Collection Completed, Page 3

earlier at that day, at the barely-started architecture that was to be the mausoleum.

  “Excuse me, Madam,” I said. “But the mausoleum is far from being finished, and how-“ Madam smiled at me. “Well, good god, Malachi, we do have a crew of thirty men, it won’t be that long, no more than a few days,” she said, touching her neck. “Besides, the mortician assured me that if the room was kept cool, the body would stay preserved and there would be nothing to worry about.” The knot in my stomach swelled to the size of a grapefruit. While the men outside poured cement, banged hammers and sawed wood, we lived with that coffin. Not for a mere couple of hours, not overnight, but for nine days. Nine nights. Why couldn’t have just stuck him in the ground like everyone else and be done with it? No, that wasn’t good enough for him, not for Richard Van Zant.

  I shuddered every time I had to pass that coffin that rested under a huge crystal chandelier, and the soft amber hues of dim lights it casted, like one sees in a funeral parlor. I’d lie awake at night, in a cold sweat, gripped with fear, thinking of that shiny silver box and its’ contents: the cold, stiffened corpse of Richard Van Zant. The air conditioning in the room was left on constantly now, so while it was warm summer weather in the rest of the house, in the dining hall, it was the dead of winter.

  Late one night, while everyone else was sleeping, I went downstairs for a drink of water, since the servant’s quarters faucet wasn’t working. It was impossible to get to the kitchen without passing the dining area, so I just told myself to close my eyes and walk as fast as I possibly could. On the way back for some reason, I looked. It’s like perching someone on top of the empire state building and telling them not to look down, sooner or later, the temptation of I don’t want to look, but I have to look takes over. My eyes squinted and blurred as I peered through the double glass doors. A rush of terror shot down my arms and legs. A piece of shiny, white satin coffin lining was crumpled up and hanging outside the lid. I dropped the glass of water on the floor, and proceeded to run up those stairs faster than I ever have in my life. The next morning, no one spoke of it. Maybe no one else had noticed, or maybe they were just too afraid to look.

  The mausoleum was completed. How they ever finished it in nine days, I’ll never know, but I was grateful. The mausoleum itself was absolutely breathtaking. The outside resembled a Grecian temple, with flowering vines of blue wisteria hanging down over the entrance and wrapped around the tall pillars. When you entered the mausoleum, the first thing your eyes fixed on was a life-size statue of Antonio Canova’s Cupid and Psyche. And from then on, it was a maze full of twists and turns that could drive a person mad. Carved faces peered out of marble pillars, cherubs floated and hid in the corners of the ceiling, and mournful angels carrying wreaths sat together on cement benches. I was never so delighted to see someone entombed.

  Dr. Harrington, a few close friends and myself, attended the internment. Richard Van Zant was finally put to rest, to spend all eternity in a cold marble wall. The statues that surrounded the vineyard and the angels inside the mausoleum would no longer be alone. That night was the first I had been able to relax in days. I sank into the comfy green chair that was now mine, basking in the warm glow of the fireplace, though nearly the middle of summer, it had turned cool and strange.

  It was cold that night, and rain drizzled down the windows and kaleidoscopes of stained glass on the ceiling. I poured myself a brandy and laid my book of choice for the week across my lap: Great Expectations. The house was finally peaceful, no tip-toeing past a coffin at midnight, no freezing your limbs off in the dining hall, just peace. I remember thinking that I wanted to die in that room, with all those wonderful books around me. I wanted to hear every voice of every author ever born. I was determined to read every one, even if it took me forever. I had read once that Orson Welles had died while writing, that in mid-sentence, he had just slumped over and died right on his typewriter. I often thought to myself that there would be no better way to go than with a book in my lap. Oh, well, if I couldn’t die a writer, at least I could die a reader. I had just begun the first page: “My Father’s name being Pirrip, and my Christian name being Philip, my infant tongue could make both names nothing longer or more explicit than-“ I heard a soft rapping on the door. I slammed the book shut quickly, as if I had been caught doing something dirty.

