Part 2 (1/2)
A period of haggling ensued. When Margaret hung up she was smiling smugly. ”What a cheapskate. He won't pay your plane fare. But this is not to be charged to your vacation time, and your other expenses will be paid.”
”I only had two weeks vacation coming,” Elizabeth exclaimed. ”And I certainly didn't expect-”
”It's the least he can do. Since you're on an expense account, you can take us to dinner. Someplace very expensive.”
After due deliberation, however, she decided that in honor of Elizabeth's first night in Copenhagen they would go to Tivoli. ”I know of a wonderful place near Radhuspladsen, where the cheapest entree is twenty-five dollars. But you must see Tivoli first.”
Elizabeth was not inclined to argue. Christian didn't either, but his disapproving frown intensified.
By the time they arrived at the entrance, the lingering summer dusk of the north had fallen, and all the lights of Tivoli were aglow-Chinese lanterns hanging from the trees, long strings of bulbs outlining the facades of the major buildings, rows of antique streetlamps and modern gla.s.s globes. Music floated in the air like clouds; they walked from a mist of Strauss waltzes into the oom-pa-pa of a German bra.s.s band, and out of that into jazz. Ponds and lakes glimmered with rainbow reflections. The buildings were straight out of a fairy tale: a Moorish castle, a Chinese paG.o.da painted black and red and gold, a timbered chalet. Flowers lined the path and bloomed in neatly tended gardens; trees and shrubs wearing the young leaves of early summer tied the whole glorious package together like bright green ribbons. Christian, wearing a three-piece business suit and a necktie, was as out of place as an undertaker at a Greek wedding.
Elizabeth was so bedazzled she hardly noticed what she was eating. Margaret had not been joking about letting her pick up the check. Christian tried to protest, but was overruled.
”Be sure you get a receipt, dear,” Margaret advised. ”Billy wouldn't reimburse his own mother without a receipt.”
Afterward, as they strolled along the crowded paths, Christian said resignedly, ”I suppose you will insist on riding the carousel.”
Elizabeth gave him a startled glance. Then, realizing he had not been talking to her, she gave him another, even more startled glance.
Margaret's costume-the peasant skirt, Russian boots, and a babushka peppered with strident red roses- blended beautifully with the childlike charm of the scene. She looked like a benevolent witch.
”The carousel?” she repeated, in the abstracted tone of one who has been wrapped in profound introspection. ”Oh, I don't think we ought, Christian; do you? With poor Marian in the hospital? It doesn't strike the right note, somehow.” Her face brightened. ”However, it wouldn't do any harm to look at it.”
Having wallowed in travel brochures and guidebooks for the past three months, Elizabeth knew that Tivoli was essentially an amus.e.m.e.nt park, and she had had some reservations about its reputed charm. Patronizingly she had concluded it would attract the same sort of people who crowded similar places in the States. The reality had quite disarmed her, but she was not especially interested in the low-brow amus.e.m.e.nts like rides and arcades. In her youth she had been escorted to a number of amus.e.m.e.nt parks by doting parents and grandparents, and had been forced to ride in little cars that banged into one another, little airplanes that swooped sickeningly through the air, and little boats that glided monotonously around a stagnant circle of water. She had not liked them very much, but instinct had told her that she was supposed to enthuse, and she had courteously done so.
The first ”ride” they came upon consisted of a circle of miniature Viking s.h.i.+ps with dragon prows painted in bright primary colors. The dragons' teeth, bared in cheerful grins, reminded Elizabeth of Margaret. The procession sailed slowly around a tiny lake, and the boats were filled with children and a few escorting adults.
Elizabeth had a sudden, insane desire to ride in one of the s.h.i.+ps. Horrified at her lapse, she laughed condescendingly.
”How sweet.”
Christian took Margaret's arm in a firm grasp. ”This would strike just as improper a note as the carousel, Margaret.”
”Certainly, certainly,” Margaret murmured. As Christian led her away she looked longingly over her shoulder at the grinning dragons.
There is no other music like that of a carousel. The lure of its wheezing rise and fall is an incantation that takes the listener back to childhood. And this was the most beautiful carousel Elizabeth had ever seen, set in a green-walled clearing, gleaming with fresh paint and gilt. Snow-white horses with red saddlecloths and golden harness, a giant rooster with crimson comb and wattles, camels and elephants and elfin sleighs painted with flowers were followed by a giraffe at least twelve feet tall, its scarlet saddle empty, as if waiting for a larger and more capable rider than the tots and toddlers who perched on the other animals.
Elizabeth glanced at her employer. The look on Margaret's face, as she followed the musical circling of the giraffe, could only be described as l.u.s.tful.
”We've seen it,” Christian announced unnecessarily.
”It's time we returned to the hotel. You need your rest, Margaret.”
