Angelology(196)

and said, “I have seen this before. In fact, I helped arrange for the printing of these cards when I

worked as Mrs. Rockefeller’s errand boy. I was merely fourteen. I once overheard her say that she

liked my obsequious manner, which I tend to believe was a compliment. She had me running her

errands—downtown for paper, uptown to the printers, downtown to pay the artist.”

“Then perhaps you will tell us the meaning of the card?” Saitou-san said.

“She believed,” Mr. Gray said, ignoring Saitou-san, “that angelologists would be coming.”

“And we have arrived,” Vladimir said. “Can you tell us how we’re meant to proceed?”

“I will answer your questions directly,” Mr. Gray said. “But we must first go to my office, where

we might speak with more ease.”

They descended a stone staircase off the antechamber, Mr. Gray moving downward at a rapid

pace, skipping steps in his haste. At the bottom a darkened hallway opened before them. Mr. Gray

threw open a door and ushered them into a narrow office piled high with papers. Stacks of unopened

mail tipped from the edge of a metal desk. Curled pencil shavings were scattered across the floor. A

wall calendar from the year 1978 hung next to a filing cabinet, the month of December left open.

Once they were inside the office, Mr. Gray’s manner became one of indignation. “Well! You have

certainly taken your own sweet time in coming,” he said. “I was beginning to think there was some

misunderstanding. Mrs. Rockefeller would have been furious at that—she would turn in her grave if

I’d died without delivering the package in the fashion she wished. An exacting woman, Mrs.

Rockefeller, but very generous—my children and my children’s children will feel the benefit of the

arrangement, even if I, who have been waiting half of my life for your arrival, will not! I was but a

young man when she hired me to oversee the workings of the church office—fresh from England,

without a position in the world. Mrs. Rockefeller gave me my place here in this office, instructing me

to await your arrival, which I have done, ceaselessly. Of course, provisions were made should I have

expired before your arrival—which I must say could have happened any day now, since clearly I’m

not growing any younger—but let’s not allow ourselves to ponder such morbid thoughts, no, sir. At

this important hour, it is only the wishes of our benefactress that must concern us, and her thoughts

turned upon a single solemn hope: the future.” Mr. Gray blinked and adjusted his monocle. “Come,

let’s get down to business.”

“An excellent idea,” Vladimir said.

Mr. Gray went to the filing cabinet, pulled a ring of keys from his pocket, and proceeded to work

through the number until he discovered the match. With a turn of the key, the cabinet drawer popped

open. “Let me see,” he said, straining to see the files. “Ah, yes, here! The very documents we need.”

He flipped through the pages, stopping at a long list of names. “This is a formality, of course, but Mrs.

Rockefeller specified that only those appearing on this list—or the descendants of these persons—

would be authorized to receive the package. Is your name, or the name of one of your parents or

grandparents, or indeed your great-grandparents, among this number?”

Vladimir scanned the list, recognizing all the major angelologists of the twentieth century. He found

his own name in the middle of the final row, next to Celestine Clochette’s.

“If you don’t mind, you will sign here and here. And then once more here, on this line at the

bottom.”

Vladimir examined the paper, a long legal document that, from a cursory view, affirmed that Mr.

Gray had performed the task of delivering the object.

“You see,” Mr. Gray said by way of apology, “I receive my remuneration only after the delivery

has been performed, as evidenced by your signature. The legal document is quite specific, and the

lawyers are unrelenting—it has been inconvenient, as you might imagine, living without recompense

for my labors. All these years I have scraped by, waiting for you to arrive so that I might retire from

this wretched office. And here you are,” Mr. Gray said, giving Vladimir a pen. “Simply a formality,

mind you.”

“Before I sign,” Vladimir said, pushing the document away, “I must have the object you’re holding

for me.”

An almost imperceptible chill hardened upon Mr. Gray’s features. “Of course,” he said tersely. He

slipped the contract under his arm and tucked the pen into the pocket of his gray suit. “Just this way,”