CHAPTER 7
Inside the dim hall, Cardiff felt as if he had moved into a summer-cool milk shed that smelled of large canisters of cream hidden away from the sun, and iceboxes dripping their secret liquors, and bread laid out fresh on kitchen tables, and pies cooling on windowsills.
Cardiff took another step and knew he would sleep nine hours a night here and wake like a boy at dawn, excited that he was alive, and all the world beginning, morn after morn, glad for his heart in his body, and his pulse in his wrists.
He heard someone laughing. And it was himself, overwhelmed with a joy he could not explain.
There was the merest motion from somewhere high in the house. Cardiff looked up.
Descending the stairs, and pausing now at seeing him, was the most beautiful woman in the world.
Somewhere, sometime, he had heard someone say: Fix the image before it fades. So said the first cameras that trapped light and carried that illumination to obscuras where chemicals laid out in porcelain caused the trapped ghosts to rouse.
Faces caught at noon were summoned up out of sour baths to reestablish their eyes, their mouths, and then the haunting flesh of beauty or arrogance, or the impatience of a child held still. In darkness the phantoms lurked in chemicals until some gestures surfaced them out of time into a forever that could be held in the hands long after the warm flesh had vanished.
It was thus and so with this woman, this bright noon wonder who descended the stairs into the cool shadow of the hall only to reemerge in a shaft of sunlight in the dining room door.
Her hand drifted to take Cardiff’s hand, and then her wrist and arm and shoulder and at last, as from that chemistry in an obscura room, the ghost of a face so lovely it burst on him like a flower when the dawn causes it to widen its beauty.
Her measuring bright and summer-electric eyes shone merrily, watching him, as if he, too, had just arisen from those miraculous tides in which memory swims, as if to say: Remember me?
I do! he thought.
Yes? he thought he heard her say.
Yes! he cried, not speaking. I always hoped I might remember you.
Well, then, her eyes said, we shall be friends. Perhaps in another time, we met.
“They’re waiting for us,” she said aloud.
Yes, he thought, for both of us!
And now he spoke. “Your name?”
But you already know it, her silence replied.
And it was the name of a woman dead these four thousand years and lost in Egyptian sands, and now refreshed at noon in another desert near an empty station and silent tracks.
“Nefertiti,” he said. “A fine name. It means the Beautiful One Is Here.”
“Ah,” she said, “you know.”
“Tutankhamen came from the tomb when I was three,” he said. “I saw his golden mask and wanted my face to be his.”
“But it is,” she said. “You just never noticed.”
“Can I believe that?”
“Believe it and it will happen in the midst of your belief. Are you hungry?”
Starved, he thought, staring at her.
“Before you fall,” she laughed, “come.”
And she led him in to a feasting of summer gods.
CHAPTER 8
The dining room, like the porch, was the longest one he’d ever seen.
All of the summer porch people were lined up on either side of an incredible table, staring at Cardiff and Nef as they came through the door.
At the far end were two chairs waiting for them and as soon as Cardiff and Nef sat, there was a flurry of activity as utensils were raised and platters passed.
There was an incredible salad, an amazing omelet, and a soup smooth as velvet. From the kitchen drifted a scent that promised a dessert sweet as ambrosia.
In the middle of his astonishment, Cardiff said, “Hold on, this is too much. I must see.”
He rose and walked to a door at the end of the dining room, which opened into the kitchen.
Entering the kitchen, he stared across the room at what seemed a familiar doorway.
He knew where it led.
The pantry.
And not just any pantry, but his grandmother’s pantry, or something just like it. How could that be?
He stepped forward and pushed the door, half-expecting that he would find his grandmother within, lost in that special jungle where hung leopard bananas, where doughnuts were buried in quicksands of powdered sugar. Where apples shone in bins and peaches displayed their warm summer cheeks. Where row on row, shelf on shelf, of condiments and spices rose to an always-twilight ceiling.
He heard himself intoning the names that he read off the jar labels, the monikers of Indian princes and Arabian wanderers.
Cardimon and anise and cinnamon were there, and cayenne and curry. Added to which there were ginger and paprika and thyme and celandrine.
He could almost have sung the syllables and awakened at night to hear himself humming the sounds all over again.
