The Unknown Beloved(36)

“Steve?”

“Yes. That feels right. Steve.” Steve was anxious about the hat, and she would rather not keep sniffing at it. The scent did not appeal. But Malone wanted to hear more. She could see it in his stillness and the tilt of his head.

“Who was he? The driver, I mean. Do you have a name?” he asked.

“He thought of himself as Eddie.” The scent became a muddy mix of motor oil and dust, onions and life. She might see something else if she tried again later.

“That’s all,” she said.

She handed Malone the hat. He studied it with a frown and then raised his eyes to hers once more.

“‘He thought of himself as Eddie.’ What does that mean?”

She shrugged, trying to think of the right words. “What do you call yourself?” she asked him. “When you talk to yourself, who are you?”

It was his turn to shrug. “I don’t know. I guess I call myself Malone when I call myself anything at all. Sometimes Michael Francis, in my mother’s voice, when I’ve made a mess of things.”

That made her smile. “And I call myself Dani. Daniela when I am cross with myself. And sometimes I am Kos . . . or Flanagan, with my father’s lilt. It depends. Some people think of themselves as ‘mother.’ Or ‘father.’ Or ‘darling’ or ‘dear.’ I think it depends on the voice they hear in their head, just like you said.”

“So you can’t always get a name from the fabric.” Malone said everything as if he was clarifying, not questioning.

“No. I can’t. Not a proper name. The apron of a woman who is simply referred to as ‘mother’ all day, who doesn’t interact much outside of her family, might be harder for me to name—I may only hear ‘mother’—whereas a gentleman who works in a bank might own a tie that literally vibrates with ‘sir.’”

“That makes sense.” He sounded surprised.

“I don’t think what I can do is so different from what anyone else does. Don’t thoughts and memories and connections flash through our minds all day long, every day? It’s called thinking. We observe and catalog and quantify and organize all day long, every day, and we hardly realize we are doing it. I just seem to have a keener sense when it comes to . . .” She truly wished she had a word for what she did. “See,” “sense,” and “smell” just weren’t quite right.

“When it comes to clothes,” he finished for her.

“Yes, well. Most of the time, it is quite . . . useless. Just a glimpse of faded moments. Like eavesdropping . . . only I don’t know who or what I’m listening to. Who or what I’m looking at.” She shrugged. “It might be the most useless talent known to man.”

He grunted at that, not committing himself to an opinion on the matter, and she let it drop, grateful not to continue.

He followed her through the shop to the stockroom behind the counter, where she unearthed the gray overcoat from the racks that lined the walls. He pulled it on, shot his sleeves to test the fit, and nodded. “That’ll do.”

He peeled the cost of the hat and coat from a money clip in his breast pocket and handed it to her as they stepped back into the shop.

“If you are inclined to give clothes away, or you need something for yourself, please feel free to take from the items we . . . collect.” “Collect” was an imprecise word for what she did, but Malone had helped her twice since the storm, and he had earned whatever she could offer him.

“I might do that. Thank you.”

“I will go again tomorrow, first thing after breakfast if you are . . . free.” She almost laughed at that. What a pathetic outing. “And please don’t feel obligated. I am only telling you because you insisted I do.”

He nodded. “I can do that.”

He tipped his new hat, thanked her for the assistance with his clothes, and disappeared down the hallway toward his room, the dirty checkered hat still clasped in his hand.



At dinner, Malone was back to staring morosely at his plate, hardly commenting, barely listening. He was preoccupied, and Dani thought it might have something to do with that checkered cap.

“We listen to the Cleveland Orchestra from Severance Hall every Thursday evening. You must join us, Mr. Malone,” Lenka insisted, pulling him from his introspection.

“Maybe Mr. Malone does not care for the symphony, Lenka,” Zuzana said. “Many don’t. It is a refined taste. The Irish tend to like bagpipes.”

“Nonsense. Who is your favorite composer, Mr. Malone?”

Malone was silent for a moment, and Dani thought for sure he would excuse himself.

“I heard Sergei Rachmaninoff at the Lyric Opera House in Baltimore a few years ago,” he said quietly. “It was wonderful.”

Lenka crowed and clapped her hands like a child, and Dani found herself beaming.

“He is Dani’s favorite,” Lenka exclaimed. “She says his music makes her feel crazed.”

“His Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini is the most beautiful music I have ever heard,” Dani said, trying not to gush. “Except perhaps his Adagio sostenuto.”

“He premiered his Rhapsody that evening. I might have to agree with you,” Malone said, and Dani could not contain herself.

“I heard him first on the Victrola when I was a girl,” she breathed, remembering. “It must not have been long before . . . before I came here. It was a new recording. Mother played it for us. Daddy was there too. The music was so wonderful, that when it was done we all clapped, and Daddy lifted Mother up, right off the bench, and kissed her.”