The Sonnet Lover (11 page)

“Because,” she says, “that name makes you crazy.”

Of course she’s right. Just the sound of the name, repeated in the fervid whisperings around the table, has the power to make my ears burn and my heart pound. The chattering swells and rises in the vaulted room until it seems as if the monkeys on the ceiling have come to life. Mark finally puts an end to it by pounding his fist on the table.

“This is exactly what we cannot have,” he says, his voice tight with barely controlled anger. It’s not like Mark to come so close to losing control—it must be the lack of sleep. “Yes, it’s true that Orlando Brunelli is the grandson of Benedetta Brunelli, Lucy Graham’s private secretary, who was rumored to have had an affair with Sir Lionel Graham. She was La Civetta’s hospitality coordinator—and a fine one, I might add—for years and never seemed the least bit interested in suing for a piece of the estate, and neither did her son, Bruno Brunelli, who’s taught at La Civetta for several years now. Brunelli’s wife, Claudia, however, who took over the job of hospitality coordinator when the old woman died, filed a lawsuit in her son, Orlando’s, name as soon as he came of age. They are contesting Cyril Graham’s ownership of La Civetta and his intention to bequeath the entire estate to Hudson College, but our lawyers”—here Mark nods toward the pretty blond woman and she seems to glow under the attention—“are confident that the Brunellis will not be successful in their suit.”

“Because the Italian government doesn’t recognize illegitimate heirs?” Frieda Mainbocher asks.

“No,” the lawyer answers, “because the villa and all the art collected by the Graham family were purchased by Lucy Wallace Graham, Sir Lionel’s wife. This was her family home before she married Sir Lionel.” The lawyer casts her eyes upward to take in the grand proportions of the room and seems startled to encounter the gaze of an impudent monkey. “She brought a great deal of money to the marriage, which Sir Lionel used to buy La Civetta and to finance his personal art and rare book collection.”

“So if you can prove La Civetta really belonged to Lucy Graham you render the Brunelli suit impotent,” Frieda Mainbocher sums up.

“But everyone knows it was Sir Lionel who was interested in art. Lucy Graham couldn’t have told a Bellini from a Bernini,” an art history professor points out.

“Ultimately that doesn’t matter if the money was hers—but in fact we’ve discovered that Lucy Graham was more interested in her husband’s collections than we might have thought. A number of important purchases—especially in the area of rare manuscripts—were made directly by Mrs. Graham. What would be helpful is more scholarly work on Lucy Graham’s role as a collector—”

“What in the world does this all have to do with that poor boy’s death!” The remark comes, surprisingly, from Lydia Belquist, whose head is nodding and quivering like a bobble-head doll’s and whose rheumy old eyes are bright with tears.

Mark sighs and lifts his hands—pressed together as if in prayer—to the classics professor. “Thank you, Lydia. The answer is, nothing, absolutely nothing. It’s just an unfortunate coincidence that Robin was involved with this young man. As for his involvement with Robin’s death, yes, I agree with Gene that he was a precipitating factor in Robin’s emotional state and I did ask the police to talk to the boy. Unfortunately, he was able to catch a plane out of New York early this morning and has returned to Italy. Given the negative publicity that would arise if a connection with Robin’s death and the La Civetta lawsuit were made, I am asking everyone in this room to discourage this type of gossip. As far as I’m concerned, Orlando Brunelli was not responsible for Robin Weiss’s death. Now, to get back to Dr. Spiers…”

Dr. Spiers, who seems wrapped up in an elaborate doodle on his notepad, startles at the sound of his name. “Oh, yes,” he says, straightening up in his chair, “I think I’ve covered most of what I wanted to cover. Extended counseling hours, dorm meetings, refer troubled students to me…” As he ticks off each item on his list, I hope that he’s doodled so heavily over my name that he can no longer read it. What in the world could he want with me anyway? I notice that a few people have gotten up to refill their coffee cups at the sideboard and some are packing their papers away in their briefcases and book bags, signaling that the meeting is drawing to a close. Mark is leaning across the table talking in hushed tones to the young lawyer. I notice that her skin pinkens at something he says and I feel another stab of jealousy. I suddenly remember that yesterday when he asked me to go to La Civetta with him he mentioned he would be working there with one of the lawyers to go over the terms of Cyril’s bequest to the college. Was this the lawyer?

