The man comes back to her table and says, “They’ll be a few minutes.” He gestures to a chair and says, “May I?”
She nods, sips the last of the Pernod.
“Jakob gave you a little scare? I apologize. The boy has no sense of social grace. The owner’s son. He comes here to read and scribble in notebooks. I’m sure he intended no harm.”
“You’re not the owner?” she asks.
He looks surprised. “I’m sorry. My God, I’ve been contaminated by Jakob. My manners appear in remission.” He extends a hand and says, “Rory Gaston. And I’m the manager.”
She shakes his hand. “Sylvia Krafft.”
“I’ve never seen you in here before, Sylvia.”
“First-time customer.”
“Well, I hope this little incident won’t discourage you from coming back. And as an incentive, allow me to pick up the check.”
“No, really—” she starts to protest, but he won’t hear any arguments.
“Too late, Sylvia. Fait accompli, as they say. Please, I’ll sleep much better tonight.”
They stare at each other for a moment and then, without any preamble, she hears herself say, “So what can you tell me about Terrence Propp?”
She’s jolted him. He literally pulls back in his seat and swallows and seems to consider his words until finally, in a hushed voice, he says, “Who sent you?”
Sylvia’s got a small buzz going from the wine and the liqueur and maybe that’s what makes her want to start laughing. He sounds like he’s delivering a line from any number of campy B-movies. But he’s serious. He suddenly looks nervous and distracted, as if she’s just accused him of something.
“Quevedo,” she says.
“Quevedo?” he repeats.
She nods and lets the silence build.
“Who’s that?” he says and starts to crack his knuckles.
“You don’t know Mr. Quevedo?” she says, letting her suspicion show.
“Never heard of him.”
“Well, he knows you. He sent me to this place. Told me to ask for Rory Gaston. That is your name, right?”
“Look, Ms. Krafft, I’m telling you I don’t know a Mr. Quevedo—”
She cuts him off and asks, “Well, why would he send me here and mention your name?”
He turns in his seat and looks at the front door, then turns back and says, “I’m sure I have no idea.”
They stare at each other until she says, “Could you just give me Propp’s number? I’d rather set something up directly with him.”
Gaston laughs out loud, immediately sucks his cheeks in and says, “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”
A horn sounds and they both look to see a red cab has pulled up out front.
“Your ride,” he says, folding his arms across his chest.
She stands up and takes a step toward the door, stops next to Gaston and says, “I might have something that belongs to Mr. Propp. If he’s interested in getting it back, have him call me. Tell him I’m in the book.”
She heads for the door and as she pulls it open, Gaston says, “Tell the cab to go and give me fifteen minutes.”
“You’ll put me in touch with Propp?”
“Fifteen minutes,” he repeats.
She debates it for a second, then yells to the cabbie that he can leave. He stares with his head cocked, then gives her his middle finger and pulls away from the curb.
She turns back to Gaston and says, “You’ve got fifteen,” but he doesn’t seem consoled by her decision.
He moves to the door and relocks the bolt, pulls down a floor-length shade. Without a word he turns and walks to the bar, grabs the bottle of Benoit-Levy from an ice bucket and returns to Sylvia’s table.
She moves back to her seat and Gaston refills her glass.
“We’re in an awkward situation,” he says.
“How’s that?”
He takes a drink from the mouth of the wine bottle, then raises it in toast, shrugs his shoulders and says, “I take it you want entrance?”
Sylvia stares at him.
“To the group,” he adds.
“That depends—”
“No,” he barks, adamant, suddenly annoyed. “We’ll have no fence-sitting. You give yourself over or you don’t. You’ve heard the call or you haven’t. There’s no inbetween.”
She picks up her wineglass, stares into it. She swallows, tries to stay calm and says, “I didn’t mean to offend—”
“And I didn’t mean to be rude,” Gaston says, lowering his voice. “It’s just … this is such a crucial time for the Proppists. There’s so much infighting lately. And so many rumors. Finding the right direction, staying on the right path, keeping the eyes open and clear. The stress is increasing daily.”
Sylvia looks up at the ceiling and stares at an intricate mural of a Renaissance-style bedroom scene where a ghostly young virgin is preparing to surrender her maidenhood to what looks like a hulking incarnation of Pan.
She looks back down at Gaston and thinks, this guy has seen too many Sydney Greenstreet movies. “I think I’ve heard the call, but I’m ignorant. I have no idea where to go from here. I need some information and I was told you could give it to me.”
Gaston rocks his chair back on its rear legs as if the process will help him think. A smile comes over his face and he says, “You’re toying with me, aren’t you? Did Camille put you up to this?”
“I don’t know a Camille,” Sylvia says, “just like you don’t know a Quevedo. That makes us even. So why don’t we do each other a favor and stop trying to outmaneuver one another and just tell the truth.”
It’s a pushy move, but it’s all she has left.
“What if you don’t like the truth?” Gaston asks.
“I’m an adult,” Sylvia says. “I’ll survive.”
He nods, seems pleased, takes another hit of wine and says, “Okay, Sylvia. The truth is I have no idea who Terrence Propp is. None of the Proppists do. I have no idea what the man even looks like. I’d walk right by him if I passed him on the street.”
Now Sylvia’s on the verge of furious. “So this is all a huge joke,” she says. “I’ve wasted my entire day down here so someone could have fun at my expense. You—”
He cuts her off. “Calm down. Please. Believe me, we were once as anxious to know as you. We’ve all tried to follow the man’s trail. None of us has ever been successful. I can give you a kind of sketchy history. But eventually it dissolves into vapor. The one thing we can be completely certain of is that Mr. Propp takes his privacy extremely seriously. If we were forced to speculate on the causes for this I suspect we’d regress into endless debate. There are some known facts. At some point, though we can’t completely confirm the years, Terrence Propp certainly lived here in Quinsigamond. We’ve narrowed down his residence to three or four likely addresses. All of them walk-ups here in the Canal Zone. And though dozens of the local raconteurs claim to have known Propp, the only person we give credence to is Elmore Orsi over at the Rib Room diner.”
The Rib Room diner.
Where Sylvia found the ad for the Aquinas.
“And these days, Orsi’s started to recant,” Gaston says. “He now claims he’s never met Propp. That it was all a stunt. He thought it would help his restaurant business. In any event, here’s what we know for certain.”
He gets up and walks to the bar, reaches underneath and returns to the table with a small pamphlet or magazine which he rolls up and hands to Sylvia without any explanation.
“First,” he says, “there are currently forty-nine known Terrence Propp prints in existence. Second, most of the known prints were taken in or around Quinsigamond. And third, exposure to and study of these works leads the viewer to a deeper, fuller understanding of their own sensual potential.”