Dan Simmons - The Fifth Heart

Glacée à la napolitaine Château Lafite

Old Reserve Madeira

The “cigarettes” had been crossed out, which James wholly approved of, especially in mixed company, but also because it had become déclassé in most upper-class English and Continental meals to include smoking as a formal menu item.

The oysters were followed by soup, a light dish which James paid little attention to because of the conversation with the beautiful women on each side of him, then a fish course.

The first ten minutes of conversation were mostly taken up by questions—almost exclusively from the ladies at the table—to Sherlock Holmes. Was he really a consulting detective? What did a consulting detective do? Were his adventures as exciting as they read in The Strand and Harper’s Weekly ?

“I can’t answer that last question, I fear,” said Holmes in his clipped, formal but friendly English accent. “It’s only been the last year or two that these so-called chronicles of my cases have been published by Dr. Watson, and I honestly haven’t had the time or opportunity to read any of them.”

“But they’re based on truth?” asked Helen Julia Hay.

“Quite possibly,” said Holmes. “But my friend Dr. Watson—and his editor and agent Mr. Doyle—are pledged to entertain the reader. And, in my experience, the hard truth and entertainment rarely co-exist peacefully.”

“But what about Silver Blaze?” asked Clara, her voice small but determined. “That case was true, was it not?”

“Who or what is Silver Blaze?” asked Holmes.

Clara grew a little flustered but managed—“The case . . . the name of the race horse that was stolen . . . that ran away . . . the story in last month’s Harper’s Weekly .”

“I confess that I’ve never heard of an English race horse named Silver Blaze, Mrs. Hay,” said Holmes.

“You see, Clara,” said John Hay. “I told you it was fiction. I lose a fortune at the track when I’m in England, and I’d never heard of a colt named ‘Silver Blaze’ either.”

Holmes smiled at that. “I did have a minor case involving a horse named Seabreeze in eighteen eighty-eight—he won the Oaks and St. Leger in that year—but his ‘disappearance’ amounted to little more than his wandering away one night. The neighboring farmer found him and I worked to the limits of my detecting ability to follow clear hoofprints in the mud to the neighboring farmer’s home.”

The group chuckled but Clara persisted. “So the trainer wasn’t found dead?” she asked.

“He was, actually,” said Holmes. “But it was a mere accident. The poor lad was taking Seabreeze for his evening walk, evidently had noticed some possible problem with the colt’s right rear hoof, had knelt behind the filly—never a good idea at the best of times—and lit a match in the failing light even before raising the hoof for inspection. Seabreeze kicked once, purely out of instinct, and the poor fellow’s head was . . .” Holmes glanced around the shining table at the shining faces. “That is, he died instantly of a head injury. But no foul play.”

“Silver Blaze was a colt in the story anyway,” said Clara Hay. “Not a filly.”

Everyone laughed with her.

Guided by both Hay’s and Henry Adams’s hosting expertise, the attention soon moved away from Holmes, and localized conversations quickly began to include entire ends of the table and then everyone. Twelve diners was close to the perfect number for intimate and audible table conversation, especially with such reticent conversationalists in the group as Henry Cabot Lodge, Don Cameron, and smiling, attentive, polite, but mostly quiet Del Hay.

James was reminded that Adams and Hay—and the late Clover—were neither too educated nor too proud to pun.

“Our poor Vito Pom Pom came home with an injured eye today,” said Nannie Lodge, speaking loudly to be heard by Helen Julia Hay on the other side of James so that everyone at the table heard her.

There was no lag in response.

“How dreadful,” said Henry Adams. “Now, I forget, Nannie . . . is Vito Pom Pom one of the servants or a relative?”

“Henry,” sighed Mrs. Lodge. “You know perfectly well that Vito Pom Pom is our beloved Pomeranian.”

“ Your beloved Pomeranian, my dear,” murmured Henry Cabot Lodge in disapproving bass tones that caused the crystal chandelier to tremble.

“How strange,” said John Hay. “And I had thought the new immigration acts had all but shut off the flow of Pomeranian refugees into this country. Tragic, tragic.”

Nannie Lodge frowned prettily at Hay sitting on her left.

“My diagnosis is that Vito Pom Pom is most likely suffering from a cat aract,” said Henry Adams.

“Most likely a tom-cat aract,” added Hay.

Those who allowed themselves to chuckle at such things—a group which certainly did not include Senator Lodge nor Senator Cameron, and to which Del Hay wasn’t sure to join or not—chuckled.

“It could have been much worse,” Henry James said softly. “Our friend Vito might have been completely cur tailed.”

There was the briefest of pauses and then more chuckles. Lizzie Cameron laughed out loud—a fresh, gay, unselfconscious laugh.

Then, with the happy irrelevance of youth, Helen Julia Hay said to the table at large—“Is everyone looking forward to going to the Chicago World’s Fair this summer? I know I am! Everything I’ve read about the White City says it’s perfectly marvelous!”

“It’s not precisely a World’s Fair, my dear,” said her father. “Chicago is hosting the World’s Columbian Exposition , commemorating the four hundredth anniversary of Columbus’s discovery of America.”

“But the Exposition is opening in eighteen ninety- three ,” said Del.

Henry James opened his palms. “Columbus missed finding America by . . . what? . . . some two thousand miles between here and Trinidad?”

“Two thousand one hundred and seventy-three miles from where we sit right now,” said Henry Adams.

“So Columbus missed discovering America by two thousand one hundred and seventy-three miles,” continued James. “The Exposition missed the anniversary of this non-discovery by only one year. Our aim is improving.”

Hay turned to Adams. “You’re sure about that extra one hundred and seventy-three miles?”

“Quite certain,” said Adams with a small, mischievous, and rather charming smile.

“Did you know that when Columbus landed on Trinidad, the island was occupied by both Carib- and Arawak-speaking groups?” said Helen, her tone not one of satisfaction at knowing such trivia but, rather, of anticipation.

“What does one call a resident of Trinidad?” asked Lizzie Cameron. “A Trinidadian?” She’d used the short vowel sound for the “a”.

“ ‘Dadians’ for short,” said John Hay.

“Miss Hay was correct about the natives speaking only Carib and Arawak,” said Theodore Roosevelt, his voice seeming to boom even when he spoke in low tones. “But that was only after the Pomeranian invasion of the island in fourteen thirty-nine A.D.”

They were on their fourth of nine wines to go with this dinner and the laughter was flowing more easily now.

“Vito Pom Pom understands only Arawak?” said Nannie Lodge. “How distressing.”

“Probably why that little hairball of a rat-dog can’t learn the simplest of commands,” grunted Senator Henry Cabot Lodge.

Nannie wiggled her lacquered fingertips at her husband.

“But I don’t want to miss the Fair and the White City and Mr. Ferris’s Wheel and Mr. Cody’s Wild West Show and . . . everything,” cried Helen Julia Hay in a voice that suddenly sounded 10 years younger than her 18 years.