“Oh, yes, Dr. Asher,” Dr. Spiers says, “I have a note to talk to you. You were very close to Robin, weren’t you?”

“Well,” I say, trying to sound neutral, “he was very interested in Renaissance sonnets.” As soon as I say the words I find myself wondering whether they’re true. Robin had apparently presented himself as a devotee of half a dozen disciplines. Perhaps his interest in sonnets was manufactured. Perhaps even his flirtation with me was part of an act.

“I was just his teacher,” I say, trying not to sound as sad as I suddenly feel. “I wouldn’t say that we were particularly close.”

“Well, Robin must have felt differently,” Dr. Spiers says. “I’m meeting with Robin’s father as soon as this meeting’s over, and he specifically asked that you be present. He said his son couldn’t stop talking about you.”

CHAPTER
SEVEN

I
’LL BET YOU ANYTHING
S
PIERS DUMPS YOU WITH THE GUY
,” C
HIHIRO TELLS
me while we’re standing at the foot of the staircase, waiting for Dr. Spiers to come back with Robin’s father.

“He wouldn’t.”

“Oh, yeah? Then why is the meeting in
your
office?”

“Spiers said he thought it would be more intimate than the counseling center.”

“And easier for him to bail. Just wait. Ten minutes into the session he’ll get an emergency phone call, which he’ll have to take because it’s a distressed student. That way he gets to look caring while he’s abandoning Robin’s dad with you.”

I’m about to protest, but Chihiro has an unerring ability to predict behavior so instead I enlist her aid.

“So, what should I do then?”

“Order in.”

“What?”

“The poor guy probably hasn’t had a bite to eat since he got the call last night. I’d recommend something light and nourishing, say, the borscht from Veselka…well, look at this.” Chihiro points toward the glassed-in foyer, where Dr. Spiers is signing in at the security desk while talking on a cell phone. Next to him is a short man—no more than five feet six, I’d say—in a tan trench coat several sizes too big for him. Although he’s wearing slacks and loafers, he gives the impression of being in his pajamas and of having just woken up. Maybe it’s the way what little hair he has stands up on his head, or the dazed look in his eyes, or the way he keeps blinking like a newborn chick. “Spiers is already on the phone. I’d give you five minutes at best. Good luck, sweetie.” Chihiro hands me a slip of paper and darts out the door before I can beg her to stay. I look down at it, hoping it contains some sage advice, but instead it’s the phone number for Veselka on Second Avenue, which I slip into my book bag before coming forward to greet Robin’s father.

“Mr. Weiss—” I begin.

“Dr. Asher? Please, it’s Saul. I feel like I know you. Robbie talked about you so much.”

I take Saul Weiss’s soft, damp hand and hold it in both of mine. “I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am—”

He ducks his head, looking embarrassed to be the object of sympathy. I notice that under his tan raincoat he’s wearing a washed-out plaid shirt in shades of tan and ecru and putty, colors that seem designed to blend in with some drab institutional setting. I rack my brain to remember anything Robin might have told me about what his father did for a living, but the fact is I can’t remember Robin ever saying anything about his parents. Robin managed to give the impression of having sprung fully formed on his first day of college like Venus arising out of the sea.

“Is Mrs. Weiss—?” I begin, glancing toward Spiers for help, but he’s still talking into his cell.

“Robbie’s mother died when he was eight, so I’ve raised him on my own. Maybe I didn’t do such a good job—”

“Don’t say that. Robin was an extraordinary young man, so talented—”

“He was always good at school. Acting, writing, charming the girls,” Saul says, managing a small proud smile, “but he had trouble settling down to one thing. He told me when he took your class on Shakespeare that he’d decided to write plays. I said that was fine, but how was he going to pay the rent until he became the next Mr. Neil Simon?” Saul shakes his head. “Of course I got it all wrong. That wasn’t the kind of plays he wanted to write at all. I never could keep up with him.”

I smile sympathetically, remembering all the times my mother would get it all wrong. When I first showed an interest in poetry, she thought maybe I could get a job writing greeting cards or jingles for advertising. When I told her I was studying Italian, she found me a summer job waitressing at an Italian restaurant in Astoria.

“I’m sure he appreciated the effort. Right, Dr. Spiers?” I say shooting Spiers a murderous look over Saul Weiss’s head. He responds by clicking his phone closed and nodding vigorously.

