The Metropolitans by Carol Goodman
VIKING
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street
New York, New York 10014
First published in the United States of America by Viking, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2017
Copyright © 2017 by Carol Goodman
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Ebook ISBN 9781101997673
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To my mother, Margaret Agnes Catherine McGuckin Goodman,
ring-a-levio champion of Bay Ridge and champion mother.
For all the stories.
1923–2016
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
BEWICK’S BIRDS
1 OUT FROM UNDERFOOT
2 THE STONE GIANT
3 GONE TO PIECES
4 FROM THE AIR
5 PAPER AIRPLANES
6 RING-A-LEVIO
7 FISH DREAMS
8 AT THE BOTTOM OF A TEAPOT
9 TWO-FACED
10 THE EGYPTIAN BOY
11 THE LION OF TRUTH
12 KNIGHTS AND LADIES
13 THE TENTH OF DECEMBER
14 BIRDS OF A FEATHER
15 BORIS KARLOFF
16 WHERE HEROES DIE
17 TROMPE L’OEIL
18 THE RAMBLE
19 THE HOUR OF THE FISH
20 THE WHISPERING GALLERY
21 UNDER THE BIG CLOCK
22 COFFIN OF BONE
23 THE CLOISTERS
24 THE FLAGPOLE
25 THE KNIGHTS OF THE ROAD
26 THE HIGH TOWER
27 ZYKLON B
28 SURRENDER
29 THE FLEA FLICKER
30 THE SLIP
31 THE END OF THE TAIL
32 THE LADY OF THE HARBOR
33 AULD LANG SYNE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
BEWICK’S BIRDS
THE PICKUP WENT smoothly. He was sure no one had followed him to the bookstore on Fourth Avenue. The shop was deserted; the old bearded proprietor barely looked up from his Yiddish newspaper at the jingle of the bell over the door. The younger man wished, though, that the shop would get rid of the bell. Every time he heard it, he thought of alarms going off and sirens blaring.
The folded paper was between pages 166 and 167 in Bewick’s History of British Birds. He used to worry that someone would purchase the book, but in the half dozen times he’d been inside the store, he’d never seen another customer, let alone one who would venture beyond the lone circle of lamplight at the cash register into the dim and murky stacks in the rear section. In fact, he’d noticed last time that the only interruption in the strip of dust along the metal shelf was in front of Bewick’s. He’d used his own handkerchief (carefully laundered and ironed by his sister Sophie) to wipe down the shelf, lest anyone who had followed him discover which book he had pulled out.
But no one had followed him. He was sure of that. The bit of shadow he’d glimpsed on the corner of Tenth Street and Fourth Avenue had been only a scrap of newspaper blown by the wind. When he turned to look, there was only the steam rising from the grate in the street. On cold days, the steam looked like ghosts rising from the pavement. Only a few weeks ago one of those ghosts had resolved into a man in a nondescript beige trench coat and a gray fedora pulled low over his face. The man who had changed his life, and he didn’t even know his real name. He called himself Mr. January.
The young man slipped the folded page into his right coat pocket and the twenty-dollar bill into the other and left the store. Fourth Avenue was deserted this early on a Sunday morning. He turned right and walked south to where the avenue merged with the Bowery. Here under the shadow of the Third Avenue El there were people—gaunt men huddled over fires burning in trash cans, passing around tin cans of coffee and the dregs of something that smelled like rubbing alcohol. One lurched into his path, holding out a trembling hand for a dime, but when the bum looked up and met his eyes, he started and shambled away as if something he’d seen there had scared him. Instinctively the young man clutched his chest where the book Mr. January had given him was tucked into a special pocket he had sewn into the lining. He felt its solid rectangular shape through the threadbare lining and his thin shirt and felt warmed by it. He could have been one of these hopeless men if Mr. January hadn’t picked him out and given him a mission. All he had to do was give Mr. January a little information—and learn the book by heart.
In case you ever have to get rid of it, Mr. January had explained. Whatever you do, you must not let the book fall into the wrong hands.
He crossed Houston, walked west to Mulberry Street, and turned south. Better to lose himself on the smaller streets. Not that he was being followed—
If you’re being followed, Mr. January had told him, you must destroy the book. That’s why it’s vital you memorize it. You must never let the book fall into the wrong hands.
At first he had wondered what all the fuss was about an old book. He understood why he had to be careful about the messages he received. He always burned those once he had committed them to memory. But the book—couldn’t they use another if this one was lost?
But no, Mr. January had explained, this one was special. There were only five like it in all the world and three of those copies were with his companions. The fourth, Mr. January was placing in his hands, and the fifth—
The fifth had been lost many years ago. He shouldn’t worry about the fifth. Make sure no one got his copy.
