Free Journal From Ellipsia: A Novel by Hortense Calisher Page B

took him a long moment to realize that his hand was being refused.
    The old man lowered down at him, using his height so that Linhouse’s head was forced back on his neck, his eyes at close range to that handsomely troughed upper lip, to the cleft, like the finish of an interrupted penstroke, in the chin.
    “What have you done with her?” said Sir Harry.
    “What … have … I? ” With each word, a different hazard came to Linhouse’s mind. Were they thinking—they couldn’t think—that he himself had somehow effected her disappearance, disposed of her like a Landru, cut her up and washed her down a drain? Or they had thought—and Sir Harry, here en route home and known to be his friend, had been sent—how else would he have found the back way to the podium?—to forestall the scandal of a ceremony. Or—No, it couldn’t be. Old as Jamison had been for her (fifty-four to eighteen)— eighty to thirty-four? Could it be? A magnificent man to look at, tellingly lively with his own wife. And an astronomer. Why couldn’t it be? Coming back and forth here, always for the most internationally apposite reasons. And all along, he could have been the new one.
    “You were the last one she showed any interest in.” Sir Harry’s voice was hoarse but polite, like a judge who had been up all night over the transgression of a junior. “When I came back, she was gone. Leaving me a letter. All but saying she was here with you.”
    She. She. She.
    “You too!” said Linhouse. “And I didn’t even know you knew her!” In the eyes above his, he saw at last how it looked to others, that small pigtail flame of obsession. “But as for my—”
    “You must be out of your mind!”
    “—you must be out of your mind.”
    They said it simultaneously. But mid-chorus, Linhouse had already seen it—what the resemblance was. “Sir Harry—” He spoke gently. “May I see your letter?”
    It was handed him, the fingers shaking now. He read little more than the few lines above the signature. When you know the circumstances you will not blame, even though it is the second time for you. My last words are loving. There is a long chance … (here some indecipherable figures) that we shall meet again. Go to America. And below the signature, a small postscript. He didn’t really need to read either. The letter was in French.
    When he handed Sir Harry his own letter, it seemed almost, if not quite, an even exchange.
    Finally each raised his head, but each averted sideways, like two cuckolds.
    Sir Harry spoke first. “Ah, I see. Your ceremony, then.”
    “Mmm.” There was a pause. “Perhaps—might we meet afterwards?” And perhaps, like two cuckolds, they would enjoy it.
    He looked down at Sir Harry’s letter before returning it. You may guess, the postscript said. From the signatures, one wouldn’t have thought the two women had much in common. The signature on his own letter had been round and not very characterful—the farmgirl, the jampot. This scrawl was black and taut, the footprint of an eaglet. Rachel.
    “I’ll go the way I came,” said Sir Harry after a bit. It was his apology.
    “Mind the stairs. A bit tricky.”
    “Ah yes, thanks—doors up above on the blink, it seems. Stuck tight.”
    “Ah, that was you then. Knocking. Sure you can find the way now?” It was a toss-up as to which voice was the more perfunctory. Neither one of them had moved.
    “Oh yes indeed, I was taken round the whole show here very thoroughly last time … One setup rather like mine in Bucks, several million pounds worth more powerful of course … Nothing like it even at Berkeley; Anders gets pretty much what he wants.” At last he moved. “No, don’t trouble, always find my way, old Army habit. Sorry if I’ve delayed—and … well … carry on, eh?”
    Then, at last, they let themselves look at one another. No, they were not out of their minds. But how extraordinary that they weren’t.
    “But—” Linhouse faltered. For there must