Margaret allowed herself to be removed from the carousel. But Elizabeth had the feeling that if she had really been determined to ride the giraffe, it would have taken a stronger arm than Christian's to prevent her.
Margaret was not the only one who cast a wistful glance over her shoulder as they left; but Elizabeth was too young to confess this weakness even to herself. She only thought, what a pity that Margaret shouldn't be allowed to indulge herself. Eccentricity is permissible in the elderly, if they are rich enough or distinguished enough.
As they walked toward the entrance Elizabeth was struck by the good manners of the people around them. The place was very crowded, and she heard s.n.a.t.c.hes of at least five different languages in addition to English. She saw only one unfortunate incident. Just as they left the carousel area, a flurry of movement and a series of indignant comments drew her attention to the person who appeared to be the center of the disturbance. He was a very large man wearing a shabby navy-blue jacket and a knitted cap pulled low over his forehead. Since he was easily eight inches taller than anyone around him, his features were plainly visible. They bore an expression of intense distress. Elizabeth had the impression that he was staring at her, which was of course absurd. As soon as she turned her head the large man started backing away, pus.h.i.+ng people from his path.
”Drunk,” Christian said, as the very large person vanished from sight. ”The crowd is getting rough. Margaret, you're dawdling. Please hurry.”
”I would like to have a gla.s.s of beer,” Margaret said.
”When we reach the hotel.”
”Here.” Margaret indicated an open-air terrace filled with tables. She ducked away from Christian's grasp and trotted up the steps.
”d.a.m.n,” Christian said.
Elizabeth did not know why she chose that moment to speak up. Christian had annoyed her from the first, and his att.i.tude toward his mother had been a mounting source of aggravation. However, she had determined not to interfere in what appeared to be a private family feud. The crisp, angry comment, and Christian's scowl, snapped her self-control.
”Mr. Rosenberg, why do you treat your mother like a half-witted child? I know it's none of my business, but-”
”It is your business.” Christian transferred his scowl to her. ”If you are going to work for my mother, you ought to know the truth. She is totally irresponsible. Her secretaries have to be a combination of nursemaid and keeper. She-”
Elizabeth was thoroughly shocked. ”Are you trying to tell me she is-I mean, that she isn't-”
”She's crazy. Loony. Weird. Bonkers.”
”Yoo-hoo!” Margaret had found a table. She was waving and grinning and beckoning. ”Yoo-hoo,” she caroled again.
Christian winced. ”This is not the time nor the place,” he muttered. ”We'll talk later. Hurry up before she says . . . that . . . again.”
He took her arm and hurried her into the pavilion. Elizabeth couldn't help grinning as a fluting chorus of ”yoo-hoos” urged them on. She had never actually heard anyone say ”Yoo-hoo.”
But Christian's brutal, angry speech had disturbed her. Was it possible that Margaret Rosenberg, America's most distinguished literary figure, suffered from a severe mental disorder? Was her public image a sham, maintained by the tireless efforts of her son and a series of hired ”keepers”?
No. She couldn't believe it. Christian was a pompous a.s.s. What he called ”weird” was only a delightful kind of eccentricity.
Margaret had already ordered for them. The beer was one of the famous national brands. Christian stared at his with loathing.
”You know I hate beer. Why do you keep pus.h.i.+ng it at me?”
”I don't push it at you when we are in the States. It's only polite to drink it here. The large breweries support many cultural and charitable enterprises. Here's mud in your eye!”
When she lowered her gla.s.s a foamy mustache adorned her upper lip. She didn't bother to remove it. Reaching into her capacious purse, she took out a manila folder and handed it to Elizabeth.
”You might look through this material before you go to bed. Familiarize yourself with the subject.”
If any other employer had suggested such a thing, Elizabeth would have been indignant. It was hardly reasonable to expect her to start working on her first evening, after a long, tiring trip. And why had not Margaret given her the material earlier, before they left the hotel? Such lack of consideration seemed out of character. But, Elizabeth acknowledged, she was just beginning to plumb the depths of Margaret's character, which appeared to have the dimensions of an underground maze the size of Mammoth Cave.
On top of the sheaf of papers in the folder was a photograph, eight by ten inches in size, depicting a long robe or gown displayed on a headless dressmaker's dummy. The bodice was sleeveless and close-fitting, the skirt was floor length and longer in front than in back, so that it formed a kind of reverse train. The fabric, which was sadly worn and tattered, appeared to be figured in some way.
Elizabeth studied the picture in bewilderment. Given Margaret's penchant for outre costumes, it was not surprising that she should possess a picture of what seemed to be a poorly preserved garment of some long-gone era; but at first she failed to understand why the photograph should form part of a collection of material related to Margaret's latest project.
Then she saw the label under the photo. ”Robe of Queen Margaret.”
”Hers?” she exclaimed unbelievingly.
”Hers,” Margaret agreed.