meeting, Grigori had provoked a strong physical reaction in Verlaine, so strong that he felt instantly
weakened in Grigori’s presence, empty and lifeless, without a trace of warmth.
The meeting earlier that afternoon had been their second, and it might, Verlaine surmised with
relief, be their last. If he himself didn’t terminate their arrangement-which would happen very soon if
this research trip went as planned—there was a real chance that Grigori wouldn’t be around much
longer anyway. Grigori’s skin had appeared so colorless that Verlaine could see networks of blue
veins through the thin, pale surface. Grigori’s eyes had burned with fever, and he could only just hold
himself up on his cane. It was absurd that the man would leave his bed, let alone conduct business
meetings outside in a blizzard.
More absurd, however, was his sending Verlaine to the convent without the prerequisite
preparations in place. It was impetuous and unprofessional, just the sort of thing Verlaine should have
expected from a delusional art collector like Grigori. Standard research protocol required that he get
permission to visit private libraries, and this library would be even more conservative than most. He
imagined that the St. Rose library would be small, quaint, filled with ferns and hideous oil paintings
of lambs and children—all the cheesy decor that religious women found charming. He guessed the
librarian to be about seventy years old, somber and gnarled, a severe and pasty creature who would
hold no appreciation whatsoever for the collection of images she guarded. Beauty and pleasure, the
very elements that made life bearable, were surely not to be found at St. Rose Convent. Not that he’d
been to a convent before. He came from a family of agnostics and academics, people who kept their
beliefs closed up within themselves, as if speaking of faith would cause it to disappear altogether.
Verlaine climbed the wide stone steps of the convent’s entrance and rapped upon a set of wooden
doors. He knocked twice, three times, and then searched for a doorbell or speaker system, something
to draw the attention of the sisters, but found nothing. As someone who left the door of his apartment
unlocked half the time, he found it odd that a group of contemplative nuns would employ such
ironclad security. Annoyed, he walked to the side of the building, removed a photocopy of the
architectural plan from his interior pocket, and began to look over the drawings, hoping to locate an
alternate entrance.
Using the river as a touchstone, he found that the main entrance should have been located on the
southern side of the building. In reality the entrance was on the western façade, facing the main gate.
According to the map (as he now thought of the drawings), the church and chapel structures should
dominate the back of the grounds, the convent forming a narrow wing in the front. But unless he had
read the sketches incorrectly, the buildings were situated in a different configuration entirely. It
became more and more apparent that the architectural plans were at odds with the structure before
him. Curious, Verlaine walked the perimeter of the convent, comparing the solid brick contours with
those in pen and ink. Indeed, the two buildings were not at all as they should be. Instead of two
distinct structures, he found one massive compound molded together in a patchwork of old and new
brick and mortar, as if the two buildings had been sliced and jointed in a surreal collage of masonry.
What Grigori would make of it, Verlaine couldn’t say. Their first meeting had been at an art
auction, where Verlaine assisted in the sale of paintings, furniture, books, and jewelry belonging to
famous Gilded Age families. There had been a fine set of silver belonging to Andrew Carnegie, a set
of gold-trimmed croquet mallets engraved with Henry Flagler’s initials, and a marble statuette of
Neptune from the Breakers, Cornelius Vanderbilt II’s Newport mansion. The auction was a small
affair, with bids coming in lower than expected. Percival Grigori caught Verlaine’s attention when he
bid high on a number of items that had once belonged to John D. Rockefeller’s wife, Laura “Cettie”
Celestia Spelman.
Verlaine knew enough about the Rockefeller family to realize that the lot of items Percival Grigori
had bid upon was not special. And yet Grigori had wanted it very badly, driving the price well above
its reserve. Later, after the last lots had been sold, Verlaine had approached Grigori to congratulate
him on his purchase. They fell into discussing the Rockefellers, then continued their dissection of the
Gilded Age over a bottle of wine in a bar across the street. Grigori admired Verlaine’s knowledge
about the Rockefeller family, expressed curiosity about his research into the MoMA, and asked if he