Here it was. The next Maud Dixon novel.
At the top of the first page Helen had scrawled what Florence assumed was a chapter title: “The Age of Monsters.” She scanned the rest of it, and realized at once that she could barely read Helen’s handwriting. She squinted at the first sentence:
In the night the wind something and the weather something, bringing a something sky and…
She flipped to the next page. It, too, was rife with words she couldn’t decipher:
She listened, wondering if it had been a something noise which had something her back from sleep: she heard only the endless sound of the sea against the rocks, so far below that it was like a something being held to the something. She opened her eyes. The room was bathed in brilliant moonlight. It came in from the something, but on all sides she could see the glow of the something night sky out over the water. Slipping out of bed, she went and tried the door in the something, just to be positive it was locked.
Florence put down the manuscript and bit her fingernail. She wasn’t sure what to do. Transcribing this would be like doing a Mad Libs. She stood up and walked to the bottom of the stairway. Helen hadn’t invited her to the second floor yet. She went up halfway so that she could see into the hallway. All the doors were open except one. She guessed that was Helen’s office. She climbed the rest of the way up, cringing at every creak, and listened at the door. She heard nothing, until all of a sudden a crash sounded from within. Florence jumped. It sounded like something heavy had been hurled across the room. She stood for another moment or two, then turned around and started creeping back toward the stairs.
Just then the office door flew open, and Helen filled the frame. She looked furious.
“What are you doing up here?”
“I’m sorry. I—”
“I didn’t think I needed to articulate this, but apparently I do: Do not disturb me while I’m working. I find it very hard to regain focus.”
“I’m so sorry, I’ll just go back downstairs.”
“Well, you’ve already interrupted so you might as well just tell me what you want.”
“It’s your writing,” Florence said, holding out the stack of paper. “I’m having a little bit of trouble reading some of it.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Helen snatched the pages impatiently.
While Helen looked at them, Florence peeked into the room behind her and saw crowded built-in bookshelves and a worn Turkish-looking carpet.
“What can’t you understand?”
Florence pointed. “There, and there. And there.”
“That says luminous. And that—that’s just an ampersand.”
“And there?” Florence asked, pointing to another scribble.
Helen brought the page closer to her face and angled it toward the light. After a moment she exhaled and handed the sheaf of pages back to Florence. “I don’t know, Florence. Just try to figure it out on your own. Write down your best guess and underline it or something. I’ll figure it out later.”
Helen shut the door crisply on Florence’s repeated apologies.
Florence trudged back down to the dining room feeling foolish. She looked at the last word Helen hadn’t been able to read. It started with a P; that was all she could glean. She reread the sentence:
When she heard the word “forceful” being used in connection with herself, even though she knew it was perfectly true and not intended as derogation, she immediately felt like some rather ungraceful something animal, and the sensation did not please her.
Florence tapped her lower lip with her finger. Predatory? Yes. She nodded definitively. She typed it into the manuscript and underlined it, praying that she’d picked the right word—not just because she was eager for Helen’s approval, but because, she realized, she was slightly terrified of her.
16.
Over the next few days, Helen and Florence fell into a rhythm. Florence went over to the main house around nine or ten. She and Helen usually had a cup of coffee together while they went over the plan for the day. Otherwise, Florence would find a note on the kitchen counter listing her projects. There was usually some typing to be done, along with keeping up with Helen’s correspondence. Helen also wanted Florence to read several books on Moroccan history and culture and write up a summary of her findings.
Twice Helen lent Florence her car so she could drive to Hudson and pick up a book she needed or a few bottles of the Chateauneuf-du-Pape she liked to drink. Each time she told Florence to take her time and enjoy herself.
Florence discovered that Hudson proper was actually just as charming and picturesque as she’d imagined; it wasn’t until you crossed the bridge heading back to Cairo that things started to go to seed. The town’s main street, which they’d bypassed on the drive from the train station, was filled with bakeries, home-decor shops, and sunny restaurants.
On her second visit, however, Florence started to see something artificial in the town’s charm. It seemed designed for people who wanted to experience country living without feeling like they’d left Brooklyn. Plus, it wasn’t like she could afford the hand-dyed Shibori tablecloths and reclaimed driftwood objets d’art the boutiques sold. She could understand why Helen had settled in less fashionable Cairo.
Helen rarely went into town herself. Most days, she didn’t leave the property. It wasn’t until Florence’s second week on the job that she found herself alone in the house for the first time. Helen hadn’t mentioned where she was going, just that she’d be gone for several hours.
A few minutes after the car pulled away, Florence did something she’d wanted to do since she arrived: She crept up to the second floor and into Helen’s study. The sun streamed in from windows on two sides of the room, illuminating dust motes in the air. Florence sat down in Helen’s seat. The chair was made of ribbed, caramel-colored leather that had been worn down by use. She ran her hands across the desk’s scarred wood. She opened the top drawer and found a laptop in it. She glanced at the door, then took it out and opened it. The screen came to life but a dialog box appeared asking for a password. Florence quickly shut it and put it back where she’d found it. She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. She pretended that this was her study. That all she ever had to do was to sit in this beautiful room and write whatever she wanted.
Suddenly she heard a bang downstairs and bolted from the room, sending the chair careening across the floor. Downstairs, she realized that it had only been the wind blowing the kitchen door shut. She hurried back up to make sure she left the room exactly as she’d found it.
This aborted foray upstairs did nothing to allay her curiosity. If anything, it emboldened her. She sifted through Helen’s emails, looking for something personal. She finally spotted, three pages in, a message with the subject line Turandot? She opened it.
Helen,
What do you think about Turandot on April 5th? I know we just saw it last year, but this production is supposed to be spectacular. Let me know.
Sylvie
Florence Googled the name in the email address: Sylvie Daloud. She was an architect who lived in New York. Florence searched the inbox for more emails from her. There were dozens, nearly all of them concerning opera. Helen’s replies were just as polite and formal as Sylvie’s. So much for deploring moderation, Florence thought.