Unknown - The Genius

Father says, “Are you all right?”

Why wouldn’t he be all right? Nothing happened to him. David nods.

Father runs a hand down his shirtfront, smooths down his tie. He touches his moustache, as though the commotion might have ruffled it. He looks for his glasses—they are in his breast pocket, where they always are—but instead of putting them on he repockets them.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Good. Good. Good.” Father smooths his tie again. “Dear God.”

Dear God what? It sounds to David as though Father wants to write a letter. But he says no more.

Mr. Lester Schimming’s variety hour is sponsored by Mealtime, Mealtime, the once-a-day nutritional powder that—

Father shuts the radio off. He curls into the armchair, once again becoming small. He is pale, his breathing is loud, and he pulls on his earlobes. David would like to go to him, to put a hand on his forehead the way Mother does when David is sick. He would like to bring him water, or some of the sharp-smelling purple stuff that Father drinks before going to sleep. But David knows to be quiet. He stays in place. He says nothing.

Later, Mother comes back. Her mouth is a wire. She does not look either at David or at Father, but picks up her book and returns to the chaise. She lies down and begins turning pages as though never interrupted, and although Father is staring at her with a fearful expression, she clears her throat loudly and he looks away.

NOW DAVID HAS A MYSTERY.

More than one. So many mysteries that he can barely contain himself, and when he lies awake that night, it isn’t from fear but from excitement. He can be an explorer, like Roger Dollar. He will make a plan; he will—as the detective on the radio show says—get to the bottom of this.

He begins by making a list of questions.

Who is the girl?

Why does she look weird?

How did she get in the house?

How old is she?

Where is she now?

Why did Mother react the way she did?

Why did Father react the way he did?

Why did Mother grow angry at Father?

Why did they ignore David for the rest of that evening? (Actually, that question needs no answer. They always ignore him.)

The questions flap around his head like owls whooping who who who, how how how, why why why.

He knows one thing for sure: he cannot ask Mother or Father. He feels certain that to ask is to earn a whipping. The same applies to Delia. He must seek out the answers on his own. And he must be very careful, because he has the feeling that Mother will not tolerate one ounce of mischief.

First he gathers information. The next night at dinner David observes his parents, watching for anything unusual. They eat barley soup and roast beef and the tiny pasta ears that the cook makes. Father has his purple drink early. When he motions for another Mother gives him an evil stare, and he changes his request to a half a glass. Otherwise all goes normally.

At least until the end of the meal. Then—instead of parting, as they usually do, Father to his study and Mother to her sewing room—both of them rise and head out the same door, the one that leads to the east wing of the house. David would like to follow, but Delia arrives to escort him to his bath.

Afterward he climbs into bed. Delia asks if he wants a story and he says no thank you. He cannot wait for her to leave, and when she does he counts to fifty, then slips quietly from underneath the blanket and stands in his socks, shivering, strategizing.

The house has four stories. Like his bedroom, Mother’s sewing room is on the third floor. Father’s study is on the fourth. David reckons that they are not likely to meet in either of those places; they have changed their pattern, and will probably choose a third place. But where?

The first floor has a foyer where guests take cocktails. There are lots of rooms hung with paintings, one of which has the family portraits: his grandfather and great-grandfather, as well as great-uncles, great-great-uncles, men stretching back almost a hundred years, an inconceivable amount of time. There is Solomon Muller, smiling kindly. Beside him, his brothers: Adolph with the crooked nose and Simon with the warts and Bernard with the bushy balloons of hair at either side of his head. Papa Walter, looking like he has eaten too much peppery food. Father’s portrait is halfway done, David knows. Father has shown him where it will go once completed. And yours will go here. And your son’s, there. David saw the empty panels as windows into the future.

The second floor does not seem a likely meeting place: aside from the dining room and the kitchen, it is mostly taken up by the ballroom, which stays shuttered and dark all year, except for the night when Mother throws her Autumn Ball. Then the doors swing open and the featherdusters fly. Chairs are unbelted and unstacked, tables erected, linens spread, silver polished and aligned. The orchestra arrives and the room fills with swishing silk of all colors. Last year David was allowed to attend for the first time. Everybody fawned over him in his coat. He waltzed with Mother. They gave him wine; he fell asleep and woke up the next morning in his bed. He feels confident assuming that his parents will not have their meeting there.

The third floor is his bedroom, Mother’s sewing room, and lots of guest rooms. That is what his room is: a guest room they have made into a special room for him. You are always a welcome guest, says Father. David’s not sure what that means. Also on the third floor are the library, the music room, the Round Room, the radio room (where they spend Family Night), and many rooms full of breakable objects whose purpose he has yet to discern. All of these seem too small and ordinary to contain an event David expects to be momentous.

The fourth floor, the top floor, belongs to his parents’ private suites. It is a realm seldom visited and redolent of unanswered questions. He will try there first.

It’s not an easy operation. He cannot take the elevator; too much noise. He cannot take the east stairs, because servants use them to go up and down, and if they see him, he will be returned to bed. The south stairwell is near Delia’s room—she, too, has a guest room, unlike the rest of the help, whose rooms are in the basement. She leaves her door open at night, so that if David needs something he can call her with the bell. That way, too, she can hear him screaming when he sees monsters. Surely she will hear him if he walks past. He wraps his blanket around his shoulders and thinks.

Sometimes Delia has visitors in her room. David can hear them laughing, can taste the smoke drifting down the hall. He could wait until they arrived and hope to slip by unnoticed …

No. Tonight she might not have any visitors, and even if she does, who knows when they will come. He has already wasted too much time. He needs a different plan.

Down the hall is a bathroom adjacent to Delia’s room. The toilet there has a big chain you pull on, and it makes a lot of noise, enough to cover a quick dash from there to the stairs. A problem: he has his own bathroom. Using a different one will arouse Delia’s suspicions. What would Roger Dollar do?

As usual, Delia’s door is halfway open. He knocks. She says to come in, sounding friendly; when she sees that it is him, she frowns and asks what’s wrong.

“I need to use the bathroom.”

Her frown deepens. “Then use it, then.”

“There’s no paper,” he says.

She crushes out her cigarette and turns over her book and sighs, flicking a finger at the hallway behind him. “Use mine, then.”

He thanks her and says goodnight. She does not answer.

He closes her door on his way out. Not all the way; that would arouse her suspicion.