He scanned and re-scanned the shelves, took a deep breath, and turned, looking back into the kitchen, sure he would find a familiar shape bent over the table, preparing the last courses for the amazing lunch.
He saw a portly woman icing a buttery yellow cake with dark chocolate, and he thought if he cried her name, his grandmother might turn and rush to hold him.
But he said nothing and watched the woman finish the job with a flourish, and hand the cake to a maid who carried it out into the dining room.
He went back to join Nef, his appetite gone, having fed himself in the pantry wilderness, which was more than enough.
Nef, he thought, gazing at her, is a woman of all women, a beauty of all beauties. That wheat field painted again and again by Monet that became the wheat field. That church façade similarly painted, again and again, until it was the most perfect façade in the history of churches. That bright apple and fabled orange by Cézanne that never fades.
“Mr. Cardiff,” he heard her say. “Sit, eat. You mustn’t keep me waiting. I’ve been waiting too many years.”
He drew close, not able to take his eyes away from her.
“Great god,” he said. “How old are you?”
“You tell me,” she said.
“Oh, hell,” he cried. “You were born maybe twenty years ago. Thirty. Or the day before yesterday.”
“I am all of those.”
“How?”
“I am your sister, your daughter, and someone you knew years ago back in school, yes? I am the girl you asked to the Senior Prom but she had promised another.”
“That’s my life. That happened. How did you guess?”
“I never guess,” she replied. “I know. The important thing is that you’re here at last.”
“You sound as if you expected me.”
“Forever,” she said.
“But I didn’t know I was coming here until last night, in the middle of a dream. I fixed my mind only at the last moment. I decided to write a story…”
She laughed quietly. “How can that be? It sounds so like those unhealthy romances written by healthy housewives. What made you choose Summerton? Was it our name?”
“I saw a postcard someone must have picked up on their way through.”
“Oh, that would have been years ago.”
“It looked like a nice town—a friendly spot for tourists looking for a place to relax, enjoy the desert air. But then, I looked for it on the map. And you know what? It’s not on any map I could find.”
“Well, the train doesn’t stop here.”
“It didn’t stop today,” he admitted. “Only two things got off: me and my suitcase.”
“You travel lightly.”
“I’m just here overnight. When the next train runs through, not stopping, I’ll grab on.”
“No,” she said softly. “That’s not how it’s supposed to be.”
“I’ve got to go home and finish my story,” he insisted.
“Ah, yes,” she said. “And what will you say about this town that no one can find?”
A cloud crossed the sky and the dining room windows darkened, and a shadow fell across his face. There were two truths to tell, but he could tell only one.
“That it’s a lovely town,” he said, lamely. “The kind that doesn’t exist anymore. That people should remember and celebrate. But how did you know I was coming?”
“I woke at dawn,” she said. “I heard your train from a long way off. By noon the train was just beyond the mountains, and I heard its whistle.”
“And did you expect someone named Cardiff?”
“Cardiff?” she wondered. “There was a giant, once—”
“In all the newspapers. A fraud.”
“And,” she said. “Are you a fraud?”
He could not meet her gaze.
CHAPTER 9
When he looked up, Nef’s chair was empty. The other diners, too, had all left the table, gone back to their rocking chairs or, perhaps, to summer afternoon naps.
“Lord,” he murmured. “That woman, young, but how young? Old, but how old?”
Suddenly Elias Culpepper touched his elbow.
“You want a real tour of our town? Claude needs to deliver some more fresh-baked bread. On your feet!”
The wagon was loaded with a redolent harvest. The warm loaves had been neatly stacked row on row within the oven-smelling wagon, thirty or forty loaves in all, with names lettered on the wax-paper wrappings. Beside these were waxed boxes of muffins and cakes, carefully tied with string.
Cardiff took three immense inhalations and almost fell with the overconsumption.
Culpepper handed him a small packet and a knife.
“What’s this?” said Cardiff.
“You won’t be a block away before the bread overcomes you. This is a butter knife. This here is a full loaf. Don’t bring it back.”
“It’ll ruin my supper.”
“No. Enhance. Summer outside. Summer inside.”
He handed over a pad with names and addresses.
“Just in case,” said Culpepper.
“You’re sending me out on my own? How do I know where to go?”
“Don’t you
