The Hired Girl(67)

I know I blushed. I flew to the chair where I’d left the kimono and put it on as fast as ever I could. Even when I’d knotted the belt, I felt flustered. Mr. David is so — well, he’s not handsome, now that I think it over. He has an enormous crooked nose. I couldn’t help staring because I’d heard something about Jews having big hooked noses, but I’d made up my mind it was all twaddle, because none of the Rosenbachs have noses like that. Mr. R.’s nose is hawkish but it isn’t large. Mr. Solomon has a handsome nose. Mrs. R.’s nose is fine and straight, and Mimi told me hers is what they call retroussé.

But David’s — I should write Mr. David’s — nose is large and very crooked. He caught me staring at it and said, “A nose like mine is the banner of a great man, Janet. When it blows, it’s a typhoon; when it bleeds, the Red Sea. But it’s a monument — never doubt that — a monument to a generous heart, a towering spirit, and an expansive soul.”

I stood nonplussed. I never heard anybody talk like that before, and between being embarrassed because of my kimono and almost murdering him with the poker — well, I couldn’t think of a thing to say. I just stared at him.

“I broke it.” He lowered his voice as if he was sharing a secret. “I was ten years old and walking on top of a fence — showing off for a little girl with blue eyes. I waved to her, she smiled at me”— he shrugged, throwing up his hands —“I lost my balance. Fell flat on my face.”

I couldn’t help laughing. But while I was laughing, a funny idea stole into my mind. It sounds silly now, but for a moment, just a shred of a moment, I wondered if he might be flirting with me. I mean, he was talking about blue eyes, and I have blue eyes. Now that I write it down, I see that what I was thinking was awfully far-fetched. But at the time, it confused me.

And as a matter of fact, he confused me. Feature for feature, he isn’t as good-looking as Mr. Solomon. But he’s taller than his brother, lean and easy in his movements, and he wore his shirtsleeves rolled up, and I liked looking at his forearms. His hair is curly and nearly black, and he has his mother’s heavy-lidded eyes, except his are full of mischief. He has to be at least eighteen, because he graduated from high school, but he doesn’t look much older than that. He’s young.

I said, “Why are you here in the middle of the night?”

“I took a late train.”

“They’re not expecting you.”

“I wasn’t expecting me,” he said, which was no answer at all. But I guess he doesn’t have to explain himself to me, because I’m only the hired girl. “I wasn’t expecting anyone to knock me on the head with a poker, either. Would you really have hit me?” He sounded admiring.

“Yes, sir,” I said proudly — because if he had been a burglar, I would have shown courage and resolution.

“Papa described you as a nice, bright little thing, and Mama said you get along with Malka. Nobody told me you were dangerous. What are you reading? The Picturesque World? Are you a lover of the picturesque?”

“Yes, sir.” I liked the way he said that. It sounded so cultivated. “I’m choosing all the places I want to see when —” I almost said, when I grow up, but I stopped in time.

“I like traveling, too. Especially France and Italy. Are you interested in scenery, or art?”

“Both. Only I don’t know too much about art. I’m trying to learn.” I set my palm against the cover of The Picturesque World. I was pleased to see that my hand was steady. “I study the plates. I just — use my eyes.” He nodded emphatically, as if using my eyes was exactly what was called for.

“I’m an artist. Or I’m going to be,” David said, and he sounded confidential again. “That’s why I’ve been away all summer, living with the Gratzes. Isabelle Gratz’s uncle is a painter, and he’s been giving me lessons. Papa thinks it’s just a hobby,” he added, “but it isn’t. Only you mustn’t tell him. I have to tell him myself. What kind of art do you like? What places have you chosen?”

He sounded as if he really wanted to know. I began to thumb through the book. “Lots of places. The Taj in India and the labyrinth at Versailles. And Paris, of course. I’m dying to get to Paris. And Holyrood Chapel in Edinburgh, and the Grotto of Doves at Taormina. And in Spain, the Alhambra.” I turned to the page I’d been admiring before he came in: a courtyard made up of exquisitely carved columns, and a fountain resting on the backs of lions. “Have you ever been there?”