He didn’t need to be told twice. Once he began using the book, he had grown attached to it. He slept with it under his pillow at night. He would sooner die than let it fall into enemy hands.
He wound a serpentine path through the streets between Houston and Canal before coming to the café. Mr. January had told him he should vary the location where he read the messages, choosing large, anonymous places such as libraries, churches, or men’s rooms in train stations, but in this one thing, he followed his own wishes. The café was very quiet on a Sunday morning, most of its usual patrons at church. There were only the ancient waiter wiping down the marble counter, the baker in the back preparing the bread and pastries for the old Italian grandmothers who would come after Mass at the Church of the Most Precious Blood, and one white-haired old man in a rusty black suit sipping espresso.
He always chose the same table, in the back by the window, so he could watch the street and the door. If he hadn’t been able to get that table—or if there had been anyone sitting close to it—he would have gone on to the Tompkins Square library, where there was a desk hidden in the stacks that was private, or to Precious Blood after Mass, where he could sit in a darkened pew. But there was only an old man reading one of the Italian newspapers that were kept on wooden racks by the door. He helped himself to a copy of Corriere della Sera and nodded to the waiter behind the marble bar, indicating he would have his usual. He sat down at the little marble table and, after checking the street, took out the book.
The leather felt warm and slightly spongy—damp, even. Had he allowed it to get wet? The idea made his heart race. But when he laid his hand on the cover, he felt calmer. No, the book always felt like this. It must be a feature of the leather it was bound with—whatever kin
After the waiter had brought him his espresso and cornetto and gone back behind the bar he took out the folded page. He unfolded it carefully and laid it flat on the table. It was the longest message he had received yet. The page was crammed tight with minuscule handwriting, all of it encoded, divided into five sections, the first section headed by a picture of the quartered shield, and the other sections each headed by one of the symbols inside the shield and a number. He knew that each symbol corresponded to a section of the book and he’d have to use that part of the book to decode that part of the message. His fingers itching at the thought, he took out the good fountain pen his father had given him when he graduated from university. This must be it: he’d proved himself to his masters and now he was being entrusted with a special mission. He could hardly wait to wrest the message—his mission!—from the pages. But he knew it was more important now than ever to remain calm and be careful. He looked at the first symbol: a shield. He knew that each section of the book was marked by a symbol on the shield. Only on the last page of the book—the epilogue—did the shield appear again. He knew the epilogue by heart! To test his memory, he closed his eyes and recited the words to himself.
At long last Arthur returned to Camelot with his companions, and they resumed their lives there, never telling anyone of the strange adventure they had shared in the Hewan Wood and the Maiden Castle or the grave portents told to them by the Lady of the Lake. They kept their secret through the terrible years that followed—through war, betrayal, exile, and death—for they knew that in the end, whatever they lost would be restored to them when they were reunited on the Isle of Avalon, and whenever great evil arose in the world, four brave knights would arise in their names to vanquish it.
That last bit always gave him courage. Wasn’t he like a knight of times gone by on a sacred quest?
Reassured, he opened his eyes . . . and caught the old man looking at him. His heart thudded. The man didn’t look away—surely a spy would—but only lifted his demitasse and said, “A fellow lover of the muse! Bellissimo!”
He tried to smile back, but it may have come out as a snarl, because the old man lowered his head and returned to his newspaper.
Perhaps it really was foolish to read the note in public, but it was one of his few pleasures. To sip a cup of espresso with the book in front of him. He took a sip of the strong coffee now to steady himself and turned the pages to the last passage of the book and confirmed that he had the lines right.
At long last Arthur returned to Camelot . . .
Yes, he had the lines memorized exactly. He could dispose of the book if need be. But for now he wrote out the line on the top of the paper as Mr. January had taught him to, and followed the instructions for the key as he had been taught. As he began decoding the message, he thought how fanciful these men were—to use an old book as a codebook, to use symbols from a sentimental romance as keys! It’s because we’re knights, acting in a valiant cause, on a quest to save the kingdom. . . . He paused, pen in hand, and looked at the enciphered message. He had only decoded the first word but suddenly, looking at the rest of it, he understood it. Not only could he read the message, he could actually hear the words as if they had been spoken, and not in just one voice but a whole chorus of voices. As if all the characters in the book were speaking to him. He scanned the rest of the page and it all became clear to him! It must be a sign that he was truly worthy of the mission he’d been given. And what a mission it was! He got up, sliding the paper into the book. This was it! After weeks of training, he had proved his mettle and he would be entrusted with a crucial mission.
