She found her coat, came back to where he was standing by the door to the hallway, and looked over to see if he was having second thoughts about going for a walk with someone so scatterbrained.  Gregory was back to smiling gently at her.  He promised her mother they would be back within the hour and then he opened the door for her, they stepped out of the apartment, and at last they were free.

They walked down the stairs and out of the building.  In the street Vivien stopped, so Gregory stopped.  They looked at each other.  His face looked even paler in the cold sunshine.

Do you remember the day we met at the Café du Monde? she asked him. 

Are you asking because you know my memory is so lousy? he challenged.  Then he smiled again and added Of course I remember.

Well, this feels different now, she said.  Don’t you agree?

He thought for a moment and then nodded.  Yes, he said.  It does feel different.  May I offer you my arm? 

She hesitated, then looped her arm through his dark-suited sleeve in the most genteel and careful manner possible.  With this arrangement made, they proceeded down the street.  Vivien wondered if the neighborhood busybody Mrs. Bailey was watching them, then realized that she did not have to worry about it anymore.  If Mrs. Bailey saw them, let her choke on the sight of Gregory!  All the same, Vivien did suddenly wish that they were taking this stroll elsewhere than around her immediate neighborhood.  Now the gossiping would begin.

Gregory must have had the same idea because he said Do you suppose your mother might give us an hour and a half of time one day, so that we could go to Audubon Park for a stroll instead?

She might be persuaded, said Vivien.  To walk through Audubon Park in the spring with her arm looped through Gregory’s seemed like it would be too much paradise for one mortal to enjoy.  What would it be like?  Why, it would surely be wonderful!

They walked on for a while, then came to a bench.  Mademoiselle Vivien, would you sit with me for a moment? asked Gregory politely.

Sit with you?  We only have a short time for this walk, and if we sit then there will hardly be much walking at all, said Vivien.

Well, that is true, but as I hope we have come out here so that I might discuss a serious matter privately with you rather than merely to take some exercise, I believe it will be time judiciously spent, said Gregory.

Oh, said Vivien with sudden awkwardness.  She abruptly sat down.  This is not about my drinking of too much bourbon, is it?  You know I felt terrible then and felt terrible afterwards and as a matter of fact I still feel terrible.  I am so sorry that it all happened like that.  Thank you for not turning me out when I came to you.  I realize I should not have done that, but I did not think about it very clearly at the time.  It was more like my feet just walked to your place of their own accord.

Gregory sat down beside her.  Vivien, I am not here to discuss your drinking with you.  I, too, have done foolish things, some of them even quite recently.  To give you an example, one thing I recently did was ask your mother if I might come to court you.  Tell me, Vivien, was that foolish of me?  Do you think of me as some ancient relic and would shudder at the thought of me coming to call on you?  I won’t come like that if you won’t have me, he said quietly.

Vivien felt her heart suddenly pounding loudly in her chest.  A horrible nervousness come over her.  This was better than being upbraided for the incident after the bar visit, but it was not much better.  The uncomfortable stickiness of intimacy poured over them as it had on the day when she had agreed to call him Gregory, and she found herself wanting to flee from the emotional demands that the situation placed on her.  She looked across at him, determined to deflect his direct emotional entreaty, and said You hardly look like an ancient relic.

Well, that is something, at least, he said glumly, looking away.  He was silent for a moment before continuing.  I … I’m sorry, forgive me, I should not have asked.  I can see that my question leaves you unsure of what to say.  Perhaps that is an answer in itself.

No – no, Gregory.  I want …  He turned back to face her, his unsure eyes looking at her with caution now, a trembling behind their butterscotch hue.  I want to be near you, be with you, have time with you alone … have you come to visit us just for me …

He reached out a hand a tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, an exact imitation of the gesture her mother had made at breakfast a few days earlier.  Vivien, don’t you know?  I have always come just for you. 

Knowing it and hearing him say it, in his wonderful, rich, throaty voice were two entirely different things.  Vivien’s heart began to race wildly as he kept looking at her, her eyes unable to tear themselves away from the sweet, tender expression in his gaze.  Why would she hesitate?  If this man was asking to court her, what kind of a fool would say no?  I would be very happy, then, if you came to call on me as a suitor, she said in the quietest and smallest voice in the world.  No sooner had the words come out than a wonderful, light feeling came over her.  She had said it, he knew what she meant, he would say yes, and now he would never, ever go again but rather be with her always …!

He reached for her hand and his fingers lightly shook as touched her.  His voice also suddenly took on a hoarseness to it that betrayed the vulnerability and depth of emotion within him.  I promise you that I have decent intent, he said, gazing into her eyes.  I promise you that you won’t regret this.  You have my word, Vivien.  Do you trust me?

Yes, Gregory. she answered in a whisper, and then he lifted her hand to his lips and set her entire world to spinning in gravity-defying circles.  A shower of happiness rained down on her, any remaining awkwardness melted away, and she found that she had reached in him again that same blissful, magical place where all barriers dissolved and where they could drift without any explanations or any words.  With her eyes she traced the long line of the side of his neck and then face back up into his dark hair, the curve of his ear so delicate and pale and she wondered if it was soft to touch, his dark eyelashes and beneath them the tender look that held her in its full focus, as if she was the only thing that existed in his universe.  This man who had once hit her with his bicycle, who had filled her hospital window sill with flowers, who had let himself be carefully embraced in the dark on the porch of the Columns Hotel, this same man was now sitting here looking at her as if she was a minor miracle.  She remembered sitting beside him astride D’Artagnan and how close they had been, only she had not been able to see his face so the intimacy had seemed somehow more bearable, but now …  He lowered her hand as if it was made of something breakable, his fingers still lingering on hers.  Then his eyelashes lowered again, hiding his eyes from her, like a kind of respectful bow but without lowering his head, and she felt herself wanting to move forward toward him.  Was this the time to tell him again that she loved him, she wondered?  Should a courtship begin with that?  No, no, her mind must be going mushy to even contemplate it!  He undoubtedly already thought her impulsive and immature, after her visit to him a few nights ago.  Time to pull herself back together, before she ended up clinging to his shirtfront here in the street and babbling inanities!

So, time for the macaroni, perhaps? she finally said, breaking the spell.

Gregory looked at her for a moment as if he had forgotten to breathe, then took a breath again and laughed.  Time for what?  Oh, Vivi, my practical Vivien!  Without you reminding me, I might have sat here happily for the rest of the day!  You are right, we should be on our way.

A lot of sewing work kept Vivien and her mother busy, and it was a couple of days before