Angelology(30)

bigger, blond man carrying a crowbar emerged from the vehicle. The physical revulsion Verlaine had

felt earlier in the day—from which he had only just fully recovered—returned at the sight of them. In

the headlights’ glare, the men appeared more menacing, larger than was possible, their silhouettes

blazing a brilliant white. The contrast of illumination and shadow hollowed their eyes and cheeks,

giving their faces the stark aspect of carnival masks. Grigori had sent them—Verlaine knew this the

moment he saw them—but why on earth he had done so was beyond him.

Using the edge of the crowbar, the taller man brushed at a line of snow clinging to one of the

Renault’s windows, running the metal tip over the glass. Then, with a show of violence that startled

Verlaine, he brought the crowbar down upon the window, shattering the glass with one swift crack.

After clearing away the shards, the other man reached inside and unlocked the door, each move quick

and efficient. Together the two of them went through the glove compartment, the backseat, and, after

popping it open from inside, the trunk. As they tore through his belongings—disemboweling his gym

bag and loading his books, many on loan from the Columbia University library, into the SUV—

Verlaine realized that Grigori must have sent his men to steal Verlaine’s papers.

He wouldn’t be driving back to New York City in his Renault, that was for certain. Endeavoring to

get as far away from these thugs as possible, Verlaine dropped to his hands and knees and crawled

along the ground, the soft snow crunching under his weight. As he crept through the thick evergreens,

the sharp scent of pine sap filled his senses. If he could remain under the cover of the forest,

following the shadowy path back toward the convent, he might escape unnoticed. At the edge of the

trees, he stood up, his breathing heavy and his clothes mottled with packed snow: A stretch of

exposed space between the forest and the river gave him no choice but to risk exposure. Verlaine’s

only hope was that the men were too preoccupied with destroying his car to notice him. He ran

toward the Hudson, looking over his shoulder only after he’d reached the edge of the bank. In the

distance the thugs were getting into the SUV They hadn’t driven off. They were waiting for Verlaine.

The riverbed was frozen. Looking at his wing tips—the leather now completely drenched—he felt

a rush of anger and frustration. How was he supposed to get home? He was stuck in the middle of

nowhere. Grigori’s monkeys had taken all his notebooks, all his files, everything he’d been working

on for the past years, and they’d trashed his car in the process. Did Grigori have any idea how hard it

was to find replacement parts for a 1984 Renault R5? How was he supposed to walk through this

wilderness of snow and ice in a pair of slippery vintage shoes?

He navigated the terrain, striding south alongside the riverbank, taking care not to fall. Soon he

found himself standing before a barricade of barbed wire. He supposed that the fence marked the

boundaries of the convent’s property, a spindly and sharp extension of the massive stone wall that

surrounded the St. Rose grounds, but for him it was yet another obstacle to his escape. Pressing the

barbed wire with his foot, Verlaine climbed over, snagging his coat.

It wasn’t until he had walked for some time and had left the convent grounds for a dark, snow-

covered country road that he realized he’d sliced his hand climbing over the fence. It was so dark that

he couldn’t make out the cut, but he guessed it to be bad, perhaps in need of stitches. He removed his

favorite Hermès tie, rolled up his bloodied shirtsleeve, and wrapped the tie around the wound,

forming a tight bandage.

Verlaine had a terrible sense of direction. With the snowstorm obscuring the night sky, and his utter

ignorance of the small towns along the Hudson, he had no idea of where he was. Traffic was sparse.

When headlights appeared in the distance, he stepped from the gravel shoulder into the trees at the

edge of the forest, hiding himself. There were hundreds of small roads and highways, any one of

which he might have stumbled upon. Yet he couldn’t help but worry that Grigori’s men, who by now

would be looking for him in earnest, could drive by at any moment. His skin had already grown raw

and chapped from the wind; his feet had gone numb as his hand began to throb, and so he stopped to

examine it. As he tightened his tie around the wound, he noticed with stunned detachment the elegance

with which the silk absorbed and retained the blood.

After what felt like hours, he came across a larger, more heavily trafficked county highway, two

lanes of cracked concrete with a sign that posted the speed limit-fifty-five miles per hour. Turning