He paid with the crisp twenty-dollar bill he’d taken from Bewick’s Birds that morning and left a generous tip. The rest he would give to Sophie to buy groceries and pay the rent. Was there enough for her if he should not survive the mission? He counted up the money in his head as he walked blindly through the now-busy streets, the voices buzzing in his head like a swarm of bees as he made his way through Chinatown, past City Hall, and west toward Little Syria, where the cafés sold Turkish coffee and sticky sweet pastries. He stopped at one and bought some sugared almonds for Sophie. You must make sure there’s enough money, one voice whispered. If there isn’t, you might have to ask Mr. January to wait, another voice cautioned.
Coward! yet another voice hissed. He was looking for an excuse not to perform his duty. If he put them off now, the call might not come again. He must heed the call—as a knight heeds the call of his lady when she bids him to ride out and slay the monster that threatens her castle. That was why they had given him the book. It wasn’t just a key to the coded message—which lay within the pages of the book; he must remember to burn it—the book was meant to inspire him. It told the story of a brave king, his lady, and his companions who went on an adventure to save the kingdom from evil. They were asked to make a great sacrifice and in return were promised that their legacy would live on and that whenever evil arose, four would rise in their names to take their places. . . .
But you are only one, all the voices whispered together. Could he complete the mission on his own?
He touched the book for reassurance and felt it beat as if it were alive. But of course it was his own heart racing, galloping like a startled rabbit. Icy sweat was streaming down his face. The voices in his head had grown silent, but he knew they were still there. Waiting. He stopped and fished his handkerchief out to wipe his damp brow—and saw the old man from the café drawing the collar of his coat up and hurrying down another street.
He stood, clutching his handkerchief in his hand, his heart squeezed tight as a fist under the book. It felt as if the book had gotten heavier and was weighing on his heart, crushing it—
He was being followed. The old man from the café was following him. He was after the book!
He must not let him get it. He turned around—and around again—spinning in a circle like a child’s top. Idiot! Think! He had to find a fire to burn the note and the book. One of the trash cans the tramps stood around—he’d find one of those—
He started down the street, not sure where he was. He’d wandered blindly for so long, he’d lost his way. He smelled saltwater and—something burning. He went toward the burning smell. Find a fire! There ahead of him was a park—bare trees, a band shell, children running over brown grass, a stone building with rounded towers—a castle! Like the one in the book. Surely that was a sign he’d come to the right place. In front of the castle was a cart selling roasted sweet potatoes and chestnuts. That’s what he had smelled. Could he use the chestnut vendor’s brazier to burn the book? No, the fire wasn’t big enough. If the old man saw him dump the book in it, he’d get it out before it burned all the way. He looked behind him to see if the old man was behind him, but he didn’t see him in the crowd.
There were lots of people now. Sunday holidaymakers streaming into the park, heading for the ferry, walking along the river—
The river. That’s what he’d smelled before. He heard it now too, slapping against the piers in time to the beating of his heart. He went toward it, drawn to the clean salt smell that reminded him of when he and Sophie would take the ferry out to see the Statue of Liberty, and Sophie would say that the lady was like a queen in a fairy tale. . . . There she was now! The lady in her copper robes and crown. She was like the lady in the book—like a fairy tale!
Sophie’s voice was so clear in his head that he thought she was there beside him. He almost felt her hand in his. He spun around to find her—
Dead leaves, scraps of paper, smoke from the chestnut vendor all swirled together like a carousel. In the center was the old man from the café. Yes, he was following him.
He heard the old man shout as he swung his leg over the seawall, but it was faint beneath the slap of the waves and the cry of the seagulls that seemed to be echoing the voices from the book. They were calling him to perform one last quest. Only as the cold water rushed up to greet him did he hear another small voice in his ear asking him, Why, Nino? Why are you leaving me here alone? Sophie! What had he been thinking? She would be all alone—she didn’t even know where the money was hidden. He tried then to stroke with his arms, to pull himself to the surface, but the book had its steel claws in his heart and was pulling him down into the darkness.
1
OUT FROM UNDERFOOT
EVERY SUNDAY, MADGE McGrory had two main jobs: Stay Out from Underfoot and Cause No Trouble. These were the conditions her aunt Jean had made when she took Madge in after her mother had died. Cause No Trouble meant making herself breakfast (cold cereal because Aunt Jean, who worked late-night shifts at a diner, couldn’t stand the smell of cooking) and getting herself off to school in the morning. Madge didn’t mind this. She used to get up early to help her mother with the twins and to walk Frankie to school. As Roosevelt had said, everyone had to pitch in to end the Great Depression, old and young alike. The WPA had given her dad a job when he needed it, so Madge didn’t mind doing her part. My little organizer, her mother would call her as she rallied her brothers to order. Bossy, the nuns called her. It was easier now that she only had herself to worry about, although she did miss the smell of her mother’s oatmeal cooking on the cast iron stove, and Frankie’s company.