Angelology(188)

as it most certainly has, a woman named Celestine Clochette. I remember the conditions very well: I

was Mrs. Rockefeller’s assistant in this matter, and it was I who hand-delivered this card to St. Rose

Convent.”

“But I thought that Mrs. Rockefeller had taken permanent possession of the lyre,” Bruno said.

“Oh, my, no,” Alistair said. “Mrs. Rockefeller and Mother Innocenta had agreed upon a set time to

return the objects under our care—Abby didn’t expect to be responsible for these items forever. She

intended to return them as soon as she felt that it was safe to do so—namely, at the end of the war. It

was our understanding that Innocenta, or Celestine Clochette if need be, would care for the envelopes

and, when the time came, follow their instructions in a particular order. The requirements were made

to ensure both the safety of the objects and the safety of the person engaged in recovery.”

Bruno and Evangeline exchanged glances. Evangeline was certain that Sister Celestine had not

known anything about these instructions.

“We didn’t get specific directions,” Bruno said. “Only a card that led us here.”

“Perhaps Innocenta didn’t relate the information before her death,” Evangeline said. “I’m sure that

Celestine would have made certain that Mrs. Rockefeller’s wishes were followed, had she known.”

“Ah, well,” Alistair said, “I see that there is some confusion. Mrs. Rockefeller was under the

impression that Celestine Clochette would be leaving the convent to return to Europe. It is my

recollection that Miss Clochette was a temporary guest.”

“It didn’t work out that way,” Evangeline said, remembering how frail and sickly Celestine had

become in the last days of her life.

Alistair Carroll closed his eyes, as if pondering the correct path to take in the completion of the

matter at hand. Standing abruptly, he said, “Well, there is nothing to do but continue. Please join me—

I would like to show you my extraordinary view.”

They followed Alistair Carroll to a wall of large porthole windows, the very ones Evangeline had

noticed from the street below. At their vantage, the Museum of Modern Art spread before them.

Evangeline pressed her hands upon the copper frame of the porthole window and peered down.

Directly below them, contained and orderly, lay the famous Sculpture Garden, its rectangular floor

plated in gray marble. A narrow pool of water shimmered at the center of the garden, creating an

obsidian darkness. Through wisps of snow, slabs of gray marble wept purple.

“From here I can watch the garden night and day,” Alistair Carroll said quietly. “Mrs. Rockefeller

bought this apartment for that very purpose—I am the guardian of the garden. I have watched many

changes take place in the years since her death. The garden has been torn up and redesigned; the

collection of statuary has grown.” He turned to Evangeline and Verlaine. “We could not have

foreseen that the trustees would find it necessary to change things so drastically over the years. Philip

Johnson’s 1953 garden—the iconic modern garden that one thinks of when one imagines it—wiped

out all traces of the original garden Abby had known. Then, for some bizarre reason, they decided to

modernize Philip Johnson’s garden—a travesty, a terrible error in judgment. First they ripped up the

marble—a lovely Vermont marble with a unique shade of blue-gray to it—and replaced it with an

inferior variety. They later discovered that the original had been far superior, but that is another

matter. Then they ripped the whole thing up again, replacing the new marble with one that was similar

to the original. It would have been most distressing to watch, if I had not taken matters into my own

hands.” Alistair Carroll crossed his arms over his chest, a look of satisfaction appearing upon his

face. “The treasure, you see, was originally hidden in the garden.”

“And now?” Evangeline asked, breathless. “It is no longer there?”

“Abby secured it in the hollow underside of one of the statues—Aristide Maillol’s The

Mediterranean, which has a great hollow space at its base. She believed that Celestine Clochette

would arrive within months, perhaps a year at the most. It would have been safe for a short amount of

time. But at the time of Abby’s death in 1948, Celestine had still not come. Soon after, plans were





made for Philip Johnson to create his modern Sculpture Garden. I took it upon myself to move it

before they tore the garden apart,” he said.

“That seems like a difficult procedure,” Bruno said. “Especially under the kind of security