“Yes, yes, absolutely—although the adolescent may overtly reject the parent’s attempts to assimilate their cultural contexts, on a subconscious level they absorb the message.”

“Shall we go to my office?” I suggest because Saul Weiss looks suddenly woozy. He’s carrying a large shopping bag, and I offer to carry it up the stairs for him but he declines.

“Yes, you two go on up. I just have to check something back at the counseling center. I’m afraid my staff is being overwhelmed by the sudden demand. I’ll check in with you later—or feel free to drop by my office on the way out.”

Amazing, I think, as Dr. Spiers flees the building: he didn’t even last the five minutes Chihiro predicted. I look down at Saul Weiss to see whether he looks insulted—or outraged, as he’d have every right to be—but the poor man looks apologetic.

“I suppose this is very upsetting for the other students.” He takes a grayish handkerchief out of his coat pocket to blow his nose. “Dr. Spiers says they’ve had to hire extra counselors. That must cost a lot of money—”

“They’ve got it to spend,” I assure Mr. Weiss.

“An accountant’s habit,” he says apologetically, “always adding things up. Robin used to hate it…” He falters and then gestures to the grand staircase.

“Whew!” he says, whistling. “Did someone really live here?”

“Cyril Graham,” I say, starting up the steps. “He donated the townhouse to the college along with the funds to enlarge the film department—the windows are Tiffany.” I pause on the second landing to point out the stained glass and to give Saul a chance to catch his breath.

“Cyril Graham’s the fellow with the place in Italy, right? The school Robin went to last year. Is that place as fancy?”

“Fancier,” I say. We’ve finally reached my office. Saul Weiss takes out his handkerchief to wipe his pink face. I unlock the door and gesture toward the Morris chair, leaning over it to open the window a crack. The sound of rain and traffic sluicing over the wet streets seeps into the room. “Let me know if that’s too cold,” I say, turning to sit behind my desk. When I see Saul sink into the green cushions, hugging his shopping bag to his chest, he looks so frail there that I don’t have the heart to retreat behind the big imposing desk, and so I perch instead on its edge.

“No, it’s fine,” he says. “It must get stuffy up here.” He looks up toward the ceiling. “And cost a bundle to heat in the winter. Now I know where all my tuition dollars have been going.” He attempts a chuckle that curdles into a small strangled sob. “I’m so sorry,” he says, rooting in his pocket for the much-used hankie.

“Please, Mr. Weiss—Saul,” I say, handing him a box of Kleenex, “don’t apologize. I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re going through. I only wish there were something I could do or say—” I break off, afraid that I’m going to start crying myself.

“You’re a very nice lady,” Saul says, his voice tight with the effort of controlling his tears. “Robin always said so. I’m sure you did all you could for my boy. It’s a comfort to know he had someone like you to turn to. I always thought he missed having a mother—not that you’d have been like a mother—I mean, you’re much too young—”

“Not really,” I say, remembering that I could have had a son Orlando Brunelli’s age if I’d stayed with Bruno twenty years ago. “I didn’t realize that Robin’s mother died when he was so young. She must have been quite young—was she ill?”

“Robin’s mother took her own life,” Saul says. “She turned on the gas oven while I was at work and Robin was at Hebrew school. Robin found her.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say, at a loss for anything else to say. “Poor Robin.”

“I’ve always been afraid…You know, they say it runs in families.” Saul sighs. “Pearlie was a sensitive girl who never really had a chance to do the things she wanted. Go to college, live in a big city, travel to Europe. I tried to make sure that Robin had all the opportunities to do the things she missed. I never wanted him to feel trapped the way she had—or like me, for that matter. I never thought about what I wanted to be. My father was an accountant, so I was an accountant. I never pushed Robin to follow in my path—even though he was very good with numbers. Now I don’t know…maybe he needed a little direction. Maybe I should have kept better tabs on him these last couple of years, but he seemed happy—living here in the city and then getting to go to Italy—I figured he didn’t need his old dad dragging him down.”

I think of how desperate I had been to leave my mother’s house on Long Island and escape to Manhattan. How I’d doubled up on classes in high school and studied through the nights to graduate a year early. Looking at this mousy little man—no trace of Robin’s beauty in his face—I’m afraid he’s probably right. Robin had reinvented himself and left his father behind. And now he’d left forever. What can I possibly say to this man to ease his grief?