Behind the Ivory Veil
28 New Life
Tuesday, 15 May 1956, Greenwich, Connecticut
“IT’S REMARKABLE, William. It captures so much.” Margaret, Doc, and William stood in the doorway of the study looking at the panel over the fireplace. William had finished the installation late the previous night and had kept the door locked all morning as he polished and cleaned the room. At last, he was ready to unveil the wood relief. Doc and Margaret accepted filled champagne glasses, ready to toast the artist’s most recent work. Looking at it, however, the champagne was forgotten as the two relived the passion and the pain of Doc’s last adventure. He had retired at once when they had returned last fall.
“Tell us about it, won’t you, William?” asked Doc. His steward friend took a deep breath before he began.
“If Wesley were here, he would play and there would be nothing more to be said,” he began. “The City, as you described it, is far more than I could hope to capture on one simple panel. Yet the pillars themselves form a dominant background. I could not include all you described, so you will forgive me for having placed you as a mere shadow in the foreground.”
“Three shadows,” murmured Doc.
“You and Pol and Me, Phillip,” said Margaret. “It feels so real.”
“And the center?” Doc asked.
“I could only feel that there was a mystique that permeated what you saw and that you were unable to put into words. Perhaps the shadow of multiple futures played out before your eyes,” William continued. “Therefore, I have chosen for the figures at the center of the rostrum, not the lovers that you thought you saw, but a Pieta—weeping Madonna with her crucified son. The positioning is the same as Michelangelo’s famous work, but the figures are those of Wesley and Rebecca. The motto flourish beneath is in New Testament Greek.”
“Greater love hath no man,” Doc translated. He paused to polish his glasses with a handkerchief. They had inexplicably steamed over. He noticed that Margaret was dabbing at her glasses with a napkin as well. “It does embody the spirit of it all.”
“Are my eyes playing tricks on me?” asked Margaret. “It’s a little hard to tell with tears in them. It seems like there is a shadow brooding in the background?”
“Out of grief, hope must arise or it would all be for nothing. And you went there not only to exonerate your mentor, but because of the legend of the goddess hidden behind the ivory veil. If that spirit was not released, then it was all for naught.”
“I somehow think the prophecy has not been completed yet,” Doc said. “We shall have to wait and see. Perhaps in another lifetime, I don’t know.” Doc retrieved the champagne glasses from his desk and handed them around. “William, it is indeed a masterpiece. I salute you.” They toasted the artist and drank in silence.
“How many panels are there total, William?” The artist had been creating panels of Doc’s adventures since the two were in college together. Not all were on the walls of the study.
“Twenty-one. I believe this will be the last.”
“It will be if you insist on limiting your art to my adventures. I am through. I don’t believe I will even write the paper. I’ve not been able to focus on it, and really, it was Wesley’s work that was most important. That is lost to us with Ryan McGuire.”
“It’s a pity, though,” said Margaret, “that there is not a suitable venue for this that is open to the public. More people should see your work. You can’t even put them all in this room.”
“There will be one day,” William responded. “But no need to rush. These twelve will be for our private enjoyment.”
“And what is this?” Doc turned to survey the other panels in the room and his eyes came to rest on the piano he had purchased in case Wesley had wanted to work with him after the expedition. Next to the music rack was an object covered with a cloth of white silk.
“It’s a companion piece of sorts. A gift, I think. What would one expect to find behind the ivory veil but a goddess?” He lifted the cover but the marble beneath appeared to still be veiled. “It’s an old technique. Raffaelo Monti was famous for his veiled ladies in the last century. The veil is sculpted into the artwork. Only brief glimpses of the figure are seen beneath it.”
The sculpture, done in white marble, was the figure of a woman reclining on a rock. She was playing an aulos, or double flute, the instrument of the muse Euterpe. Doc and Margaret could see different views through the marble veil as they looked at the sculpture from different angles. The illusion was magnificent.
The chimes rang and William slipped away to answer the door, leaving the two absorbed in the sculpture and in their memories. In a moment, William returned, adopting his secondary role as steward.
“You have mail. I believe you may be interested in this one right away.”
“Well, now. What is this?” Doc smiled. “We’ve a letter addressed to the Doctors Heinrich and Jacobsen, postmarked in Indiana.” Doc and Margaret had abandoned the conceit of maintaining separate dwellings after their return from Greece.
“Oh, good. Rebecca is writing,” responded Margaret. “What does she say?”
“Here, you read it. Your voice always does better justice to her letters than mine.”
“My dear friends,” began Margaret.
It is so kind of you to express continued concern for me. I am happy to report that since my last correspondence things have been quite well. There has been a great deal of work preparing for the baby, but as I told you before, Wesley’s life was in perfect order. He could not have left me better provided for. It seems funny, doesn’t it, that even if he had known he was not coming back, he could scarcely have left things better organized against that end.
It has been scarcely a year since I first met you and in that short time my life has changed so much that I look in a mirror with a sense of surprise at the image that stares back at me. Even more than having received my degree, I am not what I was a year ago. I can never be again.
You will probably become tired of hearing me talk of this, but I am certain that Wesley is not dead. Perhaps none of them are. When I meditate, I can hear his voice singing, often in that odd accompaniment to Pol. I have dreams of him that are so real that I can feel his heart beating next to my own. The sense of loss when I awake is almost unbearable.
I so hope you will come to visit this summer. Compared to what we went through a year ago, everything seems terribly flat and colorless in Indiana.
I love you both very much, Rebecca
Doc and Margaret let out a unison sigh.
“Such pain,” said Margaret.
“I wish there was something we could do. Shall we go visit?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t miss seeing the baby,” said Margaret.
“When you go, would you mind terribly taking this with you?” asked William from next to the statue. “I said it was a gift, you know.”
“The Last Gift,” Margaret sighed. “For Rebecca?”
“No. For her daughter.”
“Yes, William,” said Doc, placing an arm around his steward’s shoulders. “That is indeed perfect. Look at this.” Doc held out a small card pulled from the envelope.
Rebecca Hart Allen
is pleased to announce
the birth of her daughter
SEREPTE HART ALLEN
Born May 1, 1956
The End
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