  “Yes, come in.” It was Madam, ready for bed in her ivory silk nightgown and slippers. “I’m sorry to bother you, Malachi.” She spoke like the house was mine and not hers. “Not at all, Madam,” I said. “Well, can I ask a favor of you?” She acted like a child, studying her pink slippers and clasping her hands together. “Of course, Madam.” “You see, I want to put something on Richard’s crypt, something special like a poem, but I wouldn’t know where to begin,” her eyes pleaded with mine, almost tearfully. “And I thought since you’re so intelligent and well-read, that maybe you could…” You would like me to choose an inscription for you?” Her eyes suddenly sparkled and a smile bloomed across her face. “Yes.” I examined the over-stuffed shelves. I climbed up the ladder and pulled out a thick book with faded lettering.

  I carefully turned each page, reading aloud verses that I thought were appropriate. Madam kept shaking her head in displeasure as I read from Browning, Rossetti, Dickinson and Frost. “Wheresoe’er you are, my heart shall truly love you,” I read before quickly turning the page, waiting for her to say she did not like it. “Wait,” she said, “Read that one again.” I cleared my throat, “Wheresoe’er you are, my heart shall truly love you,” Joshua Sylvester. “It’s beautiful,” she said. How odd, I thought, here was a man that I had hated with a passion, and here I am, squinting my eyes and hunched over a book of poetry, choosing an inscription for his final resting place.

  The next five years passed without much notice. Madam became more like an elderly woman, than the much younger twenty-eight year old she really was. Besides taking care of the financial aspect of the winery business, her days were mostly spent feeding the horses, sipping tea on the balcony, or tending to the beautiful rose garden she had planted the year before. Every night, after dinner, she would clip off a red rose, then with a glowing candelabra in hand, she would walk inside the mausoleum and place it in the vase above Van Zant’s crypt. She did this every night without fail, whether it was steaming hot or pouring rain, whether she was sick or well, his grave had to have a fresh rose. Though many friends encouraged her to get on with her life and meet someone new, she refused. “He was my life and my only love,” she would say. She vowed that she would never marry again. That was until, the night of May 21, 1980, when she caught a glimpse of Alessandro Giancomo.

  Madam’s friends had persuaded her into throwing a party to reacquaint herself with society, though not thrilled with the idea, she hesitantly agreed. I remember how she looked that evening, standing alone against the wall of her own house, in a long black dress and diamonds, with a glass of champagne in hand and no one to talk to her. She looked so very sad. Then she saw him. She ran into the kitchen like a banshee as I was waiting for Catherine to refill one of the hors d’oeuvre trays. She grabbed my arm and pulled me to the door. “Who is that?” she asked, as if I would know. I peeked out, and standing next to the piano, surrounded by a group of women, was a tall, young man with tan skin and slicked back, raven-black hair. The women could not keep their hands off him, and as if on cue, laughed at everything he said.

  “I don’t know who he is, Madam,” I shrugged. Blushing, she told me that he was the most handsome man she had ever seen. It was difficult to tell if he had come with one certain woman, since most of them never left his side. But if he had, I suppose it was an unlucky night for her, considering that once Madam worked up enough courage to come out of the kitchen, he asked her to dance and they ended up spending the entire night talking and laughing together on the moonlit balcony. She adored Alessandro Giancomo. He lit her up inside. And for the next few weeks, she talked about him non-stop. He was thirty-six, born in Caserta, Italy, but came to America
at the age of four, so there was no trace of any accent, and now he made his living as a classical pianist. I had never seen a woman stare at a man with such adoration as she did. He had eyes that, as Madam put it, “Could make your heart burst open.” Although, my first impression upon meeting Alessandro varied slightly from hers. Not particularly kind or loving, but not particularly cruel, he had a certain strange charm to him. He also had an arrogance that cut like daggers. Though not as brash as Van Zant by any means, I could not understand it- her fascination with these men. I began to wonder if she were not a glutton for punishment. But now I understand, she was infatuated with them, and the heart often argues with sanity, and judgment is splashed out the window like dirty mop water.

  Soon the house was filled with music, the first time I had heard someone actually enjoying the piano. Madam would sit for hours beside him as he composed music. After knowing each other for a little more than a year, Alessandro Giancomo asked for her hand in marriage. She accepted. Even though I hadn’t liked Richard Van Zant in